New York Times pundits have been waging an internecine war over Ronald Reagan’s “states rights” comment at the Neshoba County fair in 1980. David Brooks fired off the first shot by denying that The Great Communicator was nearly as bigoted as critics claim and that the Neshoba incident is just another cheap shot by simple-minded liberals.
Bob Herbert, the Times’ token black columnist, is unrepentant.
Everybody watching the 1980 campaign knew what Reagan was signaling at the fair. Whites and blacks, Democrats and Republicans — they all knew. The news media knew. The race haters and the people appalled by racial hatred knew. And Reagan knew.
He was tapping out the code. It was understood that when politicians started chirping about “states’ rights” to white people in places like Neshoba County they were saying that when it comes down to you and the blacks, we’re with you.
Paul Krugman has written two indignant responses to Brooks’ apologia, including today’s offering, “Republicans and Race.”
. . . in December 1979 the Republican national committeeman from Mississippi wrote a letter urging that the party’s nominee speak at the Neshoba Country Fair, just outside the town where three civil rights workers had been murdered in 1964. It would, he wrote, help win over “George Wallace inclined voters.”
Sure enough, Reagan appeared, and declared his support for states’ rights — which everyone took to be a coded declaration of support for segregationist sentiments.
As Krugman acknowledges, Reagan made not a single overt reference to race. But then,
Neither did Richard Nixon. As Thomas and Mary Edsall put it in their classic 1991 book, “Chain Reaction: The impact of race, rights and taxes on American politics,” “Reagan paralleled Nixon’s success in constructing a politics and a strategy of governing that attacked policies targeted toward blacks and other minorities without reference to race — a conservative politics that had the effect of polarizing the electorate along racial lines.”
This strategy was effective, Krugman argues, because, as Reagan took the stage at the Neshoba County Fair, a powerful backlash to the civil rights movement was rolling across the southern states.
Scott “Grits” Henson, the best political blogger in the great state of Texas, sides with David Brooks on this one. “I think it’s time to bust apart apart this stale, outdated meme that “states rights” is merely “code” for racism,” Henson wrote in a recent column, “Grits to Bob Herbert: you still don’t understand white southerns”.
“There’s some historical truth to it,” Henson admits, “but it’s a truth that obscures many equally important ones, IMO damaging honest political discussion more than clarifying it.”
Henson’s point is that not all Reagan Democrats interpreted the reference to “state’s rights” as an fond reference to the Jim Crow past. Scott says he was drawn to the phrase by a legitimate fear of Big Brother federalism and a reverence for constitutional checks and balances.
Scott Henson possesses an encyclopedic grasp of political history, and I’m sure he is right about Bob Herbert (and most other Yankee scribes) failing to understand white southerners. Nonetheless, I’m with Herbert and Krugman on this one.
Context is everything. It is no longer acceptable to make overtly racist remarks in public: in the South, or anywhere else in America. This development may constitute the only solid advance the civil rights movement achieved. And there is a downside.
When George Wallace stood in the door of the Foster Auditorium at the University of Alabama defying the National Guard, you knew where he stood. Wallace wanted you to know; his political survival depended on it.
But that was June of 1963. Reagan delivered his Neshoba County speech in August of 1980, seventeen eventful years later. No longer could a southern politician critique the civil rights movement in an overtly and unapologetically.
According to a now-redacted Wikopedia article, Louisiana congressman Speedy Oteria Long ran for the humble office of LaSalle Parish (Jena) District Attorney in 1973 because there was no longer any room in federal politics for an outspoken segregationist. The original “Speedy Long” Wikopedia entry contained a great deal of material that has been eliminated by post-Jena scribes, but the basic facts remain. (The Wikopedia entry on Gillis Long, Speedy’s cousin and long-time political opponent, provides much of the same information as the original “Speedy” entry–albeit in less graphic language.”
Speedy Long served as LaSalle Parish District Attorney until 1985, and continued his legal practice in Jena for another twenty years. According to the unredacted Wikopedia article (a remnant of which can still be found here), Reed Walters, the current LaSalle Parish DA, eulogized Speedy Long as “the epitome of a Southern gentleman . . . He was a mentor,” Walters said. “I could go to him for good, sound, solid advice.”
As Scott Henson suggests, it is easy to read things into this sort of information that don’t fit the profile. An old time friend of Speedy Long assures me that the Jena politician invited the KKK to participate in his rallies only because it bought him votes. Privately, I am told, Long was repelled by the “hard bigotry” of his redneck supporters.
