In the Shadow of the Klan: When the KKK Ruled Denver, 1920—1926

This hefty volume details the rise, rule, and fall of the Ku Klux Klan in Denver.  For a few years, Klansmen and Klan sympathizers occupied the Denver mayor’s office, claimed the state governor’s position, held both U.S. Senate seats and infested nearly other level of government in the state’s capitol and the city of Denver.

The early 1920s version of the Klan was different from the earlier terrorist  guerrillas that led an insurrection in the South through intimidation and murder. This new edition started in Atlanta in 1915. A vision, supposedly, and the film Birth of a Nation inspired a salesman to revive the KKK.

It spread to Denver where Klan organizers found fertile soil. Denver’s not an obvious host for this sort of disease. As a territory, Colorado fought on the Union side in the Civil War. The population of African-Americans was small — about 6,000 out of a city of 280,000. The state did not practice official segregation, although redlining and other de facto racial separations were in place.

But, in the overall stew of the early 1920s, the demands of African-Americans for equal treatment and the right to, say, sit where they pleased in a movie theatre, inflamed racists. A lot of Denverites hated Jews, too, and they loathed those immigrants from Italy and Eastern Europe whom they blamed for stealing their jobs and their daughters.

But two other factors chiefly fueled the growth of the Denver Klan: anti-Catholic bigotry and the Klan’s promise to restore law and order. So, yes, absolutely: the KKK was about anti-Black racism. But it was also centered on a white supremacy that defined whiteness so narrowly as to exclude even the palest Irish and the pastiest Germans, let alone Italians and Slavs.

The Klan suspected the Pope of leading an international conspiracy and of preparing to overthrow the government. They accused priests and nuns of grotesque crimes and painted every Catholic as a subversive. And the religious bigotry overlapped with hatred of Italians, Irish, Poles, and Latinos.

Crime also fed the rise of the Klan. Denver was wide open. Prohibition powered bootleggers and gangs. Dealers sold narcotics openly. Hookers by the dozens plied the streets. The Denver Police Department, true to its DNA, turned a blind eye to these depredations, and the administration of Mayor Dewey Bailey was so dirty that it made even Chicago look like an immaculate example of good government.

So, the Klan had a point with their calls to clean up the corrupt city government. Only they weren’t so pure themselves. Once they had momentum, the Denver Klan ran its own bootleggers, put its own members in the vice squad to get a piece of the action, and even ran a brothel in the aptly named Hotel Bliss.

At its height, the Klan counted at least 30,000 Denver men and women in its ranks — an astonishing 10 percent of the adult population. This allowed them to corrupt juries, infiltrate the police force, install city council members, and win elections. 

These members — zealots or opportunists — were all disappointed in whatever aims they had for purifying the Republic and guarding white supremacy. Their representatives in the State Assembly had their agenda stymied by veteran politicians. The venality and corruption of the leadership further discredited the Klan.

Not a good look, ever, for a law-and-order society to be caught with its hands in the cookie jar. No one hates hypocrites as much as the petit-bourgeoisie — and that’s who the Klan’s fan base was in Denver.

And, from the beginning, the KKK faced a broad array of energetic opponents, from the arch-conservative District Attorney Philip Van Cise to the ultra-progressive Judge Benjamin Lindsey. Their principled resistance helped limit the scope and the extent of the damage the Klan could inflict. 

And luckily, the Colorado Klan did not murder or lynch anyone. As despicable a gang as it was, the KKK mostly stuck with harassing and intimidating people. Nasty, yes, bullying, absolutely, but it did stop short of full-on killing. 

(I’ll be writing about this incarnation of the Klan in future posts.)

I would have liked to write a completely positive review of In the Shadow of the Klan. I’ve seen Goodstein lecture. He’s lively, engaging, and seems like a fine person. He’s also an independent scholar, working outside of academia, another laudable activity. And Goodstein’s clearly done a mountain of research into a little-studied topic. The book is a goldmine for discovering events, personalities, and specifics about Denver in the the early 1920s.

But, In the Shadow of the Klan needs editing. A blizzard of details buries you — facts and facts about precincts, inconclusive recall elections, short bios of players who appear once and disappear. 

Goodstein neglects other details. Such as, how was the Klan structured? What were their secret rituals? What did the Denver Express exposés uncover? He focuses on Denver, fine, but what about some context from the national events outside of the city? Such as the Tulsa Massacre in 1921? Or how the 1925 conviction of the head of the Indiana Klan for rape and murder might have had an effect on the Denver Klan?

