Race

George Stinney and the Lessons of History

Stinney 260

This is a republication of a post originally posted on December 26th 2014:

Last week a South Carolina judge took the unprecedented step of vacating the 1944 conviction of a black 14-year-old boy, the youngest person executed in the United States in the past century, on the grounds that he, George Stinney, Jr., did not receive a fair trial.  The boy had been accused of beating two white girls to death in the tiny town of Alcolu, South Carolina.

After the  bodies of the two  girls, Betty June Binnicker, 11, and Mary Emma Thames, 7,  were found, the rural community was hungry for vengeance.

Understandably.  The young girls had been collecting flowers — maypops — to give to their teacher when they went missing. Searchers found their bodies the next morning, their heads crushed, lying in a ravine piled behind brush and beneath their bicycle.

The Case

History has not looked kindly at the process and outcome that unfolded in response.  Young George Stinney, who was participating in the search told others that he and his sister had seen the girls on the day they were murdered.  Shortly thereafter, he was taken into custody — and held for five days without being arrested. He was separated from his parents and would never see his family again.

Although there was no physical evidence connecting him to the crime, authorities claimed that he confessed to killing the girls by bludgeoning them with a 12-inch railroad spike and sexually assaulting one of them.

The trial took place on April 24.  It lasted less than three hours.  The jury — all white men — deliberated for 10 minutes.  Of the proceedings and Stinney’s confession, there is no record.

The guilty verdict (with no recommendation for mercy) was a foregone conclusion. Stinney’s court-appointed lawyer did not move for a change of venue.  He did not call any witnesses on his client’s behalf.  He did not, for instance, call any of George’s siblings, who would have testified that their brother George could not have killed the girls because they were with him the entire day.  He did not call Reverend Francis Batson, who found the girls and pulled them from the ditch and who saw little to no blood in or around the ditch, suggesting that the girls may have been killed elsewhere and moved.

Nor did Stinney’s lawyer cross examine any of the prosecution’s witnesses.

Stinney’s attorney made nothing of what lawyers today emphasize about the evidence:  that there was no physical evidence to link Stinney to the crime and that it would have been a “physical miracle” for the small boy to singlehandedly overcome the two girls, murder both of them, and drag them from their bicycle to the ditch where they were left.

Stinney’s lawyer also never challenged the conditions around the alleged confession.

Except for young George, everyone in the packed courthouse during the brief trial was white.  Even George’s parents and family were excluded.  Meanwhile, outside the courthouse, a mob of up to 1500 people gathered in anticipation of a quick result.

Following the verdict, a mob of white men amassed at the local jail with hopes of lynching Stinney, but the boy had already been transferred to the Columbia penitentiary. The mob would not have to wait long for his brutal death.

No appeal was filed.

Power

George’s family was powerless.  George’s sister recounts:

“My mother cried and prayed . . . . We wanted the truth to come out.  But sometimes when you don’t have the means and the money you accept things for what they are.  The NAACP tried to stop it, but it was no use. In those days, when you are white you were right, when you were black you were wrong.”

Olin Johnston Governor SC

Governor Olin Johnston

Their powerlessness was born of the interlocking effects of race and poverty.

Sourcing the Death Penalty Information Center, Jeffery Collins writes: “South Carolina executed 59 people in the 1940s. Fifty of them were black . . . .”  Thus, when South Carolina’s black population constituted just 43 per cent of the total population, black inmates made up 85 percent of the victims of capital punishment.

Such numbers then failed, like similarly skewed statistics today fail, to give lawmakers pause.  (About two-thirds of South Carolina’s prisoners today are black, as are 27 of its 46 inmates currently sitting on death row.)

Local churches and the NAACP, pleaded with South Carolina’s Governor at the time, Olin D. Johnston, to stop the execution and commute the sentence to life imprisonment, citing Stinney’s age as a mitigating factor. Some letters cited a then-recent case, where a 16-year-old white boy from Parish Island was given a 20-year sentence for murder and rape.

One letter put it this way:  “Child execution is only for Hitler.”

Others begged for a new investigation and trial. Many spoke of the war, in which black and white men were fighting and dying in equal numbers for their country.

Governor Johnston, who was running for the U.S. Senate at the time, wrote a letter to one of his upset constituents just days before the execution in which he made several assertions that were based on the “confession” though otherwise baseless: “It may be interesting for you to know,” he wrote, “that Stinney killed the smaller girl to rape the larger one. Then he killed the larger girl and raped her dead body. Twenty minutes later he returned and attempted to rape her again, but her body was too cold. All of this he admitted himself.”

Governor Johnston also artificially distanced himself from the young boy’s fate by claiming that he “had nothing to do with the matter — pointing to “the judge, the jury, and the solicitor.”  He also claimed, without support, that the “colored people . . . would have lynched this boy themselves had it not been for the protection of the officers.”

Johnston’s argument seems to be that  the evidence clearly incriminated  young George, that the boy was a monstrous rapist, that the arrest and verdict was not about race, that  the state had somehow done the boy a favor by protecting him from his own people, and that, in any case the the boy’s fate was beyond the governor’s control.  Such was the twisted logic of a politician seeking higher office in the Jim Crow South: please the majority of constituents by allowing the race-and-revenge-fueled legal lynching and placate the critics by pretending that the result was out of his control and better than the alternative.

Johnston was not the only key actor vying for potential votes at the time. Charles Plowden, George’s appointed defense attorney, was also running for the statehouse.  He, too, had much to gain by providing a legitimating but anemic defense and by helping to ensure a result that would satisfy the bloodthirsty urge of his most important potential voters.

As one history of the case put it, Plowden’s “goal in the case was simple: to provide a bare bones defense that would fulfill his responsibilities as a defense attorney and, at the same time, not anger the local residents.”

Years later, when Plowden responded to a question about why he didn’t appeal the case, he stated: “There was nothing to appeal on” and added the Stinney family had no funds to continue the case.

George Stinney, center right (with Bruce Hamilton, 21, center left) both enter the death house in the state prison in Columbia, where they were executed

George Stinney, center right (with Bruce Hamilton, 21, center left) both enter the death house in the state prison in Columbia, where they were executed

The Execution

George Stinney, Jr. was put to death in the electric chair on June 16, 1944.

Arrest, confession, trial, conviction, and execution, all within just 83 days.

Done, done, done, done, and done!

On the day of his execution, seventy years ago, George Stinney was 14 years and 5 months old.  He was small for his age,  barely topping five feet and and ninety pounds.  As he was led to the electric chair, he carried a Bible under his arm.   Climbing in, it became clear that the chair’s straps and contraptions were all too big for him and had to be adjusted and re-rigged.  His feet dangled from the chair and the bible doubled as a booster seat so that the apparatus could reach his head.

As was generally the case with such electrocutions, a mask was placed over the victim’s face to spare the audience from seeing the facial contortions of pain and, potentially, flames.  In Stinney’s case, the “death mask” was too large and fell off when the first 2400-volt surge of electricity was unleashed, revealing tears streaming from Stinney’s eyes and the horror of a small boy being internally burned — brain, heart, and organs.

The Aftermath

The day after Stinney’s execution, a local newspaper carried a three-inch article, which contained the following line “Stinney, 14 years and five months old, was the youngest person ever to die in the chair.”

The story made no dent in national headlines, owing, at least in part, to the unfolding of other events. In June 1944, most people were focused on the beaches of Normandy, where a million Americans were locked in the battles of D-Day. Newspapers carried graphic stories of death and destruction unparalleled before or since. Most Americans were preoccupied by the global contest and had little compassion to spare for a black teenager who monstrously murdered two young white girls.

Locally, though, the dominoes of racial injustice continued to topple.  Stinney’s father was fired from his job at the town’s lumber mill.  As one of George’s brothers recently put it: “They had no money, the law was against them and they were black in the American south in 1944.”  And, amid rumors of a mob coalescing, the Stinney family was driven from the town.

For many in the community, the death of George and the banishment of the Stinney family no doubt brought a sense of comforting closure.  As far as they were concerned, a heinous murderer had been dispatched and justice had been served.

But justice rushed, like justice delayed, is justice denied.  The legal process and outcome that characterized the Stinney trial, in fact, seems functionally indistinguishable from the lynchings that defined Jim Crow race relations;  instead of the criminal law system being merely complicit with racial injustice, the criminal law — and its veneer of legitimating legal process — was the primary instrument of that injustice.

The tragedy would not only devastate the Stinney family, it would help reinforce and maintain the shadow of terror that demarcated the power relations between blacks and whites in the region.  It illustrated both the consequences and causes of white supremacy.  It served as an act of subordination and as a reminder of what would happen to someone who resisted his place in that hierarchy.   That is, for a member of the black community to openly question the outcome, to revisit the case aloud, would be viewed by those in the white community as an act of aggression — a challenge to the system — that would be met with violence reinforced by the law.

Revisiting the Case

Last year, members of Stinney’s family petitioned for a new trial.  They old wound hadn’t healed, despite a lifetime of distance and distancing, from the day and place of George’s brutal death.  Even decades later, they felt that there was something to be gained from a new case.  Said one of his siblings: “Nothing will bring him back and nothing will bring those girls back;” nevertheless, it was still “important to have his name cleared.”

Advocates for Stinney and his family argued that newly discovered evidence — and the rush-to-judgment process of the original trial — justified reopening the case. There had been numerous irregularities in the process. For example, one of the searchers for the girls was a member of the family that owned the land on which their bodies were ultimately found, was signed as a witness on the indictment form, was a member of the grand jury, and was later appointed foreman of the jury at the coroner’s request.

In January, Judge Carmen Mullen, a circuit court judge for the Fourteenth Judicial Circuit in South Carolina, heard the testimony of three of Stinney’s surviving siblings and several expert witnesses.  They all provided alibi evidence showing that 14-year-old George could not have committed the double homicide.

Judge Carmen Mullen

Judge Carmen Mullen

In her ruling last week, Judge Mullen emphasized she was not overturning the case on its merits.  Relitigating the case would have been, in light of the scant record, all but impossible.   She did not, based on the record before her, assess whether George Stinney was or was not guilty.  Instead, Judge Mullen based her decision to vacate the earlier judgment upon the failure of the original court to grant Stinney a fair trial: “No one can justify a 14-year-old child charged, tried, convicted and executed in some 80 days.” Summarizing those events, she said: “in essence, not much was done for this child when his life lay in the balance.”

