The forgotten, ignored, or buried stories of those who lived before us
Susanna coleman
On February 2, 1886, Susanna Coleman received instructions to appear in the Anoka High School Principal’s office at 9 a.m. the following morning. A week later, the Anoka Union started a conversation that would last a month in the local newspapers with just five scant lines: “Considerable talk is being indulged in certain quarters over Prof. Cummings punishing a negro female pupil named Coleman. It is reported that more force was used than was necessary.”
The Coleman family wasn’t new to the City of Anoka, but few records exist about their lives before moving to the area. Available information includes newspaper accounts, census records, and Susanna’s mother, Betsey’s (Nancy Elizabeth), obituary in the Anoka Herald in 1895. The newspaper noted that Betsey “was taken from her mother when only four years old and sold” into slavery, where she eventually became “the property of a hotel keeper in Missouri.” Sometime after the Civil War, Betsey moved to Anoka with her son and married her second husband, William Coleman. By 1880, the family household included parents William and Betsey, their daughters Zephie, Susanna, and Mary, and Betsey’s son and daughter-in-law William and Mary Butler. The father, William, worked as a teamster and hostler while Betsey kept house and worked as a wash woman.
Following the family through historical records becomes confusing for several reasons. Not only do their ages vary by 25-35 years depending on the source, but Betsey, according to the census, went from literate in 1870 to illiterate in 1880. A further contradiction appears in a letter to the editor from her, printed in 1886. Ultimately, the sources we can find about the family come through the lens of a second person—the census taker or newspaper editor —rather than the family themselves.
Accounts of the incident varied. Susanna’s mother, Betsey Coleman, responded publicly by writing an eloquent letter to the Union—an act of advocacy at a time when society often dismissed Black women’s voices. According to the letter, Susanna’s “awful crime” was chewing a piece of paper, and as punishment, Cummings hit her hands with a horsewhip until they bled. The Herald responded on February 20 with derision to the Union’s story, closing their article by saying, “let it [the Union] be careful to retain a little common sense.”
Principal Cummings didn’t dispute that he whipped Susanna. In a response printed in the Union, he clarified that “Mrs. Coleman’s daughter was moderately whipped” for “repeated and persistent disobedience” [italics original to the text]. He reported he didn’t notice drawing any blood. The Herald allied with the Professor and his discipline of “a few small strokes on each hand from a small riding whip.”
Granville Pease, editor of the Anoka Union, spearheaded this community conversation by giving column inches to each party and adding his opinions on corporal punishment in lengthy editorials. He calls it “a relic of barbarism” and declares he has “the severest censure for any teacher who whips any pupil in our public school.” Alvin Eastman, editor of the competing Anoka Herald, disagreed with the stir the article caused. This led the editors to snipe back and forth at each other over their coverage. Eastman printed “The editor of the Union has had his sympathies unduly excited by a whipping incident...let it be careful to retain a little common sense.” and in their next issue Granville responded in the Union “Let the Herald understand that it will never be charged with having any common sense as long as it tries to excuse Prof. Cummings…”
Susanna’s story doesn’t end with this one day when she was 14, but what we know of her life is sparse. It’s unclear if she went past the 8th grade or attended High School, but by 1895, she was still living in Anoka and was working as a servant for an unknown local family. By 1900, she worked as a dressmaker and lived in Minneapolis with her sisters and brother-in-law. When, where, and how she passed away is also a mystery, but her mother and half-brother are buried in Forest Hill Cemetery in Anoka.
Because of his status as a man and a white man, the story provides a little more information about the principal. Jothamn Henry Cummings graduated from Harvard in 1870. From there, he worked as a teacher and Principal in Connecticut, Indiana, and Wisconsin before moving to Anoka and taking the position of Principal here in 1883. While Granville Pease called out his behavior in the newspaper and alluded to hearing from more community members about Cummings’ behavior, Cummings stayed in his position for another two to three years. By 1889, he was teaching in Moorehead and eventually stepped away due to his increasing hearing loss.
Susanna’s story challenges the power of print and raises questions about the value of relationships and defiance vs. compliance. The social norms and laws of the 19th century dictated that women, especially Black women and girls, occupied a negligible and often invisible role. By printing Susanna’s story in the newspaper, Pease validated her experience and challenged the community’s assumptions.
At the same time, curriculum authors produced classroom materials advocating for the continuation of white supremacy. Students like Susanna used these textbooks to shape their understanding of the world. A Geography textbook in the Anoka County History Center collections is titled “Warren’s Common School Geography,” published in 1880 and used in Anoka schools. Susanna’s peers, and even likely Susanna herself, used this textbook in their studies. In its pages, the textbook teaches that “Mankind is divided into five varieties, or races, differing from each other by certain characteristic features. 1. The Caucasian, or White race. - Most of the nations of Europe and America belong to this race. The Caucasian race is superior to all others in intelligence, energy, and courage.”
