The Raised Fists that Helped to Raised Outrage...and Consciousness

[Waterstar]

Fists of Freedom: An Olympic Story Not Taught in School

Dave Zirin on July 25, 2012 - 11:16 AM ET

Nation readers —Over the next several weeks, I’ll be writing about the 2012 London Olympics. I’m going to try to write about the stories not just on the field but off: the Counter Olympics demonstrators, the workers behind the scenes, the athletes with personal stories that speak less to their desire for athletic success than a desire for human rights. It seemed fitting to start by looking back at perhaps the most political, controversial, inspiring moment in Olympics, if not sports, history: the medal stand black gloved salute of 200 meter runners Tommie Smith and John Carlos. I origincally wrote this article for GOOD magazine online (July 23, 2012) as part of the Zinn Education Project series called “If We Knew Our History.”

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It has been almost 44 years since Tommie Smith and John Carlos took the medal stand following the 200-meter dash at the 1968 Olympics in Mexico City and created what must be considered the most enduring, riveting image in the history of either sports or protest. But while the image has stood the test of time, the struggle that led to that moment has been cast aside. When mentioned at all in U.S. history textbooks, the famous photo appears with almost no context. For example, Pearson/Prentice Hall’s United States History places the photo opposite a short three-paragraph section, “Young Leaders Call for Black Power.” The photo’s caption says simply that “…U.S. athletes Tommie Smith and John Carlos raised gloved fists in protest against discrimination.”

The media—and school curricula—fail to address the context that produced Smith and Carlos’ famous gesture of resistance: It was the product of what was called “The Revolt of the Black Athlete.” Amateur black athletes formed OPHR, the Olympic Project for Human Rights, to organize an African American boycott of the 1968 Olympic Games. OPHR, its lead organizer, Dr. Harry Edwards, and its primary athletic spokespeople, Smith and the 400-meter sprinter Lee Evans, were deeply influenced by the black freedom struggle. Their goal was nothing less than to expose how the United States used black athletes to project a lie about race relations both at home and internationally.

OPHR had four central demands: restore Muhammad Ali’s heavyweight boxing title, remove Avery Brundage as head of the International Olympic Committee (IOC), hire more African American coaches, and disinvite South Africa and Rhodesia from the Olympics. Ali’s belt had been taken by boxing’s powers that be earlier in the year for his resistance to the Vietnam draft. By standing with Ali, OPHR was expressing its opposition to the war. By calling for the hiring of more African American coaches as well as the ouster of Brundage, they were dragging out of the shadows a part of Olympic history those in power wanted to bury. Brundage was an anti-Semite and a white supremacist, best remembered today for sealing the deal on Hitler’s hosting the 1936 Olympics in Berlin. By demanding the exclusion of South Africa and Rhodesia, they aimed to convey their internationalism and solidarity with the black freedom struggles against apartheid in Africa.

The wind went out of the sails of a broader boycott for many reasons, partly because the IOC re-committed to banning apartheid countries from the Games. The more pressing reason the boycott failed was that athletes who had spent their whole lives preparing for their Olympic moment simply couldn’t bring themselves to give it up.

There also emerged accusations of a campaign of harassment and intimidation orchestrated by people supportive of Brundage. Despite all of these pressures, a handful of Olympians was still determined to make a stand. In communities across the globe, they were hardly alone. The lead-up to the Olympics in Mexico City was electric with struggle. Already in 1968, the world had seen the Tet Offensive in Vietnam, demonstrating that the United States was nowhere near “winning the war”; the Prague Spring, during which Czech students challenged tanks from the Stalinist Soviet Union, demonstrating that dissent was crackling on both sides of the Iron Curtain; and the April 4 assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. and the urban uprisings that followed—along with the exponential growth of the Black Panther Party in the United States—that revealed an African American freedom struggle unassuaged by the civil rights reforms that had transformed the Jim Crow South. Then, on October 2, 10 days before the opening ceremonies of the 1968 Olympic Games, Mexican security forces massacred hundreds of students and workers in Mexico City’s Tlatelolco Square.

Although the harassment and intimidation of the OPHR athletes cannot be compared to this slaughter, the intention was the same—to stifle protest and make sure that the Olympics were “suitable” for visiting dignitaries, heads of state, and an international audience. It was not successful. On the second day of the Games, Smith and Carlos took their stand. Smith set a world record, winning the 200-meter gold, and Carlos captured the bronze. Smith then took out the black gloves. The silver medalist, a runner from Australia named Peter Norman, attached an Olympic Project for Human Rights patch onto his chest to show his solidarity on the medal stand. As the stars and stripes ran up the flagpole and the national anthem played, Smith and Carlos bowed their heads and raised their fists in what was described across the globe as a “Black Power salute,” creating a moment that would define the rest of their lives. But there was far more to their actions on the medal stand than just the gloves. The two men wore no shoes, to protest black poverty as well as beads and scarves to protest lynching.

