NAACP? Where were they?

By Matt Murdock, Esq.

The city, she never sleeps. Not truly. Even in the dead of night, after the last siren wails and the drunks stumble home, I hear her. The whispers of old concrete, the ghost of laughter from a hundred years ago, and that faint, persistent tremor of injustice vibrating just beneath the surface. Tonight, that tremor feels like a drum solo on a cracked skull, the ceaseless question: Where were they? And not just "they," that amorphous concept, but the NAACP. The grand old dame of civil rights, the legal eagle with the sharpest talons, often, it seems, content to circle high above while the real fight for Black American identity was a bare-knuckle brawl in the alleyways below.

You want exhaustive? You want verbose? And sarcastic? Ah, a kindred spirit. Let's delve into the ledger, shall we? Every entry, every omission, written in the grimy, unforgiving ink of history. For those who didn't spend their youth dodging bricks or dissecting torts, strap in. This isn't your grandfather's bedtime story.

Where was the NAACP

The air itself, in this city, is thick with promises. Thin, stale, promises. The NAACP, birthed on February 12, 1909, felt like one of the grandest. From the ashes of the Niagara Movement, a congregation of eloquent Black men who dared to dream louder than the Lynch Mob, came this vow. A sacred oath, they called it. To lock down the promises of the 13th, 14th, and 15th Amendments. For the uninitiated, that’s "freedom" (which, let me tell you, often felt more like a fresh set of chains), "equal protection" (a hilarious legal fiction for generations of Black Americans), and "the right to vote" (unless, of course, you harbored the inconvenient audacity to be Black, in which case it was the right to be terrorized, beaten, or murdered for even thinking about a ballot box). Lofty goals, absolutely. But as the "civil rights saga" unfolded, less a graceful ballet, more a street fight with no rules and no referee, their presence often felt selective. Their leadership, a revolving door of varying degrees of boldness. And their mission? Ah, that's where the real rub is. It seemed to evolve from a visceral, desperate cry for our specific liberation here, in this hellish American experiment, to a generalized, almost academic pursuit of "justice" for "all colored people," Pan-African solidarity be damned. A global embrace, while the home front bled.

The Crucible of Conscience: King, X, and the Very Real Fight for Black American Souls

I can still feel the reverberations from Montgomery, 1955. The ground shook with righteous indignation. Rosa Parks, a quiet woman with a will of iron, refused to move. A spark. But it was the Montgomery Improvement Association (MIA), a raw, unvarnished, local effort, mind you, born from the very dust of their churches and homes, that fanned that spark into a bonfire. King, a young preacher with a voice like thunder, became their reluctant, then resolute, standard-bearer.

The NAACP, under the ever-present Roy Wilkins (a man whose tenure from 1950-1977 speaks volumes about institutional longevity, even amidst national upheaval), was there, yes. Like a well-dressed lawyer at a bare-knuckle fight, they provided "legal muscle." E.D. Nixon, a true son of Montgomery and an NAACP lifer, was instrumental in getting Parks out of jail and igniting the boycott. But let's strip away the polished veneer: their role was a support act. The main performance was played out on the sidewalks, day after day, for 381 days, by thousands of Black Americans whose feet were blistered and whose spirits refused to break.

And then came the legal "triumph" of Browder v. Gayle (1956), which, finally, mercifully, struck down bus segregation. This was, absolutely, a victory forged in the furnaces of the NAACP Legal Defense Fund (LDF), under the meticulous command of Thurgood Marshall. A brilliant man, Marshall understood the labyrinthine paths of American law. But while the LDF was busy drafting briefs that sang like angels, King and his weary flock were walking. They were facing bombings, death threats, and the cold, unyielding stare of white supremacy. The MIA’s visceral, community-driven power wasn’t just "outshining" the strategic support; it was creating the pressure cooker that forced the legal system to finally, begrudgingly, acknowledge its own rotten core. Legal precedents, like grand cathedrals, are often built on the broken backs and calloused feet of those who dared to march.

