Did Business Ever Want Jim Crow? I think not

My earlier post, “Dinner at Dale’s,” was about my surprise experience at Dale’s Steakhouse a few days after passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Dale had new customers and seemed to be happy about it. In the days and months that followed, the whole community adjusted quickly and smoothly to the new rules. It was as if nothing new had occurred, black and white children playing in the same parks, blacks and whites dining peacefully together in restaurants - in Alabama - in 1964.

Thinking back on it made me wonder if other businesses also welcomed the end of Jim Crow segregation laws. After all, businesses exist to make profits, whether or not business owners hold racist views. So perhaps business never wanted Jim Crow.

Some people, especially libertarians, oppose the Act’s ban on racial segregation in privately owned public accommodations. They believe that it violates private property rights that are protected by the constitution. But Jim Crows laws, enacted by state and local governments, required businesses to segregate based on race, against their better business judgment. Was that not a violation of their property rights?

When Jim Crow laws were being proposed, many business owners opposed them in the legislatures. But the laws were passed anyway because Black Americans, who were denied the right to vote, did not count politically. Therefore a small, active minority of whites could have its way with lawmakers, as the majority of whites simply remained silent. Even after passage, some business owners refused to enforce the new rules until they were threatened with jail.

In the Plessy vs. Ferguson case, the Supreme Court ruled that state laws requiring racial segregation in publicly available facilities were constitutional. Louisiana’s Separate Car Act (1890), required that black patrons and white patrons be seated in separate rail cars. Homer Plessy, a black man, had violated the law by boarding a “white’s only” car and was arrested. The railway company opposed the law, saying it would require the purchase of additional rail cars. The company fought the law in the legislature and the courts, but was unsuccessful.

The Plessy ruling created the “separate but equal” doctrine and gave new impetus to the enactment of racial segregation laws in several states. The Civil Rights Act Public Accommodations Provision invalidated those laws, apparently to the delight of many, if not most, private owners of public accommodations.

For future posts:

How did business issues affect the Montgomery Bus Boycott?

What was the real political impact of the Civil Rights Act of 1964?

Why do I write this stuff?

Emanuel A.M.E. Church -- The Courage to Forgive

Watching the families of the Charleston murder victims forgive the perpetrator was amazing, incredible and inspiring. An enormous amount of soul work must have been done in their church to enable forgiveness in the midst of such pain. Forgiveness in such circumstances is hard work and requires extraordinary courage.

Thankfully, forgiveness is for the benefit of the forgiver, not the offender. The offender still carries the burden of his guilt. But given time and healing, forgiveness relieves the forgiver of the burden of grudge, however justified the grudge may be. Ultimately, it is forgiveness that enables us to forget.

This painful episode reminds us how much has occured in our nation’s history for which forgiveness has been needed and how much forgiving has already occurred. The commitment to non-violence that characterized the civil rights movement amounted to forgiveness in advance for the violence that would be visited upon its participants. Enormous advance soul work was required. Thank goodness for the committed participation of strong spiritual leaders.

When God calls us to forgive, he calls us to freedom. The members of the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church have courageously chosen to accept God’s freedom and to trust God with the fate of the perpetrator of this evil act.

We can learn from their example. We will pray for their healing. And we must never, ever forget their courage.

Alabama 1964 - Dinner at Dale's

In the summer of 1964, the landmark Civil Rights Act of 1964 was signed into law. Among other things, it prohibited racial discrimination in restaurants open to the public. A few days later, I went with a date to Dale's Steak House in Florence for dinner. I was fully prepared for a reception that would be cool at best. I was wrong yet again!

The service was wonderful and the steak was awesome. I thought to myself, "If Dale had served me a week earlier, he might have needed to explain why to a racist neighbor. But today, he could answer, 'It's the law', as he turns to pour me another cup of coffee."

Conclusion: I was not the only one freed by that provision of the Act. Dale was also freed, along with white restaurant owners all over the south.

Recently, a politician suggested that given the racial progress since then, the Public Accommodations Provision could now be repealed since he believes it "violates private property rights."

I can just hear white restaurant owners everywhere shouting, "Shhhhhh!"

What do you think?

