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Black America Web
15-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Black America Web
20 Black Movies That Flopped But Are Now Certified Classics
Source: Archive Photos / Getty Some Black movies didn't find success in theaters—but they found legacy. These 20 films went from flops to forever. Not every legendary movie starts off strong. Some of the most beloved Black movies in film history actually flopped at the box office. Critics slept. Studios under-promoted them. Audiences missed them the first time. But over time, these stories found life—through VHS tapes, bootlegs, streaming services, and word of mouth. Today, they've become cultural staples, taught in film classes, referenced in music, and passed down like family traditions. Take Belly for example. The 1998 film starring Nas and DMX tanked in theaters but lives on as a hip-hop visual bible. Or Love Jones —it didn't crack $15 million but became the blueprint for modern Black romance on screen. The Wiz lost big money in 1978, yet the all-Black reimagining of Oz now holds a permanent place in pop culture. And Juice , though modest in its release, made Tupac Shakur an icon of cinematic intensity. These films didn't just recover—they became classic. They reflected Black experiences with depth, honesty, and style, even if the mainstream wasn't ready. Whether you grew up on these movies or discovered them later, they prove one thing: a slow start doesn't mean a small legacy. So here it is—20 Black movies that flopped but came back harder than ever. 20 Black Women in Film Who Proved One Role Can Change Everything The Residence Canceled by Netflix—And It's Not the Only Black-Led Show Cut Too Soon 20 Black Movies That Flopped But Are Now Certified Classics was originally published on Despite bad reviews and low box office numbers, Hype Williams' debut became a hip-hop visual masterpiece that defined late '90s Black culture. This poetic romance didn't crack $15M but earned deep respect for its realistic portrayal of Black love and creative ambition. Critics panned it, and it lost millions—but the all-Black reimagining of The Wizard of Oz lives on as a cultural treasure. It barely made a dent financially, but Spike Lee's HBCU-set satire became a touchstone for conversations around colorism and identity. Underappreciated at release, Spike Lee's nostalgic Brooklyn story gained emotional weight and fan loyalty over time. It didn't explode in theaters but eventually became a rom-com staple, especially for hip-hop lovers and Black millennial audiences. Initially overlooked, the Hughes Brothers' gritty Vietnam-era crime drama is now praised for its bold story and social commentary. Box office was tiny, but this indie became a cult classic for its raw, realistic portrayal of Black teen girlhood. Moderate financial return, but its fashion, cast, and soundtrack turned it into an undeniable cultural moment. While it did 'okay' at the box office, the film's cultural staying power launched a franchise and elevated multiple careers. Its initial performance was modest, but it helped define a generation of Southern Black culture and style. It didn't bomb, but underperformed financially compared to expectations—yet remains a powerful, emotional story that sparked real discussion. It flew under the radar in theaters, but found a second life as a beloved, empowering family film. Low budget and modest release, but Tupac's performance made it a cultural pillar in hip-hop and urban storytelling. Indie to the core, Robert Townsend's biting satire of Hollywood racism grew into a classic among creatives and critics alike. Robert Townsend's superhero comedy bombed financially, but became a trailblazer as the first Black superhero on the big screen. Despite lukewarm reviews, the film starring Janet Jackson and Tupac became a defining moment for '90s Black love and expression. Critics tore it apart, but fans made Halle Berry and Natalie Desselle's over-the-top roles into iconic, meme-worthy characters. Modest box office aside, this coming-of-age tale became a timeless staple about Black male friendship and growing up in Inglewood. Its heavy themes weren't easy for mainstream audiences, but John Singleton's college drama aged into a socially aware classic.
