The anti-immigrant movement merged with anti-Latino sentiment under the guise of border security after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, Gallego said. In response, Latinos have felt compelled to engage politically to combat the wave of misperception and xenophobia.

“What you started seeing is coded language – especially in Arizona –where people were talking about ‘well, I’m not against Latinos, I’m against illegal immigrants,’ but basically using that term to cast everybody the same,” he said. “I think there’s no difference anymore, and they’re wrapped in the same, which is why you’re also seeing Latinos now more strongly standing up for immigrant rights.”

Anti-Latino and immigrant hate has more recently been exacerbated by national legislation and rhetoric heard after the 2016 election, Gallego said.

“I remember growing up hearing anti-Latino slurs being thrown at me as a Latino – being called derogatory terms throughout high school,” Gallego said. “I certainly saw more rhetoric thrown at me as a Latino elected after 2010 because once the politicians started talking in these terms, and some of them became even more and more pejorative and racist … a lot more people felt that it was OK and acceptable to engage in that in public.”

Nationwide, a 2018 report by the Center for the Study of Hate and Extremism in San Bernardino, California, found that anti-Latino hate crimes in America’s largest cities increased by 176 percent in the first two weeks after the 2016 election.

But politics from well before the Trump administration have done just as much to exacerbate the problem, said Gallego, who in the past has received death threats from white supremacists while trying to fight anti-immigration legislation when he served in the Arizona Legislature.

“I had death threats — personalized notes — left at my doorstep by white supremacists when I was at the statehouse because I was fighting to stop some crazy bills that were going to really affect immigrant communities,” he said.

Specifically, he pointed to the Arizona Senate Bill 1070 as a turning point in the anti-immigration movement. The bill allowed for law enforcement officials on the city, county or state level to inquire about citizens’ immigration status if they have “reasonable suspicion” to do so, according to the Arizona Legislature.

“With the culmination of SB 1070 happening, we basically tried to allow racial profiling of Latinos based on this idea of trying to curtail quote-unquote illegal immigration,” he said. “By 2010, there were Latino families in Arizona that were being told to go back to their country, to go back to Mexico – these are people that have lived in Arizona for generations.”

Anti-immigrant hate is due, in part, to massive influxes of immigrants in the 20th century and white backlash, according to Janice Iwama, an assistant law professor at American University. Between 1990 and 2015, the immigrant population more than doubled from 19.7 million to nearly 43.2 million living in the United States.

Gallego said there has been a decades-long political conflict over immigration in Congress and he doesn’t see any work toward a resolution in the near future.

“The rhetoric that comes from the White House – it’s not really challenged by the Republican leadership in the House,” he said.

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Woods, the Oakland Police Department LGBTQ liaison, said she prepares herself to read the names of people she knows on the list of the year’s victims before each Transgender Day of Remembrance.

“If you run a transgender program anywhere, anywhere in the world, I can honestly say almost anywhere in the world, it’s not a matter of if somebody is going to get killed, it’s when,” Woods said.

Since 2016, at least 66 transgender people have been murdered in the United States, according to the Human Rights Campaign. A News21 analysis found more than half of the victims were people of color and at least 29 of the cases are still under investigation.

Only one case was classified as a hate crime by law enforcement, even when LGBTQ advocates and victims’ communities argued they were targeted for their gender identity.

Transgender victims’ cases are frequently complicated by the circumstances surrounding their deaths, which makes it difficult to classify their homicides as hate crimes. The victims are often killed by a romantic partner, sex work client or stranger.

“It’s important to remember that hate crimes occur in all sorts of different contexts. I think people often, when they think about them, they immediately go to something on a street outside a gay bar with a bunch of young men,” said anti-LGBTQ hate crimes expert Gregory Herek. “It’s a common scenario, but hate crimes are also committed in families, in the home, in schools, in the workplace and by all sorts of people.”

China Gibson, a 31-year-old African-American transgender woman, was shot in the back between eight and 10 times while exiting a shopping center in New Orleans in February 2017. Gibson’s mother, Tammie Lewis, and her sister, Iona Maxie, believe the murderer was a lover who hoped to conceal his sexual relationship with Gibson to avoid questions regarding his sexuality.

“I think China was killed because people want to live a certain lifestyle, but then have a closeted lifestyle that they don’t want to be outed about,” Maxie said. “China was a person, when she met men, she told them exactly who she was, and you have to decide going forward if that’s what you want to be a part of whether people find out or not. I just think the person just didn’t want people to find out. And that’s why China was killed.”

