To read it from public-school history books, you’d think the Ocoee Massacre of 1920 started when a group of Black people shot and killed two white people after the white people were investigating alleged voter fraud.
July Perry and Mose Norman were two Black civil-rights activists who were trying to register and turn out Black people and white Republicans to vote in the 1920 elections. When Mose Norman himself tried to vote, he was denied. They went back to Perry’s house, where Perry’s wife and daughter were present.
Later that day, a group of armed white men led by Sam T. Salisbury arrived at Perry’s house, allegedly after they heard rumors that Perry and Norman were assembling a mob. When the white men surrounded the house, Perry’s wife or daughter pointed a shotgun at one of them that discharged when a white man tried to disarm them.
Lots of shooting ensued (none from the Perrys, who had retreated to their house), and the crossfire killed two white men. Word soon spread in the white community about a mob of 37 Black people who killed the two white men and escaped across the town of Ocoee.
A manhunt ensued, which turned into a massacre that torched at least 28 buildings and killed at least six Black people. July Perry’s family was kidnapped and held until he turned himself in, only to be lynched at 3 o’clock that night outside the home of a Republican politician who supported Black voting rights.
Almost overnight, almost all Black people fled Ocoee; by the late 1940s, no Black families had returned to the town.
This story is deeply upsetting, and can provoke anger from those who are appalled at its injustice, or discomfort from those who may sympathize but not want to dredge up racial hostilities from the past.
So, why do I bring it up? Because we have a responsibility to lean into the hard conversations. Whether about race, or religion, or politics, or other oft-divisive topics, our collective inability to talk with people with whom we disagree — and especially to have our long-held beliefs challenged — makes it that much harder for us to tackle many of the biggest challenges our community faces today. Instead, we have incentive structures, especially in politics, to retreat to our partisan corners and engage only in groupthink echo chambers.
On the weekend of Oct. 7 and 8, I had the privilege of attending a trip organized by the Miami Center for Racial Justice and Stetson University to take 40 Stetson University students and a handful of faculty and community members on a bus trip around central and north Florida to tour historical sites of racial terror.
Led by Dr. Marvin Dunn, an expert on Florida’s Black history, our first stop was in Ocoee, where we visited a mass grave in which dozens of Black victims of the Ocoee Massacre were buried. Following that, we went to cemeteries and sites of lynchings in Live Oak, the Suwanee River, Newberry, Sumner and Rosewood.
By seeing these sites, touching these gravestones, and hearing these stories, students felt the weight of these atrocities and how undeniable this history was. Some felt shame, or guilt, or sorrow, or fury — uncomfortable, but human, feelings that are worth exploring and interrogating. All hard conversations that are worth leaning into.
Stetson University’s annual Values Day this year kicked off a commitment to leaning into conversations like these, about topics that included addiction, money, dying, mental health, sex, trans rights, and even the Israeli/Palestinian conflict.
Another topic was whether Spring Hill should be annexed into the City of DeLand — a challenging topic we haven’t resolved here in DeLand for generations. This is a conversation we’ve just begun. Let’s keep talking.
— Winchell is the director of Community Engagement at Stetson University, and a lifelong resident of Volusia County. He lives in DeLeon Springs with his wife and two children.
