You Never Finish Digging: The Pandora’s Box and Treadmill Phenomena of Genealogy Research
I grew up in a fascinating and exciting era, a time of the black man’s fight for Civil Rights, the Vietnam War, and the martyrdom of leaders such as Martin Luther King, Robert F. Kennedy, and Malcolm X. Men walked on the moon, and the Super Bowl became a national pastime.
I also lived in the Deep South, in a modest home provided by my parents’ two incomes in Port Arthur, Texas. The west side of the railroad tracks which ran north and south through the city of 50,000 residents — it felt more like a town — once marked the eastern boundary where black people lived. The fuel storage tanks and smokestacks of the refineries which polluted the air they breathed were almost in arms reach of the neighborhoods which surrounded them. Still, companies such as Texaco and Gulf refused to hire them because of their skin color until made to do so by government intervention. My dad told me he fought with his fists to purchase a burger and fries on the white east side of town after segregation was ruled unconstitutional. His father, who grew up in the Great Depression in Louisiana told of a poor black family who burned almost every piece of furniture in their home because whites refused to sell wood to them during a brutal winter.
Before I started elementary school, we moved to a three bedroom home with a yard on the once-off-limits east side. White flight was in full gear. I was only 18 years younger than my parents, but much older in wisdom because I was the first of four children, plus I was a keen listener and an expert eavesdropper. I listened to everything my parents talked about especially when they weren’t talking to me. Listening is an indispensable tool for learning. I didn’t understand why things were the way they were, so I asked questions. I still don’t know of a better way to get answers.
As a child of the 1970’s, I was captivated by the story of Gary Mark Gilmore, the first man executed in the United States after the Supreme Court lifted the 10-year moratorium on capital punishment. Gilmore, born in Texas, was convicted of one of two murders he committed in the summer of 1976. He elected to die by firing squad as opposed to hanging and dropped the appeal his death sentence. He did not want to spend the rest of his life in a Utah prison. Gilmore happened to be white.
I followed the case every day in newspapers and television up until Monday, January 17, 1977, the day Gilmore said: “let’s do it.” A firing squad of anonymous citizens ended his life in a matter of seconds. He never flinched or showed the slightest bit of fear, but he still died. It intrigued me and bothered me at the same time. I questioned why anyone desired such a death. My mother took the opportunity to remind me Gilmore’s case was nothing unique. Her grandfather, my great-grandfather, died in the Texas electric chair in 1932. He also happened to be black.
Almost six years ago, I started to research the resident “black sheep” on the maternal branch of my family tree after I read an online news article which revived his infamous case. My great-grandfather paid the ultimate penalty in Texas’ electric chair for the murder of a white man in Texas during the Great Depression. The story was told to me as a young child to keep me on the straight and narrow path, even though I strayed quite a bit, pushing the boundaries adults set for me. The story was taboo and was rarely spoken of outside of our home, although everyone in the family knew of it. But, what pride is there in telling someone one of your ancestors was a thief, a killer, and maybe a rapist electrocuted by the state for his crimes? Some things are better left unsaid, but I wanted to know about my late ancestor, for better or for worse. I began to ask questions. In 2012, I sent a Freedom of Information request to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice for any and everything in their possession about my executed ancestor.
The 22 pages sent to me by mail appeared to originate from microfilm, so the quality was minimal at best. Still, I was able to read the pertinent details of my wayward ancestor’s misdeeds with no problem. His area of criminal specialization centered on burglary, a non-violent offense which works best when people aren’t home. In 1923, there’s an arrest in Dallas under an alias. In 1926, another Dallas arrest on several burglary counts. The same year the sheriff’s office in Ardmore, Oklahoma arrested him for suspicion of robbery. A Dallas court handed him 35-years worth of consecutively-stacked sentences for a series of Dallas home break-ins in 1927. While in prison, he escaped three times before he killed a man in Wichita Falls in 1931 along with another young black man. Both men died in the electric chair on the same day in August of 1932.
The prison system paperwork also told a much different tale than the one related to me when I last saw my grandfather alive in Pacoima, a city north of Los Angeles nestled in the Fernando Valley in 2007. His father did not end up on Death Row because he was confused for someone else. He worked his way up to it and qualified for the role of likely suspect. Wow. So much for his innocence. I immediately regretted sending the letter to TDCJ, but I’m a guy who loves to ask questions. Did I mention that already?