Black America Web
07-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Black America Web
Documentary On The Legendary Justice Thurgood Marshall Set To Premiere In Fall
Source: Sam Falk / Getty On Sept. 9, fans and history buffs will get an inside look at the extraordinary life of Thurgood Marshall, the first African American Supreme Court justice to take the bench in 1967. Set to premiere on PBS, Becoming Thurgood: America's Social Architect traces the upbringing and legacy of Justice Marshall. The documentary follows his journey from his roots in Baltimore, Maryland, through his education at Lincoln and Howard universities—two premier Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs)—to his trailblazing work as a civil rights lawyer and jurist. It will also explore his pivotal role in challenging school segregation and championing justice, culminating in his historic appointment to the U.S. Supreme Court. Viewers are in for a treat as the documentary will feature the iconic justice retelling his own life story using rare footage pulled from an eight-hour oral history recording conducted by the civil rights leader, according to the Chicago Defender. 'For the first time, audiences will hear Thurgood Marshall tell his own story — in his own words,' the documentary's director Alexis Aggrey told the publication on July 2. 'This film is the first to center Marshall's own voice, drawn from a rare eight-hour oral history. It's not just a documentary; it's a conversation with a man whose legal mind reshaped the nation and whose legacy still echoes through our justice system today.' As a lawyer and judge, Thurgood Marshall dedicated his career to defending the constitutional rights of all Americans, a commitment that earned him the nickname 'Mr. Civil Rights.' According to the United States Courts website, after attending the all-Black Lincoln University, Marshall was denied admission to the University of Maryland School of Law due to his race. Undeterred, he enrolled at Howard University School of Law, where he graduated first in his class and studied under Charles Hamilton Houston, the school's vice-dean and a leading civil rights strategist. At Howard, Marshall came to believe that the doctrine of 'separate but equal' established in Plessy v. Ferguson was fundamentally flawed. He recognized that education was key to equality and was deeply moved by the glaring disparities in educational opportunities for Black Americans. Marshall and Houston launched a legal campaign against segregation, beginning with cases like Murray v. Maryland (1936) and Missouri ex rel. Gaines v. Canada (1938). When Houston returned to private practice in 1938, Marshall took the helm of the NAACP Legal Defense and Educational Fund. He went on to argue pivotal cases such as Sweatt v. Painter and McLaurin v. Oklahoma (both 1950), laying the groundwork for the landmark Brown v. Board of Education (1954), in which the Supreme Court struck down school segregation as unconstitutional. After years of fighting for justice, Marshall was appointed U.S. Solicitor General in 1965 by President Lyndon Johnson, becoming the third-highest official in the Justice Department. In 1967, Johnson nominated him to the U.S. Supreme Court, where he served until his retirement in 1991 before his untimely death in 1993. Stanley Nelson, who served as an executive producer behind the forthcoming project, told the Chicago Defender that it was 'an honor' to shed light on Justice Marshall's fearless life. 'It was an honor to work on this film about an American titan whose legacy continues to expand and endure in these turbulent times.' Becoming Thurgood: America's Social Architect will premiere on Sept. 9 at 10 p.m. ET on PBS, and the PBS app. Will you be watching? SEE ALSO: What Was Malcolm X Working On When He Was Assassinated? Civil Rights Activist Medgar Evers' Quest For Racial Equality Still Resonates SEE ALSO Documentary On The Legendary Justice Thurgood Marshall Set To Premiere In Fall was originally published on
Chicago Tribune
01-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Chicago Tribune
Review: ‘The Color Purple' renews its Chicago welcome at the Goodman Theatre
