On Saturday, March 29, 2025, I flew into Sherman, Texas, with my co-director and fellow Sleeveless Acts member, Alicia Johnson. Our mission was twofold: to direct an immersive stage reading of The Ninth Day of May, the final play by the late Dr. Njoki McElroy, and to attend a historic ceremony marking a long-overdue public acknowledgment of a dark chapter in Sherman’s history—the 1930 lynching of George Hughes.

Before heading to Austin College, where the performance would be held, we made our way to the Grayson County Courthouse. There, on Travis Street, a newly approved Texas Historical Marker was unveiled. The marker commemorates the brutal lynching of George Hughes, a Black man accused—without trial—of raping a white woman. On May 9, 1930, a mob of about five thousand descended upon the courthouse, ultimately setting the building ablaze. Hughes, who had taken refuge in a basement vault, died of smoke inhalation. The mob, unsatisfied, dragged his lifeless body through the streets and into Sherman’s Black business district, where they proceeded to hang and burn his body before the crowd burned down the Black business district. Though martial law was declared the following day, the physical, emotional, and generational damage was already done.

Ninety-five years later, many gather at the Sherman, Texas, courthouse to publicly acknowledge that horror. A diverse crowd gathered to witness the marker’s unveiling, and words like “healing,” “unity,” and “justice” filled the air. As a native Texan, I stood there feeling the weight of history in my chest. I wanted to believe that something meaningful was happening. I wanted to celebrate the moment. And yet, I found myself wrestling with a deeper, more uncomfortable question: Was this actual justice or simply performative justice?

Dr. William J. Barber, in Forward Together (2014), writes, “To truly honor the past, we must confront it—not with symbols alone, but with substance.” That line echoed in my mind as I observed the ceremony. There were contradictions too loud to ignore. The name of George Hughes was spoken, but his family was absent—or, at least, unacknowledged. Did anyone try to find them? Were they invited? Where were they? Has any attempt been made to locate them? Whatever the case, the announcement could have been made known. And while I heard repeated mentions of the “five years” it took to get the marker approved, I couldn’t help but contrast that with what Black community members might say: “It’s taken 95 years.” For them, justice is measured not by bureaucratic milestones but by the time elapsed since the original trauma.

This dissonance became even more apparent later that afternoon, when Alicia and I, along with a dedicated cast of five—two of whom were former students of Dr. McElroy—brought The Ninth Day of May to life at Austin College. The play is a deeply personal work by Dr. McElroy, herself a child in Sherman during the 1930 riots. It is her love letter, warning, and reckoning with her hometown. Through the voices of a Black teenage girl who is a student at Fred Douglass High School, business owners, and attorney William J. Durham, one of Texas’s few Black civil rights lawyers at the time, the play resurrects a community both traumatized and resilient.
Our audience was thoughtful and engaged, but noticeably smaller than the crowd gathered just hours before at the courthouse. Where were the other city leaders? The clergy of all races and nationalities? The new allies who spoke passionately about healing in the morning? Why had so few traveled less than 10 minutes down the road to witness an artistic interpretation of the very history they had just commemorated?

As Dr. Barber reminds us in We Are Called to Be a Movement (2020), “You can’t heal without truth. And you can’t have reconciliation without repair.” The truth was vividly present in the play, but many seemed unwilling to confront it when it came wrapped in raw testimony and living memory. Performative justice allows for symbolism without sacrifice. Actual justice demands presence, participation, and perseverance. We have to see and hear from the community who were scorned and robbed, and not just from all-white speakers who spoke at the podium at the Courthouse hours earlier. Which brings up another point: Why was everyone who spoke at the courthouse White? This makes me question who the ceremony was performed for when the people impacted the most are still left voiceless at the actual “healing” ceremony. Don’t get me wrong, allies who make things happen deserve a voice, but it should never be louder than the communities impacted. 

A member of Sherman’s NAACP said it plainly after the show: “We have a problem here in Sherman. We demand things but don’t show up when they're done.” That statement has stayed with me. In that moment, I realized that justice isn’t just about the act of remembrance—it’s about who chooses to remember, how often, and in what ways.

Despite the contradictions, I remain hopeful. The fact that a marker now stands in front of the Grayson County Courthouse is not meaningless. The fact that Dr. McElroy’s story was told in her hometown, in front of new ears, matters deeply. And the fact that there are still people in Sherman who care enough to push for more than markers—to push for truth, equity, and community engagement—gives me hope.
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Sherman is a city in transition. Its past is painful, but its future is not fixed. As someone who believes deeply in racial justice, I left with questions but also with cautious optimism. There are seeds here. And if we water them not just with words but with action, then a new day in Sherman is still possible.