You’ve seen the photo. It is arguably the most famous image in the history of the Olympic Games. Two men, Tommie Smith and John Carlos, standing on a podium in Mexico City, heads bowed, black-gloved fists thrust into the thin air. It looks like a simple, defiant pose. But honestly, if you think the black power salute olympics 1968 moment was just about a fist in the air, you’re missing about 90% of the story.
It wasn't just a spontaneous outburst. It was a calculated, symbolic protest designed by the Olympic Project for Human Rights (OPHR).
Most people don't realize how close the U.S. came to not having a track team there at all. Harry Edwards, a sociologist who looked more like a linebacker, had been pushing for a total boycott of the games by Black athletes. He wanted to highlight that a country that didn't respect Black lives at home shouldn't be represented by Black excellence abroad. The boycott didn't happen, but the tension didn't evaporate. It just moved to the medals stand.
Smith won the 200m gold. Carlos took the bronze. They walked to that podium in black socks—no shoes—to represent Black poverty. Smith wore a black scarf. Carlos had his jersey unzipped, a violation of Olympic etiquette, to show solidarity with blue-collar workers. He also wore beads. He later said those beads were for the people who were lynched or killed, for whom no one said a prayer.
The Third Man in the Photo
Everyone ignores the guy in second place. Peter Norman. He was a white Australian sprinter who had just run the race of his life.
People assume he was just a bystander, a guy caught in the crossfire of history. Wrong. Norman was a devout Salvation Army member who hated the White Australia Policy back in his home country. When Smith and Carlos told him what they were planning, he didn't flinch. He actually suggested they share the gloves because Carlos had forgotten his pair. That’s why Smith has his right fist up and Carlos has his left.
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Norman asked for an OPHR badge. He wore it on his chest during the anthem. He stood there, still as a statue, showing the world that human rights aren't a "Black issue," but a human one.
The aftermath for Norman was arguably as brutal as it was for the Americans. The Australian media treated him like a pariah. Even though he qualified for the 1972 games multiple times over, the Australian Olympic Committee refused to send him. He was effectively erased from their sporting history for decades. When he died in 2006, Tommie Smith and John Carlos were his pallbearers. They never forgot him, even if the world did.
Why the "Black Power Salute" Title is Kinda Misleading
While history calls it the black power salute olympics 1968, Tommie Smith himself has often referred to it as a "human rights salute."
Context matters here. 1968 was a nightmare year. Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated in April. Robert F. Kennedy was killed in June. The Vietnam War was screaming in the background. The athletes weren't just thinking about civil rights in the U.S.; they were looking at the global struggle against oppression.
Avery Brundage, the President of the International Olympic Committee (IOC) at the time, was furious. He was the same guy who had no problem with the 1936 Berlin Olympics being used as a Nazi propaganda machine. But a silent protest against racism? That was "too political" for him. He gave the U.S. Olympic Committee an ultimatum: suspend Smith and Carlos, or the whole track team is out.
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They were gone within 48 hours.
The Fallout Nobody Talks About
They went home to death threats. Real ones. People shot at Smith’s house. Carlos’s wife ended up taking her own life years later, a tragedy he partially attributes to the immense pressure and harassment the family faced after Mexico City.
It wasn't a "brave moment" that led to immediate movie deals and Nike sponsorships. It was a career-ending move. They were elite athletes in their prime who were suddenly unhireable. Smith eventually found a path in coaching and academia, and Carlos worked as a counselor and coach, but the scars never really faded.
Common Misconceptions
- They were stripped of their medals: This is a persistent myth. They were expelled from the Olympic Village and suspended from the team, but they kept their actual medals.
- It was a violent gesture: The stadium went silent. There was no shouting. It was a silent, somber display of grief and resolve.
- They were the only ones who protested: Not even close. Vyo Mia Tyus and the 4x100m relay team dedicated their medals to the cause. Lee Evans, Larry James, and Ronald Freeman wore black berets on the podium after the 400m. The 1968 games were a powder keg of activism.
The Long Tail of 1968
If you look at Colin Kaepernick kneeling or the NBA walkouts in 2020, the DNA of those movements starts here.
The IOC still struggles with Rule 50, which prohibits "demonstration or political, religious or racial propaganda" at Olympic sites. They try to keep the games a "neutral" space, but as 1968 proved, when the world is on fire, the podium is the only place where the world is actually watching.
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Smith and Carlos weren't trying to be icons. They were two guys in their early 20s who were tired of seeing their people treated like second-class citizens. They used the only leverage they had: their bodies and their speed.
Moving Beyond the Image
If you want to truly understand the impact of the black power salute olympics 1968, you have to look at the institutional changes that followed. It forced the sporting world to acknowledge that athletes don't exist in a vacuum.
What you can do to dive deeper:
- Watch 'Salute' (2008): This documentary, directed by Peter Norman’s nephew, Matt Norman, gives the most balanced view of the event, specifically highlighting the Australian perspective that is usually left out of American textbooks.
- Read 'The John Carlos Story': It’s a raw account of the poverty and anger that led to that moment. It humanizes the fist.
- Visit the Smithsonian: If you’re ever in D.C., the National Museum of African American History and Culture has a dedicated space for this. Seeing the actual artifacts makes the "statue" version of these men feel real again.
- Research the OPHR Demands: Don't just look at the salute. Look at what they were actually asking for, like the restoration of Muhammad Ali’s boxing title and the disinvitation of apartheid South Africa and Rhodesia from the games. It shows the protest was part of a much larger, sophisticated political strategy.
History isn't a stagnant photo. It's a series of consequences. The 1968 salute wasn't the end of a conversation; it was a desperate, loud opening of a door that many people are still trying to kick down today.
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