The New Orleans Police Department officers who responded to Gibson’s shooting did not categorize her murder as a hate crime in the incident report. In subsequent statements, law enforcement officials have said the murder is not being considered a hate crime.

Kevin Griffin, Gibson’s cousin, said while the details surrounding her murder are ambiguous, there’s little reason Gibson would have been targeted, making her gender identity a potential motive in her killing.

“This is one of those people who would give you the shirt off their back. People say that, because it’s cliché and cool, but this was the person China was,” Griffin said. “Would not do any harm to anyone. She just wanted to be who she was and she didn’t want any static or any friction so she wouldn’t give it.”

Even if law enforcement found Gibson’s killer and confirmed a gender identity bias motive in her murder, the ability to pursue hate crime charges on a state level is limited in Louisiana. While the state’s hate crime statute defines sexual orientation-based crimes as hate crimes, there is no such provision for gender bias-based crimes, leaving little legal recourse other than federal hate crime charges.

Other states like Louisiana without gender identity provisions have seen the most murders of transgender individuals in recent years. Since 2016, eight transgender people have been killed in Texas, six in Florida, and five in Ohio and Georgia. Seven transgender women were murdered in Louisiana during that time.

In states that can pursue hate crime charges in gender identity cases, justice is not always a guarantee.

California has hate crime and non-discrimination laws that cover individuals targeted for their gender identity or gender expression, but the state’s transgender population is still vulnerable.

Taja Gabrielle DeJesus, a 36-year-old transgender Latina woman from San Francisco, was stabbed to death in her apartment complex in February 2015. Neighbors reported hearing an argument between Taja and a man, and called the police, said Linda DeJesus, Taja’s mother.

When first responders arrived at the scene, they found Taja in the stairwell. She had been stabbed nine times and was pronounced dead. By the time officers found the man, who fled the apartment, he had committed suicide, DeJesus said.

Although DeJesus believes the murder was a hate crime, it wasn’t classified as such by investigators. She told News21 that detectives said the suspect, who was going through a divorce, was trying to reconcile with his ex-wife.

“They considered it an argument that got escalated, got out of control,” DeJesus said. “He killed her, and in my heart I believe that no, he didn’t want anyone to know that he was with a transgender woman.”

Before transgender individuals are victims of fatal violence, they can face a number of factors that put them at higher risk for hate, murder and discrimination.

A 2011 report published by the National Center for Transgender Equality and the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force, two national LGBTQ advocacy groups, found more than 1,100 of the over 6,000 transgender respondents reported being homeless at some point. More than 950 said they had to find alternative sources of income, like drug trafficking or sex work, to survive.

Before she was killed, Taja was struggling to get by, and had turned to sex work to survive, her friend and sobriety sponsor Danielle Castro told News21. She said she ran into Taja while going home from work about two weeks before she died.

“I took her home to Bayview where she lived. She wanted me to see her place and the area felt unsafe, but we went inside and she had bare minimum,” Castro said. “I could tell she was really struggling.”

Among the challenges the transgender community faces, there’s also a lack of trust in law enforcement. The National Center for Transgender Equality survey reported that almost 3,000 respondents said they were uncomfortable reaching out to the police for help.

Woods, who trains Oakland Police Department officers to work with the LGBTQ population, said most law enforcement officers have a “very limited” perspective on the transgender community. Most, Woods said, only engage with transgender folks in an emergency response capacity or when a transgender individual is committing a crime.

Castro, who is also a transgender woman, told News21 she had a bad experience with police officers days after Taja DeJesus’ funeral.

Castro said she was sitting in front of a bar in the Castro District, a gay neighborhood in San Francisco, while a march against transphobia took place. The bar manager came out and told Castro to leave. When she refused, he shoved her.

“He was saying transphobic things, and I couldn’t believe that he put his hands on me and was so forceful when I was obviously disabled,” said Castro, who was dealing with hip problems at the time.

The manager called the police, and Castro said the officers refused to take her statement.

“The police came and they were awful. Just awful,” Castro said. “I wanted to file charges, but they said they couldn’t do a police report there because it was out of their district.”

Castro said she later found out the officers had lied to her, and could have done a police report there.

Of the 39 closed transgender murder cases recorded by the Human Rights Campaign since 2016, only one had hate crime charges filed by the local district attorney’s office. The police involved did not say if they investigated the case as a hate crime homicide.

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Before a New York judge sentenced Rasheen Everett to 29 years in prison for strangling Amanda Gonzalez-Andujar in 2010, his lawyer pleaded for a lighter punishment. According to him, Gonzalez-Andujar wasn’t on the “higher end of the community.”   