And then, the jolt of Malcolm X. A voice that wasn't just loud; it was an electric shock, raw and unapologetic. His declaration, "The Ballot or the Bullet" (1964), a phrase that still tastes like blood and gunpowder, cut through the polite rhetoric like a razor wire. It captured the stark reality for Black Americans: true power, or desperate resistance. The NAACP’s reaction? A collective shudder. Wilkins, the consummate institutionalist, viewed "militancy" as a threat, not a necessary, albeit chaotic, facet of a multi-pronged war. They didn't just "distance" themselves from Malcolm; they actively repudiated his stark, unvarnished focus on the unique plight of the Black man in America. They feared his truth would shatter their carefully constructed, broader, and frankly, more palatable Pan-African narrative. They sought integration into a house that had been built on our ancestors' bones, rather than demanding a new foundation for our distinct identity.

The Marches, the Mobs, and the "Missing" Presence

The Civil Rights Act of 1964. The Voting Rights Act of 1965. Undeniable monuments, built on the legislative battlegrounds. Clarence Mitchell Jr., the NAACP's legislative titan, was a veritable force of nature, a man who could lobby the devil himself into signing a good faith agreement. And yes, LDF cases like Gomillion v. Lightfoot (1960), which painstakingly exposed Alabama’s comically crude racial gerrymandering (they literally redrew a city, Tuskegee, into a 28-sided monstrosity just to exclude Black voters. Subtlety, thy name is Jim Crow!), laid crucial groundwork.

But then came Selma. Oh, Selma (1965). While the NAACP was, no doubt, preparing another brilliant legal offensive, King and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC) were marching. They were singing. And on that infamous "Bloody Sunday," March 7, 1965, they were bleeding. You can hear it, can't you? The sickening thud of billy clubs against bone. The gasps for air as tear gas choked the screams. John Lewis, a young man, his skull split open. Hosea Williams, stumbling, battered. That raw, gut-wrenching brutality, laid bare for the nation to witness, forced the issue. It was a horrifying testament to American barbarism. And where was the national NAACP? Providing "supporting legal roles." Right. Always the support act when the stage is soaked in blood. Their absence from that immediate, agonizing physical confrontation, a strategic pivot away from the messiness of direct action, perhaps, didn't just "raise questions about caution over courage"; it was a deafening silence. When our bodies were broken, when our distinct struggle was laid bare, the legal purists were conspicuously absent from the frontline.

Courtroom Chronicles for the Common Man (and the Disillusioned Lawyer Who Still Believes)

Let's cut through the legalese, shall we? These cases, they’re not just dusty tomes. They are the battle scars, the victories won inch by agonizing inch, that shaped the very ground we walk on.

Plessy v. Ferguson, 163 U.S. 537 (1896): This, my friends, was the original sin. The Supreme Court, with a straight face, declared "separate but equal" constitutional. Meaning, you could have facilities for Black people and white people, as long as they were supposedly equal. (Spoiler alert: they never were). This ruling became the legal backbone of segregation, Jim Crow, and systemic oppression for six decades. It was the monster the NAACP was born to slay.

Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, 347 U.S. 483 (1954): This was the big one. The atomic bomb of civil rights law. The NAACP LDF, led by Marshall, argued that segregated schools were inherently unequal, not just in resources, but because they psychologically harmed Black children, making them feel inferior. The Supreme Court, in a rare moment of clarity, agreed unanimously. "Separate educational facilities are inherently unequal," they declared. This wasn't just a legal win; it was a moral thunderclap that reverberated across the nation, signaling the official end of legal segregation.

NAACP v. Alabama ex rel. Patterson, 357 U.S. 449 (1958): A dirty trick, Southern style. Alabama, in an attempt to crush the NAACP, demanded its membership lists. The NAACP refused, knowing full well those names would be targets for violence, economic ruin, and worse. The Supreme Court backed the NAACP, stating that the right to associate privately, without fear of exposure, was fundamental. It was a defensive victory, but a crucial one for the organization's very survival.

Gomillion v. Lightfoot, 364 U.S. 339 (1960): This is a testament to the pettiness of racism. The city of Tuskegee, Alabama, literally redrew its city limits, changing them from a square to a bizarre 28-sided shape, all to exclude virtually every Black voter while keeping white voters in. The Supreme Court, perhaps even they couldn't stomach this blatant absurdity, ruled that such a blatant racial gerrymander violated the Fifteenth Amendment (the right to vote). A victory against institutionalized trickery.

