I’ve been delaying working on this for a few days. Sometimes, what I have to say makes me uncomfortable.
My father had eight children. Four were human: my two brothers, my sister, and me; four were not human: Missco, Mllsaps, Trustmark, and St Dominic’s. He tried his best to balance his time between us, but sometimes, living things are difficult to balance. In the five or six years before his death, I would regularly meet my father and his office for a drink after work. He alone understood how dangerously unhappy I was and blindly helped me search for the solution neither of us could see. On those nights alone with my father in his office, he told me many things as he reflected back on my own history and the history of my city.
One day, not long before he died, he told me that he had searched as far into the west as he could see to remove anything that might be a danger to his children in the future, but he failed to look very far into the east. Anyone who grew up in a prosperous and successful and growing Jackson and then expected that to continue in their lives probably understands what he meant. Nobody expected the city to die. We were doing great, but we didn’t look into the east.
I always knew that my dad kept secrets. I also knew that he kept these secrets because if he didn't, somebody would get hurt, and that made me sad for him. What happened to Jackson, why it grew so rapidly, then broke and started to shrink, is a story he was deeply involved in. Some of it he told me, and some of it he kept secret.
To understand what happened to Jackson, you have to understand what happened in 1969 and 1970 when nearly half the white students abandoned the Jackson Public Schools and started something else. I wanted to resolve, in my own mind, what his role was in all this. He told me a few things through the years, but I wanted to validate what he told me through other sources. I wanted to see his role in what happened to Jackson the way other people saw it.
My dad was in the school business. Even if he weren’t in the school business, he would have been right in the middle of all this because that’s how he lived, trying to build his community. He told me many things, but there were many more I had to find out on my own.
I had dinner with my sister this weekend. There are things in my universe where she really is the only person alive who can understand what I’m saying. After everyone else had left, she waited with me for my Uber to arrive. I talked to her about how I’ve spent over twenty-five years digging deeply and researching what happened to Jackson, our home. I always felt like, because of who our family was and because of who I was, I might be in a fairly unique position to understand what went on here, why, and what the results were.
There’s been so much written about what happened in Jackson and in Mississippi during the “civil rights era.” It’s become this really complex mosaic of different points of view and different perspectives, and I’ve tried to consume it all, to try and understand what happened in a way that satisfied my own mind. Doing this for so long, I’ve cultivated a pretty substantial body of knowledge.
I told my sister I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with all this history I’d accumulated. I could write a scathing tell-all that exposes all the secrets of Jackson’s society and its racist underbelly, but the story was so much more complicated than that, but even if it weren’t more complicated than that, even if it were just the story of a bunch of unreconstructed racists screwing things up, nearly all those guys are dead, and the ones who aren’t dead are in a memory care facility now. There’s nothing I could write that could bring anybody justice, and there’s nothing I could write that would change the past or change the future. Most of these guys are dead, but their children aren’t; their grandchildren and, in some cases, their great-grandchildren are still very much with us, still very much a part of Jackson. Did I want to be the guy who put down in a book that somebody’s beloved Pop-pop did something horrible long before they were born?
I still want to tell this story, but I have to be careful and be gentle with the memories people have of the people who lived here. I have to try not to be a hypocrite here because I have already said some pretty rough things about Ross Barnett and Alan C Thompson, and I very much know their families and descendants, but I’m trying to make allowances for people whose histories are already part of public discourse, and people (like Barnett and Thompson) who made a particular effort to make things difficult.
That being said, in my studies, I’ve found that some of the people everyone assumes were the villains might not be. My entire life, I’ve heard people from every angle blame what happened in Jackson on Billy Simmons and the Citizen’s Council. I can’t posit that Billy was anything like a good guy. He said, wrote, and broadcast some of the most vile racist stuff that I’ve ever been exposed to. He was pretty bad, but If you look at the number of kids who ended up enrolled at the three Jackson Citizen’s Council Schools and the fact that they were out of business by 1981, you can’t really say they caused the problem. There just weren’t enough kids in those schools to account for the nearly 50% drop in white student participation in Jackson Public Schools, and even if they were, they were out of business before the first class of kids who had never been in public schools graduated.