In January, Los Angeles police charged Kevyn Ramirez in the stabbing death of Viccky Gutierrez, who was stabbed to death before Ramirez allegedly burned her home, leaving her remains severely burned. Police couldn’t immediately identify her.

All of them were transgender cases in the news. All of them were sex workers. And none of their murders were initially charged as hate crimes.

LGBTQ advocates say society shuns transgender people from corporate jobs because of their gender identity, forcing them into survival sex work and other means of underground economy. But that places them in a dangerous trade.

According to the Trans Murder Monitoring Project, 62 percent of the 2,609 transgender people killed worldwide from January 2008 through September 2017 were sex workers.

In the United States, a 2015 survey from the National Center for Transgender Equality said one in five transgender adults surveyed said they participated in sex work, with higher rates among minority women. Of the 53 transgender people killed between 2013 and 2015, 34 percent participated in sex work at the time of their deaths, according to the Human Rights Campaign.

Of the 14 transgender murders tracked by the Human Rights Campaign this year, at least two victims participated in sex work.

“It’s a nationwide problem that is happening all across the country and it is a direct result of transphobia and hate crimes, as well as the reasons that lead trans people to be in vulnerable situations,” said Victoria Rodríguez-Roldán, the trans and gender non-conforming justice project director for the National LGBTQ Task Force.

When transgender people feel they have no other avenue for income, they often sell their bodies, Rodríguez-Roldán said. Sex work can be defined as prostitution, pornography, services arranged online and other forms. Experts say prejudices in the workplace and housing lead transgender people to this point.

Currently, 28 states lack explicit laws prohibiting employment and housing discrimination regarding sexual orientation or gender identity. In 2015, the National Transgender Discrimination Survey found nearly 50 percent of transgender sex worker respondents experienced homelessness. Nearly 70 percent of respondents reported losing a job or being denied a promotion because of their identity.  

When they can’t secure a house or employment, transgender people feel they have no other choice but to partake in a dangerous craft such as sex work, said Kory Mansen, racial and economic justice policy advocate for the National Center for Transgender Equality.

“When you combine those factors, you get an amplified violence that these people experience at the intersection of that area of work and the trans identity,” he said.

Danielle Castro knows those factors too well because she’s lived it. Now, the 43-year-old Latina transgender woman enjoys a stable lifestyle. She lives in a house in Oakland, California with her two dogs. She earned her bachelor’s and master’s degrees at John F. Kennedy University, which is in the Bay Area.  She’s also project director at the Center for Excellence for Transgender Health.

But she participated in sex work for years before and after her transition into a female. When she hears horror stories of transgender sex workers’ murders, it resonates because “it could have been me,”she said.

“The reasons so many of us are engaging in sex work is because we don’t have other options to survive,” she said. “When you have a power to survive, that’s what you’re going to do. And when you get positive reinforcement from people that want to have sex with you and pay you, I’m not going to lie, it feels good.

“The sad part about it, though, is that people think we’re disposable because of it.”

Experts and data suggest transgender sex workers generally distrust law enforcement. Eighty-six percent of transgender sex worker respondents reported being harassed, attacked, sexually assaulted or mistreated in some way by police, according to the National Center for Transgender Equality. Add the fact that the more lucrative sex work acts, such as prostitution, are illegal, and it deters transgender sex workers from approaching police to report violence.  

“What often happens is sex workers are disproportionately subject to crimes, but they’re less likely to report them because they’re afraid of retaliation on the part of police officers,” said Sheryl Evans Davis, executive director of the San Francisco Human Rights Commission. “And we’ve heard anecdotally that, ‘I was robbed and I went to report it to a police officer and the police officer asked me, oh, were you doing sex work?’ So there was this victimizing the victim dynamic that was happening.”

When reported crimes happen, though, it’s harder to convict perpetrators of a hate crime, experts say. A hate crime charge automatically increases a typical punishment for states with applicable laws.

In Gonzalez-Andujar’s and Williams’ brutal murders, hate crime charges weren’t brought. Law enforcement couldn’t definitively prove motivation, according to news reports.

Gutierrez’s death, though still under investigation, was not immediately charged as a hate crime.  

For transgender sex workers, other issues complicate proving a hate crime, and each case is unique. It is hard to prove victims were explicitly targeted for their gender, or if other circumstances, such as domestic violence, led to their deaths or mistreatment, Mansen said

“It is so difficult to get things tried as a hate crime because there are a lot of factors into proving the intent, so more often than not law enforcement doesn’t feel equipped to make the determination of whether something is or is not a hate crime,” Mansen said.