Browder v. Gayle, 356 U.S. 93 (1956): The legal muscle behind the Montgomery Bus Boycott. While Rosa Parks’ arrest was the spark, this case was the legal flamethrower. It challenged bus segregation directly, not just under the "separate but equal" facade. The Supreme Court upheld a lower court ruling, definitively declaring that bus segregation violated the Fourteenth Amendment's equal protection clause. The feet of the marchers met the force of the law.

So, yes, the NAACP delivered in the legal arena. But the law, like a blueprint for a building, is useless if no one dares to lay the foundation brick-by-brick, even if those bricks are smeared with their own blood.

The Persistent Pull: Courtrooms, King, and the Crushing Force of Compromise

King, with the MIA, understood the raw, terrifying power of mass action: the collective weight of bodies, the collective roar of voices, the collective agony of shared suffering. The NAACP, under the meticulous Marshall and the cautious Wilkins, preferred the quiet, deliberate, often glacial pace of the courts. Brown was their undeniable "crown jewel," a legal masterpiece. But did it pressure Congress more directly than King's nonviolent army walking for over a year? One was a judicial decree; the other, a public shaming broadcast into every living room, demanding an immediate, visceral reckoning. Internal memos, if you listen closely, betray the friction: Wilkins's rather charming disdain for King's "spontaneity." Imagine, daring to be spontaneous when your people are being lynched! Yet, in fleeting moments like Browder, their joint efforts did bridge some divides, proving that the legal and the visceral, when truly synchronized, could shake the very earth. A fleeting harmony, perhaps, swallowed by the dissonance of their differing philosophies.

The California Dream and the Whiff of Modern Silence

Reparations. Ah, that word. It sends shivers down spines, not of fear, but of inconvenience. California’s recent reparations push, via Senate Bill S.40 (2023), which, let's be honest, merely proposed a study commission (because we simply must study injustice for a few more years before acting!), seemed to align with the NAACP's 2022 stance favoring financial reparations. Under Derrick Johnson (2017-present), they did endorse S.40. But their "presence," shall we say, was more a polite nod than a roaring demand. While polls (those glorious, ever-shifting winds of public opinion!) showed significant opposition, their limited engagement suggested less a strategic boldness and more a strategic retreat from the very specific, very tangible demands of Black American descendants. One might even call it a strategic evasion, lest they upset those who prefer a more generalized, less financially inconvenient notion of "justice." When the fight is for our ancestral debt, a whisper, no matter how well-intentioned, tastes like ash.

The NAACP's reparations stance has evolved, I'll grant them that. Early efforts, perhaps recognizing the political poison inherent in the demand, indeed faltered. The 1980s saw renewed advocacy, citing historical injustices like Jim Crow (a system of laws so insidious, it deserves its own special corner in Hell). Their 2022 resolution reaffirmed reparations, which is a step. But that nagging lack of "lineage-specific clarity," that broad, sweeping reference to "systemic harms broadly," it's a very polite sidestep, isn't it? A way to acknowledge the pain without committing to the very specific people who inherited the specific, generational legacy of American chattel slavery. It's a Pan-African embrace that sometimes feels like a deliberate evasion of the unique, searing wound of the Black American experience.

Jackson, PUSH, and the Perennial Question of Identity

Let's set the record straight, clear as a bell after a rainstorm. Jesse Jackson did not, in fact, storm out of the NAACP to launch Operation PUSH. He left King's SCLC, a departure born of legitimate strategic differences with Ralph Abernathy. Jackson, ever the pragmatic strategist, founded Operation PUSH (People United to Save Humanity) in 1971, with an admirable, laser-like focus on economic empowerment: creating jobs, fostering Black businesses. This genuinely complemented the NAACP’s legal strategies, but it also hammered home a vital distinction: Jackson's vision was rooted in the tangible, economic liberation of Black Americans, a direct address to their specific disenfranchisement within the American capitalist machine. He remained connected, sure, even received NAACP awards in '88 and '89. A gesture of, perhaps, institutional forgiveness.