The wealth of information is at once its strength and weakness. If Goodstein had a better sense of narrative and an ability to compress some episodes, this would be a better history. As it is, it’s a chore to read despite the sensational events and its cast of weird, nasty, and occasionally admirable figures.

Instagram Scam

Just like me. Only I didn’t have any fun.

Scammers conned me on my Instagram account. Before I give you the details, let’s hit the important stuff.

First, if you’re on Instagram, you should do two tasks RIGHT NOW: establish two-factor authentication and back up any important posts you have posted to IG. I would have avoided most of this trouble had I set up two-factor authentication.

Second, yes, I am a fool. You will, no doubt, roll you eyes a few times. But: let me be your bad example. This is an all-too-familiar role for me. But perhaps you will be better off.

That said, here’s how the scam worked:

I received a direct message from an “account” that I thought I followed. Let’s call it @NicePerson. 

Nice Person sent me a message through DM on Instagram.

(Only, it’s not @NicePerson. It’s @NicePerson12. I didn’t notice the difference. Later, I’ll check and find out that @NicePerson has been hacked, too.)

“Nice Person” asked me if I could help. They said that they have been locked out of their IG account. But they get two chances to contact one of their followers on IG. Because I’m one of their followers, all I have to do is click on a link that they will send. This will, in turn, send a link to my SMS messages. If I send that link to them, they can unlock their account.

I clicked the link. That generated a link which is sent to my SMS text account. I copied it, and sent it to them.

I logged off IG to finish the call I was on. (This is, frankly, a bad move. It’s not polite to scan your IG account while chatting with someone. It’s awful manners and distracts you from more important things.)

A little while later,  I receive notifications from Instagram in my email. The first one was convincing. It said a new device had logged into my account. I clicked on the link to alert them that it was not my device. Then I received notifications that my email had been changed and my password had been changed.

The first email was a fake. A page came up, looking exactly like an IG help screen. But it told me that link has expired.

This delayed me. The realization that my account has been compromised, and that I am, in fact, an idiot, hit me. Hard.

By the time the other two emails arrived, I have been locked out of my account. I can’t log in. I can only click on the link to the Instagram help page. This offers more links to click on if you think your account has been hacked. 

I clicked the links.

I sent emails. I entered codes IG sent, but I came up against a wall — IG wants the two-factor authentication codes. I didn’t have them. So, the next step is to follow the instructions on sending them a video selfie. I do. (About five hour later, I’ll receive an email from Instagram telling me that the selfie didn’t work.)

Meanwhile, I receive texts and a call from friends asking me if I sent a Bitcoin ad via my stories. 

BITCOIN? The horror. Oh, the horror. 

I checked Instagram via another phone. My account looked the same, only it’s has become @roessler_studios12. Just like @NicePerson’s fake, scammed account. And now, they can use my fake account with the 12 at the end to trick other people.

Some Notes

—Yes, it was stupid and illogical. If I’d taken a few minutes to analyze the message, I would have realized that it didn’t make sense. In fact, a quiet, interior voice was whispering that this was a strange message. The. Whole. Time. 

—You should ALWAYS pay attention to your intuition. I didn’t stop to think about it. I was distracted. I was talking on the phone. The cat was meowing. I had too many browser windows open on my laptop.

—It was surprisingly rough to discover someone had monkeyed with my account — far, FAR out of proportion to the harm done. This means that I wasn’t only dealing with decoding the “help” page but I was working through the fog of potential loss, humiliation, embarrassment, and panic at losing my privacy, my contacts, my nine years of posts.

And worst of all: abusing the people who’d been kind enough to follow me.

Instagram Could Do More to Prevent This

IG could spend a few of its filthy billions in profit mined from our dopamine addictions to splurge on live customer service representatives. My small, local bank does. American Express does. Why can’t they? I’d’ve queued for a few hours to save my old account and avoid the shame of being thought a scoundrel hawking Bitcoin.

And now, I’m in the situation where I am unable to convince — someone? a bot? — Instagram? that this bogus account is not mine and that it is impersonating me. So far, Instagram does not officially believe that “roessler_studios12” is fake.

Suddenly, you ponder: who am I? How do you prove you are who you say you are?