Of the four transgender sex worker deaths tracked by the Human Rights Campaign in 2015, none were charged as hate crimes.

Often, after a hate crime charge isn’t levied, the transgender community sees it as a failure.

As the leader of an advocacy group who works closely with the LGBTQ community and police, Davis said she sees both sides.

“It’s a really tough and emotional debate,” Davis said. “With most crimes, you have to prove the intent. But with hate crimes, you have to prove the intent, the act and then the motivation to do it.”

“There have been these moments when people are calling it out there in the streets and they’re saying that, ‘this is a hate crime’ and there’s a struggle with proving it.”

Victoria Rodríguez-Roldán agreed, saying the intricacies of each situation make it difficult to label each case hate-related. But to her, the biggest goal should be fixing the systemic issue that leads to these events.

“I think it’s a mix of many things that makes this so complex, often because they’re trans, often because they’re vulnerable in engaging in criminalized form of making a living,” she said. “But I’m not sure it matters. What matters is transgender people are being murdered.”

In recent years, LGBTQ advocacy groups publicly called for decriminalization of sex work, though federal legislation to crackdown on online services passed this year. Advocates say while national policy battles continue, local communities can take action. And two cities are leading the charge.

Sophie Cadle, a 23-year-old youth liaison at the New York Transgender Advocacy Group, said her organization now works more with police to build relationships and help officers understand the societal factors involved with sex work. As a black transgender woman who participated in sex work, she said it’s important to be proactive.

“The violence toward the community is visible,” she said. “It’s there and it’s a continuous issue that’s affecting us.”

In San Francisco, sex workers who report experiencing or seeing violence won’t face prostitution charges because of a policy adopted in January by San Francisco District Attorney George Gascón and the San Francisco Police Department.  The ‘Prioritizing Safety for Sex Workers’ is the first of its kind in the nation, and is a collaborative effort to encourage reporting of violent crime.

Corinne Greene, policy coordinator for the Transgender Law Center, said this should build trust. Proving intent regarding hate crimes will always be tough. But if sex workers can courageously approach police, she said, it will help reduce deaths and mistreatment.

“A big factor in how law enforcement can improve is learning about trans people, gaining cultural competence on trans people, learning about sex workers, investigating and trying to eliminate inherent bias most people have against trans people and sex workers not engaging in profiling,” she said. “Really focusing on improving community relations would be huge in terms of helping sex workers feel more comfortable accessing police.”

Danielle Castro has advice for people who are in the sex business.

“I hope people are safe and learn to protect themselves before they come into this trade that can be potentially deadly,” she said. “And if you’re doing it for survival, then God bless you.”

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LONDON, Ky. – Jason Kovach,  owner of the Tonic Room Barber Shop & Shave Parlor, on Main Street in London, Kentucky, was eager to share his thoughts as he gave a haircut.

“The United States is badass,” he said. “The beautiful thing about the United States is you can do anything you want. Nobody is stopping you from anything. You don’t like the country, so get out.”

Kovach served five years in the U.S. Marines and offers a discount to veterans. American flags and Marine Corps memorabilia decorate the shop. Kovach has an American flag pin on the pocket of his barber’s jacket, with the words: “Honoring our Veterans.”

When asked about the biggest problem facing America today, he responded in one word: “Facebook!” Raquel Morgan, the one female haircutter in the  shop, agreed.

“You can’t enjoy your life because you’re too busy comparing and arguing for no reason,” Morgan said.

Terry Napier, a customer, joined in: “People are too sensitive anymore. You say something and they say, ‘I’m offended.’ That’s one of our civil liberties, freedom of speech. Men have fought and died for that. Nobody respects that anymore.”

Drugs and a struggling economy are also a concern in the local community of 8,000, where the median household income is $33,000.

“I moved here from Ohio. I mean, they got drugs, too; but, this area here is just infested with drugs,” James Barnett, another customer, said. He said too many children are homeless in the area.

“Small businesses can’t stay in business if prices don’t go up. I feel sorry for a lot of women that work around here and are divorced. They barely get by,” Barnett added.

Kovach, the owner, complained about kids today, and a few other patrons grumbled their agreement.

“They’re lazy. You’ve got to work, work, work, work, work. It’s hard work. Nothing comes easy,” Kovach said.

Barnett said if he could change the country overnight, his wish would be: “Get people off drugs, get them a job, and let them take care of their kids.”

Can politics change things?