Chicago loves Celie, Sofia and Shug Avery, and has embraced 'The Color Purple,' the 2005 Broadway musical based on both the beloved Alice Walker novel of strife, resilience and triumph in rural Georgia and the romantically hued Steven Spielberg movie for more than 20 years. So its warmly received return at the Goodman Theatre on Monday night felt very much like a well-fitting pair of Miss Celie's pants. The original Broadway production, directed by our own Gary Griffin and featuring our own Felicia P. Fields, opened its first national tour at the Cadillac Palace Theatre, staying for months in 2007; I remember watching Oprah Winfrey, a co-producer, go backstage in a heady era when the rise of Barack Obama was making Chicago feel like the epicenter of a hopeful world. The tour soon returned here, followed by a new tour of the 2015 Broadway revival, and then local stagings aplenty followed, at the Mercury Theater and the Drury Lane in Oakbrook Terrace, to name but two. I reviewed the pre-Broadway tryout of this show in Atlanta (where, improbably, it did not have an all-Black cast) and, all in all, I've seen the work of book writer Marsha Norman and songwriters Brenda Russell, Allee Willis and Stephen Bray at least a dozen times. The great Willis, who co-wrote both 'September' and 'Boogie Wonderland' for Earth, Wind & Fire, died in 2019, although the Goodman Theatre program seems to think she is still alive. Only through her music, alas. That 2019 Drury Lane production was directed by Lili-Anne Brown, who also staged this show at the MUNY in St. Louis in 2022 and who is in charge again this summer on Dearborn Street. The Goodman's production uses much the same group of talent from that 2019 Drury Lane staging, including set designer Arnel Sancianco, costume designer Samantha C. Jones, music director Jermaine Hill and choreographer Breon Arzell and also many of the actors, including (among others) Gilbert Domally (as Harpo), Sean Blake (Ol Mister) and Nicole Michelle Haskins, who appeared both in Oakbrook Terrace and now downtown as Sofia. No wonder Brown brought back Haskins; she's a consummate, powerhouse Sofia. The newcomers are mostly Chicago-based and Chicago-raised talent, including Brittney Mack ('Six') as Celie, the former Black Ensemble Theater star Aerie Williams, a fine vocalist, as the Shug whom everybody loves, and Evan Tyrone Martin, ranging far from his wheelhouse as Mister, the abusive husband who eventually embraces redemption. It's fair to say that the Goodman staging uses a similar aesthetic palette as the prior suburban production, a presentational, relatively minimalist staging that keeps houses and cars off stage, suggests rather than builds a juke joint and wisely avoids bucolic, Spielberg-esque vistas of purple flowers. This matches the trajectory, really, of this particular musical, a show that has some structural limitations and has come to be be seen as most effective in a minimalist, almost concert-style staging, even though it started out very differently. After all, this is a musical based on an epistolary novel, driven by letters sent between Celie, trapped in an early 20th century world of impoverished Black hurt and her beloved Nettie (Shantel Renee Cribbs), driven away from that world in order to survive. For all the similarities, though, this is a vastly improved staging, filled with stellar singing and a more robust confidence. Over time, Brown and Hill clearly have figured out to deepen the mostly pop melodies in this score, a catchy and accessible song suite, to fit their vision of a more soulful interpretation, closer to the Black church than Top 40. And, this time, they have the singers who can follow through with their ideas. Mack's intensely focused performance suggests she long has been waiting for this particular role. She sings it superbly, which is no surprise, but her work in Act 1 is most striking in how intensely she captures the capturing of a wonderful young woman by a pair of brutally abusive men, and how she manifests the physical trauma that evokes. It's a rich and empathetic performance and it is, of course, key to the success of the production. I have my quibbles. The musical and dramatic tempos in Act 2 drag some and I don't care for how Sofia gets blocked by Celie for most audience members in the crucial dinner-table scene where she literally comes back to life by what both Walker and Norman imply is by the grace of God. I felt that way in 2019 and that scene is staged much the same. (I also still miss the much larger original orchestrations, although 'The Color Purple' now is often and effectively staged with eight musicians, as is the case at the Goodman.) But the heart of the show beats here with intensity. Martin has probably the hardest job on the stage and he's surely more comfortable with where Mister goes than where he begins. But he and Brown also don't shy away from the pain behind his journey. Mack and Haskins operate with great gravitas and, just as importantly, Brown always includes the audience in the storytelling, more than I've seen before with this title. And at least on opening night, the response proved that is the way to go with this show. Review: 'The Color Purple' (3.5 stars) When: Through Aug. 3 Where: Goodman Theatre, 170 N. Dearborn St. Running time: 2 hours, 50 minutes Tickets: $33-$143 at 312-443-3800 and