The Confession

According to Judge Mullen, it was “highly likely” that Stinney’s confession, the core of their case against George Stinney, was coerced.  She pointed out the sizeable “power differential between his position as a 14-year-old black male apprehended and questioned by white, uniformed law enforcement in a small, segregated mill town in South Carolina”:

“Based on the facts presented in this Court . . . methods employed by law enforcement in their questioning of the defendant may have been unduly suggestive, unrestrained and noncompliant with the standards of criminal procedure as required by the Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments.”

He was not informed of his rights, he was not accompanied by a lawyer, and he was without his parents. “A 14-year-old boy cannot confront his accusers,” Mullen wrote. “He needed his lawyers to help.”

Wilford “Johnny” Hunter, a cell mate of Stinney’s came forward to testify that George had told him while they both were in jail in 1944 that “he didn’t kill those girls, and that they [police] made him say those things.”

Dr. Amanda Salas, a child psychiatrist trained as a forensic psychiatrist, testified that Stinney’s alleged confession was “not reliable”:  “It is my professional opinion, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, that the confession given by George Stinney Jr. on or about March 24, 1944, is best characterized as a coerced, compliant, false confession.”

According to journalist Karen McVeigh, there were reportedly two inconsistent confessions by George Stinney, both of which were entered as evidence at trial:

In the first, he said he was approached by the girls who attacked him after he tried to help one who had fallen into a ditch and he struck them in self-defense. In the second version, he had followed the girls into the woods and first attacked and fatally wounded Mary Emma, to “get her out of the way,” and then chased Betty June and struck her.

The trial court allowed the permissibility of the “possibility” of rape, despite the lack of evidence. The medical report states that, while there was slight swelling and a slight bruise on the external genitalia of Betty June, the hymens of both girls were intact.

One of the attorneys, Matt Burgess, believes George’s confession was

“changed [by the prosecution] to fit the elements. The murder weapon changed. It was a piece of iron, then a spike and then a railroad spike. That changed in a manner beneficial to law enforcement. In 1944, a 14-year-old black kid interrogated by white officers. . . . They probably put different scenarios to him.  I’m guessing he just said, ‘Yes sir’ a lot.”

Judge Mullen’s Reasoning

In reaching her ultimate decision and why she was willing to take this unusual step to rectify a previous injustice, Judge Mullen explained:

“From time to time . . . we are called to look back to examine our still-recent history and correct injustice where possible. . . . I can think of no greater injustice than a violation of one’s constitutional rights, which has been proven to me in this case by a preponderance of the evidence standard.”

Judge Mullen’s order was based upon the legal remedy of coram nobis, which is rarely used and can be used only when a conviction was based on an error of fact or unfairly obtained in a fundamental way and when all other remedies have been exhausted.

Opinion Conclusion

Excerpt from Judge Mullen’s Opinion

Judge Mullen’s decision has been described as “courageous.”  She is an elected judge in a state that still flies the confederate flag in its statehouse.  Mullen, though, was not concerned:

“I wouldn’t have any regrets (if I was not re-elected). I go home and I feel good about what I’ve done . . . . It was a violation of someone’s constitutional rights. If we let our constitutional rights erode, we will be at the point where we wouldn’t be a democracy anymore, and that scares me.”

Why 70 Years?

George Frierson, a Clarendon County resident, school board member, and local historian has been researching and writing about the case for the last decade. Frierson began investigating the case in 2004 and said the more he researched, the more he became convinced by George’s innocence.  He says there was little blood at the ditch, evidence that the girls were killed elsewhere.  “A 95lb boy can’t carry two dead bodies a quarter mile or more. Those girls were beaten to a pulp.  There would have been a lot of blood.”

Frierson was doing what many in the Alcolu community had not been comfortable doing: that is, talking about the Stinney case.  James Hudley, who for 23 years served as pastor of Alcolu’s Green Hill Missionary Baptist Church, known locally as “the black church,” pointed out that people were reluctant or afraid to speak about the George Stinney case: “If you questioned anybody, they were very tight about the story.”

He added: “I never try to push them because I felt that there was fear that if you talked too much, the wrong people would get the message.” In the wrong hands, the talk could lead to reprisals, threats, intimidation, and violence — a possibility that gains credibility from the case itself, which, says Hudley,  “put a lot of fright into the black population of Alcolu. I feel that even today that fright is still there.”

The case thus brought to light a topic that had been buried beneath anger, fear, guilt, shame, and the power dynamics that contain such a toxic brew.

Despite the long wait, Judge Mullen’s decision last week has managed to restore a portion of what had been taken from the family and the community.

George Frierson had this to say after Mullen’s decision was announced:  “[T]he only thing we have are our names. . . . We have given him his name back because when he was incarcerated, he was given a number. His name at birth was George Stinney Jr., and that’s what he has back now. Not prisoner 260.”

George Frierson leads protest on courthouse steps (2013)

George Frierson leads protest on courthouse steps (2013)

The Origins of the New Case

It was Frierson’s historical writings that brought the community’s attention back to the case and that led lawyer Steve McKenzie, several of his partners, and law professor Miller Sheahy to take up the case.

Judge Mullen’s ruling last Wednesday resulted from a motion that McKenzie filed in January seeking a hearing to vacate the conviction. That effort was part of a six-year project that began after he read George Frierson’s historical accounts.  Among other difficult realizations that McKenzie had to confront when reading that history was that the very courthouse in which the travesty of justice occurred was the courthouse in which he had been practicing as a lawyer.  In other words, the case hit home.

“We have a duty in our profession to do justice,” McKenzie said. “We looked at this and said this is an egregious miscarriage of justice. His (Stinney’s) lawyer never put the state’s case to the test; he never presented any witnesses.”

In response to Judge Mullen’s ruling, McKenzie shared this response:

“When you think about a 14-year-old who is being put on trial for his life and he is the only African American in the courthouse. His parents weren’t allowed, the prosecutor is white, the defense attorney was white, the judge was white, the bailiff is white, everybody on the jury is white, everybody sitting in the gallery is white . . . You think about somebody being alone; he was alone and without help.”

Opposition

There were those who strongly opposed revisiting and reconsidering the case.

The lawyer opposing the motion, Ernest A. Finney III — a son of the first black State Supreme Court justice since Reconstruction — argued that the outcome should be left alone: “The fact of the matter is, it happened, and it occurred because of a legal system of justice that was in place and that . . . — for all we know, based on the record — worked properly.”

That argument is a familiar one among lawyers because it reflects a strong tendency in the legal system to reach finality and to leave previous decisions undisturbed.

A number of citizens connected to the original verdict also preferred to leave the verdict — indeed, the whole topic — alone.

One Alcolu resident, Russell Harrelson, doesn’t see the point:  “I think it’s kind of a waste of time, myself . . . . What good is it to stir into something that old? I think it’s going to stir up more controversy than it’s going to do good.”

James Gamble’s father was the Clarendon County sheriff at the time of the killings. Gamble rode in his father’s car with Stinney after the teenager was convicted, and in 2003 claimed: “He was real talkative about it. He said, ‘I’m real sorry. I didn’t want to kill them girls.”‘

Jimmy Hodge, now 82, was a boy of 12 when his father joined the search party that discovered the girls.  Hodge still believes Stinney is guilty and doesn’t buy the new information that lawyers have brought to light: “After 70 years, I don’t know where it all came from. Why is it just showing up now?”

Hodge denies the presence of racial tension in the area, calling Alcolu “a village where everybody got along. There was no race problem. They’re a different people and still are,” he said of the black community in Alcolu.

“No other race is like American-born Caucasian, in their heritage and in the way that they do things. And I think that’s why the Lord created more than one race,” he said.  Separate but harmonious:  “The two races separated themselves. They had their own way to do things . . . but it wasn’t that they were against the other.”

Two of Binnicker’s nieces, who emphatically insist that there was no racial element to George’s trial and conviction, also expressed their concerns about airing the old case again. Frankie Bailey-Dyches said “[w]e always knew that our aunt was murdered and we always knew that it was George Stinney Jr.” Unsurprisingly, Dyches believed Stinney had “got what he deserved” and that “justice was served.”

“I believe he confessed,” Dyches said of George Stinney. “He was tried and found guilty by the laws of 1944 … and it needs to be left as is.”

According to Dyches, one of the investigating officers had told her before he died never to doubt George’s guilt.  And she hasn’t.  “It seems like a poor little black boy was railroaded by the white people, but that’s not how it was,” said Dyches. “I’m 100% convinced he did it.”

Dyches attributes the recent interest in the case to the lawyers seeking fees, pointing to a website they set up indicating that they would sue the state for wrongful death if George were exonerated.  (The lawyers respond that the site was to help finance litigation fees only, with any remaining funds going to a scholarship foundation, and that they had no interest in suing for wrongful death and do not know if that is even possible.)

Carolyn Geddings said she felt bad for the Stinney family, but thought a retrial would only open old wounds.

“They can’t help what happened and I don’t know that they were treated fair back then. . . . Once the trial is over, it will be over whatever way it goes and it’s not going to bring him back and it’s not going to bring my aunt and the other little girl back and it’s a sad situation. That’s what happened in 1944 and 70 years is a long time to keep rehashing it, it needs to be over.”

The family had suffered a string of tragedies.  Betty June Binnicker’s parents had previously lost a baby son when he was six months and, after Betty June, lost a third child in the Korean war. As Carolyn Geddings put it, “[f]or Betty June to be killed in such a horrible way – it was a terrible time for all of them.”

Asymmetric Injuries

Clearly, several families were profoundly injured by the events of 1944.

Dyches laments: “My grandparents to begin with never recovered. That was their baby daughter.”

George’s sister, Amie Ruffner, describes her family’s loss this way: “They took my brother away and I never saw my mother laugh again.”  Speaking of the town from which her family was driven:  “I never went back there.  I curse that place.  It was the destruction of my family and the killing of my brother.”

Amie Ruffner

Amie Ruffner

Three children were horrifically killed and several families were ripped apart.

For some in the community, the resultant wounds had festered.  For others, the wounds were avoided or had healed.  For some there was a powerful desire to re-examine the trial, the process,  the evidence, and the outcome.  For others, there was a desire to look away.  For those who identified with George Stinney, there was some hope that his name, memory, legacy, and innocence might be publicly restored.  For individuals who identified with those in power who perpetrated it or were complicit with the execution of George Stinney, there were those things to lose.