Within hours, the IOC planted a rumor that Smith and Carlos had been stripped of their medals (although this was not in fact true) and expelled from the Olympic Village. Brundage wanted to send a message to every athlete that there would be punishment for any political demonstrations on the field of play. But Brundage was not alone in his furious reaction. The Los Angeles Times accused Smith and Carlos of a “Nazi-like salute.” Time had a distorted version of the Olympic logo on its cover but instead of the motto “Faster, Higher, Stronger,” it blared “Angrier, Nastier, Uglier.” The Chicago Tribune called the act “an embarrassment visited upon the country,” an “act contemptuous of the United States,” and “an insult to their countrymen.” Smith and Carlos were “renegades” who would come home to be “greeted as heroes by fellow extremists,” lamented the paper. But the coup de grâce was by a young reporter for the Chicago American named Brent Musburger who called them “a pair of black-skinned storm troopers.”

But if Smith and Carlos were attacked from a multitude of directions, they also received many expressions of support, including from some unlikely sources. For example, the U.S. Olympic crew team, all white and entirely from Harvard, issued the following statement:

“We—as individuals—have been concerned about the place of the black man in American society in their struggle for equal rights. As members of the U.S. Olympic team, each of us has come to feel a moral commitment to support our black teammates in their efforts to dramatize the injustices and inequities which permeate our society.”

Smith and Carlos sacrificed privilege and glory, fame and fortune, for a larger cause—civil rights. As Carlos says, “A lot of the [black] athletes thought that winning [Olympic] medals would supersede or protect them from racism. But even if you won a medal, it ain’t going to save your momma. It ain’t going to save your sister or children. It might give you 15 minutes of fame, but what about the rest of your life?”

The story of Tommie Smith and John Carlos at the 1968 Olympics deserves more than a visual sound bite in a quickie textbook section on “Black Power.” As the Zinn Education Project points out in its “If We Knew Our History” series, this is one of many examples of the missing and distorted history in school, which turns the curriculum into a checklist of famous names and dates. When we introduce students to the story of Smith and Carlos’ defiant gesture, we can offer a rich context of activism, courage, and solidarity that breathes life into the study of history—and the long struggle for racial equality.

[Waterstar]

The man who raised a black power salute at the 1968 Olympic Games

Source: UK Guardian

Gary Younge

When John Carlos raised his fist in a black power salute at the 1968 Olympics, it changed 20th-century history – and his own life – for ever. How does he feel about it now?

John Carlos (on right), Tommie Smith (centre) and Peter Norman, who wore an Olympic Project for Human Rights badge in support of their gesture. When Norman died in 2006, Carlos and Smith were pallbearers at his funeral. Photograph: AP'

You're probably not familiar with the name John Carlos. But you almost certainly know his image. It's 1968 at the Mexico City Olympics and the medals are being hung round the necks of Tommie Smith (USA, gold), Peter Norman (Australia, silver) and Carlos (USA, bronze). As the Star-Spangled Banner begins to play, Smith and Carlos, two black Americans wearing black gloves, raise their fists in the black power salute. It is a symbol of resistance and defiance, seared into 20th-century history, that Carlos feels he was put on Earth to perform.

"In life, there's the beginning and the end," he says. "The beginning don't matter. The end don't matter. All that matters is what you do in between – whether you're prepared to do what it takes to make change. There has to be physical and material sacrifice. When all the dust settles and we're getting ready to play down for the ninth inning, the greatest reward is to know that you did your job when you were here on the planet."

Carlos's beginning was, to say the least, eventful. Raised by two involved, working parents, he learned to hustle with his friends in Harlem and fight his way out of and into trouble. As a teenager, he used to chase Malcolm X down the street after his speeches and fire questions at him. Carlos always knew he was good at sports and originally wanted to be an Olympic swimmer, until his father broke it to him that the training facilities he needed were in private clubs for whites and the wealthy. He used to steal food from freight trains with his friends and then run with it into Harlem and hand it out to the poor. When the police gave chase, he was often the only one who never got caught. Running came so naturally, he never thought of it as a skill.