The critique that the NAACP, with its enduring reliance on white liberal funding, was less "grassroots-driven" and more of a "Pan-African pawn," that's not just academic hot air. When your survival depends on pleasing a donor base, the sharp, inconvenient edges of specific Black American demands can get awfully dull. Their reparations stance, broad and frustratingly unfocused, indeed faced the rightful criticism from those who argue it overlooked specific lineage claims. Because while "Africans" are a continent, "Black Americans" are a distinct people forged in the crucible of this nation's original sin. The two are not interchangeable, and sometimes, the NAACP seemed to forget that crucial distinction, prioritizing a global appeal over local anguish.

The Fires of Fury: A Century of "Where Were They?"

Now, for the ugly truth. The "riots," as polite society calls them. I hear the crackle of flame, the screams of terror, the desperate prayers. These weren't random acts of violence; they were eruptions. The raw, guttural screams of systemic failure, of promises broken again and again. Where was the NAACP, the esteemed advocate for the "advancement of colored people," when the very fabric of Black American communities was being ripped to shreds?

Springfield Race Riot (1908): Just before their birth, a premonition. White mobs, fueled by baseless accusations, attacked Black residents, lynching, burning, leaving a trail of horror. A stark reminder of the landscape they were to enter.

East St. Louis Race Riot (1917): A bloodbath. White workers, poisoned by racial animosity and economic fear, slaughtered dozens, maybe hundreds, of Black residents. The police and National Guard? Often stood by, hands in pockets.

Red Summer (1919): Not a singular event, but a nationwide contagion of racial violence. Over three dozen cities: Chicago, Washington D.C., the rural horror of Elaine, Arkansas, saw white mobs attacking Black communities, who, to their credit, often fought back. A brutal, bloody baptism for the fledgling NAACP, navigating a nation consumed by hate.

Tulsa Massacre (1921): This one makes my stomach churn. "Black Wall Street," a beacon of Black prosperity, bombed from the air, burned to ashes by white mobs. Hundreds dead, thousands displaced. The nascent NAACP, still building its reach, had no tangible presence on the ground as lives and legacies were obliterated. A chilling absence, indeed.

Detroit Race Riot (1943): World War II raged overseas, but at home, tensions over housing, jobs, and segregation boiled over. A three-day eruption, white and Black mobs clashing, federal troops called in.

Watts Riots (1965): Mere months after the Civil Rights Act, Los Angeles became an inferno. Frustration over police brutality, crushing unemployment, and substandard living conditions ignited a six-day rebellion. Thirty-four dead. The NAACP's response? Critiques. Statements. And while their legal teams gnawed at the underlying causes, the frontline relief, the immediate comfort, the very presence in the burning streets, was often left to others.

Detroit Riots (1967): A city consumed. One of the deadliest uprisings in U.S. history. Five days of anarchy, arson, looting. Forty-three dead. A community tearing itself apart from within. The NAACP was there, issuing pronouncements, pushing for legislative bandages, but the immediate crisis, the raw desperation, often outpaced their measured, institutional response.

Newark Riots (1967): Simultaneous with Detroit, another major conflagration, sparked by police brutality and pervasive poverty. More death, more destruction. The same familiar, frustrating pattern of institutional response.

Washington D.C. Riots (1968): Following King’s assassination, the capital, and cities nationwide, exploded in grief and rage. The NAACP mourned, yes, and advocated for the very legislation King died fighting for, but the spontaneous, often destructive, outpouring of fury was beyond their controlled, measured comfort zone.

Miami Riots (1980): Ignited by the acquittal of white police officers in the killing of Arthur McDuffie, a Black insurance executive. Three days of violence, eighteen dead.

Los Angeles Riots (1992): The Rodney King verdict. Four LAPD officers acquitted in the brutal beating of a Black motorist, caught on tape for the world to see. Five days of widespread unrest, looting, arson. Sixty-three dead. A raw, visceral scream against a system that refused to see Black humanity. The NAACP's critiques were there, but the raw, immediate chaos of a city in flames lacked their coordinated frontline relief. That void was filled by local leaders, street organizers, and desperate residents trying to survive.

Cincinnati Riots (2001): Following the police shooting of Timothy Thomas, an unarmed Black man. The anger simmered, then boiled over.

Ferguson Unrest (2014): The killing of Michael Brown, an unarmed Black teenager, by a police officer. Weeks of protests, some turning violent, against endemic police brutality and systemic racism. The NAACP was vocal, lending legal support, but the decentralized, youth-led "Black Lives Matter" movement, raw and unpolished, often took center stage in the very streets where the fight was hottest.