“We had an election here in May,” Barnett said. “Only 20 percent of the people got out and voted. If you want something changed, yes, get out and vote. The same thing goes for the president. If you don’t vote, you shouldn’t be fussing about nothing.”

News21 fellows Storme Jones, Rosanna Cooney and Brittany Brown contributed to this report.

Follow the News21 blog for updates as the team reports on the road.

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Protected by police in a roped-off area, they chanted homophobic slurs to the people walking by.

Most people ignored Rusfeldt and his group from the Key of David Christian Center in Philadelphia, but a few cursed at them, or called them wrong, or tossed their water bottles at them.

After the march, Rusfeldt, 41, talked to News21.

Rusfeldt said that his goal at the gay pride march and other events is to spread his interpretation of the word of God and help Christians “get bolder in their faith.”

At least 10 times a month, Rusfeldt estimates that he and a handful of other members of the Philadelphia church hold protests against the LGBTQ community and Islamism at college campuses and events around the Northeast.

The Anti-Defamation League has been tracking Rusfeldt’s activities in the Philadelphia area since late 2016. Jeremy Bannett, associate regional director of ADL in Philadelphia, describes Rusfeldt’s message as “an extreme interpretation of Christianity characterized by homophobia, Islamaphobia, misogyny and other forms of hate.”

James Ross, 28, a Philadelphia businessman who was part of Rusfeldt’s group at the New York City march, explained his own belief.

“In this day and age, I think everybody has heard the good gospel of what God will do, but they miss all of it,” Ross said. “I have heard many people running up and saying God loves everyone, and that’s not the truth.”

Activist and art creator Ezequiel Consoti, who was watching the march, said Rusfeldt’s protest is “just sad.”

“New York City values itself in love, acceptance and inclusivity,” Consoti said. “It’s just these four other people against thousands of people who just want to express love for one another. They are just being hateful.”

Chelsea DeMarte, co-president of Gaylesta, the psychotherapist association for gender and sexual diversity located in San Francisco, described protests by so-called religious groups against the LGBT community as incredibly disturbing to people.

Religious (hate) speech can be very harmful for individuals struggling to navigate through their sexual identity and faith, DeMarte said.

“When somebody from a religious organization is openly saying negative things about LGBT people or that they are going to hell, they are coming from the assumption that it is OK to impose your beliefs onto somebody else because you believe they are abnormal or deviant and that is not OK,” she said.

Rusfeldt hasn’t always been a street preacher.

Before getting his degree at the Abundant Life Christian School in Houston, he was in the investment business. In 2008, he was fined more than $3.2 million by the U.S. Commodity Futures Trading Commission for fraudulent activity in Texas, according to a press release from the U.S. Commodity Futures Trading Commission.

Rusfeldt said he has repented in recent years. He was “headed to hell,” but God is loving, he said.

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FREMONT, Ohio — Dustin McLochlin of  Fremont, Ohio, curator of the Rutherford B. Hayes Presidential Library and Museums, isn’t surprised that racial issues still persist in America today.

Of the 442 hate crimes reported to the FBI by Ohio police in 2016, 336 were related to race. Most of these crimes occurred in three of the state’s largest cities: 123 in Columbus, 32 in Cincinnati and 31 in Toledo.

“The one thing that you’ll notice when you study American history on a long-enough timeframe is that the one issue that holds all of that together is racism and racial relations,” he said. “We see ebbs and flows, and obviously we see stuff going on today.”

McLochlin works at Fremont’s historic point of pride: the 25-acre estate containing the home, burial site, library and museum of Hayes, the 19th U.S. president.

News21’s road warriors found the historic site to be a good place to talk about race in America.

When Hayes took office in 1877, the final vestiges of the Civil War were disappearing as the Reconstruction Era reached its conclusion. Federal troops only remained in South Carolina and Louisiana. In exchange for his presidency, Hayes agreed to withdraw all federal troops from the South in a deal with Southern Democrats known as the Compromise of 1877.

The shift in control quickly laid the foundation for Jim Crow laws that would oppress and brutalize black Southerners for nearly a century, until federal civil rights legislation was passed in the 1950s and 1960s.

“Hayes hoped that, by finally ending the struggles of the Civil War, there were enough former Whigs and Republicans in the South to not lead to 80 years of oppression, but he was wrong,” McLochlin said.

McLochlin said the effects of systemic racism and division are still present in America.

Several museum visitors shared the same view.

Jim Ryan, a resident of upstate New York who was visiting the museum for the first time, said politics are driving the country apart.