Still, my efforts were not a waste of my time. Included among the papers were photographs of my great-grandfather, albeit in the form of Death Row mugshots, and fingerprint cards. Up to this point, no other family living family had ever seen the man who morphed over time into an infamous, mythical figure whose existence was shrouded in mystery. He died fourteen years before my mother was born. The profile mugshot was discernable, but the front shot was too dark to make out all the detail. I hoped to obtain better copies elsewhere. The cover letter from TDCJ directed me to the Texas State Library and Archives in Austin, Texas. On Monday, November, I traveled from Houston to Austin to see what, if any documents they possessed.
For each moment of regret one experiences after opening doors better left closed — Pandora’s box — or the exhaustion of never-ending searches — the treadmill — there is still the excitement which accompanies the discovery of new things. That’s what keeps me coming back, again and again.
I located the Lorenzo de Zavala State Library and Archives at 1201 Brazos Street, in the shadow of the state capitol. Six flags fly in front of the building, and each denotes six sovereign entities which ruled over Texas soil from its inception as a Mexican possession until its admission into the Union. Some historians believe that Texas’ statehood came about because of some underhanded, double-dealing trickery and murder employed against Mexico. Maybe so, but black people in Texas also have a long list of complaints. I came to get answers about my ancestor, so I dismiss all other thoughts.
After entering the research room, John gave me information on how to use the indexes that are in binders to locate various information. I explain to him that I am looking for any files related to a specific executed offender John types some information into his computer and gives me some discouraging news: because of the age of the documents it could take 1–2 days to retrieve them from offsite storage. John suggests I browse the research reference materials while he checks. Half an hour later, he informs me that the files are accessible, but it will take several more minutes to retrieve them. My trip has not been in vain!
After the records arrive, John informs me the legal department must screen them to remove any materials not classified for public inspection. That’s perplexing. Naturally, I have questions, which I keep to myself, as to the nature of those classified materials. Could there be post-mortem photos from the execution? I hope not. I sure don’t want to see anything gruesome. Most participants from a trial that took place in 1931 have been dead for some time. A quick calculation in my head tells me that 1931 is 81 years ago, so a person who was 30 years old at that time was 111 if still alive. Oh, well. A few more minutes of waiting didn’t mean much to me. I’m still going to be able to see the records for which I made the drive from Houston. I’m nervously excited as I try to imagine the specifics to which I am about to become privy.
A well-used brown archive box with signs of much handling with the file on my great-grandfather is now on a table in front of me. I imagine it came from a vast, ultra-secure, climate-controlled facility housed in a non-descript building owned by The Great State of Texas. There are some alpha-numeric characters scribbled by permanent markers on its sides which mean nothing to me. Before I am allowed to open the box, I am given a pair of latex gloves just like the ones used in proctology exams. A pleasant, helpful staff member whose name I did not obtain, informs me the archived materials are originals and are sensitive to handling. She admonishes me to be extremely careful not to damage the items. I receive a request form to identify pages I wish copied. I am one of five people in the research room, including staff, but as I open the lid of the box and step back into time, I feel alone, oblivious to those around me.
The box contents emit an old, musty smell, like the unpleasant smell of infamous history. The edges of the pages appear yellowed and faded. Inside are multiple green-back folders which do not fill it entirely. Flipping through them, I quickly look for anything with the last name Johnson and find it located almost squarely in the middle of the box. It has a number written on it: 15168. I open it. It the appeals record from the 1931 criminal trial and includes the trial transcript.
My heart is racing, and my hands are sweating, but I can’t afford to waste any time reading the entire record. I plan to have it copied and brought home with me, so I note it on my copy request form. Inside the file folder is also a white envelope that has nothing written on it. Upon opening it, my bottom jaw comes an inch away from hitting the floor. Inside are multiple copies of dual-view mugshot photos of a black man taken in profile and portrait view. The black-and-white images appear to have a blueish tint to them, maybe because of the film used in 1932, but they are in pristine condition and measure about 3 x 5 inches. Under his chin in the portrait photo is an identification plate with a number preceded by the designation EX — short for execution — which is under the word TEXAS, which denotes he is the property of the state which marked him for disposal. These photographs document the beginning of his end. They are also a family keepsake.
