NAACP and pastors call for Columbus Council to recall vote appointing John Anker
Columbus clergy and civil rights leaders condemned the quick appointment of John Anker to the Columbus Council and demanded a recall of the vote during a news conference Wednesday at the City Services Center..
The coalition, which includes representatives from the Columbus branch of the NAACP and the Columbus Interdenominational Ministerial Alliance, argued that the move to appoint Anker was premeditated and part of a larger strategy to remove city manager Isaiah Hugley, who is Black, from his position.
In a split vote, the council appointed Anker the same day former Councilor Judy Thomas of citywide District 9 sent her resignation letter. During the public agenda portion of the council meeting, Anker and three other residents criticized Hugley's job performance as city manager and called for the mayor to terminate him.
Columbus Courier Eco Latino publisher and former NAACP Columbus branch president Wane Hailes and the Rev. Johnny Flakes III of Fourth Street Missionary Baptist Church spoke in support of Hugley during the meeting's public agenda.
Councilor Byron Hickey of District 1 motioned to appoint Anker to the seat, and Charmaine Crabb of District 5 seconded it. The council voted 6-3 to appoint Anker despite Mayor Skip Henderson's cautioning that it was too early to make this decision.
Councilors Hickey, Crabb, Glenn Davis of District 2, Toyia Tucker of District 4, Joanne Cogle of District 7 and Walker Garrett of District 8 voted yes. Councilors Travis Chambers of citywide District 10, Bruce Huff of District 3 and Gary Allen of District 6 voted no.
The council's action of appointing someone 'from the audience' to fill Thomas' seat without giving the community a chance to make recommendations was disrespectful, former District 7 Councilor Mimi Woodson said at the news conference before insisting the council recall the vote.
'Last night's appointment can be reversed with only six votes,' Woodson said.
During the council meeting, Crabb asserted that Anker was an 'obvious' choice for the seat because he had run two citywide races (mayor in 2022 and citywide District 10 seat in 2024). Anker had an opportunity to be a city council member in a runoff and lost to Travis Chambers, said Ed DuBose, national NAACP board member and the Georgia state administrator.
Councilors subverted the will of the voters with this action, he said.
'Those city council members who participated in this should answer to the people,' DuBose said.
Flakes explained the coalition's problem isn't specifically that Anker was appointed so much as the process it took to do it. If Anker had been offered as a candidate with an opportunity for others to be considered as well, Flakes said, then there wouldn't be so much anger.
'As a matter of fact, the mayor said that,' Flakes said.
DuBose said councilors would answer at the ballot box. In fact, he urged Columbus voters to consider recalling the councilors who made this appointment so quickly.
The Rev. Marcus Gibson of the Greater Shady Grove Baptist Church alleged that this move was part of a larger plan to terminate Hugley as city manager. Hugley confirmed to the Ledger-Enquirer last December that he plans to retire at the end of 2025.
'There are certain persons on this council who are not out for the benefit or the good of the whole community, but there are some who are in the pockets of others,' Gibson said.
This coalition warned councilors, especially those who want to remove the city manager, that they will be held accountable, he said.
Verbal attacks like those against Hugley have happened to Black people in leadership across the country, Flakes said.
'They've used the playbook that is always about trying to make them seem ineffective, incompetent and inefficient,' Flakes said.
This is a nationwide problem, he said, that has 'trickled down' to Columbus.
Flakes was disappointed to see two Black councilors, Hickey and Tucker, vote to support this move, he said..
'They're in-house Negroes,' Flakes said. 'They carry the buckets of the water, and they have sold their souls.'
It was 'hurtful' and 'painful' that an African American made the motion, Flakes said, calling the verbal attacks on Hugley a 'public lynching.'
The coalition will work on fighting back against 'false narratives,' Flakes said. Leaders of the group urged people to stay active and attend the next council meeting March 25. They also promised there will be more organizing from them.
'We're not outnumbered,' said Marquese Averett, managing director of organizing at the Partnership for Southern Equity. 'We are simply out-organized.'