The law makes a choice regarding whose injury and pain trumps and whose is eclipsed or whose reputation will be tarnished and whose, unblemished.

Today

For those in the community, too, there are mixed and conflicting motives. In fact, all of us today have at least a small stake in the outcome of this case — and the tensions found at the local level exist at the national level.  Those tensions are evident in the online comments attached to last week’s stories about the case.  They are evident in the parts of the narrative that we accept and those parts that we challenge.  They are evident, too, in the varying reactions to recent events, including the tragedies in Ferguson and Statten Island.  They are evident in our personal, public, local, and national conversations — or lack of conversations — about race, racism, reparations, and even presidential politics.

Some of us perceive profound injustice spreading from the past into the present like a spilled liquid being absorbed by fabric.   Others of us perceive today’s social fabric as untouched by the spills of the past.

But the lessons of Alcolu and George Stinney teach us, not just that our system has been the locus of unmistakable injustices in the past, but that the threads of the past are the threads of the present — that injustice yesterday doesn’t simply die with its victims.  People care about this case and how it is perceived precisely because they feel the tug on who they are and how they live today.

True, the dominant ideologies might have changed across generations, but their effects tend to be fairly constant. Jimmy Hodges’s view that “the Lord created more than one race” and that there is “no other race like American-born Caucasion” is now considered outlandish by most people, but his conclusion that, because there is no explicit, public interracial hostility, then “there [is] no race problem” is still common.  And, yet, the Stinney case itself, and the seven decades before a legal system even acknowledged the injustice of that case reveals that the sources of harmony need not be benign.

Beneath the surface of harmony (and, often, consciousness) are roles, scripts, language, clothing, music, jobs, institutions, architecture, boundaries, traditions, and imagery of hierarchy, much of which is implicitly passed along inter-generationally from within and across identity groups, and most of which support existing hierarchies backed by power and, if need be, violence.

And, together with those cultural habits, the psychological biases, emotions, and proclivities of the past represent deeper human tendencies, not the stuff of a different species.  We are inclined, as they were, to commit injustice while seeing ourselves as just — a tendency that is liberated by power and harnessed by powerlessness.

Pressing Questions

Judge Mullen cautioned that her remarkable ruling should not be seen as opening new legal doors for families grieving over decades-old injustices: “The extraordinary circumstances discussed herein simply do not apply in most cases.”

Fair enough, but why the urge to limit rather than expand this sort of ruling?

This is one case of many in which most people would agree that racial biases and the urge to blame some and immunize others distorts the process and outcomes of the justice system.  Does justice not require that we return to those cases and confront those potential errors.  If, in other words, the purported presumption of innocence was, in fact, a presumption of guilt, why do we not  develop a more robust process for revisiting judicial outcomes that we have reason to believe were incorrect?

Of course, seventy years later is seventy years too late, so, if we know those biases in the past led to unjust decisions, should we not be more attentive to the similarly unjust decisions  and processes today?

If this case teaches us or we otherwise know that one group’s pain, fear, anger, and urge to blame can motivate inflicting pain on a scapegoat, that harming the powerless can be a palliative for the powerful, that our legal system has been an instrument of exercising and maintaining power, that re-examining our history and critically scrutinizing our legal system is upsetting and uncomfortable, that racism there and then finds expression here and now, that our criminal law system (among other legal areas) is racially biased at virtually every level, then why do we accept our current system of justice?

Unfortunately, the Stinney case illustrates problems that are still too common in our system of criminal justice: police and prosecutorial tendencies (conscious or not) to target certain groups and to protect others, differential access to lawyers, children being tried and sentenced as adults, money and wealth influencing judicial outcomes, pressure to give false confessions and to plead guilty, biases in sentencing and in the use of the death penalty, and so on.

Well beyond the judicial remedies, is there not more that should be done to acknowledge and remedy the wrongdoings of the past — particularly when their  harms and underlying causes are still with us today?

George Frierson, who has devoted the last decade to bringing attention to the Stinney case, recently called for an official apology:

“I believe that South Carolina owes the Stinney family and the citizens of South Carolina a public, official apology . . . . South Carolina is still stigmatized. We are the state that put the youngest person to death in the 20th century. That stain will not be washed away until there’s a public apology.”

Frierson added: “Our sitting governor wasn’t born when this atrocity happened 70 years ago. But she’s in the governor’s seat now and she needs to do what the governor of South Carolina in 1944 should’ve done.”

Frierson’s request seems apt — and yet our society has no formal mechanism for addressing the collective wrongs of the past.  Why is that?  Even mere words of apology — which do not cost jobs, weaken our national defense, increase our deficit, encourage illegal immigrants, or threaten the meaning of the family — are rare even when the wrongs were beyond debate.

Consider the history of lynching in this country, a history which formed the backdrop of the Stinney case.

Lynching took the lives of roughly 5000 people between 1882 and 1968, most of them black men. At the turn of the last century, more than 100 lynching incidents were reported each year, many of them publicly orchestrated to humiliate the victims and instill fear in others. Lynching occurred in all but four states in the contiguous United States, and less than 1 percent of the perpetrators were brought to justice.

Still, it wasn’t until 2005, 105 years after the the U.S. Senate first refused to pass an anti-lynching bill, that the Senate issued an apology for its failure to enact federal anti-lynching legislation. That was the first time the body has apologized for the nation’s treatment of African Americans.

In fact, the federal government has yet to apologize for slavery.

Every year for the last 25, U.S. Representative John Conyers has introduced a bill intended to create a commission to explore the possibility of reparations. The bill has gone nowhere.  There would appear to be no interest in even studying or discussing the history of racial injustice in this country.

Why doesn’t justice trump finality, truth triumph over power, and self-examination win out over system-affirmation?  The problem is in part that we have neither the mechanisms nor the stomach for confronting the many profound, collective wrongs that define us.  As flawed as our system of justice is for dealing with current, individualized injustices, our system is even more deficient with respect collective injustices.

Again, perhaps we would have more of an appetite for such institutions if the stained threads of the past were not so visible in the present.  But, alas, they are quite plain.

Judge Mullen’s decision last week in the George Stinney case provides an opportunity to ask questions that we should get in the habit of asking.  If situations like police interrogations can lead innocent suspects to confess to a crime that they didn’t commit, doesn’t that (together with evidence from the mind sciences — see below) suggest that  that situational forces in the criminal law system may be distorting outcomes in many settings?  When we know that processes can be rigged to reach conclusions, why do we give so much legitimacy to those processes?  Under what conditions should we trust the outcomes of a broken criminal law system?

What to do?

Sonya Williamson, an Alcolu resident who was born decades after the events, said that she nonetheless grew up hearing about the  case and that she believes in George’s innocence.  Her grandfather had attended the trial and spoken about how the defendant was taken to court in a cage and could hardly walk under the weight of the shackles. Her grandfather did not believe in George’s guilt and would occasionally say that “[t]hat colored boy didn’t do that.”

Sonya is haunted by that doubt and wonders “[w]hy did he not speak out?”

We are all where George Frierson and Steve McKenzie recently found themselves or where Sonya Williamson’s grandfather once found himself: operating within or being governed by — for better or worse — a  legal system that replicates our best and worst tendencies.

What are we to do about that?

Online Sources:

Other Sources:

  • US lawyers seek retrial for teen executed in 1944, Legal Monitor Worldwide (Jordan) 2014 WLNR 1673889.
  • 1/25/14 N.Z. Herald B005, New Zealand Herald.
  • 3/23/14 The Observer (U.K.) 26, Guardian News & Media Limited.
  • Karen McVeigh, Observer Magazine: George Stinney was executed at 14 (2014).
  • Campbell Robertson, Judge Vacates Conviction in 1944 Execution, 2/18/14 N.Y. Times A28.
  • 12/19/14 L.A. Times 10.
  • Jeffrey Collins, 1/21/14 Postmedia News (Can.)
  • David Zucchino, ‘I never saw my brother alive again,’ THE NATION 2014.

Related Videos:

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For some related posts from the Situationist Blog, see the following:

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Reflections on Real Talk: An Introduction

Real Talk LogoIn fall 2015 the Harvard Negotiation & Mediation Clinical Program (HNMCP), in collaboration with the Systemic Justice Project (SJP), launched a joint initiative for Harvard Law School (HLS) students called Real Talk – a series of small group facilitated dialogues and curated events on issues of diversity, equity, and inclusion. The initiative developed from a shared interest of HNMCP and SJP to promote dialogue among HLS students on how legal education can, at times, unwittingly silence student voices and experiences, especially as these experiences relate to identity and personal narrative.

Real Talk is an initial effort to provide a forum for HLS students to learn with and from each other— encouraging genuine conversation around challenging issues, emotions, and narratives that relate to the law, legal systems, and legal education; a forum that promotes an inclusivity and openness that can often become stymied in traditional law school classrooms; and a forum that promotes respect, understanding, curiosity about the other, and a willingness to be “raggedy” even in our deepest moments of difference and dissent. For HNMCP, Real Talk represents the first manifestation of what we hope will be a new, larger dialogue and facilitation initiative.  For SJP, Real Talk is part of a general commitment to encouraging conversations about diversity and inclusion in legal education and, more generally, about systemic problems in society.

The pilot program brought together a small number of HLS student participants, trained student facilitators, and faculty advisors in an innovative experiment of facilitated dialogue and open engagement. We were fortunate to recruit four student facilitators who have extensive facilitation training and experience, each having taken the HLS Lawyer as Facilitator and the HLS Negotiation Workshop. These facilitators led small groups of six participants (composed of first and third year law students) in four dialogue sessions throughout the fall semester. These dialogues were bolstered by several events – Fighting Debtor’s Prison in Ferguson,[1] After Ferguson, Baltimore, New York: Strategies for Systemic Change,[2] and On the Battlefield of Merit: the History of Harvard Law School[3] – that served as the basis for two of the dialogue sessions.

The first round of Real Talk was met with decisive gratitude. Participant feedback indicated that the program provided a much-needed environment to express their experiences and perspectives, listen to the stories and views of others, and to share and receive a sense of empathetic understanding. In talking with students throughout the initiative, we developed an even deeper appreciation for how important spaces for authenticity, reflection, vulnerability, and conflictedness are in higher education and legal training.