Moreover, there is good reason to believe that Speedy Long was every bit the “Southern gentleman” Reed Walters says he was. (Long died in the fall of 2006, a few weeks after the now-notorious noose incident.) Elderly black residents of LaSalle Parish remember Mr. Long as a kind and fair man. He didn’t hate black people–in fact, he was rather fond of them. On most issues, Long voted with liberal Democrats. He simply believed in states rights on constitutional, libertarian and, one suspects, traditionalist grounds. If the majority of southerners wished to maintain the old Jim Crow regime, Long believed, they should be allowed to do so.
Nonetheless, according to biographer Bill Dodd, Speedy Long “was a segregationist and had sense enough to quit Congress before he got beat.”
Why have editors excised the Mr. Walters’ eulogy from the Wikopedia article on Speedy Long? Perhaps they feared that some enterprising soul might connect the dots: Speedy Long was an unrepentant segregationist; Speedy Long was Reed Walter’s mentor; therefore, Reed Walters is a segregationist.
The facts do not support that conclusion. Unlike his mentor, Reed Walters was born into a world where public opposition to the civil rights movement is a one-way ticket to political oblivion. Trent Lott’s whispered remark to Strom Thurmond nearly derailed his political career. For obvious reasons, Reed Walters has never gone on record as opposing the civil rights movement or its manifold consequences.
All we can say for sure is that Reed Walters came of age in a world in which respected elder statesmen deeply resented the forced integration of the South. By the time Reed Walters took over as DA in 1991, the integration question was moot.
Context is everything. When Speedy Long decided to retire from federal politics in 1973, Jena High School had been formally integrated for three years.
Were Jena’s white residents clambering for an integrated high school in 1970? Hardly.
Was Jena’s black community marching on the LaSalle Parish Courthouse, demanding an integrated school system in 1970? No, they weren’t. Seven years after the Nashoba County incident, everyone knew the fate of uppity niggers and white nigger lovers.
But it goes deeper than fear. Many African Americans old enough to remember 1970 see the integration of the high school as a backwards step. Several black teachers lost their jobs and black students suddenly found themselves on a formally integrated campus surrounded by resentful white people.
This was the context for Jena’s informal system of educational apartheid. Classes were integrated; but the courtyard and the school auditorium remained strictly segregated. You wouldn’t find any of this in the official school handbook; but everybody, black and white, knew the score.
In 1980, when Ronald Reagan made his appeal to states rights in nearby Neshoba County, white residents of LaSalle Parish got the message.
Eleven years later, over 70% of the white voters of LaSalle Parish cast their votes for David Duke. Does this mean that white sheets were hanging in the closets of most white voters? Not at all. A vote for David Duke was a desperate shot across the bow; the rough equivalent of putting a confederate flag sticker on your truck bumper. But the simple truth cannot be denied: fifteen years before hangmans nooses flapped from a tree at Jena High School, LaSalle Parish residents were still angry about the civil rights legislation that had been crammed down their throats in the early 60s.
What were Jena’s noose-boys thinking when they did their dirty work. Craig Franklin, the unofficial mouthpiece of Jena’s white community, says the boys were playing a joke on some of their equally white friends. It was all in good fun. You see, there was this tradition of hanging random objects from the now-famous tree. When the noose-boys learned that their handiwork had been interpreted as a hate crime, Franklin tells us, they were horrified. Nothing of the sort had ever entered their minds.
Are we really supposed to believe that? I mean . . . really?
For thirty-six autumns, an integrated Jena High School has been holding first-day-of-school assemblies in a segregated auditorium: white kids on one side; black kids on the other. This is a matter of public record.
But in late August of 2006, a black student named Kenneth Purvis asked if it was okay for black students to sit under the tree on the white end of the school courtyard. Editor Franklin suggests that Purvis, desperate to milk a few more minutes from the assembly, tossed off a random and meaningless question.
Are we really supposed to believe that . . . really?
A black kid in Jena, Louisiana doesn’t stand up at a school assembly and ask if he can sit under a tree at the white end of the school courtyard unless he is as serious as cancer. He may giggle nervously as he asks the question (we are talking about a high school freshman, after all), but he is serious.
This wasn’t a question about a tree, and everybody knew it–just as everybody at the Neshoba County fair knew what Ronald Reagan was getting at. Kenneth Purvis was asking if Jena High School’s informal apartheid was official policy. “What’s the deal,” Purvis was asking; “are white kids and black kids self-segregating; or is there an official policy that we have to hang out at separate ends of the square and sit on opposite sides of the auditorium?”
Purvis didn’t say those words; but that’s what he meant, and everybody knew that’s what he meant.
Principal Scott Windham understood the “tree question” and gave the only answer a public official could give in 2006: “Ya’ll can sit wherever you want.”
