KINCAID: Did you have servants when you were young?
THURMOND: Why, yes we did. We had a sleep—I mean, live-in maid. Her name was Hattie. There was a yardman. I don’t remember his name but I remember he was always trimming the hedges. And there was a driver, Beau. He lived in the shed out back. He was a terrible driver. I’m not certain he had a license.
KINCAID: All African-American?
THURMOND: As I recollect, I believe they were, now that you mention it.
EVERETT: As you recollect?
THURMOND: It was a long time ago.
EVERETT: Do you recall whether Hollis is white or black?
THURMOND: Oh, Hollis, he’s a good man. He’s been with me going on forty years. He’s been with me longer that my wife. We’ve shared everything except sex.
EVERETT: Do you remember if your wife is white?
THURMOND: I’m pretty sure she’s white. She sure looks white. You know, my brother Bill used to stutter something terrible. He couldn’t say grace and have his food be hot. That’s why Daddy sent him off to a military academy.
KINCAID: Because he couldn’t say grace.
THURMOND: No, because of his stuttering. He’s a doctor now. He lives in Georgia. Well, he did anyway.
KINCAID: Is it true your father killed a man over Ben Tillman’s politics?
THURMOND: As I recall the story, Daddy was defending himself.
EVERETT: And was named a US Attorney for his trouble on Tillman’s recommendation.
THURMOND: Politics is a funny business.
EVERETT: Since we’re talking about Tillman, what will you have to say in the book about his revamping of the state constitution in 1895 instituting residency requirements, a poll tax and separate schools.
THURMOND: Those were different times.
KINCAID: So was yesterday.
THURMOND: Tillman was a hard man in hard times, but he wasn’t a racist or a bigot like that Vardaman in Mississippi.
KINCAID: Tillman’s the one who called Teddy Roosevelt a “coon-flavored miscegenationist.”
THURMOND: You boys do your homework. Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me. I have to go relieve myself often these days. My physician tells me my prostate is the size of a pimple on a flea’s ass.
Once Thurmond was out of the room, Jim bolted from his chair, took a couple of steps and turned back to face me.
KINCAID: Is he a piece of work or what? Can’t recall if the servants were black.
EVERETT: I should have asked if the slaves were black.
KINCAID: I think it’s going to take us awhile to dig through this stuff and figure out what he wants.
EVERETT: To hell with what he wants. I say we just lampoon the fuck out of him and have some fun. Still, I’m kind of intrigued.
KINCAID: By what?
EVERETT: By what it is he expects from this book. By the fact that he doesn’t sound as stupid as I thought he would sound. I guess he sounds pretty stupid.
KINCAID: He’s a walking balloon.
EVERETT: You don’t think this room is bugged, do you?
KINCAID: That’s a hell of a thought. What do you think of him?
EVERETT: I don’t know. He’s old. He’s real old. He’s the oldest person I’ve ever seen in person. I don’t know if he’s nuts or charming or patronizing or just a son of a bitch.
KINCAID: I vote for nuts. What have you gotten me into? I’m not even sure we’re safe here. What if the Klan is on the lookout for a turquoise rental with an ugly black man and a distinguished-looking gray-haired white man a few years his senior?
EVERETT: Then we’re pretty safe. But I feel sorry for those guys you just described.
KINCAID: He’s coming back.
THURMOND: No matter how much you wiggle and dance. EVERETT: Senator, what do you think of Barton Wilkes? I ask because we’ve both found him to be, shall we say, eccentric.
KINCAID: Loony.
THURMOND: He is a strange child.
EVERETT: He’s given us the idea that you want to publish this book because you believe you’ve had a great impact on the lives of African-Americans. He suggests that you believe you’ve had more influence over black people than any living person.
THURMOND: I’ve never said as much. But as I think about it, I would have to agree with the assertion.
KINCAID: Impact being not necessarily a good thing.
THURMOND: I guess that would be correct, Mr. Kincaid.
Have you ever had sex with a woman forty years younger than you?