We also were reminded that creating those fora is typically fraught and complex. Our preparation and review sessions with facilitators highlighted many challenges to creating open dialogue. What is the role of neutrality in facilitating dialogue on equity and inclusion? What might be the role of power and privilege in dialogue facilitation? What impact does the facilitator’s identity have on discussion and how does a facilitator manage them? How does participant composition across identity, background, and status affect the dialogue experience and what are the implications (if any) for convening such groups? We gathered that there is great value in deeper and more nuanced facilitation training at HLS, as well as a great need for HLS students to receive training on engaging in dialogue as a participant. And, as with most worthy experiences, we were pleased to have left with as many questions as “answers.”

Now, we have invited the facilitators from Real Talk – Ariel Eckblad ‘16, Deanna Parrish ’16, Carson Wheet ‘16, and Lindsey Whyte ‘16 – to share their reflections through a series of blog posts. We will publish one blog post from a different facilitator each week. Their posts touch on the themes mentioned above, as well as others, providing an inside look into their experiences, lessons, and questions from Real Talk. We hope that you enjoy these pieces, and that you will join us as we seek to dig more deeply into this important work.

By Robert C. Bordone, Jon Hanson, Jacob Lipton, and Sam W. Straus

[1] A panel discussion with Thomas Harvey, Executive Director of ArchCity Defenders and Alec Karakatsanis ’08, Co-founder of Equal Justice Under Law.
[2] A panel discussion with Thomas Harvey, Executive Director of ArchCity Defenders, Chiraag Bains ’08: Dept. of Justice Civil Rights Division, Marbre Stahly-Butts: Center for Popular Democracy, and Alec Karakatsanis’08, Co-founder of Equal Justice Under Law.
[3] A lecture and discussion with Dan Coquillette, Charles Warren Visiting Professor of American Legal History, Harvard Law School.

 

Whitney Benns and Blake Strode on Systemic Racism

jail bars

Systemic Justice Project alums Whitney Benns and Blake Strode have a powerful and vital piece in The Atlantic about 21st century debtors’ prisons in St. Louis, but really about systemic racism. They write:

As the recent deluge of reports and litigation confirms, and many have long known, thousands of people throughout the St. Louis metropolitan area are routinely sent to jail because they cannot pay local court fines and fees. These people are poor, and they tend to be black. While there are many terms to describe this—including, importantly, unconstitutional—there is one with historical resonance reserved for such a practice: debtors’ prison.

Whitney and Blake use the terminology of systemic intent to explode the false dichotomy between individual intent (which is easy to isolate and condemn) and amorphous systems (identification of which as often leads to helpless shrugs as to calls for action):

There is a tendency to understand intent, much like racism itself, as only an interpersonal phenomenon. Bias, both conscious and unconscious, is real and destructive. But the systemic intent at work in a place like St. Louis is more a matter of inertia than personal biases. Like Frankenstein’s monster, the system has a life of its own. Local courts and jails are not rife with injustice and racial disparity because they are staffed with ill-meaning personnel; they exhibit these problems because they are the product of structures and policies designed with racial hostility. That is to say, ultimately, these structures and policies have worked precisely as planned.

Their weaving together of the individual and the systemic reminds us that it is the decades of deliberately racist intent that allows racism today to be hidden “in the seemingly colorblind tedium characterizing the bulk of city affairs.”

The story of the debtors’-prison crisis in St. Louis is partly one of individual failings by local officials and institutional actors whose job security depends on collective indifference to the status quo. But to regard the story solely, or primarily, as one of individual failings is to fundamentally misunderstand the problem itself as well as the structural forces responsible for the design of the region. This design did not emerge last week, last month or last year. It is the many-headed hydra produced by conscious and sustained efforts many decades ago.

I highly, highly recommend that you read the full piece here.

Letter from Birmingham Jail

MLK birmingham jail

16 April 1963
My Dear Fellow Clergymen:

While confined here in the Birmingham city jail, I came across your recent statement calling my present activities “unwise and untimely.” Seldom do I pause to answer criticism of my work and ideas. If I sought to answer all the criticisms that cross my desk, my secretaries would have little time for anything other than such correspondence in the course of the day, and I would have no time for constructive work. But since I feel that you are men of genuine good will and that your criticisms are sincerely set forth, I want to try to answer your statement in what I hope will be patient and reasonable terms.

I think I should indicate why I am here in Birmingham, since you have been influenced by the view which argues against “outsiders coming in.” I have the honor of serving as president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, an organization operating in every southern state, with headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia. We have some eighty five affiliated organizations across the South, and one of them is the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights. Frequently we share staff, educational and financial resources with our affiliates. Several months ago the affiliate here in Birmingham asked us to be on call to engage in a nonviolent direct action program if such were deemed necessary. We readily consented, and when the hour came we lived up to our promise. So I, along with several members of my staff, am here because I was invited here. I am here because I have organizational ties here.

But more basically, I am in Birmingham because injustice is here. Just as the prophets of the eighth century B.C. left their villages and carried their “thus saith the Lord” far beyond the boundaries of their home towns, and just as the Apostle Paul left his village of Tarsus and carried the gospel of Jesus Christ to the far corners of the Greco Roman world, so am I compelled to carry the gospel of freedom beyond my own home town. Like Paul, I must constantly respond to the Macedonian call for aid.

Moreover, I am cognizant of the interrelatedness of all communities and states. I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. Never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial “outside agitator” idea. Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider anywhere within its bounds.

You deplore the demonstrations taking place in Birmingham. But your statement, I am sorry to say, fails to express a similar concern for the conditions that brought about the demonstrations. I am sure that none of you would want to rest content with the superficial kind of social analysis that deals merely with effects and does not grapple with underlying causes. It is unfortunate that demonstrations are taking place in Birmingham, but it is even more unfortunate that the city’s white power structure left the Negro community with no alternative.

In any nonviolent campaign there are four basic steps: collection of the facts to determine whether injustices exist; negotiation; self purification; and direct action. We have gone through all these steps in Birmingham. There can be no gainsaying the fact that racial injustice engulfs this community. Birmingham is probably the most thoroughly segregated city in the United States. Its ugly record of brutality is widely known. Negroes have experienced grossly unjust treatment in the courts. There have been more unsolved bombings of Negro homes and churches in Birmingham than in any other city in the nation. These are the hard, brutal facts of the case. On the basis of these conditions, Negro leaders sought to negotiate with the city fathers. But the latter consistently refused to engage in good faith negotiation.

Then, last September, came the opportunity to talk with leaders of Birmingham’s economic community. In the course of the negotiations, certain promises were made by the merchants–for example, to remove the stores’ humiliating racial signs. On the basis of these promises, the Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth and the leaders of the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights agreed to a moratorium on all demonstrations. As the weeks and months went by, we realized that we were the victims of a broken promise. A few signs, briefly removed, returned; the others remained. As in so many past experiences, our hopes had been blasted, and the shadow of deep disappointment settled upon us. We had no alternative except to prepare for direct action, whereby we would present our very bodies as a means of laying our case before the conscience of the local and the national community. Mindful of the difficulties involved, we decided to undertake a process of self purification. We began a series of workshops on nonviolence, and we repeatedly asked ourselves: “Are you able to accept blows without retaliating?” “Are you able to endure the ordeal of jail?” We decided to schedule our direct action program for the Easter season, realizing that except for Christmas, this is the main shopping period of the year. Knowing that a strong economic-withdrawal program would be the by product of direct action, we felt that this would be the best time to bring pressure to bear on the merchants for the needed change.

Then it occurred to us that Birmingham’s mayoral election was coming up in March, and we speedily decided to postpone action until after election day. When we discovered that the Commissioner of Public Safety, Eugene “Bull” Connor, had piled up enough votes to be in the run off, we decided again to postpone action until the day after the run off so that the demonstrations could not be used to cloud the issues. Like many others, we waited to see Mr. Connor defeated, and to this end we endured postponement after postponement. Having aided in this community need, we felt that our direct action program could be delayed no longer.

You may well ask: “Why direct action? Why sit ins, marches and so forth? Isn’t negotiation a better path?” You are quite right in calling for negotiation. Indeed, this is the very purpose of direct action. Nonviolent direct action seeks to create such a crisis and foster such a tension that a community which has constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue. It seeks so to dramatize the issue that it can no longer be ignored. My citing the creation of tension as part of the work of the nonviolent resister may sound rather shocking. But I must confess that I am not afraid of the word “tension.” I have earnestly opposed violent tension, but there is a type of constructive, nonviolent tension which is necessary for growth. Just as Socrates felt that it was necessary to create a tension in the mind so that individuals could rise from the bondage of myths and half truths to the unfettered realm of creative analysis and objective appraisal, so must we see the need for nonviolent gadflies to create the kind of tension in society that will help men rise from the dark depths of prejudice and racism to the majestic heights of understanding and brotherhood. The purpose of our direct action program is to create a situation so crisis packed that it will inevitably open the door to negotiation. I therefore concur with you in your call for negotiation. Too long has our beloved Southland been bogged down in a tragic effort to live in monologue rather than dialogue.

One of the basic points in your statement is that the action that I and my associates have taken in Birmingham is untimely. Some have asked: “Why didn’t you give the new city administration time to act?” The only answer that I can give to this query is that the new Birmingham administration must be prodded about as much as the outgoing one, before it will act. We are sadly mistaken if we feel that the election of Albert Boutwell as mayor will bring the millennium to Birmingham. While Mr. Boutwell is a much more gentle person than Mr. Connor, they are both segregationists, dedicated to maintenance of the status quo. I have hope that Mr. Boutwell will be reasonable enough to see the futility of massive resistance to desegregation. But he will not see this without pressure from devotees of civil rights. My friends, I must say to you that we have not made a single gain in civil rights without determined legal and nonviolent pressure. Lamentably, it is an historical fact that privileged groups seldom give up their privileges voluntarily. Individuals may see the moral light and voluntarily give up their unjust posture; but, as Reinhold Niebuhr has reminded us, groups tend to be more immoral than individuals.

We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. Frankly, I have yet to engage in a direct action campaign that was “well timed” in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. For years now I have heard the word “Wait!” It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This “Wait” has almost always meant “Never.” We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that “justice too long delayed is justice denied.”