That single moment on the podium cost Carlos dear. More than four decades later, you'll find him at his desk in a spacious portable building behind the basketball courts at Palm Springs High School in California, where he works as a counsellor. Among the family photographs on the wall are the vaguest allusions to his moment in history. Pictures of Malcolm X and African-American writer Zora Neale Hurston, the pledge of allegiance, which American schoolkids must say to the flag every day, and a small poster saying Go For Gold Olympics.

For all its challenges, Carlos loves his job. "Being a counsellor, you have to talk to the children as though you're talking to a thousand people," he says. "Sometimes you say, 'I love you' and they say, 'I don't want your love' and you say, 'Well, it's out there, so you're going to have to deal with it.' And I learn a lot from them, too."

John Carlos: 'It's what I was born to do,' he says of his salute. Photograph: Michael Steele/Getty Images

Bald, tall, with a grey goatee, Carlos has glided into old age with a distinguished air and convivial manner, and more than a passing resemblance to the late activist and intellectual WEB DuBois.

"The first thing I thought was the shackles have been broken," Carlos says, casting his mind back to how he felt in that moment. "And they won't ever be able to put shackles on John Carlos again. Because what had been done couldn't be taken back. Materially, some of us in the incarceration system are still literally in shackles. The greatest problem is we are afraid to offend our oppressors.

"I had a moral obligation to step up. Morality was a far greater force than the rules and regulations they had. God told the angels that day, 'Take a step back – I'm gonna have to do this myself.'"

The image certainly captures that sense of momentary rebellion. But what it cannot do is evoke the human sense of emotional turmoil and individual resolve that made it possible, or the collective, global gasp in response to its audacity. In his book, The John Carlos Story, in the seconds between mounting the podium and the anthem playing, Carlos writes that his mind raced from the personal to the political and back again. Among other things, he reflected on his father's pained explanation for why he couldn't become an Olympic swimmer, the segregation and consequent impoverishment of Harlem, the exhortations of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X to "be true to yourself even when it hurts", and his family. The final thought before the band started playing was, "Damn, when this thing is done, it can't be taken back.

"I know that sounds like a lot of thoughts for just a few moments standing on a podium," he writes. "But honestly this was all zigzagging through my brain like lightning bolts."

Anticipating some kind of protest was afoot, the International Olympic Committee (IOC) had sent Jesse Owens to talk them out of it. (Owens's four gold medals at the 1936 Olympics in Berlin themselves held great symbolic significance, given Hitler's belief in Aryan supremacy.) Carlos's mind was made up. When he and Smith struck their pose, Carlos feared the worst. Look at the picture and you'll see that while Smith's arm is raised long and erect, Carlos has his slightly bent at the elbow. "I wanted to make sure, in case someone rushed us, I could throw down a hammer punch," he writes. "We had just received so many threats leading up to that point, I refused to be defenceless at that moment of truth."

It was also a moment of silence. "You could have heard a frog piss on cotton. There's something awful about hearing 50,000 people go silent, like being in the eye of a hurricane."

And then came the storm. First boos. Then insults and worse. People throwing things and screaming racist abuse. "Niggers need to go back to Africa!" and, "I can't believe this is how you niggers treat us after we let you run in our games."

"The fire was all around me," Carlos recalls. The IOC president ordered Smith and Carlos to be suspended from the US team and the Olympic village. Time magazine showed the Olympic logo with the words Angrier, Nastier, Uglier, instead of Faster, Higher, Stronger. The LA Times accused them of engaging in a "Nazi-like salute".

Beyond the establishment, the resonance of the image could not be overstated. It was 1968; the black power movement had provided a post-civil rights rallying cry and the anti-Vietnam protests were gaining pace. That year, students throughout Europe, east and west, had been in revolt against war, tyranny and capitalism.

Martin Luther King had been assassinated and the US had been plunged into yet another year of race riots in its urban centres. Just a few months earlier, the Democratic party convention had been disrupted by a huge police riot against Vietnam protesters. A few weeks before the Games, scores of students and activists had been gunned down by authorities in Mexico City itself.

The sight of two black athletes in open rebellion on the international stage sent a message to both America and the world. At home, this brazen disdain for the tropes of American patriotism – flag and anthem – shifted dissidence from the periphery of American life to primetime television in a single gesture, while revealing what DuBois once termed the "essential two-ness" of the black American condition. "An American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder."