Sydney Morning Herald
27-06-2025
- Politics
- Sydney Morning Herald
Bob Dylan was born in Minnesota and thrived in NYC – yet his museum's in Oklahoma
This story is part of the June 28 edition of Good Weekend. See all 21 stories. As my packed plane lands at Tulsa International Airport, the passengers in the row before me look ready to see home. One rises to reveal a T-shirt emblazoned with the words: TRUMP GIRL. Here we go, I think to myself. Welcome to a red state. Red as in the colour of the Republican Party, for which Oklahomans overwhelmingly vote. Red is in the name, too; roughly hewn from the Choctaw words okla and humma, meaning 'red people'. It's also the colour of the dirt, carried by the Red River along the Texas border. Tulsa's Bob Dylan Centre opened in 2022. Why Tulsa? I wondered, like many Dylan fans. He was born in Minnesota and found fame in New York City. To place his archive here sounded as if he simply pushed it out of a jet, midway between coasts. Dylan's songs have called me from the comfort of my blue state, California. Blue for its politics – Democrat, mostly. Blue for its relaxed mood, its far-reaching cultural coolness, and the giant Pacific Ocean tracing its western flank: an ocean I crossed for good when youthful boredom and a fascination with American music lured me out of Melbourne 25 years ago. This morning, waiting for the plane, I happened to read news of Oklahoma's Republican school superintendent mandating Bible teaching in classrooms. Now I wonder what kind of society Bob's led me to. I head downtown first to the Greenwood Rising museum, which chronicles the history and brutal destruction of Black Wall Street, as Tulsa's Greenwood neighbourhood was known. A few blocks away, a man is dancing, holding a handwritten sign that reads REGISTER TO VOTE, before a table bearing branding for the Woody Guthrie Centre, a large, red-brick building that adjoins the Bob Dylan Centre, and offering a clue to Dylan's interest in Tulsa: the protest songs of Guthrie are fundamental to his early work. I walk on, past a bright, new minor league baseball field on the corner of what was once one of the most prosperous all-Black neighbourhoods in the US. Greenwood thrived at the turn of the 20th century, when Black people were barred from doing business at white establishments. More than 40 all-Black towns once dotted Oklahoma. Greenwood Rising opened in 2021, 100 years after a mob of white Tulsans – jealous at the area's success making a mockery of popular notions of white supremacy, and enraged by false allegations of a Black man harassing a white woman in a lift – stormed the streets with weapons and flaming torches, burning the neighbourhood to the ground. Local authorities labelled the massacre a 'riot', pinning culpability on the victims and squandering any hope of insurance payments. The number of deaths was also under-reported; they are now estimated at 100-300 Black citizens of all ages. The museum brings into focus not only how long and deep the scars of slavery run in the US, but also how connected this area is to the country's other, foundational, original sin: the displacement of Native Americans. It also illustrates the complex layering of racial, social and political histories: most of the first Black Tulsans, for example, were either enslaved or recently emancipated by Native American masters. Around sundown, a guitar store clerk tips me off to a local music club called the Mercury Lounge. The bar has a neighbourhood feel, walls plastered in old gig posters, with a small, corner stage. A pub-rock cousin, of sorts. Kelsey Waldon soon appears, wearing cowboy boots and a big hat. She sings straight up country tunes about love and loss. I half expect to hear wolf-whistles from the crowd and for a fight to break out among a mob of soused fellas. But that's not the spirit of the bar at all. There are pride flags; a large 'You're on native land' placard; a Black Lives Matter banner; and a T-shirt for sale emblazoned with the words: 'Mammas don't let your cowboys grow up to be racists.' As I listen to Waldon roll through her set, I wrestle with how Tulsa is measuring up to my naive assumptions about Oklahoma. About all red states. This is much like any bar I'd ever played in, or gone to, for a gig in Los Angeles. Yet the battle for civility seems much more real here. It's the morning I'm scheduled to visit the Bob Dylan Centre. At a diner I find a discarded copy of the Tulsa World, reporting that a statue of country singer Merle Haggard was dedicated yesterday, in nearby Muskogee. This was in honour of his name-checking the town 55 years ago in his song Okie From Muskogee, even though Haggard was from California. 