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Original article can be found at ��
Originally published on August 20, 2017 By Noelle Phillips��

Hate never left ŷ���ڱ���Ƶ.��

From in the 19th century to the Ku Klux Klan’s control of state politics in the 1920s to modern acts of violence such as the 2013 assassination of the gang member, ŷ���ڱ���Ƶ has dealt with its share of racism.��

Now, though, , that turned violent and a president who has struggled to outright denounce the racists or their actions have raised awareness across the country, including in ŷ���ڱ���Ƶ. And people are ready to speak out.��

“It seems louder for people who deny it ever existed,” said the Rev. Timothy Tyler, pastor of Shorter Community AME Church in Denver. “But for those of us who have grown up with it and have lived it, we are saying, ‘I told you so.’��

“We’re going to do all we can to address a wound that has been scratched over the president’s words and what happened in Charlottesville.”��

Last year, the Southern Poverty Law Center, an Alabama-based organization that fights extremism, identified 16 hate groups in the state — the same , although some groups had fallen off the list and others had been added.��

Of the 16 groups listed in 2016, five were white supremacist/racist groups, while the others were singled out because of their views toward Muslims, immigrants, gay people and white people. Among the white supremacist groups were a Wheat Ridge-based company that distributes neo-Nazi music and books and a group founded in Finland that conducted a so-called patrol through LoDo and posted a video of it on YouTube.��

Most of the time, those groups operate under the public’s radar, proclaiming their views on social media and refraining from public gatherings. But since Donald Trump’s election, many people believe the groups are becoming more bold and more visible.��

“We’re seeing a greater number of public events, folks who are more willing to express their extremist beliefs and ideologies in a public forum,” said Jeremy Shaver, associate director for the Anti-Defamation League Rocky Mountain States region.��

In 2015, the Anti-Defamation League recorded 18 reported anti-Semitic incidents, but that number more than doubled in 2016 to 45, Shaver said. This year, thus far.��

Those incidents include July vandalism at Chabad Lubavitch Jewish Center in ŷ���ڱ���Ƶ Springs. William Scott Planer, a Denver resident who is on the building, is being held on a $500,000 bond in the El Paso County jail. He also is wanted on a warrant out of California after being accused of attacking a protester during a white supremacist march in June 2016.��

Planer and his roommates became notorious figures in November in Denver’s Capitol Hill neighborhood after someone put their names, faces and address on fliers to notify area residents that white supremacists live nearby.��

The Denver Post attempted to talk to residents at the home last week, but a man inside refused to answer the door and yelled, “Go away!”��

Also this summer, white supremacists have attended and a . Those alt-right groups attract white supremacists and are helping bring more public activity, Shaver said.��

“The take-home message is no community is immune to white supremacy and no state is immune to white supremacy,” he said. “ŷ���ڱ���Ƶ is no exception.”��

And the state never has been the exception.��

The power structure of settlements and territories in the early American West called for the destruction of Indians, said Patty Limerick, the state’s historian laureate and director of the Center for the American West at the University of ŷ���ڱ���Ƶ Boulder. The times were not much easier for Mexicans or Asian immigrants, who suffered from discrimination and oppression, she said.��

In fact, lynching has a very Western story, Limerick said, with Mexicans as the primary victims.��

In the 1920s, albeit a branch that, while loyal to its Southern brotherhood, was more preoccupied with Catholics and Jews than black people, Limerick said.��

The Klan came to power after World War I during a period where Americans were coming off the anxieties and tensions associated with war but finding that times were not prosperous for farmers and laborers, Limerick said. White Protestants were trying to hang on to their power, so immigrants, who were likely to be Irish or Italian Catholics, were targets.��

The Klan’s Denver power broker was a doctor named John Galen Locke, a Spanish-American War veteran from New York.��

Klansmen occupied the governor’s office and represented the majority in both houses of the state legislature and held numerous statewide offices. Denver Mayor Benjamin Stapleton won office because he joined the Klan, and Denver Police Chief William Candish was a klansman.��

Limerick described Locke as “a weird bird.”��

“His decline came when he was charged with various crimes and the whole movement fell apart,” she said.��

While Limerick objects to the notion of history repeating itself, the 1920s provide cautionary tales for today’s leaders. Stapleton, for example, was not driven solely by hatred of black people, Catholics and Jews, but he knew he needed Klan support to win an election, she said.��

“It hasn’t gone well for him over the years,” Limerick said. “He made that devil’s bargain. He later separated himself from the Klan, but he left himself with that record of being a part of the Klan.��

“It says something about how long range someone should think of his heritage and his legacy.”��

In Denver, there has been a movement to remove Stapleton’s name from the neighborhood that bears his name, built on the site of a former airport also named after him.��

Limerick suggested having an event she described as “Stapleton Remembrance Day,” where people would gather to listen to scholars discuss his choice to form an alliance with such an “abhorrent movement.” As part of the event, people could spend time talking about their actions today and what legacy they will leave.��

“I wish we could quit with the tug-of-war over the names of places and statues,” Limerick said, because people and their stories are muddled and complicated. “I wish we could put a mirror up to ourselves and think, ‘Are we doing that?’ ”��

Tyler, the church pastor, said he had grown tired of talking about race but now sees a renewed opportunity from new allies. His church hosted a community discussion about race on Saturday and another is planned for Aug. 31.��

“I think we’re going to have to do a lot of talking to get people’s heads around how this is affecting our society,” he said.��

Barbara Gunion, a 51-year-old from Centennial, has felt the call to act since Trump was elected in November. She joined two national groups that consider themselves organized resistance to the president, and the increased visibility of armed militias, neo-Nazis and other alt-right groups have led to a sense of urgency for her.��

“I feel like Charlottesville and Trump’s statements are a real tipping point for the left,” Gunion said. “It’s not just racheted it up. It’s caused a whole different way of thinking.��

“This experience has made me realize it’s also my problem. It’s my responsibility. I’m white but it’s not an excuse to be silent. It’s the reason not to be silent.”