We have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and God given rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jetlike speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse and buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, “Wait.” But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate filled policemen curse, kick and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six year old daughter why she can’t go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five year old son who is asking: “Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?”; when you take a cross county drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading “white” and “colored”; when your first name becomes “nigger,” your middle name becomes “boy” (however old you are) and your last name becomes “John,” and your wife and mother are never given the respected title “Mrs.”; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of “nobodiness”–then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience. You express a great deal of anxiety over our willingness to break laws. This is certainly a legitimate concern. Since we so diligently urge people to obey the Supreme Court’s decision of 1954 outlawing segregation in the public schools, at first glance it may seem rather paradoxical for us consciously to break laws. One may well ask: “How can you advocate breaking some laws and obeying others?” The answer lies in the fact that there are two types of laws: just and unjust. I would be the first to advocate obeying just laws. One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws. I would agree with St. Augustine that “an unjust law is no law at all.”

Now, what is the difference between the two? How does one determine whether a law is just or unjust? A just law is a man made code that squares with the moral law or the law of God. An unjust law is a code that is out of harmony with the moral law. To put it in the terms of St. Thomas Aquinas: An unjust law is a human law that is not rooted in eternal law and natural law. Any law that uplifts human personality is just. Any law that degrades human personality is unjust. All segregation statutes are unjust because segregation distorts the soul and damages the personality. It gives the segregator a false sense of superiority and the segregated a false sense of inferiority. Segregation, to use the terminology of the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber, substitutes an “I it” relationship for an “I thou” relationship and ends up relegating persons to the status of things. Hence segregation is not only politically, economically and sociologically unsound, it is morally wrong and sinful. Paul Tillich has said that sin is separation. Is not segregation an existential expression of man’s tragic separation, his awful estrangement, his terrible sinfulness? Thus it is that I can urge men to obey the 1954 decision of the Supreme Court, for it is morally right; and I can urge them to disobey segregation ordinances, for they are morally wrong.

Let us consider a more concrete example of just and unjust laws. An unjust law is a code that a numerical or power majority group compels a minority group to obey but does not make binding on itself. This is difference made legal. By the same token, a just law is a code that a majority compels a minority to follow and that it is willing to follow itself. This is sameness made legal. Let me give another explanation. A law is unjust if it is inflicted on a minority that, as a result of being denied the right to vote, had no part in enacting or devising the law. Who can say that the legislature of Alabama which set up that state’s segregation laws was democratically elected? Throughout Alabama all sorts of devious methods are used to prevent Negroes from becoming registered voters, and there are some counties in which, even though Negroes constitute a majority of the population, not a single Negro is registered. Can any law enacted under such circumstances be considered democratically structured?

Sometimes a law is just on its face and unjust in its application. For instance, I have been arrested on a charge of parading without a permit. Now, there is nothing wrong in having an ordinance which requires a permit for a parade. But such an ordinance becomes unjust when it is used to maintain segregation and to deny citizens the First-Amendment privilege of peaceful assembly and protest.

I hope you are able to see the distinction I am trying to point out. In no sense do I advocate evading or defying the law, as would the rabid segregationist. That would lead to anarchy. One who breaks an unjust law must do so openly, lovingly, and with a willingness to accept the penalty. I submit that an individual who breaks a law that conscience tells him is unjust, and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the highest respect for law.

Of course, there is nothing new about this kind of civil disobedience. It was evidenced sublimely in the refusal of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego to obey the laws of Nebuchadnezzar, on the ground that a higher moral law was at stake. It was practiced superbly by the early Christians, who were willing to face hungry lions and the excruciating pain of chopping blocks rather than submit to certain unjust laws of the Roman Empire. To a degree, academic freedom is a reality today because Socrates practiced civil disobedience. In our own nation, the Boston Tea Party represented a massive act of civil disobedience.

We should never forget that everything Adolf Hitler did in Germany was “legal” and everything the Hungarian freedom fighters did in Hungary was “illegal.” It was “illegal” to aid and comfort a Jew in Hitler’s Germany. Even so, I am sure that, had I lived in Germany at the time, I would have aided and comforted my Jewish brothers. If today I lived in a Communist country where certain principles dear to the Christian faith are suppressed, I would openly advocate disobeying that country’s antireligious laws.

I must make two honest confessions to you, my Christian and Jewish brothers. First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: “I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action”; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a “more convenient season.” Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.

I had hoped that the white moderate would understand that law and order exist for the purpose of establishing justice and that when they fail in this purpose they become the dangerously structured dams that block the flow of social progress. I had hoped that the white moderate would understand that the present tension in the South is a necessary phase of the transition from an obnoxious negative peace, in which the Negro passively accepted his unjust plight, to a substantive and positive peace, in which all men will respect the dignity and worth of human personality. Actually, we who engage in nonviolent direct action are not the creators of tension. We merely bring to the surface the hidden tension that is already alive. We bring it out in the open, where it can be seen and dealt with. Like a boil that can never be cured so long as it is covered up but must be opened with all its ugliness to the natural medicines of air and light, injustice must be exposed, with all the tension its exposure creates, to the light of human conscience and the air of national opinion before it can be cured.

In your statement you assert that our actions, even though peaceful, must be condemned because they precipitate violence. But is this a logical assertion? Isn’t this like condemning a robbed man because his possession of money precipitated the evil act of robbery? Isn’t this like condemning Socrates because his unswerving commitment to truth and his philosophical inquiries precipitated the act by the misguided populace in which they made him drink hemlock? Isn’t this like condemning Jesus because his unique God consciousness and never ceasing devotion to God’s will precipitated the evil act of crucifixion? We must come to see that, as the federal courts have consistently affirmed, it is wrong to urge an individual to cease his efforts to gain his basic constitutional rights because the quest may precipitate violence. Society must protect the robbed and punish the robber. I had also hoped that the white moderate would reject the myth concerning time in relation to the struggle for freedom. I have just received a letter from a white brother in Texas. He writes: “All Christians know that the colored people will receive equal rights eventually, but it is possible that you are in too great a religious hurry. It has taken Christianity almost two thousand years to accomplish what it has. The teachings of Christ take time to come to earth.” Such an attitude stems from a tragic misconception of time, from the strangely irrational notion that there is something in the very flow of time that will inevitably cure all ills. Actually, time itself is neutral; it can be used either destructively or constructively. More and more I feel that the people of ill will have used time much more effectively than have the people of good will. We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men willing to be co workers with God, and without this hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation. We must use time creatively, in the knowledge that the time is always ripe to do right. Now is the time to make real the promise of democracy and transform our pending national elegy into a creative psalm of brotherhood. Now is the time to lift our national policy from the quicksand of racial injustice to the solid rock of human dignity.

You speak of our activity in Birmingham as extreme. At first I was rather disappointed that fellow clergymen would see my nonviolent efforts as those of an extremist. I began thinking about the fact that I stand in the middle of two opposing forces in the Negro community. One is a force of complacency, made up in part of Negroes who, as a result of long years of oppression, are so drained of self respect and a sense of “somebodiness” that they have adjusted to segregation; and in part of a few middle-class Negroes who, because of a degree of academic and economic security and because in some ways they profit by segregation, have become insensitive to the problems of the masses. The other force is one of bitterness and hatred, and it comes perilously close to advocating violence. It is expressed in the various black nationalist groups that are springing up across the nation, the largest and best known being Elijah Muhammad’s Muslim movement. Nourished by the Negro’s frustration over the continued existence of racial discrimination, this movement is made up of people who have lost faith in America, who have absolutely repudiated Christianity, and who have concluded that the white man is an incorrigible “devil.”

I have tried to stand between these two forces, saying that we need emulate neither the “do nothingism” of the complacent nor the hatred and despair of the black nationalist. For there is the more excellent way of love and nonviolent protest. I am grateful to God that, through the influence of the Negro church, the way of nonviolence became an integral part of our struggle. If this philosophy had not emerged, by now many streets of the South would, I am convinced, be flowing with blood. And I am further convinced that if our white brothers dismiss as “rabble rousers” and “outside agitators” those of us who employ nonviolent direct action, and if they refuse to support our nonviolent efforts, millions of Negroes will, out of frustration and despair, seek solace and security in black nationalist ideologies–a development that would inevitably lead to a frightening racial nightmare.

Oppressed people cannot remain oppressed forever. The yearning for freedom eventually manifests itself, and that is what has happened to the American Negro. Something within has reminded him of his birthright of freedom, and something without has reminded him that it can be gained. Consciously or unconsciously, he has been caught up by the Zeitgeist, and with his black brothers of Africa and his brown and yellow brothers of Asia, South America and the Caribbean, the United States Negro is moving with a sense of great urgency toward the promised land of racial justice. If one recognizes this vital urge that has engulfed the Negro community, one should readily understand why public demonstrations are taking place. The Negro has many pent up resentments and latent frustrations, and he must release them. So let him march; let him make prayer pilgrimages to the city hall; let him go on freedom rides -and try to understand why he must do so. If his repressed emotions are not released in nonviolent ways, they will seek expression through violence; this is not a threat but a fact of history. So I have not said to my people: “Get rid of your discontent.” Rather, I have tried to say that this normal and healthy discontent can be channeled into the creative outlet of nonviolent direct action. And now this approach is being termed extremist. But though I was initially disappointed at being categorized as an extremist, as I continued to think about the matter I gradually gained a measure of satisfaction from the label. Was not Jesus an extremist for love: “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.” Was not Amos an extremist for justice: “Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever flowing stream.” Was not Paul an extremist for the Christian gospel: “I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus.” Was not Martin Luther an extremist: “Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise, so help me God.” And John Bunyan: “I will stay in jail to the end of my days before I make a butchery of my conscience.” And Abraham Lincoln: “This nation cannot survive half slave and half free.” And Thomas Jefferson: “We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal . . .” So the question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate or for love? Will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice or for the extension of justice? In that dramatic scene on Calvary’s hill three men were crucified. We must never forget that all three were crucified for the same crime–the crime of extremism. Two were extremists for immorality, and thus fell below their environment. The other, Jesus Christ, was an extremist for love, truth and goodness, and thereby rose above his environment. Perhaps the South, the nation and the world are in dire need of creative extremists.