“I absolutely think that there’s controversy in this country, but, in all fairness, there’s been controversy in this country from day one,” he said. “The two-party system – which we’ve always had – you can’t get them to work together. They’re not doing their job, and they haven’t for quite a while.”

Fremont native Chandra Palm, visiting the museum with her friend Julie Bellfy from Toledo, agreed that America has struggled with “conflicts from the very beginning,” but said social media contributes to the divisiveness today.

“Since we’re more plugged-in to things, people are seeing it more instead of sitting on your back porch talking to your neighbors or talking to your family,” Bellfy said. “It becomes more explosive.”

Palm and Bellfy don’t have Facebook accounts. They said the posts seemed to be driving people apart, not together.

Palm said the division in the country seems louder because of today’s technology and all the social media.

“We’re just hearing it more, but it’s always been there,” Palm said.

Law enforcement agencies across the U.S. reported to the FBI a national total of 7,615 hate crime victims in 2016. A total of 4,426 of the victims were targeted because of their race. Fifty percent were victims of anti-black bias, and 11 percent were victims of anti-Latino bias.

“The racial struggles, not just black and white, but the immigrant story, and all of these interactions between different people with different backgrounds and how that plays with each other – that is the story of America,” McLochlin of the presidential library said. “That is the story of America.”

News21 fellow Storme Jones contributed to this report.

Follow the News21 blog for updates as the team reports on the road.

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Some of the most striking pieces of the exhibit, called “Storm in the Time of Shelter,” are now on display in Richmond, Virginia, and include hand-sewn Klan robes, created from all types of materials and patterns, which range from vivid African Tribal print to pink camo.

“My show is really not about the Klan,” Rucker said. “My images are not about the Klan. They’re about the policies the Klan wanted in place.”

The exhibit calls out institutional racism by displaying original works of art which show how KKK policies are ingrained in American society today, said Rucker, a historian, musician, public speaker and artist from Baltimore.

The exhibit, which opened on April 21 at Richmond’s Institute for Contemporary Art, is not without its controversies. After successfully showing the exhibit in six cities without issue, Rucker’s show sparked debate last summer at York College in York, Pennsylvania.

His exhibit, then called “Rewind,” opened right before Labor Day, a few weeks after the Unite the Right rally turned violent in Charlottesville, Virginia. Five days after it opened, the York College administration decided to close “Rewind” to the public, and allow access only to students and community members with special invitations.

Rucker disagreed with the decision. He hoped that his work would be open to the public so the community could start an informed conversation, which he believes to be the key to social progress.

“It was a missed opportunity,” Rucker said. “York has a lot of history that they probably need to deal with, but they haven’t dealt with.”

York is known for its Civil War history. The town is located about 30 miles away from where the battle of Gettysburg was fought, according to the U.S. National Parks Service.

Matthew Clay-Robinson, director of York College Galleries who helped to organize the exhibit, said “the college trustees and administration felt blindsided by the exhibition and were concerned that it might stir trouble, opening three weeks after Charlottesville.”

Yet, despite the concern about the contents of the exhibit, Clay-Robinson said it was still mostly well received within the student community. He spoke about how “Rewind” drew the largest attendance of African-American students and community members the school had ever seen for one of their exhibits.

Todd Allen, a professor of communication at Messiah College, located in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania, saw the exhibit several times and eventually met Rucker. For the last 17 years, Allen helped to lead a civil rights bus tour of the South, so the show was of particular interest to him.

“We talked about the robes and I remember sharing with him that since I teach this stuff as well, that I have a KKK robe in my collection,” Allen said. “I just talk about the impact. It’s one thing to talk about the hate groups in abstract but when you’re literally seeing and touching it, it has a certain kind of eeriness.”

In conversation, the two men, both of African-American descent, joked that Rucker’s art collection contains some of the most well-made KKK robes in the nation.

Both Rucker and Allen spoke about the importance of making more people aware of civil rights history.

To supplement his exhibits, Rucker also designed a 20-page newspaper, which is offered at the entrance of his shows. Inside is information on ways the KKK’s policies are still alive in the U.S. and historical context about civil rights.

“When we talk about facts we can have a productive conversation,” Rucker said. “When we have a productive conversation we can make progress.”

Besides the KKK robes, the exhibit also features other works that help to teach viewers about racism today. Rucker created a data visualization map that he shares during his public speaking engagements. It highlights Rucker’s finding that a new prison has been built in the U.S. every week since 1976. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, people from African-American descent are five times more likely to be incarcerated than people of Caucasian descent.

Other themes Rucker explores in his art are the racial divides of neighborhoods, environmental racism and the disparity of school funding.