In 1981, former Nixon Aide and lifelong republican operative Lee Atwater was recorded as saying:
“You start out in 1954 by saying, “N____r, n____r, n____r.” By 1968 you can’t say “n____r”—that hurts you, backfires. So you say stuff like, uh, forced busing, states’ rights, and all that stuff, and you’re getting so abstract. Now, you’re talking about cutting taxes, and all these things you’re talking about are totally economic things and a byproduct of them is, blacks get hurt worse than whites.… “We want to cut this,” is much more abstract than even the busing thing, uh, and a hell of a lot more abstract than “N____r, n____r.”
Here, he lays out the infamous “Southern Strategy” pretty plainly. It was never more relevant than in 1969 and 1970 in Jackson, Mississippi. There were guys who believed everything Billy Simmons believed but didn’t like the way he said it. In their minds, as long as you didn’t say “N____r, n____r, n____r” then you were in the clear, even if that’s what you were thinking. These guys wanted schools that ticked all the boxes that the Citizen’s Council schools ticked but without being affiliated with the Citizen’s Council. They managed to introduce class into this gumbo of race, class, and gender. They considered themselves in one class and Billy Simmons and all his Citizens Council pals in another. I have a problem with that. Billy Simmons had the courage to tell us what he was. These guys who were the same thing but tried to tell us they were something different were less of a man than Billy, in my opinion. I can’t say that any of the things he believed were right or decent, but he had enough respect for other people that he would at least be honest and upfront about it and not hide it behind dog-whistle words like what Atwater was talking about.
One of my fraternity brothers, a man by the name of Dick Wilson, tried to tell me not to judge Simmons too quickly. “He’s a lot smarter than people realize,” Dick told me. It took me a while to understand what Dick was saying, but he was right, Billy Simmons was kind of a genius. You can look at his library now at the Fairview and see evidence of this. What might tempt a guy with such a vast intellect down such dark avenues is something I don’t understand, but I’d really like to. I’m fascinated by his story.
The influence of Kappa Alpha Order is waning in the world, and I think that’s probably for the best. In 1969, it was at its peak. When I look at the names of the men who organized and funded these non-citizens-council segregation academies in Jackson, a good two-thirds of them were KAs, mostly from Ole Miss. We’ll be judged for that, and I think that’s fair. These guys were community and business leaders; they could have said, “Let’s take all this money and effort and dump it into the public schools, and the Justice Department be damned!” but they didn’t.
In 1969, most of these guys considered themselves at war, not with black Mississippians, but with the federal government. Kirby Walker, superintendent of Jackson Public Schools, had a plan to gradually integrate our schools. In interview after interview, he was proud of the fact that he had introduced black students into every school without incident. I honestly think Mayor Thompson wanted a big, violent confrontation like what happened in Oxford. He kept buying equipment and building up his forces to be ready for it, but it never happened.
In the Alexander v Holmes County decision, the court decided that “justice delayed, is justice denied” and ordered the Mississippi schools to be racially balanced immediately. And in some cases, like Jackson Public Schools, they put the Justice Department in charge of it. Kirby Walker spent ten years out of a thirty-year career trying to desegregate Jackson Public Schools. He believed he had done a good job, only to have it torn from him and given to Washington Bureocrats. In 1969, he retired rather than serve under the federal Department of Health Education and Welfare. Upon retiring, he told my grandfather to say to my father, “Tell Jim to get those boys into private schools. I just don’t know what’s going to happen with Jackson Public Schools.”
That caused a bit of panic in my family. Both my mother and father were products of the Jackson Public Schools. They were our best and most profitable customer, and even with Dr. Walker retiring, my dad had many friends who still worked at Jackson Public Schools. At the same time, nearly everyone he knew from Ole Miss was sending their children to either JA or Prep, and his fraternity brothers served on every board. There was a time when four members of the Jackson Prep board of trustees had consecutively been the president of the Ole Miss Chapter of Kappa Alpha after my father. For good or for evil, in the second half of the twentieth century, we got mixed up in everything that happened in Mississippi.