'Okie' was a term used there as a pejorative for the many Oklahomans who fled to the state in the Dust Bowl-era of the 1930s. It's becoming more clear why Dylan might feel Tulsa gives his life's work unrivalled context: a fitting backdrop to all the social and political themes his lyrics have consistently carried. How those winds of conflict and change he sang about seem to swirl around the US, tornado-like, with Oklahoma its eye. Arriving at the Bob Dylan Centre, I note the street names: M. L. K. Jr Blvd and Reconciliation Way. I'm greeted by a guide who hands me my equipment for the audio component of the tour: an iPod and a pair of good headphones. Unlike in most museums, it is not optional, but pivotal. Once inside, I find myself lost in the audio, rarely removing my headphones. The downstairs gallery features a timeline of Dylan's career, punctuated by deeper dives into the stories of six of his most iconic songs from across his first four decades of music-making. This focus on the written word shows how Dylan's able to balance multiple ideas within the one song. It's humanising to see his tiny, exact penmanship. Poring over fragments of notebook entries, manuscripts, wallet contents and other ephemera, all to the shifting soundtrack of such a perennially restless artist, is engulfing. It's a wonder to see in detail how Dylan works, particularly the many scratched thoughts and lyrical drafts. This focus on the written word, not just the music, shows how he's able to balance multiple ideas within the one song. It's humanising to see his tiny, exact penmanship, struck through and written again and again. Some we now know to be phrases worthy of the Nobel Prize in Literature. The experience is unexpectedly draining. After three hours, I am ready to be outside again. Out in these unknown parts of the US, for more exploration. Muskogee is less than an hour's drive south-east. Nestled on Agency Hill, the Five Civilised Tribes Museum looks like an old house. It was once home to the Union Indian Agency. Built in 1875, out of local stone, one year after the federal government consolidated its dealings with the Five Tribes of Native Americans. Now it stands alone as another colonial relic. Old trees hang low around the shrub-covered gates and the plot is dwarfed by the massive Veterans Affairs hospital next door. Inside, small displays retrace the routes taken by almost 40 tribes on foot who were forced off their ancestral lands from as far away as northern California, Florida and the Canadian border, with a US soldier's gun at their back. The most well-known tribes were from the south and are forever remembered as having walked the Trail of Tears. All were sent to Oklahoma, then termed Indian Territory. One large map draws lines from every point of Native eviction, fanned out like the spokes of a wagon wheel. I am standing, suddenly uneasily, in its hub, the epicentre of treaties, lands and names rewritten over three centuries. Outside the Muskogee Civic Centre, a few freshly planted pansies are the only sign of the Merle Haggard statue's dedication. Haggard's likeness is perched on a bar stool, with an empty seat to his right. I sit down there for a moment. Just two Californians, in golden light, taking in an unencumbered view of the City of Muskogee Payment Centre across the street. That night, the Los Angeles Dodgers are scheduled to play a series-deciding baseball game, so I head to a sports bar beside the Tulsa Drillers' field to watch. I sit next to a woman in a Dodgers jersey and chat. As with anyone I spend more than a minute talking to in Tulsa, the name George Kaiser comes up. His Kaiser Family Foundation purchased the Dylan archives and built the centre, as well as Guthrie's, among many other philanthropic ventures he is responsible for across Tulsa. The Dodgers fan is from Los Angeles, too, but moved to Tulsa as part of a Kaiser-funded program called Tulsa Remote. It attracts digital nomads with a $US10,000 ($15,300) payment if they make the city their home for one year. 'Ten grand goes a long way in Tulsa!' she gleefully announces. I ask if she'll stay beyond the year. 'I think I might,' she says. 'Have you been to the Gathering Place?' she asks me excitedly about yet another Kaiser initiative. 'You have to go!' I arrive there a little later than planned. It's 27 hectares of public parkland, curving along the Arkansas River, on the south end of town. The morning haze has lifted and 'Lot full' signs are already posted outside the main parking lot. I park in an overflow area and start walking down a combined bike and pedestrian path toward the park. Over treetops I spot glimpses of large play structures, but never make it in. My flight leaves soon, so I turn back, passing people of all ages and ethnicities, strolling, running, riding, playing and chatting. Under a bright-blue prairie sky.