Globally, it was understood as an act of solidarity with all those fighting for greater equality, justice and human rights. Margaret Lambert, a Jewish high jumper who was forced, for show, to try out for the 1936 German Olympic team, even though she knew she would never be allowed to compete, said how delighted it made her feel. "When I saw those two guys with their fists up on the victory stand, it made my heart jump. It was beautiful."

As Carlos explains in his book, their gesture was supposed, among other things, to say: "Hey, world, the United States is not like you might think it is for blacks and other people of colour. Just because we have USA on our chest does not mean everything is peachy keen and we are living large."

Carlos understood, before he raised his fist that day, that once done, his act could not be taken back. What he could not have anticipated, at the age of 23, was what it would mean for his future. "I had no idea the moment on the medal stand would be frozen for all time. I had no idea what we'd face. I didn't know or appreciate, at that precise moment, that the entire trajectory of our young lives had just irrevocably changed."

During the Jim Crow era, life for even the most famous black sportsmen past their prime was tough. After his celebrated Olympic victory, Owens ran a dry-cleaning business, was a gas pump attendant, raced horses for money and eventually went bankrupt. "People say it was degrading for an Olympic champion to run against a horse," he said. "But what was I supposed to do? I had four gold medals, but you can't eat four gold medals."

Joe Louis, a world champion boxer on whose shoulders rested national pride when he fought German Max Schmeling shortly before the second world war, greeted visitors at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas and went on quiz shows. And these were sporting figures who tried to keep in with the establishment. Carlos was still in his prime, but that single act of defiance ensured his marginalisation.

Paradoxically, the next year was the best of his career. In 1969, he equalled the 100 yard world record, won the American Athletics Union 220-yard dash and led San Jose State to its first National Collegiate Athletic Association championship.

The trouble was, in the years before lucrative sponsorship deals, running didn't pay and few would employ him. In the years immediately following his protest, he worked security at a nightclub and as a janitor. At one point he had to chop up his furniture so he could heat his house. The pressure started to bear down on his family. "When there's a lack of money, it brings contempt into the family," he says. Moreover, his wife was facing constant harassment from the press and his children were being told at school that their father was a traitor. The marriage collapsed.

He tried American football for a few seasons, starting in Philadelphia, then moving north to Toronto and Montreal. He is keen to emphasise that the one thing that never happened, despite claims to the contrary, is that he had his medal confiscated. It's at his mother's house. And while he does not cherish it as you'd expect an Olympian might, he's adamant that this part of the story is set straight. "The medal didn't mean shit to me. It doesn't mean anything now… The medal had no relevance. The one way it had relevance was that I earned it. So they never took my medal away from me. I'd earned it. They can't take it."

As time passed and the backlash subsided, Carlos was gradually invited back into the fold. He became involved as an outreach co-ordinator in the organising committee for the group bringing the Olympics to Los Angeles in 1984 and worked for the US Olympic Committee.

Did he worry, as the picture for which he was famous started to adorn T-shirts and posters, that his readmission into the Olympic world meant his radicalism was being co-opted and sanitised? "The image is still there," he says proudly. "It keeps getting wider. If you look at the images of the last century, there's nothing much like it out there. And 'the man' wasn't the one that kept this thing afloat for 43 years. The man was the same man whupping my arse. And the Olympics are part of my history. I'm not going to run away from that."

Carlos remains politically engaged. Late last year he addressed Occupy Wall Street protesters in New York. "It's the same fight as it was 43 years ago. We fought unemployment; for housing, education. It's the same thing as people are fighting for today."

But, unlike during the 1960s, today Carlos sees little hope of resistance emerging through sport, which is awash with too much money and drugs. "There wasn't a whole bunch of money out there back then," he says, "so just a few people were ever going to be shakers and bakers. But today, if an athlete doesn't have a view of their history before them, then they have a view of just that big cheque in front of them. It's not the responsibility of the oppressor to educate us. We have to educate ourselves and our own. That's the difference between Muhammad Ali and Michael Jordan. Muhammad Ali will never die. He used his skill to say something about the social ills of society. Of course, he was an excellent boxer, but he got up and spoke on the issues. And because he spoke on the issues, he will never die. There will be someone else at some time who can do what Jordan could do. And then his name will just be pushed down in the mud. But they'll still be talking about Ali."