Announcing that the Justice Department was taking over our schools caused a full-on panic. In it, with pressure from his own father and his father’s friends, I think my dad also panicked. In his mind, sending us to St. Andrews quieted the voices, yelling that he had to do something while not giving in to the pressure to join a “segregation academy.” Without a doubt, there were parents who were sending their kids to St. Andrews because it was almost entirely white, but there were also parents who sent their kids to St. Andrews precisely because it wasn’t entirely white.
There were heroes in those days, although we don’t talk about it very much. Andy Mullins couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five or twenty-six when he fought off efforts from without and from within to force St. Andrews to join the Mississippi Private School Association, so boys at St. Andrews wouldn’t have to worry about playing football against any black boys. Andy went on to fight a number of important battles, but that one must have been pretty tough, considering how young he was and how uncertain the times were. As I understand it, St. Andrews still plays in the league he got us into.
I’ve made no secret about how much I fought David Hicks when I was at St. Andrews, but there’s something important I need to say about him. David pretty quickly assessed the situation in Jackson and what was going on with the other schools almost as soon as he got here. He very firmly drew a line in the sand and said, “This is what they’re about, and this is what we’re about. Don’t ever get it confused.” The school still operates under that principle today.
In 1950, Jackson had one of the most successful and friendliest public schools in America (so long as you were white.) By 1970, nearly half the white students in Jackson Public Schools abandoned it rather than stay and be a part of the Justice Department's efforts to balance the school’s population racially. They left, and they never went back. People who couldn’t afford to keep sending their kids to private schools left the city.
I often think about what would have happened if the scores of families who left Jackson Public School had banded together and decided they were going to make the best of whatever the Justice Department had in mind. I think, within just a few years, they would have realized that they could handle this, and with a strong public school that everybody supported, there never would have been the massive white flight that decimated Jackson. There were efforts from several prominent private school educators in the 80s and 90s who returned to the public schools and tried to undo the harm they had done.
Jesus talks to us about shifting sands. There’s even a pretty great song about it. Mississippi twice built its house on shifting sands. Once, when we started importing people from another part of the world to serve as slaves here, and then again, when we decided that we had to keep these former slaves under our thumb and forever separate from us socially and politically after slavery ended. What Jesus said about building a house on the shifting sands was true; our foundations came tumbling down.
None of the people in this story meant to choose the wrong thing. That choice was made decades before they were born. The people in this story were trying to navigate the world as it was left to them. Their biggest sin was not questioning the assumptions they were working under.
In the story of what happened in Jackson, there were bad actors, that’s for sure. Because I’ve been doggedly pursuing this story for thirty years, I’ve uncovered a lot of them, even the ones my father tried to keep hidden from me. Most people weren’t bad actors, though. Most were regular people trying to do the best they could for their families during a time when nothing made much sense, not the world they knew before and not the world laid out before them. Faced with a very uncertain future, a lot of them just panicked. Moving their kids out of the public schools into a private school seemed like the safe thing to do, and when your children are involved, nearly everyone wants the safe thing to do.
So, here we are. Fifty years later, and I’m keeping the same secrets my father kept. Maybe that’s my legacy. Maybe that’s what he was trying to keep me away from. What I know is this: there were bad men. There were many painful and ignorant and short-sighted things–but most people were good. They may have been short-sighted or misguided by our tangled and snarled culture, but they all wanted something better for their children, even if what they were afraid of wasn’t even real.
Jackson survived. It just moved to Madison, Brandon, Pearl, and Clinton. The city itself sits like a scar on the landscape. A reminder of the good we failed to do. I wanted to know what happened to my city. I wanted to know if my father or I were culpable for what happened. I think he was, and I am, but so is everyone else. People use the word “simple” to describe Mississippi. “We’re simple.” “We have simple minds.” “We have simple lives.” None of that is true. There’s nothing simple about living here or about being born here. Our history is a mass of rose thorns, kudzu, shards of broken stained glass from churches where no one meets anymore, cornbread, and piercing sunlight. It’s really hard to make any sense of it unless you were brought up in it. Look as far as you can to the West, but look to the East too, when you can, and sometimes decide to keep secrets.