The Age
27-06-2025
- Politics
- The Age
Bob Dylan was born in Minnesota and thrived in NYC – yet his museum's in Oklahoma
This story is part of the June 28 edition of Good Weekend. See all 21 stories. As my packed plane lands at Tulsa International Airport, the passengers in the row before me look ready to see home. One rises to reveal a T-shirt emblazoned with the words: TRUMP GIRL. Here we go, I think to myself. Welcome to a red state. Red as in the colour of the Republican Party, for which Oklahomans overwhelmingly vote. Red is in the name, too; roughly hewn from the Choctaw words okla and humma, meaning 'red people'. It's also the colour of the dirt, carried by the Red River along the Texas border. Tulsa's Bob Dylan Centre opened in 2022. Why Tulsa? I wondered, like many Dylan fans. He was born in Minnesota and found fame in New York City. To place his archive here sounded as if he simply pushed it out of a jet, midway between coasts. Dylan's songs have called me from the comfort of my blue state, California. Blue for its politics – Democrat, mostly. Blue for its relaxed mood, its far-reaching cultural coolness, and the giant Pacific Ocean tracing its western flank: an ocean I crossed for good when youthful boredom and a fascination with American music lured me out of Melbourne 25 years ago. This morning, waiting for the plane, I happened to read news of Oklahoma's Republican school superintendent mandating Bible teaching in classrooms. Now I wonder what kind of society Bob's led me to. I head downtown first to the Greenwood Rising museum, which chronicles the history and brutal destruction of Black Wall Street, as Tulsa's Greenwood neighbourhood was known. A few blocks away, a man is dancing, holding a handwritten sign that reads REGISTER TO VOTE, before a table bearing branding for the Woody Guthrie Centre, a large, red-brick building that adjoins the Bob Dylan Centre, and offering a clue to Dylan's interest in Tulsa: the protest songs of Guthrie are fundamental to his early work. I walk on, past a bright, new minor league baseball field on the corner of what was once one of the most prosperous all-Black neighbourhoods in the US. Greenwood thrived at the turn of the 20th century, when Black people were barred from doing business at white establishments. More than 40 all-Black towns once dotted Oklahoma. Greenwood Rising opened in 2021, 100 years after a mob of white Tulsans – jealous at the area's success making a mockery of popular notions of white supremacy, and enraged by false allegations of a Black man harassing a white woman in a lift – stormed the streets with weapons and flaming torches, burning the neighbourhood to the ground. Local authorities labelled the massacre a 'riot', pinning culpability on the victims and squandering any hope of insurance payments. The number of deaths was also under-reported; they are now estimated at 100-300 Black citizens of all ages. The museum brings into focus not only how long and deep the scars of slavery run in the US, but also how connected this area is to the country's other, foundational, original sin: the displacement of Native Americans. It also illustrates the complex layering of racial, social and political histories: most of the first Black Tulsans, for example, were either enslaved or recently emancipated by Native American masters. Around sundown, a guitar store clerk tips me off to a local music club called the Mercury Lounge. The bar has a neighbourhood feel, walls plastered in old gig posters, with a small, corner stage. A pub-rock cousin, of sorts. Kelsey Waldon soon appears, wearing cowboy boots and a big hat. She sings straight up country tunes about love and loss. I half expect to hear wolf-whistles from the crowd and for a fight to break out among a mob of soused fellas. But that's not the spirit of the bar at all. There are pride flags; a large 'You're on native land' placard; a Black Lives Matter banner; and a T-shirt for sale emblazoned with the words: 'Mammas don't let your cowboys grow up to be racists.' As I listen to Waldon roll through her set, I wrestle with how Tulsa is measuring up to my naive assumptions about Oklahoma. About all red states. This is much like any bar I'd ever played in, or gone to, for a gig in Los Angeles. Yet the battle for civility seems much more real here. It's the morning I'm scheduled to visit the Bob Dylan Centre. At a diner I find a discarded copy of the Tulsa World, reporting that a statue of country singer Merle Haggard was dedicated yesterday, in nearby Muskogee. This was in honour of his name-checking the town 55 years ago in his song Okie From Muskogee, even though Haggard was from California. 