Eight years earlier, during a different phase of anti-racist activism in the US, a 17-year-old student, Franklin McCain, had gained his place in the history books when he sat at a Woolworth's lunch counter in Greensboro, North Carolina, with three friends and refused to move until they were served. Many years later, McCain was philosophical about how that experience had affected him. "On the day that I sat at that counter, I had the most tremendous feeling of elation and celebration," he told me. "Nothing has ever come close. Not the birth of my first son, nor my marriage. And it was a cruel hoax, because people go through their whole lives and they don't get that to happen to them. And here it was being visited upon me as a 17-year-old. It was wonderful, and it was sad also, because I know that I will never have that again. I'm just sorry it was when I was 17."

Carlos has no such regrets. He's just glad he could be where he was to do what he felt he had to do. "I don't have any misgivings about it being frozen in time. It's a beacon for a lot of people around the world. So many people find inspiration in that portrait. That's what I was born for."

[Cynique]

Surprised Carlos would have a picture of The Pledge of Allegiance hanging in his office, - the anti-thesis of what he raised his fist for! Seems like a nice guy, tho; his lack of bitterness is admirable.

I remember the raised fist incident well, watching as it actually happened on TV. The Olympic committee was apoplectic. At least in one area Carlos followed in Jesse Ownes' track shoes. Owens was also reduced to racing against horses after his spectacular performance in the 1936 Olympics. Such is life.

[authortcl]

Wow, this is so incredibly timely. I have taken several classes at San Jose State University where there is a statue of John Carlos and Tommie Smith. I walked past it many times, and always wondered what the history was behind that statue. Thanks for sharing! I have learned so much from your posts on this topic. I found an article that talks about the day the statue was put up at San Jose State. Here it is: http://santacruz.ind...18883/index.php

[Cynique]

Wow, Authortcl. All you had to do was read the plaque. What kind of grades did you make????

[Waterstar]

Greetings, Authorctl. That is so good. Each one teach one, that's wasup.

That plaque is very vague next to the story behind the stand that these men took and how much courage and dedication it took to make it, especially in such a time, so I can see how that can easily be the case, Authorctl. Even one can see the picture with the raised fists yet not really get a sense of the significance behind it.

[Cynique]

You are typical of too many people today, Authorctl, who do not act on their curiosity about something. Upon seeing the statue and reading(?) the plaque, a desire to be enlightened should've motivated you to find out more on your own about Tommie Smith and John Carlos instead of just happening to come across an article about them on an internet discussion board. This is the lesson that each one needs to teach one. Seek knowledge!

[Waterstar]

Wow, this is so incredibly timely. I have taken several classes at San Jose State University where there is a statue of John Carlos and Tommie Smith. I walked past it many times, and always wondered what the history was behind that statue. Thanks for sharing! I have learned so much from your posts on this topic. I found an article that talks about the day the statue was put up at San Jose State. Here it is: http://santacruz.ind...18883/index.php

People look at things everyday and never even develop the curiosity to wonder the history behind them, so large up to you same way. I respect that.

On the other hand, many are quick to dismiss that which they never even examine. Throw mi corn, mi no call no fowl, but who de cap fit, mek dem wear it, yes.

I think that this whole thing of our dismissing and often even criticizing that which has never been examined is one of our biggest pitfalls.

At any rate, a good site for info for our history is blackpast.org. I think you'll find it to be very informative.

[authortcl]

I too agree that it's important to seek knowledge. I often, though not always or immediately, research something when it captures my interest. I should have been clearer when I stated I "always wondered what the history was behind that statue." I knew a basic quick snapshot of the history (yes, I read the plaque too), but the article that Waterstar provided was powerful and added much more in depth. As was stated, people may not "act on their curiosity about something" right away or at all. In my case, my curiosity was pricked, but later fell to the wayside in pursuing matters that were more immediate at the time. No excuses, just fact. However, when I saw this article, I took the time to read it, which then prompted me to do more research about the fist symbol and the different meanings behind it. Seeing that the Olympics is going on, I was especially interested in this article. Nobody knows it all, and of course we can all learn from each other. Certainly this world provides us with an overwhelming amount of information, so though we can never research and absorb it all, we should make an effort to become more informed. Waterstar, thank you again for providing it and keeping us informed. I will definitely check out blackpast.org.

[Waterstar]

Nobody knows it all, and of course we can all learn from each other.

Forreal~

One of my dear friends used to go by the name of "Teachame" "teach a me"/"me a teach".. Even in his younger teenage years, he was very much aware of these two roles that we always occupy at simultaneously.

We are all students and teachers in this life. Some are just more helpful in in these positions and some are more reluctant.

The world provides us with all kinds of information indeed. Always wonderful to bump into helpful fellow voyagers along the path. It is my hope that we will continue to build.