EVERETT and KINCAID: No.
THURMOND: I do every third Tuesday of every month. With the lights on. What do you think of that?
EVERETT: We’re impressed.
THURMOND: I caught holy hell when I married my wife, do you realize that? I heard the jokes. How many times does sixty-six go into twenty-two? Ask Strom Thurmond. They were all jealous.
KINCAID: I see. Why don’t you tell us, what do you think of Brown versus the Board of Education?
THURMOND: I think this country was founded on the principle of separate but equal facilities for all sorts of different people. Why, you don’t expect Jews to go to a Catholic church. Of course not. So, why should colored children have to be in a school with people different from them?
EVERETT: So, you want to do the “colored” children a favor.
THURMOND: Well, anyway, it should be up to them.
EVERETT: Do you think black people might choose to have their own restrooms and water fountains as well?
THURMOND: We were talking about Pitchfork Ben when I left.
EVERETT: Let’s forget about him for a while. Let’s talk about education. You were actually considered a progressive in the thirties and forties. I read that you offered to teach reading and writing to anyone who cared to come by. Is that true?
THURMOND: It is.
EVERETT: Did anyone take your offer?
THURMOND: A few.
KINCAID: Were any of them black?
THURMOND: The offer was extended to everyone, white and black.
KINCAID: But were any of the takers black?
THURMOND: I can’t say I recall any black students. You have to remember the times. I did make the offer and I was serious, but my house was my house and, generally, colored folks didn’t feel that comfortable in a white man’s home. It’s a large home.
EVERETT: You supported “separate but equal” schools.
THURMOND: You gentlemen forget that I did vote for the Civil Rights Act of 1964.
KINCAID: That’s not altogether true. You were entirely against the public accommodations section of the House bill. EVERETT: Title two.
KINCAID: You said that it was not about public accommodation, but an invasion of private property.
EVERETT: You said it led to integration of private life.
KINCAID: You said that the Constitution says that a man shall not be deprived of life, liberty or property. “We should observe the Constitution.”
EVERETT: “A man has a right to have his property protected.” KINCAID: This was on CBS Reports, a debate with Hubert Humphrey.
EVERETT: But finally it was about white control. You claimed that it was OK for a Minnesotan to consider integration because there were only seven blacks per one thousand whites, but in South Carolina, there were four-hundred blacks per one thousand whites.
KINCAID: You, in fact, called the passage of the bill “a sad day for America.” I think you claimed it would increase racial tensions.
THURMOND: Well, I remember supporting it. We’re used to it all now though, aren’t we? Where is Hollis with my drink? Hollis! Excuse me, gentlemen, but I must again relieve myself.
EVERETT: Maybe we went at it too much like an interrogation.
KINCAID: Could be. You think we should be more low-key?
EVERETT: I’m not sure. Do we want to write this book? I mean, if he thinks we’re out to crucify him, he might bail.
THURMOND: Well, boys, where were we?
EVERETT: You
were telling us your views on education.
THURMOND: I’ll come back to that. First, let me tell you what the secret to politics is. It’s got nothing to do with issues or even rights. It’s got to do with people and what they believe. Not even what they think. Hell, they don’t know what they think. But they know what they believe. The great thing about beliefs is that you can convince people they have them. I’ll tell you a quick story. This happened a few years ago when Barton Wilkes first came to work for me. I think it was Wilkes, anyway he looked like Wilkes. They all look alike. [laughs] So, Wilkins comes into my office in Washington and sees me writing a card to one of my constituents down in Aiken. This ol’boy down there lost one of his sons in a car wreck and I was writing him a sympathy card. Wilkie comes in and tells me that I shouldn’t be wasting time on little matters like that. I told him I was just a dumb old Southern boy, but I knew how to get elected. He said my time was precious and I just nodded. About six month later, I was over in Columbia and that ol’boy from Aiken came up to me on the front steps of the State House and introduced himself. He said, “Senator, suh, me and my whole family appreciated the card you sent when our Raymond died. We couldn’t believe that an important man like you would take time to do that for us. My whole family will vote for you forever.” He actually said that and Willies was standing right there to hear it and couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know that ol’boy from Adam, but I read the obituary in the Aiken paper and I sent the card. He believes I care about his family. That’s what he believes. Nothing wrong with believing a thing. By the way, that man was colored. [pauses] What people believe. I think he worked as a groom at one of those horse farms down there. He had great big hands, I remember that. But I was supposed to be talking about education, wasn’t I?