And why can’t they spend a thin slice of Zuckerberg’s billions to help you dislodge this nasty, bloodsucking parasite using your name?

More Lessons

Be vigilant. Do not multitask. Save your work, and save it often.

Also, it’s not that big a deal. I am not dodging missiles in Donbas. No children or animals were harmed. Life goes on.

Just be a little bit smarter than me. Which likely won’t be that hard.

Happy Easter

I’m not a Christian, although I was raised in the Church and was a religious child. I lost my faith when puberty hit. C.S. Lewis stopped making sense, and I took all the wrong lessons from Dostoyevsky’s characters.

But I still like to observe the holidays one way or another. I read Bible chapters, check out the Book of Common Prayer, put Bach on, and look at paintings. 

Nearly everything but attending an actual church.

So I was looking at reproductions of Mantegna, whose Dead Christ is one of the greatest paintings ever made. Then I found his version of the resurrection. Two versions, in fact.

His painting of the resurrection is more traditional and triumphant. Christ, surrounded by angels, rises from the tomb, golden rays radiating from him. Clearly, a divine presence. And it’s a masterful painting.

I also found his drawing of the resurrection. It may have been a preliminary study.

I prefer the drawing. 

Here, Jesus is the least resurrected in any art work I’ve ever seen.

He bears the traces of his sufferings on the cross. His eyes are sad, as if He can’t forget the souls He saw when He harrowed Hell. Deep lines score His face.

The tensions between the humanity of Jesus and the divinity of the Son of God are hard to understand. It’s one of those mysteries the priests and preachers like to explain, but it’s completely paradoxical. Artists tend to paint Jesus as unmarked. He’s a man, 33, but idealized, and depicted as more the way the Greeks portrayed their gods.

In Mantegna’s drawing, though, you see Jesus, or rather, Yeshua of Nazareth, a man. A man who’s worked hard going up and down Israel for three years, then was tortured, and then was executed with one of the most excruciating methods possible.

It’s a truthful drawing. It shows an experience I can understand, and this work reveals a history that leaves marks behind which even the miracle of the resurrection cannot erase.

Happy Easter.

Burned

NCAR fire smoke photo by tim roessler timothy roessler

When the evacuation alarm sounded we were already packing.

Saturday, the sun burned unusually hot for March. A dry wind had blown steadily, chapping lips and blowing caps into the street. On our way home, we saw a column of grey and brown smoke rising over the hill to the west of our house. 

We said: Not again. 

And, we said: already? 

In the spring? 

Snow fell just last Monday. 

As we drove up the block to our house, men stood in the street staring hard at the billows of smoke. With the fire that close – a mile at most and the wind blowing in our direction–we figured we’d pull some things together and track down the cat. 

Just in case.

In tense situations, I shut down, focus, and fall into a kind of tunnel vision. I become formal with an occasional tinge of irritability. Even if I say so myself, I’m good at projecting calm while getting sick children to emergency rooms, sopping up my friend’s blood, dealing with heart attacks, that kind of thing. But:

“Any idiot can face a crisis; it’s this day-to-day living that wears you out.”

Anton Chekov

Filing taxes stresses me out much more than evacuating before a life-threatening inferno. Who knows why?

We packed the cat, the overnight bags, a bin of photo albums, a case with our important documents, and left. I immediately pulled into a huge traffic jam so slow that it took 25 minutes to drive three long city blocks. (Preppers, take note: Plan your escape route ahead of time. And maybe buy one of those heavy-duty scooters.)

table mesa traffic jam photo by tim roessler timothy roessler

Once safely out of reach of the traffic, I looked around at all the people walking, driving, shopping, and going about their usual business. As if nothing was happening. I felt like a sailor washed up on shore from some cataclysmic shipwreck only to be greeted by a fat man in shorts licking an ice cream cone. 

It would be ridiculously melodramatic to make a big deal out of my little evacuation fandango. We were at home, luckily, so we could grab our things. The wind changed direction. Firefighters had the experience of the all-too-recent Marshall Fire to draw upon. The weather cooperated, and the emergency teams won effective control of the blaze in a day.

What’s more, my experience is common. Nearly every week a flood hits, a tornado strikes, a hurricane blows, or a fire incinerates acres of land. 

Because of climate change, we’ve all pitched our tents on the slopes of a volcano, whether we like it or not.  Without knowing it, I’d made an unconscious bargain with the universe: if I live in a generally safe place, I should enjoy security. If I don’t, for example, live in a flood plain, or by the ocean or deep in the forest far away from help, I should be okay. If you build on sand, that’s on you. If you build on rock, then you’ll be fine.

