My Own Camp Logan

"I read the news today, oh boy.”

-The Beatles, A Day In The Life

Oh, Boy.

That’s how I felt when I heard the news this past November: One hundred Black servicemen, sentenced to life in prison for their alleged involvement in what was called a riot, in Houston, Texas, nearly 100 years ago, had been ceremoniously reinstated by the US Army with full honors and benefits for their descendants. In short, they had finally been forgiven.

Long before this though, they had been forgotten– or never even known.

That was the case for me until I moved into a modest bungalow in a ramshackle neighborhood on the eastern edge of Memorial Park in Houston 40 years ago. 

The incident that destroyed these soldiers’ lives, left 19 people dead in the streets of Houston and could be considered one of the lowest points of the Jim Crow era, had been completely erased from collective memory by the time I arrived on Sawyer Street. 

Just 60 years later, there was no sign of Camp Logan, no trace of what had happened, why people died, or any indication that these men had ever lived.

Haunted by History 

I learned of Camp Logan in a rather strange way.  Like most old houses, mine was creaky, but this one was downright spooky. I would hear noises– footsteps in the house, on the roof, doors closing– day and night. 

It was more obnoxious than scary, but I could never figure out what was causing them. 

A superstitious friend of mind confidently replied, "Sounds like ghosts to me." 

Sure, but I dont believe in ghosts, and why would any ghost choose to haunt my crappy little house off of Washington Street? My friend said,

"It’s because somebody died there, and doesn’t know they’re dead. So they just walk around, making noises, doing their haunting thing."  

These explanations seemed ridiculous to me, but out of curiousity, I researched whether anyone had actually died at my home.  

In the house? No. 

On the property? Most definitely, yes. 

Hostile Homecoming

While searching for my own household ghosts, I uncovered the real ghost– the story of Camp Logan, and the Black soldiers who had recently returned from Europe after World War I, only to find themselves in a situation where they believed they would have to kill or be killed. 

Imagine that– they survived the horrors of WWI in the American Army, fighting against all enemies, only to come home to Houston, and face a life-or-death struggle. 

I won’t recount the full story of the Camp Logan riots, here, but you can read an account here, or do your own research. 

I can tell you there’s a lot to learn, and the story is only just now being fully told.

But back in 1983, it was still buried, and what I uncovered felt like exhuming a body– a body of history, deliberately hidden away.

The fighting raged on the very spot where my little house was later built. I can’t say for sure whether anyone died there, or if their spirits became the ghosts walking on my roof at 2 a.m.– I kinda doubt both. 

What I can say is that the ghost of that terrible night lurked beneath the community’s collective consciousness for almost a century. When I learned the truth, that wandering spirit was still so angry and confused, that I couldn’t help but share in its turmoil. This was my own Camp Logan.

It's been years since I sold that house and moved away from Houston. The neighborhood has been completely gentrified, with million-dollar homes lining the street where barracks once stood for Buffalo Soldiers and returning 24th Infantry soldiers who had served in France during WWI.  

Yet, the history of Camp Logan is no longer forgotten. 

Brought to Light

In the recent refurbishment of Memorial Park, the architecture of the original camp is reflected in the design of several public buildings. Plaques around the grounds tell the story of the camp, its soldiers, and the tragic history that has haunted us ever since. 

It’s a funny thing about ghosts– like vampires, they don’t like the light. Once exposed to it, they lose the urge to haunt us. I imagine the current occupants of that Sawyer Street property no longer hear those footsteps or wonder if something eerie is in their house.  

Call it progress if you like. It may be, but even more so, it’s about understanding those footsteps for what they are, and knowing where we go from here.