When I was a boy, my daddy forbade me to go over to the town square to watch a lynching. There had been others and I understood that some colored man had raped a white woman and that the common folk had to make him an example. You know, my daddy was troubled by the whole thing. I could tell. But I was young and I wanted to see and so I went anyway. I saw that man hanging there and that was gruesome enough, but to this day the ugliest thing I remember seeing was the smiling faces of my own people. Fact was, I learned later, that Negro man hadn’t done anything but frighten a white woman, probably by coming around a corner or something. But all my life I heard of raping and lynching all tied together and it was hard to separate the two. I know that the poor crackers around here used it as an excuse, but they really believed it too. How’d I get on that? I guess it’s the belief stuff. That hanged man had big hands too. Maybe that’s it.
After I finished Clemson, I came back here to Edgefield and after one week I was teaching a Bible class. I didn’t know my scriptures all that well, but I was teaching. Then I got a job teaching farming in a school over in McCormick. I used to ride over there on my old Harley. A lot of people back then thought that education just ruined a colored man, just turned a good field hand into an educated fool. I never believed that, but I have to admit that back then I never gave a single thought to how unequally resources was allocated to colored and white schools. You have to remember, Reconstruction was not that far in the past and it wasn’t until 1921 that there were more white people in the state than Negroes. Back then I was a real ladies’ man too. Did I mention that? Anyway, in 1928 I ran for county school superintendent and beat some in-law relative. What I did was call for free health examinations, medical and dental, for colored and white children. Poor people are poor people. This state has always had its share and more. We have a lot of honeysuckle down here as well. Have you ever smelled honeysuckle?
EVERETT: I have a question.
THURMOND: Please.
EVERETT: You’ve carried on the tradition started by John C. Calhoun with the nullification doctrine by continuing to insist on states’ rights. Given that, how do you reconcile this state’s support of Roosevelt in 1932 and the embracing of federal relief and solutions?
THURMOND: The grass out there in that yard needs to be mown twice a week. Can you believe that?
KINCAID: You were a New Deal Democrat yourself.
THURMOND: Roosevelt was elected because he was a Democrat. Lincoln was a Republican. South Carolina belonged to the Democratic Party.
EVERETT: That aside, don’t you see the hypocrisy?
THURMOND: I don’t think I do.
EVERETT: That was the same year that Cotton Ed Smith was re-elected to the Senate by claiming he would keep black people in their place.
KINCAID: Like James Vardaman, he even called for lynchings.
EVERETT: Did you find that unacceptable back then?
THURMOND: Of course I did. You know, I have never said a negative thing about a black person because of his race. I have never tried to do any black man any harm because of his color. Cotton Ed was a product of his time, a simple country man with some shortcomings, but still a loyal South Carolinian.
EVERETT: A shortcoming being a willingness to hang a black man.
THURMOND: If you’ll excuse me.
KINCAID: Way to let him talk.
EVERETT: Yeah, well.
KINCAID: This guy sure pees enough.
EVERETT: I don’t know about this whole thing.
KINCAID: Want to go back to Charleston and eat some seafood?
EVERETT: That’s not a bad idea. You know, I halfway want to like the guy. Is that weird or what?
KINCAID: It’s weird, but I know what you mean. Are we going to let him talk again? You were so good at it last time.
EVERETT: Listen, he rambled for a while. Would you say he’s about the whitest person you’ve ever met?
KINCAID: Should I be offended by that?
EVERETT: You know what I mean?
KINCAID: Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.