I had hoped that the white moderate would see this need. Perhaps I was too optimistic; perhaps I expected too much. I suppose I should have realized that few members of the oppressor race can understand the deep groans and passionate yearnings of the oppressed race, and still fewer have the vision to see that injustice must be rooted out by strong, persistent and determined action. I am thankful, however, that some of our white brothers in the South have grasped the meaning of this social revolution and committed themselves to it. They are still all too few in quantity, but they are big in quality. Some -such as Ralph McGill, Lillian Smith, Harry Golden, James McBride Dabbs, Ann Braden and Sarah Patton Boyle–have written about our struggle in eloquent and prophetic terms. Others have marched with us down nameless streets of the South. They have languished in filthy, roach infested jails, suffering the abuse and brutality of policemen who view them as “dirty nigger-lovers.” Unlike so many of their moderate brothers and sisters, they have recognized the urgency of the moment and sensed the need for powerful “action” antidotes to combat the disease of segregation. Let me take note of my other major disappointment. I have been so greatly disappointed with the white church and its leadership. Of course, there are some notable exceptions. I am not unmindful of the fact that each of you has taken some significant stands on this issue. I commend you, Reverend Stallings, for your Christian stand on this past Sunday, in welcoming Negroes to your worship service on a nonsegregated basis. I commend the Catholic leaders of this state for integrating Spring Hill College several years ago.

But despite these notable exceptions, I must honestly reiterate that I have been disappointed with the church. I do not say this as one of those negative critics who can always find something wrong with the church. I say this as a minister of the gospel, who loves the church; who was nurtured in its bosom; who has been sustained by its spiritual blessings and who will remain true to it as long as the cord of life shall lengthen.

When I was suddenly catapulted into the leadership of the bus protest in Montgomery, Alabama, a few years ago, I felt we would be supported by the white church. I felt that the white ministers, priests and rabbis of the South would be among our strongest allies. Instead, some have been outright opponents, refusing to understand the freedom movement and misrepresenting its leaders; all too many others have been more cautious than courageous and have remained silent behind the anesthetizing security of stained glass windows.

In spite of my shattered dreams, I came to Birmingham with the hope that the white religious leadership of this community would see the justice of our cause and, with deep moral concern, would serve as the channel through which our just grievances could reach the power structure. I had hoped that each of you would understand. But again I have been disappointed.

I have heard numerous southern religious leaders admonish their worshipers to comply with a desegregation decision because it is the law, but I have longed to hear white ministers declare: “Follow this decree because integration is morally right and because the Negro is your brother.” In the midst of blatant injustices inflicted upon the Negro, I have watched white churchmen stand on the sideline and mouth pious irrelevancies and sanctimonious trivialities. In the midst of a mighty struggle to rid our nation of racial and economic injustice, I have heard many ministers say: “Those are social issues, with which the gospel has no real concern.” And I have watched many churches commit themselves to a completely other worldly religion which makes a strange, un-Biblical distinction between body and soul, between the sacred and the secular.

I have traveled the length and breadth of Alabama, Mississippi and all the other southern states. On sweltering summer days and crisp autumn mornings I have looked at the South’s beautiful churches with their lofty spires pointing heavenward. I have beheld the impressive outlines of her massive religious education buildings. Over and over I have found myself asking: “What kind of people worship here? Who is their God? Where were their voices when the lips of Governor Barnett dripped with words of interposition and nullification? Where were they when Governor Wallace gave a clarion call for defiance and hatred? Where were their voices of support when bruised and weary Negro men and women decided to rise from the dark dungeons of complacency to the bright hills of creative protest?”

Yes, these questions are still in my mind. In deep disappointment I have wept over the laxity of the church. But be assured that my tears have been tears of love. There can be no deep disappointment where there is not deep love. Yes, I love the church. How could I do otherwise? I am in the rather unique position of being the son, the grandson and the great grandson of preachers. Yes, I see the church as the body of Christ. But, oh! How we have blemished and scarred that body through social neglect and through fear of being nonconformists.

There was a time when the church was very powerful–in the time when the early Christians rejoiced at being deemed worthy to suffer for what they believed. In those days the church was not merely a thermometer that recorded the ideas and principles of popular opinion; it was a thermostat that transformed the mores of society. Whenever the early Christians entered a town, the people in power became disturbed and immediately sought to convict the Christians for being “disturbers of the peace” and “outside agitators.”‘ But the Christians pressed on, in the conviction that they were “a colony of heaven,” called to obey God rather than man. Small in number, they were big in commitment. They were too God-intoxicated to be “astronomically intimidated.” By their effort and example they brought an end to such ancient evils as infanticide and gladiatorial contests. Things are different now. So often the contemporary church is a weak, ineffectual voice with an uncertain sound. So often it is an archdefender of the status quo. Far from being disturbed by the presence of the church, the power structure of the average community is consoled by the church’s silent–and often even vocal–sanction of things as they are.

But the judgment of God is upon the church as never before. If today’s church does not recapture the sacrificial spirit of the early church, it will lose its authenticity, forfeit the loyalty of millions, and be dismissed as an irrelevant social club with no meaning for the twentieth century. Every day I meet young people whose disappointment with the church has turned into outright disgust.

Perhaps I have once again been too optimistic. Is organized religion too inextricably bound to the status quo to save our nation and the world? Perhaps I must turn my faith to the inner spiritual church, the church within the church, as the true ekklesia and the hope of the world. But again I am thankful to God that some noble souls from the ranks of organized religion have broken loose from the paralyzing chains of conformity and joined us as active partners in the struggle for freedom. They have left their secure congregations and walked the streets of Albany, Georgia, with us. They have gone down the highways of the South on tortuous rides for freedom. Yes, they have gone to jail with us. Some have been dismissed from their churches, have lost the support of their bishops and fellow ministers. But they have acted in the faith that right defeated is stronger than evil triumphant. Their witness has been the spiritual salt that has preserved the true meaning of the gospel in these troubled times. They have carved a tunnel of hope through the dark mountain of disappointment. I hope the church as a whole will meet the challenge of this decisive hour. But even if the church does not come to the aid of justice, I have no despair about the future. I have no fear about the outcome of our struggle in Birmingham, even if our motives are at present misunderstood. We will reach the goal of freedom in Birmingham and all over the nation, because the goal of America is freedom. Abused and scorned though we may be, our destiny is tied up with America’s destiny. Before the pilgrims landed at Plymouth, we were here. Before the pen of Jefferson etched the majestic words of the Declaration of Independence across the pages of history, we were here. For more than two centuries our forebears labored in this country without wages; they made cotton king; they built the homes of their masters while suffering gross injustice and shameful humiliation -and yet out of a bottomless vitality they continued to thrive and develop. If the inexpressible cruelties of slavery could not stop us, the opposition we now face will surely fail. We will win our freedom because the sacred heritage of our nation and the eternal will of God are embodied in our echoing demands. Before closing I feel impelled to mention one other point in your statement that has troubled me profoundly. You warmly commended the Birmingham police force for keeping “order” and “preventing violence.” I doubt that you would have so warmly commended the police force if you had seen its dogs sinking their teeth into unarmed, nonviolent Negroes. I doubt that you would so quickly commend the policemen if you were to observe their ugly and inhumane treatment of Negroes here in the city jail; if you were to watch them push and curse old Negro women and young Negro girls; if you were to see them slap and kick old Negro men and young boys; if you were to observe them, as they did on two occasions, refuse to give us food because we wanted to sing our grace together. I cannot join you in your praise of the Birmingham police department.

It is true that the police have exercised a degree of discipline in handling the demonstrators. In this sense they have conducted themselves rather “nonviolently” in public. But for what purpose? To preserve the evil system of segregation. Over the past few years I have consistently preached that nonviolence demands that the means we use must be as pure as the ends we seek. I have tried to make clear that it is wrong to use immoral means to attain moral ends. But now I must affirm that it is just as wrong, or perhaps even more so, to use moral means to preserve immoral ends. Perhaps Mr. Connor and his policemen have been rather nonviolent in public, as was Chief Pritchett in Albany, Georgia, but they have used the moral means of nonviolence to maintain the immoral end of racial injustice. As T. S. Eliot has said: “The last temptation is the greatest treason: To do the right deed for the wrong reason.”

I wish you had commended the Negro sit inners and demonstrators of Birmingham for their sublime courage, their willingness to suffer and their amazing discipline in the midst of great provocation. One day the South will recognize its real heroes. They will be the James Merediths, with the noble sense of purpose that enables them to face jeering and hostile mobs, and with the agonizing loneliness that characterizes the life of the pioneer. They will be old, oppressed, battered Negro women, symbolized in a seventy two year old woman in Montgomery, Alabama, who rose up with a sense of dignity and with her people decided not to ride segregated buses, and who responded with ungrammatical profundity to one who inquired about her weariness: “My feets is tired, but my soul is at rest.” They will be the young high school and college students, the young ministers of the gospel and a host of their elders, courageously and nonviolently sitting in at lunch counters and willingly going to jail for conscience’ sake. One day the South will know that when these disinherited children of God sat down at lunch counters, they were in reality standing up for what is best in the American dream and for the most sacred values in our Judaeo Christian heritage, thereby bringing our nation back to those great wells of democracy which were dug deep by the founding fathers in their formulation of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence.

Never before have I written so long a letter. I’m afraid it is much too long to take your precious time. I can assure you that it would have been much shorter if I had been writing from a comfortable desk, but what else can one do when he is alone in a narrow jail cell, other than write long letters, think long thoughts and pray long prayers?

If I have said anything in this letter that overstates the truth and indicates an unreasonable impatience, I beg you to forgive me. If I have said anything that understates the truth and indicates my having a patience that allows me to settle for anything less than brotherhood, I beg God to forgive me.

I hope this letter finds you strong in the faith. I also hope that circumstances will soon make it possible for me to meet each of you, not as an integrationist or a civil-rights leader but as a fellow clergyman and a Christian brother. Let us all hope that the dark clouds of racial prejudice will soon pass away and the deep fog of misunderstanding will be lifted from our fear drenched communities, and in some not too distant tomorrow the radiant stars of love and brotherhood will shine over our great nation with all their scintillating beauty.

Yours for the cause of Peace and Brotherhood, Martin Luther King, Jr.
Published in:
King, Martin Luther Jr.