Baltimore Uprising (2015): The death of Freddie Gray in police custody sparked widespread protests and unrest. Another damning indictment of systemic injustice.

George Floyd Protests (2020): The excruciating, public murder of George Floyd under the knee of a police officer ignited a global movement. Derrick Johnson, the current NAACP president, issued powerful statements. The words were there. But "minimal coordination" from the national organization during those raw, spontaneous, globally televised protests? That’s an understatement. The streets were swarming with the energy of newer movements: decentralized, digital-native, and often far more radical in their demands. The stately NAACP, it seemed, was left to issue its pronouncements from the sidelines, struggling to truly engage with the very anguish it was founded to address.

Case Law Genealogy: A Tapestry Woven with Threads of Delay and Disappointment

From Plessy v. Ferguson, the despicable legal framework that directly necessitated the NAACP’s very existence, to their landmark victories like NAACP v. Alabama, Gomillion v. Lightfoot, and of course, Brown v. Board, their legal impact is unquestionably substantial. They fought the good fight in the courts, often with immense personal risk, often chipping away at the very foundations of American racism. However, their cautious, often exclusively legal focus, while building a robust foundation, often seemed to delay mass action, to temper the righteous rage, to channel it into the slow, agonizing gears of the judicial system. This was notably, painfully seen during the very "riots" we just listed and the more spontaneous grassroots protests that screamed for immediate, visceral change, not just future legal precedent.

Leadership Eras and Their Evolving (or Stagnant) Missions

Moorfield Storey (1910-1929): The first president, a white civil rights lawyer. Focused on anti-lynching cases. Noble work, to be sure, trying to stop the most barbaric forms of American terrorism.

Walter White (1931-1955): A light-skinned Black man who could "pass" for white, and often did, to infiltrate white supremacist groups. He pushed tirelessly for anti-lynching legislation and laid critical groundwork for Brown. A strategic chameleon, perhaps too effective at blending in.

Roy Wilkins (1955-1977): The long-serving president during the heart of the Civil Rights Movement. He oversaw major legal victories, but his tenure was also characterized by a cautious, integrationist approach, often at odds with the more radical wings of the movement. He was a master of the slow, methodical game, perhaps to a fault.

Benjamin Hooks (1977-1992): An ordained minister and lawyer, he focused on economic and voter mobilization. A shift towards more direct community engagement, perhaps learning from the frustrations of the Wilkins era, or simply bowing to the obvious.

Kweisi Mfume (1996-2004): A former congressman, he focused on corporate diversity initiatives. A move towards engaging corporate America, a recognition of where power was shifting, but also a reflection of a movement seeking influence in boardrooms, not just courtrooms or streets.

Derrick Johnson (2017-present): Current president, advocating for reparations and systemic reform. The rhetoric is there, the intent is clear, but the tangible, visible impact on the ground for Black American specificity is still being debated. The words ring hollow when the action isn't loud enough.

A Legacy in the Shadows of Unmet Expectations

The NAACP’s journey, one must admit, is complex. A tapestry woven with genuine victories, perplexing absences, a sometimes-frustrating caution, and an evolving, often reactive, leadership. Their contributions through the courts remain absolutely critical, a legal scaffolding without which the modern civil rights landscape would crumble into dust. Yet, the persistent shifts in grassroots leadership, the profound internal conflicts, and their often-tepid response to the raw, visceral cries for justice highlight an organization constantly, perhaps agonizingly, negotiating its role. Trying to find its footing on shifting sand.

The fight for justice endures, a ceaseless roar in the ears of those who dare to listen. And the NAACP’s legacy is, undeniably, at its heart. But for whom does that heart truly beat? For the nebulous concept of "colored people," for a Pan-African ideal that sometimes overshadows the specific, agonizing reality of Black Americans forged in the fires of this nation? Or for the descendants of slaves who built this nation, who continue to fight for their distinct identity, their distinct reparations, and their distinct liberation within the very land that continues to deny them? That, dear reader, is the question that keeps a blind lawyer up at night, listening to the city's mournful song. And for some of us, the answer is still tragically, infuriatingly, unclear.

By Matt Murdock, Esq.