In the midst of change that is vast and dramatic, the South has emerged from the political cocoon in which it was long imprisoned. But the transformation is still in transition.
There is a new and rising class of politicians. They have been eminently successful partly because Congress and the courts have diminished the politics of racial fear, partly because judicial decrees have, through reapportionment, distributed voting power more fairly. And with the nomination of Jimmy Carter for President, the politics of frustration—rooted in the knowledge that no Deep South politician, whatever his talents, might reasonably aspire to his nation’s highest office—seems to be ending too.
These new politicians wince in honest horror at old-style racist demagoguery. Mississippi’s venomous little Theodore (“The Man”) Bilbo stayed in power for more than three decades by such tactics as describing one opponent as “begotten in a nigger graveyard at midnight” or, in defending himself against charges of religious bigotry, by declaring himself in favor of “every damn Jew from Jesus Christ on down.”
“The politics of race has gone with the wind,” proclaimed Georgia’s Governor George Busbee in his 1975 inaugural address. But Busbee, who succeeded Carter, had reason to know that he was not entirely right: his opponent in the Democratic primary runoff, Lester Maddox, won 40% of the vote, mostly from diehard segregationists, who, though they no longer elect statewide candidates, hang on as an inhibiting political force.
THE BILL OF RIGHTS
At the same time, the South’s new leaders and potential leaders, particularly the Democrats, are keenly aware that a black vote counts every bit as much as a white one —and that there are many more black votes today than seemed conceivable a decade ago. The Voting Rights Act of 1965 was the critical turning point. Jimmy Carter has called it the most important political event of his lifetime. Spurred through a divided Congress by President Lyndon Johnson of Texas, the act, under a complex voter-participation formula, gave federal authorities the power to supervise, in most Southern states, “any voting qualifications, or prerequisites to voting, or standard, practices of procedure with respect to voting.”
When the act became law, only about 2 million blacks were registered to vote. By last year that figure had risen to 3.8 million, and it seems certain to pass 4 million by Election Day 1976. Black registration now runs less than ten percentage points below that of voting-age whites. Increased black registration has given blacks a larger share of political offices —but only up to a point. As recently as 1970 there were a mere 565 black elected officials in the eleven states of the old Confederacy. By 1976 that number had more than tripled, to 1,847. Impressive enough, but that is only 2.3% of a total of 79,381 elective jobs in the South and falls far short of the 20.5% black share of the voting-age population.
The elective positions held by Southern blacks are mostly at low levels. Only three—Georgia’s Andrew Young, Tennessee’s Harold E. Ford and Texas’ Barbara Jordan—hold seats in the House. There are 99 black state legislators, ranging from Georgia’s 22 to Virginia’s two, out of a total of 1,782 seats available. Only one Southern black has been elected to office by statewide vote: he is Joseph Hatchett, 44, a fruit picker’s son who won a place on the Florida Supreme Court. Last week Howard Lee, a black former mayor of Chapel Hill, N.C., got 46% of the vote in a Democratic primary runoff for Lieutenant Governor —a good showing, but not enough. In Mississippi, Fred Banks Jr., one of four blacks in the state legislature, says: “It may take 20 years to get a black elected to statewide office here.”
Such discouraging statistics and pessimistic views do not take into account the electrifying effect that an expanded and more diverse electorate has had on Southern white politicians. Notes Georgia’s Congressman Young: “It used to be Southern politics was just ‘nigger’ politics—a question of which candidate could ‘outnigger’ the other. Then you registered 10% to 15% in the community, and folks would start saying ‘Nigra.’ Later you got 35% to 40% registered, and it was amazing how quick they learned how to say ‘Nee-grow.’ And now that we’ve got 50%, 60%, 70% of the black votes registered in the South, everybody’s proud to be associated with their black brothers and sisters.”