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Los Angeles Times
an hour ago
- Los Angeles Times
A repeat of Rodney King? Local leaders say L.A.'s latest unrest is nothing like 1992
The clashes between National Guard troops, police and protesters in recent days have evoked memories for some Angelenos of the deadly riots that erupted after LAPD officers were acquitted of brutally assaulting Black motorist Rodney King in 1992. But leaders who were involved in dealing with the uprising more than three decades ago say what has unfolded with President Trump's deployment of soldiers to Los Angeles and surrounding communities bears no resemblance to the coordinated response that took place then. 'It's not even close,' said former LAPD chief and city councilman Bernard Parks, who was a deputy chief in the police department during the 1992 unrest. 'You get a sense that this is all theatrics, and it is really trying to show a bad light on Los Angeles, as though people are overwhelmed.' The chaos of 1992 unfolded after four LAPD officers who were videotaped beating King the prior year were not convicted. It took place at a time of deep distrust and animosity between minority communities and the city's police department. Federal troops and California National Guard units joined forces with local law enforcement officers to quell the turmoil, but not without harrowing results. More than 60 people were killed, thousands were injured and arrested, and there was property damage that some estimate exceeded $1 billion. What has played out recently on the city's streets is significantly more limited in scope, Mayor Karen Bass said. 'There was massive civil unrest [then]. Nothing like that is happening here,' Bass said on CNN on Sunday. 'So there is no need for there to be federal troops on our ground right now.' As of Wednesday evening, several hundred people had been arrested or detained because of their alleged actions during the protests, or taken into custody by federal officials because of their immigration status. On Tuesday, after the 101 Freeway was blocked by protesters, buildings in downtown Los Angeles were vandalized and businesses ransacked, Bass imposed a curfew in the city's civic core from 8 p.m. to 6 a.m. that is expected to last several days. Zev Yaroslavsky, who served on the City Council in 1992, recalled that year as 'one of the most significant, tragic events in the city's history.' He described the riots as 'a massive citywide uprising,' with 'thousands of people who were on the streets in various parts of the city, some burning down buildings.' Yaroslavsky, who was later on the county Board of Supervisors for two decades, said that while some actions protesters are currently taking are inappropriate, the swath of Los Angeles impacted is a small sliver of a sprawling city. 'All you're seeing is what is happening at 2nd and Alameda,' he said. 'There's a whole other city, a whole other county that is going about its business.' Another significant distinction from 1992, according to people who lived through it, was the bipartisan coordination among local, state and federal law enforcement agencies. Gov. Pete Wilson, a Republican, and Democratic Los Angeles Mayor Tom Bradley requested assistance from then-President George H.W. Bush. That's a stark contrast from what started unfolding last week, when Trump's administration sent ICE agents to Los Angeles and federalized the state's National Guard without request by the state's governor, which last happened in the United States in the 1960s. 'The biggest difference is that the governor requested federal help rather than having it imposed over his objection,' said Dan Schnur, a political professor and veteran strategist who served as Wilson's communication's director in 1992. 'There were some political tensions between state and local elected officials. But both the governor and the mayor set those aside very quickly, given the urgency of the situation.' Loren Kaye, Wilson's cabinet secretary at the time, noted times have changed since then. 'What I'm worried about is that there aren't the same incentives for resolving the contention in this situation as there were in '92,' he said. Then, 'everyone had incentives to resolve the violence and the issues. It's just different. The context is different.' Parks, a Democrat, argued that the lack of federal communication with California and Los Angeles officials inflamed the situation by creating a lag in local law enforcement response that made the situation worse. 'You have spontaneous multiple events, which is the Achilles heel of any operation,' he said. 'It's not that they're ill-equipped, and it's not that they're under-deployed,' Parks said. 'It takes a minute. You just don't have a large number of people idly sitting there saying, okay, we are waiting for the next event, and particularly if it's spontaneous.' Protests can start peacefully, but those who wish to create chaos can use the moment to seek attention, such as by burning cars, Park said. The end result is images viewed by people across the country who don't realize how localized the protests and how limited the damage was in recent days. 'The visuals they show on TV are exactly what the folks in Washington want to be seen,' Parks said. On Monday, the president deployed hundreds of Marines from Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center in Twentynine Palms. State leaders have asked for a temporary restraining order blocking the military and state National Guard deployments, which is expected to be heard in federal court on Thursday. Trump, speaking to U.S. Army troops at Ft. Bragg in North Carolina on Tuesday, said that he deployed National Guard troops and Marines to Los Angeles 'to protect federal law enforcement from the attacks of a vicious and violent mob.' The president descried protesters as leftists pursuing a 'foreign invasion' of the United States, bent on destroying the nation's sovereignty. 'If we didn't do it, there wouldn't be a Los Angeles,' Trump said. 'It would be burning today, just like their houses were burning a number of months ago.' Newsom responded that the president was intentionally provoking protesters. 'Donald Trump's government isn't protecting our communities — they're traumatizing our communities,' Newsom said. 'And that seems to be the entire point.' Activists who witnessed the 1992 riots said the current turmoil, despite being much smaller and less violent, is viewed differently because of images and video seen around the world on social media as well as the plethora of cable outlets that didn't exist previously. 'They keep looping the same damn video of a car burning. It gives the impression cars are burning everywhere, businesses are being looted everywhere,' said Earl Ofari Hutchinson, president of the Los Angeles Urban Policy Roundtable. Hutchinson, an activist from South L.A. who raised money to rebuild businesses during the 1992 riots, said he was concerned about the city's reputation. 'L.A. is getting a bad name,' he said.
