If you walk down Plymouth Avenue in North Minneapolis today, you’ll see a street sign that wasn’t there a couple of years ago. It says Spike Moss Way. For some, it’s just another green sign. But for anyone who knows the history of the Twin Cities, that name carries the weight of sixty years of fire, protest, and a relentless refusal to back down.
Harry "Spike" Moss isn’t your typical textbook civil rights leader. Honestly, he’d probably prefer you call him a "freedom fighter." He doesn't do the polished, corporate-friendly activism that looks good on a brochure. He’s blunt. He’s loud. And for decades, he was the guy the Minneapolis police department absolutely hated to see coming.
From the Jim Crow South to the Frozen North
Spike wasn't born in Minnesota. He came into the world on a kitchen table in Paris, Missouri, in 1945. Think about that for a second. In the 1940s, if you were Black and living in rural Missouri, the world was small and dangerous. Spike’s mother lost three children before him because the local clinic was "whites only," and the nearest hospital that would take Black patients was 170 miles away.
That kind of trauma sticks. It builds a person.
When his family moved to Minneapolis, they thought they were escaping the "colored" and "white" signs of the South. But Spike found out pretty quickly that the North just hid its racism better. He saw Black people barred from lunch counters downtown. He saw the way police treated anyone who dared to cross into "white" neighborhoods.
By the time he was a teenager, he was done being quiet.
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The Way: A Revolution in a Basement
In 1966, Minneapolis blew up. The Plymouth Avenue riots weren't just random chaos; they were a pressure cooker finally bursting. Out of that smoke, Spike and other leaders like Mahmoud El-Kati helped found The Way.
It was a community center, but it was also a headquarters for the Black Power movement in the Twin Cities.
The Way was everything. It was where kids went for academic help. It was where the community organized to demand better jobs. It was also, famously, where a young kid named Prince learned how to play guitar in the basement.
Spike ran the recreation department and later became the executive director. He wasn't just some guy in an office. He was a mentor. He taught young Black men how to walk with their heads up, a "rite of passage" he felt the streets weren't providing. He didn't just want them to survive; he wanted them to lead.
Taking on the "Thin Blue Line"
You can’t talk about civil rights leader Spike Moss without talking about the police. This is where things get messy. Spike has spent over 50 years calling out police brutality, long before it was a national trend on social media.
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He didn't care who he offended.
- He fought to desegregate the Minneapolis Fire Department (and won).
- He pushed for the hiring of Black police officers and bus drivers.
- He stood with families after shootings when nobody else would show up.
In 1993, when Minneapolis police were caught putting two intoxicated Native American men in the trunk of a squad car, Spike was the one leading the charge for accountability. He was a "watchman," as his peers called him.
He even tried to bridge the gap during the height of the gang wars. In 1992, he helped organize the United for Peace Gang Summit. He actually got gang leaders into a room to talk about a truce. It worked for a while, saving lives across the country, until the tragic killing of Officer Jerry Haaf by gang members soured the city's appetite for negotiation.
Why People Got Him Wrong
For a long time, the media painted Spike as a "militant" or a "troublemaker." He was the guy with the "aggressive jawbone" on the 6 o'clock news.
But talk to anyone who actually grew up in Northside, and they’ll tell you he’s the guy who gave them their first job. He’s the guy who stayed up all night making sure a kid didn’t join a gang. He’s the guy who mentored Keith Ellison when the future Attorney General was just a 22-year-old law student.
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Honestly, Spike’s "redemption" in the eyes of the city came late. It took the world watching George Floyd’s murder for a lot of people to realize that the things Spike had been screaming about since the '60s were actually true.
What We Can Learn from the "Way"
Spike Moss is 80 now. He’s retired, or at least as retired as a freedom fighter can be. But his legacy isn't just a street sign. It’s a blueprint for how to actually change a city.
If you want to follow in his footsteps, here’s how you actually do it:
- Stop waiting for permission. Spike and his crew didn't wait for the city to build a community center; they built The Way themselves.
- Go where the people are. You can't fix gang violence or poverty from a skyscraper. You have to be on the corner.
- Tell the truth, even when it’s ugly. Spike was vilified for decades because he wouldn't sugarcoat the reality of racism in Minnesota. He stayed consistent.
- Mentor the next one up. Look at the people he influenced: Keith Ellison, Bobby Joe Champion, countless community leaders. He didn't just hold the mic; he passed it.
The next time you're in North Minneapolis, take a drive down Spike Moss Way. It’s not just a road. It’s a reminder that one person being loud enough for long enough can eventually force a whole city to listen.
Check out the local archives at the Minnesota Historical Society if you want the deep cut on the 1967 riots—it's wild how little has changed, and how much Spike managed to move the needle anyway.