“These policies created 100 years ago are still in place today and they’re not being supported by people in pointy hats,” Rucker said. “They’re being supported by normal everyday people who would probably never call themselves racist or think about racism being an intentional thing.”

Rucker’s work isn’t the only art involving the KKK sparking national controversy. In Austin, Texas, the Blanton Museum of Art at the University of Texas is currently displaying a painted piece by Vincent Valdez, which explores the modern day representation of the KKK in American society. After receiving feedback from students, faculty and staff at the University of Texas, administration decided to open the exhibit on July 17. But the exhibit has a sign warning potential viewers about its content.

“Storm in the Time of Shelter” is on display in Richmond until Sept. 9.

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BECKLEY, W.Va. – The police were at the Travelodge Hotel as the citizens of Beckley, West Virginia, woke up Monday, July 9, to news of a suspected murder in their town. A young woman, a teenager of 19, was shot in the middle of the night.

Later that week, Beckley Police arrested four men, charging them with murder, kidnapping and conspiracy to commit a felony.

But on Monday, while it was still too early to know the motive behind the death, Beckley resident Felicia Robertson immediately linked it to one thing.

“In this town it can only be chalked up to drugs,” she said.

A waitress in a 24-hour diner beside the Travelodge, Robertson said the opioid epidemic hit Beckley hard. Initially prescribed to coal miners for the wear and tear on their bodies, she has seen opioids become a recreational drug for young people in the historic coal town of about 17,000. The population has been gradually declining, as have its coal jobs.

West Virginia has drawn national attention as an example of just how out-of-control the opioid epidemic has become. According to a report earlier this year in the Charleston Gazette Mail, small towns in West Virginia were pumped with pills by pharmaceutical companies.

Robertson, the mother of a two-year-old daughter worries about the next generation in a state with the highest death by overdose in the country.

“When I was a kid, the coal mines were doing great. Everyone was about the other person, about taking care of your neighbors, helping others,” she said. “Drugs have become a big part of this tale.”

The crisis affects every part of life, Robertson said. People treat each other with less care and respect these days – there’s less compassion and less civility, she added.

Thirty minutes past Beckley, away from the chain hotels and traffic lights, the fields are deep green and there is a sign for a catfish pond.

Lightly burned by the West Virginian sun, Jessica Vance is sitting on the banks of the pond.

Her children play around her, an American flag flies behind her and wind chimes made from tablespoons chime in the breeze.

As a former hotel housekeeper, Vance casts her fishing line into the pond, and shares her thoughts with an SUV-full of passing reporters. Racism, she said, is the biggest issue she sees facing America today.

“We bleed the same way. That’s how it should be, but it’s not like that,” Vance said. Her words, softly spoken, roughly echo those of Shakespeare’s Jewish anti-hero, Shylock: “If you prick us with a pin, don’t we bleed? If you tickle us, don’t we laugh? If you poison us, don’t we die?” he asked of an anti-Semitic Elizabethan audience.

Shylock and Vance, hundreds of years and thousands of miles apart, pose the same question: Why are some considered less equal, less human than others?

“My best friend married a black man and her kids are mixed,” Vance said. “People have a problem with that – those kids get called names at school. They are never white enough or black enough.”

Vance’s mother, Julie Farnsworth, is also relaxing at the pond, owned by their family. “It’s catch and release and it keeps the kids off the street,” she said, drinking a Coca-Cola from a can labeled “Grandma.”

“I’m frightened for my grandchildren, for their generation. I’m terrified,” she said. “It didn’t used to be like this. Something started bubbling up eight or 10 years ago. I don’t see the hate that everybody is talking about, here in my everyday life. I see it on the news and it scares the crap out of me.”

Farnsworth said she isn’t aware of hate or discrimination in this community, yet she gets visibly upset talking about the future for her grandchildren playing at her feet.

She said the hate she sees on television – the rhetoric being used, the discussions about immigrants, race, religion – has invaded her life, making her fear that society is being destroyed before her eyes.

Farnworth’s grandchildren cluster around the fish pond, excited to talk about a possible trip to Florida. The smell of corn fritters, cooking from the house kitchen, wafts through the air.

“But I have hope,” Farnsworth said. “America is still beautiful.”

News21 fellows Brittany Brown, Storme Jones and Tilly Marlatt contributed to this report.

Follow the News21 blog for updates as the team reports on the road.

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MEMPHIS, Tenn. – The hubs of business and economy are now in the rearview mirror as the News21 SUV drives along roads carved into mountains.