'Okie' was a term used there as a pejorative for the many Oklahomans who fled to the state in the Dust Bowl-era of the 1930s. It's becoming more clear why Dylan might feel Tulsa gives his life's work unrivalled context: a fitting backdrop to all the social and political themes his lyrics have consistently carried. How those winds of conflict and change he sang about seem to swirl around the US, tornado-like, with Oklahoma its eye. Arriving at the Bob Dylan Centre, I note the street names: M. L. K. Jr Blvd and Reconciliation Way. I'm greeted by a guide who hands me my equipment for the audio component of the tour: an iPod and a pair of good headphones. Unlike in most museums, it is not optional, but pivotal. Once inside, I find myself lost in the audio, rarely removing my headphones. The downstairs gallery features a timeline of Dylan's career, punctuated by deeper dives into the stories of six of his most iconic songs from across his first four decades of music-making. This focus on the written word shows how Dylan's able to balance multiple ideas within the one song. It's humanising to see his tiny, exact penmanship. Poring over fragments of notebook entries, manuscripts, wallet contents and other ephemera, all to the shifting soundtrack of such a perennially restless artist, is engulfing. It's a wonder to see in detail how Dylan works, particularly the many scratched thoughts and lyrical drafts. This focus on the written word, not just the music, shows how he's able to balance multiple ideas within the one song. It's humanising to see his tiny, exact penmanship, struck through and written again and again. Some we now know to be phrases worthy of the Nobel Prize in Literature. The experience is unexpectedly draining. After three hours, I am ready to be outside again. Out in these unknown parts of the US, for more exploration. Muskogee is less than an hour's drive south-east. Nestled on Agency Hill, the Five Civilised Tribes Museum looks like an old house. It was once home to the Union Indian Agency. Built in 1875, out of local stone, one year after the federal government consolidated its dealings with the Five Tribes of Native Americans. Now it stands alone as another colonial relic. Old trees hang low around the shrub-covered gates and the plot is dwarfed by the massive Veterans Affairs hospital next door. Inside, small displays retrace the routes taken by almost 40 tribes on foot who were forced off their ancestral lands from as far away as northern California, Florida and the Canadian border, with a US soldier's gun at their back. The most well-known tribes were from the south and are forever remembered as having walked the Trail of Tears. All were sent to Oklahoma, then termed Indian Territory. One large map draws lines from every point of Native eviction, fanned out like the spokes of a wagon wheel. I am standing, suddenly uneasily, in its hub, the epicentre of treaties, lands and names rewritten over three centuries. Outside the Muskogee Civic Centre, a few freshly planted pansies are the only sign of the Merle Haggard statue's dedication. Haggard's likeness is perched on a bar stool, with an empty seat to his right. I sit down there for a moment. Just two Californians, in golden light, taking in an unencumbered view of the City of Muskogee Payment Centre across the street. That night, the Los Angeles Dodgers are scheduled to play a series-deciding baseball game, so I head to a sports bar beside the Tulsa Drillers' field to watch. I sit next to a woman in a Dodgers jersey and chat. As with anyone I spend more than a minute talking to in Tulsa, the name George Kaiser comes up. His Kaiser Family Foundation purchased the Dylan archives and built the centre, as well as Guthrie's, among many other philanthropic ventures he is responsible for across Tulsa. The Dodgers fan is from Los Angeles, too, but moved to Tulsa as part of a Kaiser-funded program called Tulsa Remote. It attracts digital nomads with a $US10,000 ($15,300) payment if they make the city their home for one year. 'Ten grand goes a long way in Tulsa!' she gleefully announces. I ask if she'll stay beyond the year. 'I think I might,' she says. 'Have you been to the Gathering Place?' she asks me excitedly about yet another Kaiser initiative. 'You have to go!' I arrive there a little later than planned. It's 27 hectares of public parkland, curving along the Arkansas River, on the south end of town. The morning haze has lifted and 'Lot full' signs are already posted outside the main parking lot. I park in an overflow area and start walking down a combined bike and pedestrian path toward the park. Over treetops I spot glimpses of large play structures, but never make it in. My flight leaves soon, so I turn back, passing people of all ages and ethnicities, strolling, running, riding, playing and chatting. Under a bright-blue prairie sky.