Yahoo
2 hours ago
- Yahoo
See who is running for redistricted seats in MS Legislature this year
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Boston Globe
4 hours ago
- Boston Globe
‘Where was God?' The Mother Emanuel AME Church shooting 10 years later.
Get The Gavel A weekly SCOTUS explainer newsletter by columnist Kimberly Atkins Stohr. Enter Email Sign Up This was quite remarkable, because less than 48 hours earlier, on the night of June 17, 2015, Sanders had just closed her eyes in benediction — during Bible study at her beloved Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church — when she was jolted by an explosion of gunfire. The 57-year-old woman, a fourth-generation member of 'Mother Emanuel,' the oldest A.M.E. church in the South, dove under a table and pulled her 11-year-old granddaughter down with her. She squeezed the child so tightly she feared she might crush her, instructing her to play dead as a 21-year-old white supremacist methodically assassinated nine of the 12 Black worshippers in the basement fellowship hall. Those she watched die included her 26-year-old son, Tywanza Sanders, who had tried vainly to distract the shooter, and her 87-year-old aunt, Susie Jackson, who was shredded by 10 hollow-point bullets. At one point, Sanders smeared her legs with the blood pooling at her feet so that the killer might think he had finished her off. It worked. What happened in court two days later, a procession of forgiveness by Black victims for a remorseless racist murderer, both awed and befuddled the world. Many found it to be the purest expression of Christianity they had ever witnessed and could not imagine ever being graced in any such way. With the help of a soaring and melodic eulogy for the victims by President Barack Obama, the church known as Mother Emanuel soon became an earthly emblem of amazing grace. FILE - Tyrone Sanders and Felicia Sanders comfort each other at the graveside of their son, Tywanza Sanders, on June 27, 2015, at Emanuel AME Cemetery in Charleston, S.C. (Grace Beahm/The Post And Courier via AP, File) Grace Beahm/Associated Press Now fast-forward to December 2016. Felicia Sanders is back in court, the lead witness in the death penalty trial of Dylann Roof. She is under cross-examination by Roof's attorney, who is trying to establish that Roof threatened to kill himself that night, a desperate stab at a psychiatric defense. This time there is no nod by Sanders at forgiveness, no prayer for the soul of her son's unrepentant executioner. 'He say he was going to kill himself, and I was counting on that,' Sanders responds coolly in her Lowcountry lilt, glaring at Roof from the stand. 'He's evil. There's no place on earth for him except for the pit of hell.' Roof's lawyer, blindsided, tries once more to prompt Sanders about Roof's suicidality. She is having none of it: 'Send himself back to the pit of hell, I say.' Had something changed about Felicia Sanders? Had she, in the 18 months between the Emanuel murders and the trial, forsaken the commitment to forgiveness that was such a hallmark of her faith and that had so moved the world? Not in the slightest, I concluded, while researching a book about the history of Mother Emanuel and the meaning of forgiveness in the African American church. To the contrary, Sanders and other church stalwarts helped me understand that the forgiveness expressed toward Dylann Roof had not been for Dylann Roof but rather for themselves. Those who appeared at Roof's bond hearing did not speak for everyone in the congregation, or even in their families. A decade later, some still describe the path to forgiveness as a journey they travel at their own pace. But the grace volunteered in June 2015 grew organically from the fiber of African Methodism, a denomination two centuries old. It obviously had deep scriptural roots — 'Forgive us our trespasses' and 'Forgive them, for they know not what they do.' But it also was an iteration of a timeworn survival mechanism that has helped African American Christians withstand enslavement, forced migration, captivity, indentured servitude, segregation, discrimination, denial of citizenship, and the constant threat of racial and sexual violence with their souls and their sanity still, somehow, intact. One year after the shootings at Mother Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, S.C., relatives and friends of the slain gathered to honor their lives. Grace Beahm/Associated Press Churches like Emanuel, which has roots in antebellum Charleston, have long served as physical and spiritual refuges from the scourges