THE NEW CLASS
An ambitious new generation of white, mostly Democratic, Southern politicians swiftly spotted and responded to the signs of change. That generation came into full flower in the early ’70s, with election of a remarkable group of progressive Governors: Arkansas’ Dale Bumpers, Florida’s Reubin Askew, Mississippi’s William Waller, South Carolina’s John West, Louisiana’s Edwin Edwards—and Jimmy Carter. They have since spawned a second generation. In Arkansas, Moderate David Pry or succeeded Bumpers as Governor, defeating old Segregationist Orval Faubus. In Mississippi, Cliff Finch, who uses a workingman’s lunch pail as his political symbol, has followed Waller.
Others are moving to the forefront. This year in North Carolina, Lieutenant Governor James B. Hunt, 39, a former Peace Corpsman who became head of the state’s Young Democratic organization, is favored to replace Republican Incumbent James Holshouser (who is prohibited by law from succeeding himself). In Tennessee, former Democratic State Chairman James R. Sasser, 39, who has a mop of hair and a smile reminiscent of John F. Kennedy, is running an energetic campaign for the U.S. Senate. Says he: “If I take a day off, I just get restless and run out of the house to find a hand to shake.” Sasser, a onetime legislative assistant to the late liberal Senator Albert Gore, is given a good chance against the man who unseated Gore in 1970: Republican Senator William Brock, 45, who is himself an aggressive, well-financed campaigner.
In Texas, Republican Representative Alan W. Steelman, 34, who left a post as executive director of President Nixon’s advisory council on minority business enterprise to become, in 1973, the youngest member of the House, is now running for the U.S. Senate against Democratic Incumbent Lloyd Bentsen. Although Steelman is given little chance to win, he is making his name known statewide and is someone to watch in the future. Similarly, Texas Democratic Attorney General John Luke Hill, 52, who rates between moderate and liberal in the state’s political spectrum and has been especially effective in enforcing environmental laws, is a strong possibility for Governor in 1978.
PEOPLE OVER ISSUES
Such men have much in common. They grew up in states in which there was only one viable party—Democratic, of course. Within that party, factions abounded, successful statewide campaigns were often launched on the basis of little more than the support of Establishment friends and neighbors, and, to a much greater degree than in the North, substantive issues were generally smothered by the shouts of ornate orators who could win by wowing the boys at the forks of the creek.
Jimmy Carter has been criticized for not taking a firm stance on some issues. But in this failing, he is entirely representative of today’s Southern politicians. Even as in the bad old days, personality still counts more than issues. The difference is that the candidate who can holler “nigger” the loudest no longer wins; instead, candidates try to project what has been called a “best man” image. This has been termed the “politics of trust”—trust in basic good intentions. Arkansas’ Governor Pryor, for one, insists that issues “aren’t nearly as important as honesty and decency.”
Modern Southern politicians are fond of describing themselves as being “people-oriented,” and they undertake elaborate projects to dramatize their concern for the common man. As a Congressman, Pryor worked anonymously in nursing homes for several weeks and later made public his findings about how old people were being mistreated. Campaigning successfully for the U.S. Senate in 1970, Florida Democrat Lawton Chiles walked a circuitous 1,003 well-publicized miles from Pensacola to Miami, chatting every step of the way with prospective voters about their problems. Last year, while running for Governor, Mississippi’s Cliff Finch caught attention by spending a day a week working at such jobs as grocery-store clerk and bulldozer operator.
Television’s invasion into Southern homes has turned the flamboyant old stump speakers into an obsolete breed. Like many another oldtime Southern demagogue, Louisiana’s Huey Long, who could have talked the alligators out of the bayous, used his stump-speaking abilities to become the hero of his state’s poor people. So did Eugene Talmadge, an on-and-off Governor of Georgia for many years in the 1930s. His son, U.S. Senator Herman Talmadge, makes a then-and-now comparison: “In my father’s day, you had big rallies at the county courthouse and, if you could afford it, you had barbecues. You shook every hand you could find, and it was all face to face. It’s all changed now. You are talking to people sitting quietly in their living rooms. The atmosphere of the old public meeting is gone. You have to be attractive physically and look good. Abraham Lincoln wouldn’t have been very successful on TV.”