Wendell Wilkie Gunn

Desegregation in Alabama - A Different Ending

1963 was a year of racial turmoil in the Deep South. Something occurred that year that has a familiar beginning but a somewhat surprising ending. It is a story of rejection, threats of violence, a federal court order, and silent treatment that ends with tears and a surprising ovation.

On June 11, Governor George Wallace stood in the doorway at the University of Alabama to block the admission of two black students. On June 12, civil rights activist Medgar Evers was shot to death in nearby Mississippi. A month later, a Birmingham church was bombed, killing four young black girls.

On July 11, a young man walked into the registrar's office at Florence State University (FSU), now University of North Alabama, and requested an application for admission. Ten minutes later, he found himself sitting in the office of University President Dr. Norton, along with the Registrar and the Dean of the College. He was told that the university did not have “the authority to admit a Negro.”

I was that young man.

I had spent my first two college years at Tennessee State University, 125 miles from home, working during summers to help pay my tuition and expenses. My 1963 summer job did not last long enough for me to afford going back to Tennessee for my junior year. FSU was seven miles from my home.

Vivian Malone and James Hood had successfully entered the University of Alabama a few weeks earlier over the governor’s objection. So I assumed that all state universities in Alabama were required to consider all applicants. I was mistaken.

President Norton informed me that under Alabama law, the university could not admit me unless it was pursuant to a court order issued by a federal court. He gave me the application forms and suggested that I talk the matter over with my parents. Then if we wanted to proceed, I could submit the application. He also advised me to keep quiet about our visit in the meantime for security reasons.

Initially I had no intention of filing the application. But I did tell my parents about my visit. To my surprise, my parents asked whether or not I really wanted to attend this college. After some thought, I said “yes.” To my further surprise, my mother picked up the phone and called Attorney Fred Gray, the lawyer who had represented Vivian Malone and James Hood in the University of Alabama case. Attorney Gray agreed to represent me in a federal court suit if I was rejected.

A few days later, I submitted my application. The University’s rejection notice came quickly and appeared in the local newspaper and the national press before the letter reached my mailbox.

Immediately, the threatening phone calls began, some threatening to bomb my house, others promising to have rifles pointed at me if I appeared on campus. There were several calls from one man who, while not threatening, complained “white folks just don’t have any rights anymore.” I tried to explain that my attendance would cause no loss to him or anyone. He was not placated. Each time he called, he complained for several minutes, after which he hung up the phone.

My lawsuit was filed and in August, I appeared in federal court in Birmingham for the hearing, which lasted about 20 minutes.  Judge H. H. Grooms ordered the university to admit me.

The telephone threats continued unabated right up until September 11, the day I registered for classes. Oddly, they stopped completely that day.

My first eight months on campus were rather quiet.  Almost no one spoke to me except my instructors. I had zero social life on campus. But since my home was only seven miles away, I lived at home and had the support of my community. I studied chemistry and mathematics, so my course load was heavy. I attended no sports events and attended convocations only when the choir, of which I was a member, had to perform.

The silent treatment continued until Honors Day, a day in May when academic achievement was recognized. I was unaware that there was a physics achievement award and that I would be its recipient.  When my name was called, I was shocked. Then as I stood up to accept the award, the audience began to applaud. The applause started low and grew quickly. Until that moment, I had no idea how much eight months of silence and isolation had affected me. My emotions exploded, with tears to match. The more I cried, the louder the audience applauded. Ten seconds later, the entire audience was on its feet, cheering. Fifty-two years later, I can still feel it whenever I tell the story.

I thought to myself, “Apparently, not all white people are out to get me.”

After the convocation, students and faculty members gathered around to congratulate me personally. Even more important, my life on campus took a dramatic 180-degree turn that day and continued through my graduation day a year later. Finally, I was just another student. That is all I wanted in the first place.

Twenty-five years after my graduation, the University named me Outstanding Alumnus of the Year. In September 2013, I accepted an invitation to give the opening convocation speech to celebrate the 50^th anniversary of the beginning of this story.

But this is not a story about me. Rather it is a story about a community in Alabama, just three hours drive from Selma, where change came and life moved on. And it happened over 50 years ago. There are more stories with similar endings, waiting to be told. I intend to tell some of them in this blog.

Wendell Wilkie Gunn

March 7, 2015