I try to imagine how Eugene Johnson would react if he were alive to view the photograph of his father. I regretted my genealogy research did not begin sooner.
The significance of the moment is enormous for me. Whatever a watershed moment is supposed to feel like; I don’t think I will ever again come close to experiencing how I felt at that exact moment. As excited as I am about the find of the picture, I am saddened to think about the moment it depicts — one last photo opportunity before imminent death. There is no smile on his face, only a look of resignation — a soon-to-be-dead man who realizes the gig is up. The photo made him look much darker than the light-brown complexion described in his Death Row papers, but at least I could now put a face with the name. I try to imagine how Eugene Johnson would react if he were alive to view the photograph of his father. I regretted my genealogy research did not begin sooner.
Once I received copies of the trial transcripts, I immersed myself in them. I am not shocked at the level of racism exhibited by the Texas justice system — random mass arrests, a kangaroo court, blacks excluded from jury service, and the use of the favorite Southern ethnophaulism to describe African-Americans. I forwarded the transcripts to a Texas scholar who specializes in the history of the Texas prison system to see what he thought of them.
“ Thanks for your message, and yes, these old cases are fascinating and certainly precipitate strong personal interest. I looked over the file and can only wonder at a trial outcome today.”
I signed up for an ancestry.com subscription and created a free account on familysearch.org. I also subscribed to three online newspaper repositories: newspaperarchive.com, newspapers.com, and genealogybank.com. In a matter of weeks, I amassed all types of important documents — death certificates, census records, and numerous newspaper articles. I also discovered family members names not known before. I organized them on my hard drive in subfolders and used date indicators at the front of each item to put them into chronological order. I felt a sense of pride for taking the initiative to dig into the past. Little did I know my journey into the nebulous of genealogy research was only beginning.
Through Ancestry’s website, I accessed the convict registers and conduct ledgers of the Texas prison system, the latter of which tracked location and behavior of inmates in the prison system. My grandfather as less than a model prisoner. Besides four escapes, he received solitary confinement as punishment for intercept of another prisoner’s package under false pretenses. Is there any other type? A judge in Guadalupe County summoned him on a bench warrant in connection with an investigation of unsolved crimes. The conduct ledger has 15 lines for writing notes for each prisoner’s whereabouts, conduct, and punishments. The space allotted for my grandfather filled up in four years and required five additional lines which prison authorities cut out and attached with tape. Out of the five years, five months and 20 which elapsed between the time he entered the prison system to the day he died in the electric chair, he took one year, six months, and 23 days of absence without permission. His last successful escape was on Tuesday, July 28, 1931. Cool Hand Luke had nothing on my great-grandfather.

The original newspaper article I read in 2012 which mentioned my great-grandfather’s case has another twist. I discovered I share something in common with another man featured in the news article. We both share the same maternal great-grandfather. Out of respect for his privacy, I have yet to contact him, but it’s on my short list of things to do this year.
Another side benefit of engaging in genealogy research is the number of stories I stumbled upon from Texas Death Row, For example, very few people know a Texas convict — ironically, a convicted murderer — was responsible for the design and installation of the first Texas electric chair first used in February 1924. Then there’s the story of an uber-intelligent sociopath who taught himself law and murdered an elderly physician for revenge connected with a land purchase. He received two jury trials — in the first he received a 50-year sentence, the second jury sentenced him to die. And what about two other men who ended up on Death Row around the same time after one of the masterminds decided to rob a bank dressed in a Santa Claus outfit?

Behind each of these stories lie tangential bits of history, a trail of cookie crumbs from the past. The great flood of Galveston in 1900; Jack Johnson, the first black heavyweight world champion; the story of the man behind the first Ponzi scheme; and the deaths of presidents, famous inventors, and beloved actors. They all remain alive in historical archives. Since I began my research, I now have several gigabytes of digital documents related to all types of stories besides my ancestor’s. It’s enough to write a book, which I might do one day.
Each new day simultaneously brings forth history created and little-known history discovered. For each moment of regret one experiences after opening doors better off left closed — Pandora’s box — or the exhaustion of never-ending searches and red herrings — the treadmill — there is still the excitement which accompanies the discovery of new things. That’s what keeps me coming back, again and again.