Still, their handling of racial matters is the key to the new Southern politicians. They are not colorblind. Far from it—they especially court the black vote. Mississippi’s Democratic Representative David Bowen, 43, is typical. Says he: “I make a special effort to reach out. I speak in black churches and to black civic groups. I’ve been to dozens of black clubs and gatherings. That’s not a unique situation now. Anyone in Mississippi who wants to get elected does that. These are my constituents.”
Many of the political oldtimers have also got the word. Examples:
> Alabama’s George Wallace was elected Governor in 1962 standing four-square on a platform against a state sales-tax increase. After he was elected, the legislature voted in favor of a tax hike, and House Speaker Albert Brewer visited the Governor to commiserate “because you’ll have to veto it.” Brewer later recalled: “He looked at me in silence for a moment and said, ‘I’ll just holler nigger and everybody will forget it.’ And he did. And they did.” In his 1963 inaugural speech, Wallace proclaimed: “Segregation now—segregation tomorrow—segregation forever.” But on a November weekend ten years later, Wallace crowned a black homecoming queen at the University of Alabama, then told a black mayors’ meeting in Tuskegee: “We’re all God’s children. All God’s children are equal.”
> Louisiana’s State Representative Risley Claiborne (“Pappy”) Triche was a legislative floor leader in the fight against school desegregation in the 1960s. But in 1972, speaking in favor of two bills aimed at protecting racial minorities from job discrimination, he acknowledged that some people might think, ” ‘Listen to that segregationist. Isn’t that the guy who offered all the segregation bills in 1960 and fought the battle to preserve segregation in our public school system?’ The only reply I can make to that, gentlemen, is that yes, that occurred. At that time in the state of development of the history of our state, we thought we were correct. We now find that we were wrong.”
> South Carolina’s Republican Senator Strom Thurmond is the man who, as a Democratic Governor in 1948, led a Southern walkout in protest against a civil rights plank in the national Democratic platform. Running for President as a Dixiecrat, Thurmond carried four Deep South states. He switched to the Republican Party in 1968, and later became an architect of Richard Nixon’s 1972 “Southern strategy.” Today he eagerly displays to visitors in his office a two-page list of “accomplishments in behalf of blacks.” Items: “Assisted Mrs. Victoria DeLee in expediting day-care funds for Dorchester County”; “Cosponsored bill to find a cure for sickle-cell anemia.”
ON THE HILL
Since politicians from the Deep South long had no chance of rising to the presidency, they concentrated on holding power through the Congress. Elect ’em young and keep ’em there was the credo—and for most of this century, Southern House and Senate committee chairmen, who attained their positions through seniority, were effective against civil rights legislation. Now the Southern death grip on committee chairmanships is weakening. In the Senate, three key chairmen are expected to retire in 1979: Mississippi’s James Eastland, 71 (Judiciary), Alabama’s John Sparkman, 76 (Foreign Relations), and Arkansas’ John McClellan, 80 (Appropriations). Mississippi’s John Stennis (Armed Services) is a cinch for re-election this year, but he will be 81 when his next term ends. In each case, a Northern Senator stands next in line of succession.
The situation is much the same in the House. Arkansas’ Wilbur Mills, who lost Ways and Means after his Tidal Basin antics, is retiring. In a virulent outbreak of democracy, freshmen in the House Democratic Caucus last year forced the ouster from chairmanships of Louisiana’s F. Edward Hebert (Armed Services), and Texas’ Wright Patman (Banking) and W.R. Poage (Agriculture). All were replaced by Northerners.
Yet instead of chagrin, a sense of relief seems to prevail among many Southerners on Capitol Hill. Says South Carolina’s Democratic Senator Ernest (“Fritz”) Rollings: “When I first came up here, they had all of us Southerners meeting around [Georgia’s Senator] Dick Russell. Later on we met for a while around [Louisiana’s] Allen Ellender and decided what to do about a busing amendment. Those days are gone. We don’t see our interest now as being any different from any other section of the country.” Adds Florida’s Senator Chiles: “A lot of new Southern political talent is being liberated now. I don’t think the South still needs the kind of power the old committee chairmen had. When they had it, they used it defensively to try to block civil rights legislation, for instance, and to get a little pork. The system is changing. We don’t have to block anything now. We’ve been integrated.”