That’s not the case anymore. The unspoken bargain changed. I look at the pines and spruces and waving grasses differently now. The jade mountains with their rose-colored outcroppings hold more than scenic beauty.

Nomad

As I drove away, I imagined all our things going up in smoke: flames eating my books and CDs, roasting my cameras and photo albums, incinerating the grandfather clock my great-grandparents brought over from Scotland, the hand sewn quilts my mother made, and the toys and paintings from my children’s early years. 

The chance that they would turn into cinders and ash saddened me, but a small part of me felt relief. Finally. Rid of all that stuff.

It forced me to consider: What do you really own? And: What’s truly valuable?

I had to answer that you don’t own anything, you only rent it, and you pay the lease with your time and labor.

What determines value is the difficulty of replacing something. Irreplaceable items are the photos, for example, or the object that holds some meaning beyond itself.

More than that, though, I remembered Bruce Chatwin’s writings on nomads. Perhaps we’re not meant to own more than we can easily move ourselves. Perhaps agriculture was indeed the primal sin, the Fall from the Garden of Eden.

What do you need more than a sturdy pair of boots and the right clothing for the weather? And nomads make beautiful art, some of the best in the world, but they’re able to carry it with them, either in their souls or their packs.

I was happy to return to my house with its comforts, its chairs and books, my daughter’s prints, and my son’s piano.

But I’ll never look at any of it in the same way.

And I’m keeping that go-bag packed. I’ll need it.

La porte étroite

Appropriately bilious cover art.

You’re familiar with love triangles from at a hundred thousand movies and novels. But la porte étroite is a love quadrangle with God, or rather a very specific version of God, as one of the partners.

That helps make this novel seem to come not only from a different century but from another civilization. The impact of religious zealotry isn’t a common topic these days.  Alternately exasperating, entrancing, frustrating, and finally, moving, this love story explores the effects of religious fervor and burning idealism in an extended French bourgeois family. 

I read it more or less by accident. I bought the book a few years ago, maybe because James Salter recommended it. I thought I knew Gide from a couple of other novels, but it turns how I only had a shallow understanding of his work.

It wasn’t an easy read. First of all, Gide deploys unusual versions of the subjunctive tense very elegantly, but it stressed my fragile French. Secondly, the characters behave in ways that are true to the world of the story, but frustrating to experience from a distance. I’m not usually tempted to want to yell at a given person in a fictional narrative. This time, I wanted to grab a few of them by the shoulders and give them hell. Agonizing, really. 

Still, in the end, I’m happy to have read this with its beautiful passages, its unusual sensibility, its melding of Catholic zeal with romantic yearning, and, finally, its shattering ending.

Essays In Idleness

“The person learning archery takes in this and both arrows the teacher says: ‘Beginners ought not to hold two arrows. They rely on their second arrow and are careless at first. You ought each time to think, without any idea of missing and hitting, ‘This is the shot which counts.’
One may think, ‘Surely, with two errors only, a man will not be careless in the teacher’s presence.’  But the man does not know when his own care relaxes, the teacher does know, and this counsel extends to all things.”

About a thousand years ago, Yoshida Kenko wrote his thoughts down in a random collection, later collected as Essays in Idleness.

“People who are studying think at night, ‘There is tomorrow.’ Tomorrow they think, ‘there is tonight’, and so they go on, always meaning to work diligently. Nay, more – does not the attention relax even in a moment of time? Why is it so hard to do a thing now, at the moment when one thinks of it.”

Kenko was a Buddhist monk and courtier who lived in 14th century Japan. His thoughts range over issues of court etiquette, bamboo, linguistic, and right living. They express the ferocious aestheticism you often find in Japanese books.

Initially, his obsession with etiquette seemed merely fussy and eccentric, especially alongside his more profound philosophical observations. But then, manners could be a form of spiritual discipline, and so worthy of attention.

Just as Kenko’s collection is worthy of yours. 

(Of course, it’s one thing to read a book of wisdom, and another to apply it. It’s a melancholy truth that, in my case even the deepest books have had only shallow effects, but who knows? Maybe something will sink in. Someday.) 

Table Mesa King Soopers Reopens

Table Mesa King Soopers, where the mass shootings happened almost exactly a year ago, reopened last week. 