THURMOND: No matter how much you wiggle and dance.
KINCAID: Senator, maybe you can tell us again why you want to write a book about African-Americans.
THURMOND: Well, for one thing, I may have already said this, I repeat myself a lot these days. I didn’t used to do that, not so much anyway. About the colored people, I reckon that more than any other living political figure I have affected the lives of these people. I honestly believe that any progress that the Negro race has experienced is not due to the efforts of emancipators, but to the kind of decent and honest white Southerners. It doesn’t bother me that coloreds can stay at white hotels and go to white theaters and eat at white restaurants. Not now. Now white people are accustomed to their presence, but back in 1950, we weren’t. I have to tell you that I was against the North forcing the South to desegregate. Especially when the North was more segregated than the South. You have to admit that the South has been the national whippin’ boy. I have never in my life used the word “nigger.”
EVERETT: Back in 1948, you invited William Hastie, governor of the Virgin Islands, to dine at the governor’s mansion in Columbia. As I understand the story, you didn’t know he was black and when you learned this fact, you said if you had known you never would have invited him, that such an invitation would have been ridiculous.
THURMOND: The man had been a federal judge and the dean of a law school, why would I have thought he was black?
KINCAID: He was dean of the Howard Law School.
THURMOND: I guess I didn’t put two and two together.
EVERETT: Why would the invitation have been ridiculous?
THURMOND: For one thing, what would we have talked about? It would have been cruel to bring a man into such foreign surroundings.
EVERETT: Dinner with you would have been so foreign?
THURMOND: He would have felt out of place.
KINCAID: Well, then, you were awfully generous.
THURMOND: Thank you, Mr. Kincaid.
EVERETT: Back to the meddling North and the emancipators, why do you think they want to destroy the Southern way of life?
THURMOND: The war never ended. We just don’t shoot anymore.
If one man is going to be rich, then somebody has to be poor. That’s the way of the world. If the North is going to be superior, then we down here have to be inferior.
EVERETT: Four of the last eight presidents have been from Southern states.
THURMOND: Liberals.
KINCAID: The present Bush?
THURMOND: Well, he’s not really from Texas now, is he? He’s just a Connecticut boy in a cowboy hat. But he’s a good states’ rights conservative, I’ll give him that. [pause] A colored man wrote in to a magazine some years back, it was that Ebony or Jet, and the fella said that I had never stabbed the colored community in the back, that I had stabbed it in the front, but never in the back. At first, I was hurt by that, but then I started to think about it. Colored people knew what to expect from me, they knew where I stood and I think they appreciated that.
EVERETT: Why do you insist on saying colored instead of African-American or black? Why not say negra the way you did in the seventies?
THURMOND: I’m an old man. I’m not always sure what I’m saying.
KINCAID: You weren’t old in the seventies.
THURMOND: On really hot summer days down in South Carolina, we like to go sit in the shade by a river and fish for catfish. When I was a boy I used to keep me a trotline strung across the river and I’d check it every couple of days. I’d bring the fish home to our cook. She was a great big colored woman and she’d clean the fish and fry them up for lunch. She used to dip the fish in beer batter and boy was that good. Anyway, one day I caught this fish that was darker than the rest and she looked at that thing for a long time and finally said, “This here fish you shoulda throwed back.” I asked her why and she said, “This here is a negra catfish and it din’t know where it belonged and that’s how it come to be caught. You see, it ain’t fair.”
EVERETT: That’s a great story.
KINCAID: Yes, indeed.
THURMOND: Yes, I have always loved that story. I tell it often. I told it at a dinner at South Carolina State College, that’s a colored school in Orangeburg, and nobody seemed to get it. Funny, that. Anyway, I love that story. As far as education, I was a progressive, that’s true. I have always believed in the importance of a good education. But you have to be smart about education. My friend, Henry Hyde, likes to say that an intellectual is a person whose education has exceeded his intelligence. That’s the problem in these colleges.
A History of the African-American People (Proposed) by Strom Thurmond Page 12