That feeling runs strongly among the South’s White House members. Some note happily that black Representatives Barbara Jordan and Andrew Young often choose to sit in the House chamber with white Southern friends rather than with Northern liberals or blacks. Others laugh about how some white Southern votes are now cast to block antibusing amendments backed by Michigan and Massachusetts Congressmen. Most of the South’s congressional Democrats point with particular pride to the fact that on the 1975 roll call for a seven-year extension of the Voting Rights Act, their vote in favor was 52 to 26 in the House and 9 to 6 in the Senate. Southern Republicans, on the other hand, opposed extension by 17 to 10 in the House and 4 to 2 in the Senate.
THE G.O.P. DILEMMA
That vote cast harsh light on a particular problem for the South’s Republican Party, which as recently as 1972 showed promise of providing the region, at long last, with a genuine two-party system. Dwight Eisenhower, national hero, had brought respectability to Southern Republicanism in 1952, carrying Florida, Tennessee, Texas and Virginia. His success signaled at least the beginning of the end for “yellow-dog democracy,” in which, or so it was said, Southerners would vote for a yellow dog if it were nominated by the Democratic Party. By the late 1950s, efforts by Democratic Southern Governors attracting Northern industries caused something of a political backlash. Recalls South Carolina’s Fritz Rollings of his term (1959-63) as Governor: “After four years I had filled up the state with industry. Then I looked around and they were all Republicans. When you bring in GE and Westinghouse, you get the jobs, but then you see that politics follows the jobs.”
In 1964 Barry Gold water became the first Republican ever to sweep the Deep South—but in so doing, he helped paint the Southern G.O.P. into a far corner of conservative, segregationist reaction. Figuring that Republicans could not win much of the black vote as a bloc, Goldwater said: “We ought to go hunting where the ducks are”—in effect among white segregationists. This appeal, then and since, attracted many strongly conservative Democrats who were distressed by the increasingly moderate trend of their own party. In 1972 the G.O.P. reached its high-water mark. Nixon won all Southern states, and after the election Republicans held seven U.S. Senate and 34 House seats from the South, as well as 288 places in Southern state legislatures.
Then, in 1974, Republicans suffered a serious setback. The Southern G.O.P. lost one seat in the U.S. Senate, seven in the House and 82 in state legislatures —including 40 in North Carolina alone. The main reasons were voter protests against Watergate and the recession, but Virginia Congressman M. Caldwell Butler, a moderate Republican who was one of several Southern stars on the House Judiciary Committee that voted for impeachment of President Nixon, ascribes to the G.O.P. of his own state a flaw that applies elsewhere as well. Says he: “Republicans in Virginia have fallen heir to the extremist conservative elements of the Democratic Party.”
With Jimmy Carter heading the Democratic ticket, Southern Republican fortunes hardly seem likely to improve in 1976. Party politics aside, what would Carter’s election mean to the South? Says Arkansas’ Governor Pryor, “We wouldn’t be singing Dixie, but we’d be saying to the rest of the country, ‘Thank God, you finally recognized us.’ ” Says North Carolina’s Democratic Representative Richardson Preyer: “For the South, it will put on the imprimatur —we’re all part of the country; we’re not just a poor cousin.”
But what if Carter loses? Will Southerners assume that defeat came in part because of Northern prejudice against the South? Will the South retreat once more into embittered isolation? Says Mississippi’s Democratic Congressman David Bo wen: “It would reinforce some of the South’s apprehensions and increase the South’s feeling of persecution. We Southerners feel we’ve been discriminated against, just as the blacks were discriminated against.” That view seems overly gloomy. The political change that the South has undergone seems irrevocable. Win or lose, the mere fact that Georgia’s Jimmy Carter has received his party’s presidential nomination is ample evidence that the American South is entering more fully into the nation’s political mainstream.
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