Coleman family in the 1880 Census.
Principal J. Cummings signature from Arthur Caswell’s diploma, 1886.
James Shepherd
For generations, the residents of Burns Township and the City of Nowthen have retold the well-known story of a Black man who lived on the South side of the third lakeshore of Burns Lake around the time of the Civil War. Like many local stories, the details vary slightly—some say he didn't live there long; others say he stayed for years. Some said he married, others that he remained single. Some thought he was part of the Underground Railroad; others said he arrived later. Everyone seemed to agree, however, that the man lived as a vital part of the community, helping where he could and being the kind of person you could count on.
He seemed to leave without a word, but the community continued to remember his residence on the lake by using a popular racial slur to reference the body of water—not just as a local nickname, but on maps printed at the time. As they said, not as an insult, but to honor him because their ancestors claimed he used the word to describe himself. After the Civil Rights Movement, Burns Township was called upon to change the lake's name. After several iterations and intense discussions, the community decided on Burns Lake, which is still used today.
HOW DO WE FIND MEANING IN NAMES?
In biblical times, the Greeks often used the word “onoma” (ὄνομα) in place of the word “name.” To them, this word encompassed one's reputation, especially for those in a position of power. Their identity became directly linked to their relationship with others (i.e. The Father). The opposite held true in other cultures like the Iroquois, where Chiefs in the 1600s could have as many as six names attached to them as a symbol of great honor. In modern Western society, names serve as an arbitrary identifier attached to a person.
What other ways do we label people, and what impact do those words have?
Names can uplift, empower, and preserve history, but they have also been used as tools of oppression and dehumanization.
The lasting power of words
Language shapes memory, power, and identity. Understanding the history behind words and names forces us to ask:
What stories do the words we use carry with them?
How do names and labels shape the way we see people and places?
When should language evolve to reflect justice and dignity?
What’s in a name?
The newspapers used "Earnest McDuffey" and "Earnest McGuire" in their reporting. Spellings also differ between "McDuffey," "McDuffie,” and "McDuffy,” and "Ernest.” However, the records at the St. Cloud State Reformatory use "Earnest McDuffey.”
Further research concluded that none of those names existed in the 1930 Anoka census or in Ancestry records. Since McDuffey's sentence was discharged in 1938, he wouldn't appear in the St. Cloud census records. McDuffey doesn't appear in any online grave listings. Without more concrete information, including his middle name, where he went after his sentence, or his birthplace, Earnest McDuffey will remain a vital yet transient part of Anoka County history.
Ernest McDuffey
On Saturday afternoon, September 5, 1931, two boys and a girl, aged six, eight, and nine, played near a warehouse and commercial garage on 2nd Avenue North in Anoka. Soon Ernest McDuffey, age 22, who worked as a mechanic and attendant, drove a tractor to the garage.
McDuffey began working on a car with a flat tire in the garage. He asked the girl to put a jack under the car. The older boy said he should do it instead because he was stronger. McDuffey told him to get out, and both of the boys left.
McDuffey closed the garage doors. When the boys heard the girl crying inside, they ran to her mother, who notified the police.
Chief of Police John Melberg interviewed the girl, who related the story. A physician examined her and determined no physical harm had occurred.
"She was given a nickel to buy candy and was not much frightened;' said the Anoka Union.
Chief Melberg went to the garage and found McDuffey, who protested his innocence. According to reports, Melberg arrested McDuffey for mistreating or molesting an 8-year-old girl and took him to the Anoka city jail, located between Jackson and Main Streets.
The Anoka Union reported that "no fear of any violence was felt" while the Anoka Herald claimed, "men were ... making threats to 'get the Negro':' The publications agree that two men approached Jailer John Larson and said a bad accident had occurred at the Mississippi bridge and that he was needed on the scene. Larson took the patrol car and started for the bridge. He became suspicious and returned to City Hall after traveling a few blocks.
The Anoka Union reported that Larson "saw a score of men, armed with shot guns and ropes. Ladders were handy and the men shouted 'Let's shoot through the window at the (racial slur)'. Others wanted to hang him:' The Minneapolis Tribune reported that Larson found "the rapidly forming mob trying to scale a rear wall of the jail.”
Larson called Sheriff Oscar Olson and several police officers who helped Chief Melberg disperse the crowd and transport McDuffey to the Hennepin County Jail. McDuffey pled guilty and received a sentence of one to seven years to be served at the St. Cloud Reformatory.