The TSU Riot of 1967 was a formative experience for many Houstonians swept up in the vast social changes of the '60s. Fifty years later, though, a lack of historical markers or public recognition of the incident, official or otherwise, represents a kind of collective shrug towards reconciling that past.

Local and national newspapers, including the Houston Chronicle, labeled the incident a riot. Visit the Texas State Historical Association's Handbook of Texas History Online, and there, under "Riots," a brief description reaffirms parts of the prevailing narrative: On the night of May 17, 1967, TSU students rioted. (They were black.) Police officers responded. (They were mostly white.) All of which resulted in thousands of shots fired, the arrest of nearly 500 students, traumatic injuries on both sides and the tragic death of a rookie police officer, Louis Kuba. (He was white. And young. And an expectant father.)

What was often left out of press coverage is that the students weren't actually rioting. There were no reports of looting, destruction of property or mass resistance of arrest, all essential hallmarks of a riot.

More accurately, this was a protest, followed by the alleged throwing of debris at a police car, followed by a police invasion of campus, followed by an isolated shooting of a police officer, which then escalated into an Alamo-scale shootout — all of which, while complex, does not constitute a riot.

Nor was there much discussion on how the so-called "TSU Five" — the five students charged with conspiracy and incitement to riot — were exonerated due to insufficient evidence.

Or that Officer Kuba was shot and killed with a .30 caliber bullet, which was not only incompatible with confiscated guns from the dormitory, but, in fact, indicated HPD ricochet fire, confirmed in ballistic and coroner reports.

Much of the press coverage failed to mention that HPD officers were reportedly roughing up students and intimidating protesters due to protests concerning an illegal dump site earlier that day, or that tensions were already high due to increased police surveillance on campus, or any mention of myriad other factors that came into play that evening.

Nevertheless, most reports confirm that HPD fired somewhere around 3,000 rounds into Lanier Dormitory. That was followed by a police raid which caused tens of thousands of dollars in property damage.

Ultimately, in this early-morning raid, HPD officers arrested 488 students, many of whom were half-naked or in pajamas. It was the greatest mass arrest in Houston history.

Most accounts tended to reiterate a story which pitted seemingly angry black students against officers of the law.

Cultural productions such as music, art, folklore, literature and oral histories offer ways to rebut such one-sided narratives to create more meaningful and impactful stories of who we are — as citizens of shared spaces, cities, states and nations.

TSU professor Thomas Meloncon and his early-1970s folk songs, perhaps some of the greatest protest songs from Houston, provide some insight into the city's Civil Rights-era counterculture, often overlooked in discourses on postwar Houston.

Meloncon honed his folk-singing craft shortly after enrolling as one of the first African-American students at previously segregrated South Texas Junior College in the fall of 1967, just a few months after that fateful incident. He later transferred to TSU.

In "400 Years," a spirited ballad which conjures Woodstock-era Richie Havens, Meloncon bemoans the continued existence of slavery through stories of his antecedents, who are all too familiar with the pains of racism and anti-black violence.

In a recent interview at his office at TSU, next to Lanier Dormitory, Meloncon discussed "400 Years" and documenting the story of twentieth-century Black Houston through cultural art forms. "It was the idea that for 400 years, we were brought here, in slavery, against our will, and trying to endure all of that. And yet at the same time, trying to hold on to our sanity."

Meloncon's subsequent recording, "Bullets of a Gun," a powerful song of uplift and liberation, condemned the assassination of black leaders, including Martin Luther King., Jr., Malcolm X and Carl Hampton — the local activist famously killed in a gun battle with HPD in 1970.

"All of those songs reflected what was going on here and the larger condition that African Americans were caught in," Meloncon recalled. "Here in Houston, I observed a lot of things around me, and there were a lot of African Americans who were doing progressive things. Even so many years later, this music is a reflection of our history, and talking about people like Carl Hampton, you know, is a way of preserving it."

Fifty years later, the collective memory of the TSU Riot remains foggy. But songs of social consciousness and other cultural art forms can sometimes contextualize such contested histories. And they can serve as a reminder to reconcile the sometimes-painful past, so that, if we're doing it right, we can avoid its repetition.

Alex LaRotta is a first-generation Colombian-American and native Houstonian. A deejay as well as a history Ph.D. student at the University of Houston, he is working a dissertation on the history of Texas soul.

Bookmark Gray Matters. It offers ways to rebut one-sided narratives to create more meaningful and impactful stories of who we are.