that confront Black Americans. Its own long history, a two-century cycle of suppression and resistance, illuminates the relentless afflictions of caste in the city where nearly half of all enslaved Africans disembarked in North America and where the Civil War began. Emanuel's predecessor congregation, which formed in 1817 after a subversive walkout from Methodist churches by free and enslaved Black Charlestonians, faced immediate harassment from white authorities. The police raided services and jailed worshippers by the scores. When an incipient slave insurrection plot was uncovered in 1822 and traced back in part to the church, 35 men were led to the gallows, nearly half of them from the congregation. The wood-frame building was dismantled by order of the authorities and the church's leading ministers forced into exile. Emanuel's founding pastor after the Civil War, Richard Harvey Cain, used its pulpit as a springboard into politics, winning seats in the state legislature and Congress in a career that mirrored at first the heady hope and then the stolen promise of Reconstruction. During the depths of Jim Crow, Charlestonians assembled at Emanuel to voice outrage over lynchings and jurisprudential travesties. Its civil rights era pastor, Benjamin J. Glover, also led Charleston's NAACP, staged peaceful protest marches from the church, and was repeatedly jailed. Congregants were urged to action there by Booker T. Washington (1909), W.E.B. DuBois (1921), and Martin Luther King Jr. (1962), and then, a year after King's assassination, by his widow, Coretta Scott King (1969). She came to support a hospital workers' strike that bore eerie echoes of the sanitation workers' strike that had drawn her husband to Memphis. Nearly five decades later, the first person shot by Dylann Roof on June 17, 2015, was the Rev. Clementa Pinckney, a remarkable prodigy who had been the youngest African American elected to South Carolina's legislature and was serving his fourth term in the state Senate. A horse-drawn carriage carried the casket of the late South Carolina State Senator Clementa Pinckney past the Confederate flag and onto the grounds of the South Carolina State Capitol in Columbia, S.C. on June 24, 2015. REUTERS The weight of it all takes the breath away. And for many, forgiveness might seem an inadequate response, given available options like anger, bitterness, hatred, revenge, retribution. A more natural one, perhaps a more human one, might even be 'Where was God?' But in interviews over the years, each of the six family members who spoke mercifully toward Dylann Roof explained that they did so for their own spiritual release. They depicted the moment in mystical terms — unpremeditated, unexpected, the words just flowed, it was God talking. But none said they meant for their words to be read as a grant of exoneration or a pass from accountability. No slate had been wiped. Indeed, some did not care much whether Roof lived or died (he remains on federal death row in Indiana, one of three inmates whose sentences were not commuted to life in prison by President Joe Biden at the close of his term). Rather, the mothers and children and widowers of the dead described their brand of forgiveness as a purging of self-destructive toxins, a means for reversing the metastasis of rage, and at its most basic a way to get out of bed each morning in the face of it all. It served as an unburdening, not an undoing, a method not only of moral practice but of emotional self-preservation. Because the choice to forgive was one dignity that could not be taken away, it also served as a path to empowerment. It might be mistaken for submission, but in Charleston it resurrected agency for victims who had been robbed of it. 'He is not a part of my life anymore,' the Rev. Anthony Thompson, the widower of Bible study leader Myra Thompson, told me in explaining his forgiveness of Roof. 'Forgiveness has freed me of that, of him, completely. I'm not going to make him a lifetime partner.' This may be disconcerting for some white Americans who found reassurance in the notion that those who forgave Dylann Roof were, by association, also forgiving — or at least moving beyond — the four-century legacy of white supremacy that contributed to his poisoning. They decidedly were not, and the question of whether we make serious progress toward eradicating the psychosis of race in this country and the inequities it bequeaths in wealth, education, housing, justice, and health, not to mention hope, awaits an answer on the 50th or 100th anniversary of the massacre at Mother Emanuel.