You Have to Start Somewhere: Whitesplaining Harvard Law School’s Crest, Black Electrical Tape, and a Better College Campus

HLS Defacement

By SJP Friend Jay Willis (reposted from Needs Further Review):

With increasing frequency, students on college campuses across the country are forcing their  old, proud, veritable institutions of higher education to think critically and honestly about the echoes of entrenched racism on their campuses. Results have been…varied. At Georgetown, students recently successfully lobbied to rename a building named after a university president who used the proceeds from slave sales to pay the university’s bills. At Yale, there is an ongoing debate regarding the propriety of naming one of the university’s residential colleges after noted white supremacist and vocal slavery supporter John Calhoun. (So far, nothing doing). And at Harvard Law School, students have taken issue with the school’s crest.

Why the crest? Appearing nowhere on any list of “Fun Facts” about HLS is the fact it was founded in 1817 with a bequest from the estate of one Isaac Royall, a hilariously wealthy Antiguan plantation owner who, in addition to indirectly founding the world’s most famous law school, also suppressed a mid-drought slave revolt in 1736 by hanging six, breaking five on a medieval torture wheel, and burning 77 more at the stake. Harvard still uses the Royall family coat-of-arms as its crest, a rather unsettling fact about which more than a few professors have repeatedly and frankly expressed their discomfort (for example, when now-Justice Elena Kagan and Professor Martha Minow assumed the deanship, they both declined the traditional dean’s title of “Royall Professor of Law” for this reason).

In the largest building on campus, Wasserstein Hall, a series of small black-and-white portraits of the school’s tenured professors lines the first two floors. As far as I know, once a professor receives tenure, their portrait stays there forever. It’s a nice and fairly innocuous way to connect the present to the past; mostly, the suspenders- and pleats-laden portraits are there to show you just how handsome your ancient Property professor was as a young man, and/or to serve as a cautionary tale regarding apparently-once-trendy wardrobe choices. On Wednesday, November 18th, students from all Harvard schools, undergraduates and graduate students alike, marched in support of the protests at the University of Missouri. Some law students placed black electrical tape over the HLS crest that appears in Wasserstein Hall. On Thursday, November 19th, they arrived at class to find the same tape repurposed to deface the portraits of their African-American professors instead.

I saw this posted online by my friend Jonathan Wall, who, since I am now three full years out of law school, is the only person I know there anymore. It was more than a little surreal to see a longstanding throwaway aspect of the school’s interior decorating scheme so suddenly elevated in importance for such a terrible reason. Black students, shocked and outraged and afraid, spoke out about how incidents like this make them feel unsafe and uncertain and and unwelcome. About how they spend their entire academic careers (and then after that, their career careers) wondering if their professors and peers take them seriously or consider them products of affirmative action or diversity initiatives. And about how seemingly right when they start to think, no, I’ve got this, I belong here, something like this happens to bring it all tumbling town.

It is impossible to ask students of color to arrive at school, take this all in, and then to stride confidently past these portraits and into a classroom and pretend like everything is fine and take diligent notes on the Rule Against Perpetuities (note: it is always the Rule Against Perpetuities) or whatever. All students, irrespective of race, are trying to pull off the already-tough-enough task of going to lecture and taking notes and studying for tests and writing papers and making friends and falling in love and getting drunk at bar review and falling out of love and being kids and growing up, all at the same damn time. But students of color must also grapple with the daily reverberations of a legacy of racial discrimination and try and figure out how that fits into their puzzle, too. They’re at the same school, on the same campus, and in the same classrooms as white students. But on days like last Thursday, it has to feel a world away. Black students cannot have the same experience as white students when they know that any day could be interrupted by racism in a way that requires them to drop everything, consider, and respond.

This sounds…exhausting. Yale student Aaron Lewis describes how many students of color have got to feel at this point:

Students should not have to become community organizers just to receive acknowledgement and respect from their administrators. It’s disheartening to feel like so few people in power have your back. Yes, we are angry. We are tired. We are emotionally drained. We feel like we have to yell in order to make our voices heard.

Right. I can understand that this must be horrible. I can even understand how horrible it probably is (as in, “very”). I can understand that it is a frightening, disheartening burden that on some days just makes them want to disappear, except they know that that is exactly what some people want them to do, so they instead have to find ways to manage and to move on. But no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, no matter how many times I put on my Obama t-shirt and spin around in a circle in front of the mirror and shut my eyes tightly and whisper “post-racial society,” I can never actually feel the way that students of color of do. I can’t know what it is like to have my skin crawl as I walk past Slavery Hall, or how it feels to have the response to my protests be the publicly vandalized faces of the professors who look like me. Being a member of a group that is constantly subject to both overt and institutional speculation, scrutiny, and scorn is an experience I cannot know, because neither I nor anyone who looks like me has any way of doing so.

By itself, that’s not the problem, because short of pulling a Jess Row, there isn’t much I can do about it. The problem is instead that because there are more white people than black people in higher education, and those white people have grown mighty used to running things for several centuries now, black students’ license to express their discomfort and their discontent, and their ideas for addressing those feelings, is almost entirely contingent on white people’s willingness to hear them out and, hopefully, to take their word for it. Black students are authorized to voice their concerns only for so long as enough white people look at the purported problem and decide, sure, if you say that this is a problem, we will entertain proposals to do something else instead. Black students can make inroads against intolerance and demand systemic change as long as the majority finds the message acceptable, the methods nonthreatening, and the goals reasonable enough (all of which are metrics set by, again, generations of white people). And the moment that the powers that be decide that, no, this isn’t a real problem, you all need to calm down and quit complaining and find something more serious to get worked up about, all that momentum is suddenly and arbitrarily extinguished.

This dynamic is nicely encapsulated in that bastion of Old White People Who Know What’s Best: op-ed pages. Take this collection of drivel-laden paragraphs masquerading as an intelligent thought written by Colin McEnroe, that one second cousin that you dread having to talk to at Thanksgiving dinner, whose column in the Hartford (CT) Courant has some scorching Baby Boomer-era wisdom for today’s students who have the gall to object to racist things about which he has never thought (all emphasis mine).

I’ve got this to say to the Yale students engaged in bristling, expectorating confrontations with authority: You’re overindulged. You don’t know how to act right.

This just kind of feels like a paragraph from which an editor excised the word “uppity,” right?

You’ve come so completely unglued in a very low-stakes game that it’s tempting to conclude you’d be useless if the going ever got tough.

I want to crush this take up into a powder and sell it in baggies.

There’s not enough on the line. One of my favorite tweets from the week — I’ve lost track of the tweetist — was “When did students go from protesting the Vietnam War to protesting being offended?”

Ah yes. NOTHING IS AS BAD AS VIETNAM, YOU KIDS DON’T UNDERSTAND. Later:

The 2015 counter-argument — and it’s not a specious one — is that white, male, hegemonic figures like [Yale President Kingman] Brewster and me can’t even imagine how that risk is lived and felt by more vulnerable minorities.

Wait…wait, yes, that’s exactly the point that students are trying to make here! Okay, so you get it! Hey, maybe this isn’t so bad after all, and maybe there is some hope at arriving at a more nuanced cultural understa–

Point taken, kids. But call me when you’ve got a big issue. Meanwhile, understand that mom and dad aren’t there anymore with the Purell and the wipes. 

[retches]

You should read the rest of Mr. McEnroe’s column if you suffer from hypotension or insufficient rage or something, but those excerpts nicely summarize the crux of the institutional response to minority students’ pleas to a system of authority that was never built to hear them in the first place. Black students, your protests are tolerated until we decide that they are not any longer. Then, you are coddled, entitled, thin-skinned Millennial wolf-criers who cannot distinguish between a few minor slights and real, true adversity (WHICH, AGAIN, = VIETNAM WAR)

This is not a tenable state of affairs. Students of color already bear the burden of parrying not only overt discrimination but also the daily slights that slowly rob you of the will to try anymore. How many professors think they’re occupying the seat of a more qualified white student? How many students think that? How many people stop listening to them when they decide to speak in class? Did I get this bad grade on my paper because of race? Wait, did I get this good grade on my paper because of race? McEnroe and his ilk accuse black students of perceiving injustice where there is none, of playing the race card, of viewing everything through a racial prism. But this fails to acknowledge that black students have spent their whole lives being viewed through a racial prism. Why are they expected to not do the same thing?

At the same time, the university expects and demands that black students put their heads down, be thankful, and act like they’re comfortable. Well, hey, you made it here, too. You’re just like everyone else. Stop asking for special treatment. Why is it always black people talking about race? But the need for honest discussions about race in higher education is, by definition, a need that will be plain only to minority students. You never hear discussions of the pressing need for greater recognition of Western European culture in university curriculum because, um, Western European culture is just called “university curriculum.” White students don’t complain about the relationship between culture and pedagogy because that has never been a problem they have had to deal with. Black students who want to talk about race are not oversensitive or hysterical. Their desire simply reflects the reality that they are the only ones who have ever had to think about it.

The final piece of this really, really bleak puzzle is that many universities have responded not by formally examining their own practices but instead by tasking minority students with engaging in extracurricular guerrilla diversity. Students are expected to blend seamlessly into the academic environment while also serving as occasional unpaid spokespersons of The Minority Experience. My friend Andrew sent me a piece by one Alana Massey, who spoke out against the narrative that black students are responsible for teaching their peers about diversity and acceptance. Black students are there for the same reasons as anyone else, Massey argues: to get an education. Yet they find themselves conscripted as diversity ambassadors to a student body that is under no obligation to actually listen. This layer reveals the most insidious double (triple?) standard of all: black students are allowed to lobby for change, but only if the powers that be deem their requests acceptable, and then, only if they accept all responsibility for doing so. It is the job of universities, not the students of color who attend and pay tuition, to provide a holistic education. But universities have gotten very, very good at outsourcing that task.

There is no simple solution to these problems, though if you have any ideas, please tell them to me so that I can write about them and pass them off as my own. But I do think that there is a simple first step. Colin McEnroe won’t like it. Here it is anyway: listen to black students, about everything, and take their word for it, and do what they say, and then see what happens.

The powers that be need to stop analyzing every call for change to see if it is an acceptable de minimis tweak to The Way Things Ought To Be. They need to stop evaluating alternate viewpoints in light of what is easiest, or what is within the scope of preserving History or Tradition, or what they think will address the problem even when students plead for something else. Stop sneeringly wondering if “all this hubbub” about old building names is warranted. Stop dismissing suggestions for more inclusive curriculum as the naive complaints of entitled Millennials (SOMETHING SOMETHING SOMETHING VIETNAM), or as the calculated requests of lazy students unwilling to subject themselves to rigorous academic standards, or both. Stop telling people to just calm down, to relax, and to not make such a big deal out of everything. Start listening instead.