I avoided the grand reopening ceremony. It was at 9:00 am, and featured the governor of the state and other local officials, as well as Kroger representatives. A marching band quickstepped in, playing the “Battle Hymn of the Republic”. That’s a detail the news outlets skipped over, but which appeared in a few Instagram stories.

My son went that evening. He said that a young woman burst into tears by the entrance, and her friend led her away. 

I finally visited a few days ago. It is resolutely normal. Any possible reminder of the slaughter has been erased. 

On the one hand, and on a low level, I am happy to be able to buy beef and broccoli without being assailed by waves of grief. On the other hand, I have a problem with this. It is, in fact, a brutal reminder of how temporary even the largest tragedy can be. 

Yes, we have come through

The late Peter Beard offering us a good example.

Looking back on 2021, I have to think hard about when it began or what happened. It feels arbitrary to slice a period up with names and numbers. I figure we’re still in Year One which started whenever COVID-19 hit your place hard. For me, that’d be 15 March 2020.

We barely shook off the pandemic last spring — I think it was last spring? 2021? Yeah, last spring when, during the heady days of the initial vaccinations, it looked as if things would return to the way they’d been. We went from that strange muted time of lockdowns, to a brief and fun flare up of bonhomie, back to a diminished normal. 

The seasons are blurring into each other, too. In Colorado, we receive most of our snow in March and often in April. We had a wet spring, then a summer that lasted until a few days ago when it became winter again.

And that’s what it feels like in my memory — certain times are drawn out, others compressed. 

Events happened. Boy, did they happen. My county was hit by two horrors: a mass shooting and just now, a conflagration that devoured an entire suburb.

You can rattle on all you want about the uncertainty of life, especially when you read existentialists in college. I read Heraclitus. Life is change. I get it, you tell yourself. Then you go off to have an espresso, filled with the self-loving fatuousness of youth, calm in the face of the decay and deaths you have no real conception of.

But when a real and shocking change happens in your life and the life of your city, it shakes you up. Grief strikes. 

Both events seemed unlikely. And yet, utterly predictable. We have lax gun control laws that enable a man who’s unfit to stand trial to buy an assault weapon, no problem! And yeah, those record temperatures combined with a record drought? That just might cause a problem when a spark hits the brittle, bone-dry grass in a windstorm.

In retrospect, the shooting and the fire seem inevitable. We haven’t acted to solve either gun control or climate change. And, no, I’m not sure who “we” are.  I suppose I mean the people in power — those ogres of greed, the drooling monsters who won’t take some simple measures of self preservation because it would mean shaving a few cents off their treasure trove.

And the voters who buy their lies and keep putting the stooges back in power.

And those damn coal-fired plants in China that keep me in cheap consumer goods.

And me, too.

Gun control and climate change seem like issues you’d want to take seriously, even from your bunker in New Zealand or your office in the Capitol. I guess oligarchs don’t read John Donne. The bloated poseurs in Congress skipped some key verses in that Bible they like to wave around when they’re not busy corrupting the Republic.

For myself and the people I care about most, 2021 has been okay — ups and downs. These fall into the regular category of life being one damned thing after another. In my extended family and circle of friends, it’s been rough. Some died. Others were diagnosed with cancer. Another had a heart attack, but recovered.

Life.

Applying business methodologies to your life is weird and reductive. “In Q2, after careful measurement, I decided to log three more hours a week at Level 2 cardio, make two more friends and take up soldering as a break from my crypto hustle.” Perhaps if I took that sort of thing seriously, I’d be farther along.

Anyway, it’s good to reflect and think, yes, but don’t use a grid or spreadsheet. Please.

People — bloggers, and influencers and gurus, oh my! — like to list What They Learned in 2021. I don’t have many insights. But I’ll pass a couple along: A few days ago, I wished our pharmacist in Paris bonnes fêtes — happy holidays. She returned the greeting. Then she looked out of the window, paused, and said, “We should live every day like it’s a holiday.” 

She said this with a dark, grim edge. One that tells you she’s someone who’s been through some trouble, and that she’s someone who knows that life changes in an instant. 

So: Live every day like it’s a holiday. 

And, a friend of mine wrote, “Abandonnez les souhaits que ne se realisent jamias et vivez vos désirs”  (“Give up on wishes which never come true and live according to your desires.”)

Happy 2022.