Becoming a Counselor. Samuel T. Gladding
Jim Crow and had the power to fix it.
Chapter 8 Perpetuating the Lost Cause: Essays on Confederates
The American Civil War had been over physically for almost 100 years when I entered fifth grade. However, it was not over mentally in the minds of some Southerners, even those in education. My fifth-grade teacher and later my sixth-grade teacher had our class participate in the Daughters of the Confederacy essay contest and write about famous Confederates. The first year the essay was on Georgia’s Alexander H. Stephens, the vice president of the Confederacy. The second year we wrote about Nathan Bedford Forrest, a Confederate general and the first Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. Instead of looking these figures up in the library, we were given pamphlets that contained biographical information on each. The handouts were complementary in multiple ways: They portrayed these men as heroes.
The essay experience promoted the Lost Cause myth pervasive in the South in the 20th century. The myth focused on the gallant men who had fought for or served the Confederacy. My take on what I was being taught was that Southerners were good and virtuous, whereas “Yankees”—God bless you if you said that word—were rude, crude, and evil.
I look back on the Confederate essay days with disbelief. If the goal had been to shape young minds prejudicially, the activity would have been helpful. I know in some cases it succeeded. I am glad I was uncomfortable with the process. I realized in some ways then what was happening and that with hate and fear, as the title song from the play South Pacific declares, “you’ve got to be carefully taught.”
Chapter 9 An Encounter With the Klan
I can still remember hearing the car horns in the distance. They were coming. The Ku Klux Klan was holding a rally on the courthouse square of my hometown of Decatur, Georgia, and they were driving up Church Street in front of our house as part of their route. I was 10 years old, and up to that point my family had tried to protect me as much as possible from the sounds and the sights of the divided society that was the South of the 1950s. That summer day was no exception as my father quickly shooed me inside. Innocence was about to be lost, and he knew it. Yet he tried as best he could to keep my brother, my sister, and me as far removed as possible from the evil that was to pass before us.
In retrospect, I am sure he thought of sending us away for the day. However, he probably knew that such a tactic would backfire later. There was no escape from the pervasiveness of racism that dominated Southern culture at the time. It was simply accepted and legally codified. Blacks and Whites were different races that should be kept separate from each other because Blacks were perceived as inferior. That view covered everything in its day like kudzu and strangled reasonable discussions and change. So, as the car horns became louder and the Klan caravan drew closer, I was confined to the screened-in front porch of our house to watch silently a noisy parade full of people in hoods waving Confederate battle flags and occasionally shouting words that were offensive. The instructions from my father were clear: “You may look,” he told me, “but you must remain as still as the humid air.”
My wait was not long in coming, but while I sat, I thought as well as anticipated. I had read about the Klan and its origin. I knew that Nathan Bedford Forrest had founded the Klan in Tennessee after the Civil War to suppress the freedom of Blacks and keep them fearful and subservient to Whites. I had read of a recent Klan rally and cross burning at nearby Stone Mountain on a Saturday night in the Sunday edition of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution that I helped my brother deliver. I was not as naive as my father thought or wished. Yet I did not know anyone who was an affiliate of or advocate for the Klan or its causes. That made sense because the group was surrounded by secrecy. You became a target of its wrath only if you spoke out against what it tried to enforce by intimidation, beatings, and murder. So I sat quietly and watched as the first cars came by. I was to see what I had read about up close and face to face.
However, what happened was different from what I had envisioned. The distance from our porch to the street was about 50 feet, so I had a clear view. What surprised me was what I saw. Before me were people in vehicles who were faceless in the sense that I could not see who they were. It was like Halloween in the summertime. Over their heads were white hooded sheets that prevented anyone from identifying them. From the holes in their masks I caught glimpses of faces—eyes, noses, and mouths—but nothing distinctive. Even more striking was that as these people passed our house, they not only blew their horns but also waved. I was confused. I thought evil should look and act malevolent. Here before me was the personification of prejudice waving enthusiastically and in a friendly manner. Something was disturbingly wrong with the picture.
However, I did as instructed. I did not move a muscle. The whole parade lasted only about 5 minutes. Then the noisy, white-robed, faceless people disappeared from my immediate senses and became lodged in my memory.
In reflecting on this moment in time, I realize that day and my internal reaction to the events before me have continued to have an impact on my life both personally and professionally. For one thing, I saw then, and see even more clearly now, that racism is often faceless and parades around as if it were something else. The camouflage of racism and its pretentious nature make it elusive and difficult to get a handle on—let alone address constructively.
Chapter 10 Just as I Am
Growing up Baptist was mentally and theologically challenging for me—at least in my childhood church, where the emphasis was on record keeping, recitation, and evangelism. Every Sunday morning, each child present (and the adults too) had to fill out a record form checking such categories as “on time,” “read lesson,” and “brought Bible.” There was a chance to have perfect attendance and to score 100% as well! In addition to the records, there was a focus on memorizing scripture, most of which was from the New Testament, Psalms, and Proverbs. I was never asked to recite anything from the Song of Solomon.
I did fine in the first two categories of being a 1950s Baptist—keeping a record of my attendance and memorizing scripture. However, the third emphasis, evangelism, seemed a bit irrelevant to me until one summer day when the weather and our minister both got hot. I was in sixth grade and seated with my family at the 11 a.m. worship service in the fifth row on the left-hand side of the sanctuary. It was a place our family claimed for years. On that summer Sunday when the sermon ended, the minister gave the traditional invitation for anyone who wished to come forward and join the church as the congregation sang “Just as I Am.”
Several verses were sung, and no one came. Therefore, the minister asked everyone to bow their heads and close their eyes while the choir sang the hymn slowly and with feeling. He said he was sure the Lord was calling someone that day, but he was not sure exactly for what. I was pretty sure the Lord did not have my number, so I relaxed a little bit. However, after the choir had sung and no one had responded, the minister asked the congregation to sing some more. Two, then three, verses were sung. Still there was no one in the front of the church except the preacher. Maybe the Lord had dialed over to the First Presbyterian Church that morning. At least that thought entered my mind.
Appearing to me to be somewhat frustrated, our minister asked for the head-bowing, eye-closing response again while the choir sang softly in the background. When his expectations were not met, he said, to the congregation’s surprise, “I want everyone who has volunteered to be a missionary to the Congo to come to the front.”
“Sam,” he said, “that’s you and Sandra,” pointing to one of my friends who was the same age as me.
I was stunned but began to make my way to the aisle past my parents and siblings, who seemed a bit shocked that I was being called to Africa. Coming down the aisle toward the front, I saw my friend, Sandra, who was a pretty girl with long blond hair, blue eyes, and a smile that could melt the heart of almost any preadolescent boy. But this morning she was not radiant. She was not smiling. She looked as if she were upset, and to make matters worse she was crying. The tears ran down her face in small streams, eroding her makeup significantly and causing her mascara