The American university is a remarkably successful institution. It is also four hundred years old and has, up until only very recently, been almost completely dominated by white people. While minorities of course now occupy some positions of power, the system in which they operate still favors the majority. So why blindly defend the integrity of an institution that only welcomes certain points of view regarding what counts as offensive, and what is okay? Why not give another way of making decisions a try, and see if a more inclusive place can work just as well?

I willingly concede that buildings named after long-dead racists and antiquated crests borrowed from long-forgetten bloodthirsty torturers are not the most significant problems that face minority students today. And renaming every single building and disposing of every offensive symbol would not be a panacea for racism on campus. But it does not follow that universities should therefore ignore things like this completely. Universities that sincerely engage with students on even seemingly minor issues build trust, and universities that balk or fight back in the name of “dealing with the Real Problems on Campus” only exacerbate the perception of imbalanced power dynamics as firmly entrenched. If administrators won’t listen to earnest requests for renaming one stupid building, how are black students supposed to envision a world in which administrators also care about ending racial profiling or unequal access or de facto segregation or any of the other Real Problems on Campus, too?

The fact that a change is simple and easy does not mean it is not worthwhile. Symbolism counts. Trivial though they may seem to some, building names and school logos are as good a place to start as any.

Get much more of Jay’s insightful analysis at Needs Further Review.

The Illusion of Color-Blindness

colorblind

From Harvard Gazette:

According to Yale Professor John Dovidio, “Whites spend a lot of time pretending they don’t see race.” But, he said, unconscious bias is pervasive, and unconscious biases by whites impact nearly every aspect of black lives, including vital areas such as health care and employment.

Dovidio, the Carl Iver Hovland Professor of Psychology at Yale University, was the guest speaker at the Faculty of Arts and Sciences’ second Diversity Dialogue of the year. “But I Don’t See Color! Consequences of Racial Color-Blindness” was held Dec. 2 at Harvard Hillel.

Biases are built into our society and it’s normal to absorb them, said Dovidio to the audience of more than 150. “Subtle bias by well-intentioned people is one of the hardest things to overcome.”

Prejudice is embedded in the way people think, which makes it insidious, he said. “If I see a person of color and I claim to be color-blind, what color do I see? White. And that’s racist.”

Dovidio cited several studies that showed disparities in interactions between physicians and patients. He said a 2003 study found, “Race-discordant visits are shorter, involve less positive affect, and are less participatory.” Another study, he noted, reported that 57 percent of blacks say they experience discrimination “often” or “very often” in interactions with white physicians.

Implicit bias by white physicians, he said, results in fewer verbalizations, shorter visits, and faster speech. They are less patient-centered. In response, the patient is less involved and there is less clinician respect. Further, the patient does not like or trust the clinician, and lacks confidence in him or her, according to the studies cited by Dovidio.

In the workplace, Dovidio said he does not buy managers’ arguments that “We tried to have a diverse [field] of candidates, but couldn’t find any” when filling job positions. He said senior leaders should not care about good intentions, but only about results.

“If you value something, it’s the outcome that matters,” he said. “If you want diversity in the workplace, you have to fight for it.”

Dovidio said unconscious bias in the workplace frequently prevents blacks from getting jobs. He cited research that showed that in a pool of black and white candidates who may be slightly deficient in qualifications for the same job, the white candidates are more likely to be chosen. White deficiencies are more likely to be overlooked or forgiven. Hiring managers often cite the deficiencies in the black candidates to justify not hiring them. In other words, he said, “White candidates get the benefit of the doubt. If there is some ambiguity, the black person suffers.”

* * *

Returning to his extensive research regarding race and white bias against blacks, Dovidio cited what he called “aversive racists” who “sympathize with victims of past injustice, support principles of racial equality, and genuinely regard themselves as non-prejudiced, but at the same time possess conflicting, often non-conscious, negative feelings and beliefs about blacks.”

These negative feelings, Dovidio said, “are rooted in basic psychological processes [e.g., social categorization] that promote racial bias. In addition, the negative feelings that aversive racists have toward blacks do not reflect open hostility or hatred. Instead, aversive racists’ reactions typically involve discomfort, anxiety, or fear.”

Dovidio concluded that contemporary bias is subtle and unconscious. But he said there are ways to confront it. He suggests that organizations create strong diversity committees, involve people of color, and make diversity part of employee performance reviews.

* * *

Read entire article here.

#HLSUntaped @ The Record

#HLSUntaped

From Harvard Law Record, a collection of recent editorials and essays about race and racism:

More Student Voices

 

finally and fully embrace the difficult task of understanding and reckoning with our history. We must acknowledge the magnitude of American racism—including the way it poisons our own community—and recognize the urgency of pulling it down.

He wonders whether

students, with their unique sets of experiences informed by their own reading of history, are more closely attuned than he realizes to some truly deep obstacles to change?

He also critiques the effects of focusing on “dry technical issues”:

Issues of race are inextricably woven into the broad blanket of American law. The ideology of white supremacy and racial difference was at the epicenter of this society’s birth and upbringing. And it has settled deep in this country’s blood and bones, including in the gigantic, complex bundle of laws and court cases and customs that determine how we govern ourselves.

So when law schools presented with roomfuls of pliant young minds acquiesce in reducing major areas of law to “dry, technical issues,” they play a role in entrenching a system with racism in its marrow.

And suggests that even a seeming neutral, rational argument

often reflects a documented tendency of societies to legitimize the structures that have long secured dominant-group entitlements. Social psychologists call this tendency system justification theory. If this impulse to preserve the status quo drives much of the opposition to affirmative action, then it too is a formidable obstacle to change.

Coby conludes:

Harvard Law School vows in its mission statement “to educate leaders who contribute to the advancement of justice and the well-being of society.” To advance justice in our particular society, where the methodical administration of racial injustice has reigned for centuries, we must commit to uncovering the roots of the ideology of racial difference and breaking them out of the stubborn, hard-packed ground so many of us have comfortably trod for so long.

Read Bianca’s full article here and Coby’s here.

Derrick Bell Protests HLS – 25 Years Ago Today

Derrick Bell at HLS

“The reality, of course, is that few institutions — and certainly not Harvard — move toward more racial inclusiveness without pressure sufficient to awaken a tardy recognition that a modicum of diversity can be a valuable addition to a school’s reputation.”

~ Derrick Bell (quotation from 1998 article)

From Wikipedia:

In 1990, Harvard Law School had 60 tenured professors. Three of these were black men, and five of them were women, but there were no black women among them, a dearth Bell decided to protest with an unpaid leave of absence.  Students supported the move which critics found “counterproductive,” while Harvard administrators cited a lack of qualified candidates . . . .

Related posts:

Professors Who Will

raised hands

By SJP Friend Annaleigh Curtis:

One of the best things about law school is that it brings together people with diverse backgrounds and experiences. Something that makes me somewhat unique among my peers is that I spent five years before beginning law school teaching college courses, first teaching and coaching debate, then while I was earning my PhD in Philosophy. I thus come to the law and legal education with a particularly acute sense of what academic freedom is, should be, and is not. Academic freedom is absolutely vital to the educational system, particularly in college and graduate and professional schools. It allows professors to speak, teach, and write on controversial ideas. This freedom encourages innovation and knowledge-production.

However, not all appeals to academic freedom serve these worthy goals. As students on this campus, and on campuses around the world, demand that their education confront and address race, class, gender, and other social justice issues, they will no doubt be met with administrators and professors who insist that such changes can be suggested or encouraged, but not mandated. To mandate them would intrude impermissibly on academic freedom. I want to suggest that this response misunderstands the point and nature of both students’ demands and the law itself.

Law school curriculum, or any other sort of curriculum, does not come to the world fully formed. Law school courses do not, in Plato’s terms, carve nature at its joints. For one thing, law is not natural. It is made by humans, and it reflects those human origins. The current way of dividing up 1L classes, for example, into contracts, torts, and property is artificial. The private rights implicated in contract are often intermingled with those implicated in tort. Beyond that, it is a choice, which is to say again that it is not natural or given, to teach those courses in the first year instead of other courses, like environmental law, civil rights law, or anything else.

The choice of how to divide up courses, and which of those courses to teach, is necessarily political. These choices reflect judgments about what is core, central, and important—and what is peripheral, add-on, or elective. This is not to say that there are not reasons to divide up legal education as it is currently divided, but that the division itself requires justification in the face of criticism. Indeed, many law schools in the U.S. embarked on curricular reform recently. At HLS, we have seen the addition of the problem solving workshop, the removal of constitutional law, and the addition of legislation and regulation and international law to the 1L curriculum. These changes were made, presumably, to reflect changing views on what is and is not central to the law and its practice. Law schools rush to add courses that add to the knowledge large corporate firms want graduates to have when they begin work, yet balk at the idea of requiring that students confront—and professors teach—the extent to which race shapes the law.

Students’ demands to make race central to legal education do not come from left field. Race is not a non sequitur in the broader context of law. Race is, instead, quite central to the development of law. The constitution was written against the backdrop of slavery and enshrined it into the structure of our most basic law. Today the laws—and applications thereof—surrounding police violence, housing, the environment, loans, and so much more continue to implicate race in very fundamental ways. The story of race in law is the Reconstruction, the Civil Rights Act, and mass incarceration. But it is also torts, contracts, corporations, legislation and regulation, and quite literally any other course currently taught in any U.S. law school.

Professors who fail to teach the racial implications or foundations of the subjects they teach, then, are failing to grasp at the core of the law. They are neither experts nor scholars if they are unwilling to grapple with, uncover, and explain these implications in their scholarship and classrooms. We would not call it academic freedom if a professor tasked with teaching administrative law instead taught molecular biology. We might provide her a chance to justify this choice, but absent a justification she would be acting in bad faith. If law professors who teach criminal law—the 1L course that is perhaps most steeped in race in this country—refuse to confront race in their classes, they are as far from their field as molecular biology is from administrative law. If professors are unwilling to address race in the classroom, we are happy to have new professors who will.

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