It’s the second leg of a nationwide road trip where four News21 journalists – Brittany Brown, Rosanna Cooney, Storme Jones and Tilly Marlatt – each bring their own experiences and expertise to record and document tensions that are present in America today.

We are passing through an America where people are brought to tears voicing pride for their country, citing freedom and the American dream as the reason for getting emotional.

“Where else can you become rich and famous overnight?” asks a woman whose tattooed forearm reads: “Those who suffer the most, scream into the silence.”

Americans tell us that they still long to get along with each other. We are learning to get along, too.  After a bad experience at a Kentucky motel, we learned that it is best not to inquire about bedbugs if you want a room. Americans wanted to be respected, and that means trusted.

In the Appalachian region, much maligned by the enduring hillbilly stereotype, we are hearing how LGBTQ people reclaim a space for themselves in rural communities, and make their voices heard. As we head southwest, toward Tennessee and Arkansas, cardinals flash red in the trees and the summer heat brings a sweeter fragrance to the air.

In almost every interview where President Donald Trump is mentioned, his influence on people’s perception of the nation and their perception of the state of hate is omnipresent.

It is a privilege to be allowed into people’s lives, into their barbershops and catfish ponds, to record their thoughts, lived experiences and impressions of their country at a time when America seems to be transitioning.

News21 fellows Brittany Brown, Storme Jones and Tilly Marlatt contributed to this report.

Follow the News21 blog for updates as the team reports on the road.

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PERRY, Iowa — In an America that often seems more divided, there remains one event that brings people together: the Fourth of July.

The residents of Perry, Iowa, a farming and meatpacking town of 7,800, 45 minutes northwest of Des Moines, joined across party and ethnic lines – over a third of residents are Hispanic — to celebrate the 242nd anniversary of America’s freedom.

Perched in front of his home on Wills Avenue, town educator Eddie Diaz and members of his young family watched excitedly as the town’s annual parade passed.

Diaz, who is 39, said he came to Perry during the mid-1990s, when there was a large influx of Hispanics into the area, making Perry newly diverse. Until this spring, he was principal of St. Patrick’s Catholic School.

“We have a lot of people living here from Latino backgrounds and we have a small refugee population,” he said. “There are always tensions and frictions in any community, but it’s more between individuals than groups.”

Diaz said that when the demographic change came to the previously all-white community, some white people began to leave.

“The people who were less accepting of diversity have chosen to leave the town and so the people that have stayed are more accepting,” Diaz said. “I don’t put too much thought into the people that leave. I think it’s unfortunate. But as an educator and a father, I have to focus on the positivity that is in the community.”

He said that the small community “creates positive change” every day for the future of its children.

“I teach my children that we are all Americans, we’re here for the same thing and ultimately if we want to live in a happy society, we have to help each other and get along,” he said.

As the parade flowed down the street, community members left their porches to follow the parade into the town park, Pattee Park, for music, food, dancing and games.

Jerry Roberts from nearby Jefferson, Iowa, took a break from enjoying the fun to discuss where America stands today, recognizing the divides the country is facing.

“There are religious divides and, within religion, there are divides within that …,” he said. “And then you have regional divides and now you get into political divides.”

Roberts added that, while these issues are happening, people aren’t talking with each other about it very effectively.

“You’ve got to sit down and be able to talk problems and instead, we just shout at each other,” he said.

Lauri Haynes, who was cooking kettle corn at the park, echoed Roberts. She described the country as like a “junior high school cafeteria.”

“It’s like everyone’s reading headlines and making opinions based on one person and it’s juvenile,” Haynes said.

After packing up our things from the farmhouse where the News21 crew were guests, we headed eastward.

The next stop was Carbon Hill, Illinois, a predominately white town of 345 residents, about an hour southeast of Chicago. The fellows stepped inside Mustachios, a bar on North Third Street and West Lacey Street.

Diane Eartly, co-owner of the bar, grew up in Coal City, Illinois, another village five minutes from Carbon Hill where “everybody knows everybody.”

While growing up, Eartly said she didn’t notice many divides in the country.

Today, as she still resides in the small town, she noticed that America “is changing.”

Too many people are spending time on their cellphones, shopping online, dating online, and not talking to each other or supporting their local stores, she said.

Stephanie Long, a bartender at Mustachios, said she was a Bernie Sanders supporter when he was running for president.

“There’s a lot of growing that needs to be done, but I’m hoping (America) will get better,” she said.

News21 fellow Penelope Blackwell contributed to this report.

Follow the News21 blog for updates as the team reports on the road.

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