In other words, “You can self-segregate if you want; or you can integrate if you’d rather. But nothing is set in stone. There is no informal policy. It’s all up to you.”
Kenneth Purvis and his buddies liked that answer. They like it so much that, as soon as the final bell sounded that day, they sat themselves down under the shade of that tree. Then, jubilant and reassured, they went home.
The next morning, two (some say three) nooses, in the school colors of black and gold, were swinging from the branches of that tree.
Were the noose-hangers sending a message? Context rules out any other interpretation.
The noose-boys liked Jena’s informal apartheid. They weren’t particularly gifted, academically or athletically. Black kids like Mychal Bell and Carwin Jones were big, fast, strong and socially outgoing. The black athletes hung together. Mess with one of them and you had to answer to all of them.
But, thanks to Jena’s informal apartheid, the noose-boys didn’t have to mess with kids like Mychal and Carwin. They stayed on the white side of the school yard and the black students stayed on the black side. Occasionally, students would cross the color line. The black and white football players got along pretty well, and there were even a few cross-racial friendships. But the unspoken racial code was strong enough to keep country white kids from having to deal with black athletes like Mychal and Carwin if they didn’t want to. And they didn’t want to.
The nooses were a vote in favor of maintaining the color line. How do I know that? Have any of these kids said as much?
Did Ronald Reagan mention the legacy of the civil rights movement when he spoke at Neshoba County in 1980? Did he have to?
Context is everything.
The kids hung the nooses precisely because they were participating in a conversation that precluded words. It was all symbol and code, but the flow conversation was understood by everyone.
Until, that is, carpetbaggers and outside agitators started reading between the lines. Then a noose is just a rope hanging from a tree; a rope entirely devoid of significance, racial or otherwise. Context is nothing. A cigar is just a cigar. A noose is just a noose. Nothing means anything . . . unless, maybe, the noose was intended as a practical joke–on white kids. Or maybe it was a good-natured threat to next week’s football opponent–they were called the Mustangs. Or maybe the noose-boys were just watching Lonesome Dove and were so captivated by the image of nooses hanging from a tree that they decided to hang some nooses, randomly, you know, and they picked that tree because . . . well, that’s the tree you hang stuff in, and . . .
Are we really supposed to believe this stuff . . . really?
Why would a sane, intelligent man like Craig Franklin drain every hint of common-sense-context from the Jena narrative?
Why would a sane, intelligent individual like David Brooks sell New York Times readers a de-contextualized version of the Neshoba County story?
Because David Brooks is trying to rescue Ronald Reagan, the maligned hero of the modern conservative revival, from the obvious.
Similarly, Craig Franklin is trying to rescue Reed Walters, the maligned hero of Jena, Louisiana, from the obvious.
Two questions: what did the nooses signify to the noose-boys; and, much more significantly, what did the nooses signify to public officials in Jena?
Ex-principal, Scott Windham thought the nooses, whatever they signified, deserved a full year’s suspension. You don’t give a full year’s suspension to students for playing an innocent prank on white members of the rodeo team, (or, alternatively, for issuing a playful threat to the Jena Giants’ next football opponent).
Windham’s recommended punishment only makes sense if we are talking about a hate crime perpetrated against Kenneth Purvis, his friends, and every African American student at Jena High School.
Given the context, no other interpretation is possible. Scott Windham knew the noose-boys were demanding a segregated school courtyard and he wasn’t about to yield to their not-so-subtle threats. Besides, there were legal issues to be considered. A potential lawsuit. Black parents were up in arms over the nooses. This couldn’t be swept under the rug. A strong statement had to be made.
But Scott Windham did not represent the last word in LaSalle Parish. School Superintendent Roy Breithaupt and District Attorney Reed Walters (the school district’s legal representative) had the power to overrule the principal, and they used that power.
Outraged black parents convened a meeting at L&A Baptist Church to consider their options. The next morning, black students, led by the young men now known as the Jena 6, staged a protest in which they symbolically occupied the tree at the white end of the school courtyard.
Fights broke out. Why? If the students at Jena High School were “self-segregating”, why did the black students suddenly feel the need to occupy the noose-tree; and why did this gesture arouse such violent anger in some white students?
Tensions became so severe that many parents, black and white, stopped by the school to pick up their kids.
Why did no one explain to these parents that the noose-boys had been misunderstood? When Scott Windham called an emergency assembly, why didn’t he assure the black students that they were misreading the situation? Why didn’t he ask the noose-boys to write statements of apology that could be read to the student body? Why didn’t Mr. Windham assure the students, black and white, that the campus of Jena High School was fully integrated, so students could sit wherever they wanted?
By this time, Principal Windham had seen the writing on the wall. He had seriously misread the situation. His initial recommendation of harsh treatment for the noose-boys had infuriated white parents; now Mr. Windham was fighting for his job.
A district championship was more important than a few silly nooses, Windham suggested. Then, fearing that argument wasn’t working, he turned the meeting over to Reed Walters.
Every police officer in Jena, in full dress uniform, was present in the auditorium when Reed Walters rose to speak. As he has repeatedly explained, the Prosecutor wasn’t happy to find himself in the high school auditorium. He had been sitting at his desk at the courthouse trying to decide if he should ask for the death penalty in a rape case, when the call came in from principal Windham. The foolishness at the high school, Walters has suggested. was not worthy of this attention.
Like Principal Windham, Reed Walters made no attempt to assure the students that, the noose-boys notwithstanding, Jena High School was fully integrated and would remain so. Walters could have assured the black students that they were free to sit anywhere they wanted–including under the tree at the traditionally white end of the square. He could have issued an appeal for racial harmony.
But he did none of these things. Instead, he told the students that he could be their best friend or their worst enemy.
No one questioned this statement; it was self-evident. In his role as prosecutor, Reed Walters could choose to be harsh (like Principal Windham) or he could choose to be lenient (like Superintendent Breithaupt). The office of district attorney comes with enormous powers of discretion. Every expression of negative juvenile behavior could be interpreted as a crime, as an innocent prank, or as something in between.
Then Reed Walters pulled a pen from his suit jacket pocket, clicked it dramatically, and issued a surly threat: “I want you to know that with a stroke of my pen, I can make your lives disappear.”
To whom was he speaking?
It doesn’t matter.
According to Craig Franklin, Reed Walters issued his threat because (a) he was angry that Scott Windham can called him over to the schoolhouse, and (b) a gaggle of giggling girls (white girls, mind you) weren’t paying sufficient attention.
Are we really supposed to believe this stuff . . . really?
Reed Walters, we are told, was telling disrespectful white girls that, if they didn’t show him the respect due his office, he would put them away. For what? Is there a law against dissing a middle aged white guy at a school assembly?
More to the point, is there any conceivable circumstance under which Reed Walters could conceivably send a white, female Jena High student to prison?
Of course not. If he was upset with the level of noise in the room, Mr. Walters might have called the room to attention; but he would never threaten to press criminal charges against the offending students. He isn’t crazy.
Reed Walters issued his threat to the students responsible for the current emergency. He was angry with the black football players who had protested the noose incident. That much is certain. It is also possible that he was angry with the white students who reacted violently to this protest.
The situation could have been easily defused. Mr. Walters could have informed the students that, during their free time, they could sit in any part of the school courtyard they felt drawn to. Further, he could have warned the white students that any attempt to maintain a de facto segregation at the high school would not be tolerated. Students could self-segregate if they chose to; but any attempt to restrict access to the “white side” or the “black side” of the square was in violation of school policy, state and federal civil rights statute, and would not be tolerated.
It would have been so easy to say that. It so obviously needed to be said. It was the natural thing to say. So why didn’t Walters say it?
Context is everything.
Reed Walters avoided the integration-segregation issue for the same reason his mentor, Speedy Long, had allowed the KKK to parade at his political rallies thirty-five years earlier–his constituency demanded it.
Neither Reed Walters nor Roy Breithaupt were endorsing segregation in the fall of 2006; nor were they championing the civil rights of black students. They were ignoring an issue that, in their professional judgement, the white community of Jena wasn’t ready to deal with.
This explains why otherwise sane and intelligent people are currently engaged in myth-making. If Reed Walters was threatening to weild the awesome powers of his office against black students protesters, the attempted murder charges filed last December appear in an altogether different light.
So the context must disappear, even if that means cooking up utterly impossible apologias for Reed, Roy and the noose boys. These “explanations” may work for conservative bloggers, the editors of the Christian Science Monitor, or even the Department of Justice, but they will not stand up in open court.
Reed Walters could have defused a potentially catastrophic situation. He didn’t. Instead, by discounting the legitimate protest of black students, Mr. Walters gave his tacit approval to the noose-boys and their toxic message. He placed black and white students in an adversarial relationship that was bound to end badly. When the inevitable occurred, Mr. Walters was the best friend of white residents and the worst enemy of black defendants. In addition, he has issued a string of “extrajudicial remarks” which will eventually get him recused from these cases.
When that happens, the Jena story will be told the way it really happened.
Context is everything.