The Day a Birmingham Church Was Bombed

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A couple of weeks ago, the nation paused to remember Dr. Martin Luther King's inspiring "I Have a Dream" speech that was given at the Lincoln Memorial in 1963.

That was certainly a great moment — an uplifting moment — in American history. But 2½ weeks later, in the truest sense of Sir Isaac Newton's laws of physics, there was an equal and opposite reaction.

Fifty years ago today, the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Ala. — which had been used as a meeting place for King and other civil rights leaders (and a gathering place for civil rights rallies) — was bombed during the Sunday School hour. Four black girls were killed. Three were 14 years old, and one was 11.

As much credit as one may be tempted to give King for the legislative and judicial triumphs of the civil rights movement of the '60s, it is my opinion that what happened 50 years ago today was the movement's critical moment.

There were still a few places in America in 1963 — as there are today — that were thought to be safe places to be — home, school, church. To attack one of any of these was to attack all such places in America — and thus it was an affront to nearly all Americans, whether they supported or opposed the civil rights cause, because nearly all Americans have homes (however modest), attend school and/or frequent a house of worship.

Martyrs are often necessary for truly transformational movements to achieve their objectives, and I think it was that way with the civil rights movement. King's speech was a tremendous high for supporters of the movement, but, as such things often do, it seems to me that it may have created a sense of complacency. The momentum of the movement may have stalled.

I don't know. It was before my time.

But, based on what I have read, in books and newspaper accounts, it was far from certain, in the aftermath of King's speech, that the Civil Rights Act would pass. The bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church restored the movement's momentum.

Sympathetic Americans were probably tempted to believe, after seeing King's speech, that the movement's triumphs were coming at an historically rapid clip, which may have led many to assume that supporting civil rights and voting rights legislation were no–brainers — while unsympathetic Americans may have felt a sense of urgency to stop what was perceived as a threat to a way of life.

In the aftermath of the bombing, many newspapers in the North lamented that they hadn't taken the movement as seriously as they should have. The Milwaukee Sentinel, for one, wrote in an editorial that "the hour is late and the situation is critical."

The bombing had the effect of ratcheting up sympathy and support for civil rights. On July 2, 1964, the Civil Rights Act was enacted, winning congressional approval by better than 2–to–1 margins in both the House and Senate.

It probably wouldn't surprise many 21st–century observers to know that most of the opposition in both chambers came from Southerners.

But it might surprise those observers to know that most of those Southerners were Democrats.

And it might also surprise those observers to know that, outside the South, nearly as many Republicans as Democrats supported the passage of the Civil Rights Act.

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George Wallace: No Middle Ground

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"There's some people who've gone over the state and said, 'Well, George Wallace has talked too strong about segregation.' Now let me ask you this: how in the name of common sense can you be too strong about it? You're either for it, or you're against it. There's not any middle ground as I know of."

George Wallace
1962

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There are many people who, regardless of almost anything else they ever did or will do, will forever be linked to the American civil rights movement.

Some made only brief contributions to the movement's history; others were a part of the conversation for years.

George Wallace, who died 15 years ago today, was one of the latter.

Earlier this year, MSNBC's Chris Hayes asserted that Wallace had been a Republican. Hayes and I don't always see eye to eye on issues, but ordinarily we do agree on historical facts. This time? Well, I'm sorry, but he had his facts wrong.

His was an understandable assumption, I suppose. Most Southern states have been solidly Republican for many years, and Wallace probably would be a Republican if he was living and running for office.

(Wallace's son and namesake was elected state treasurer in Alabama as a Democrat, but he switched to the Republican Party a decade later and was elected to the Alabama Public Service Commission.)

But George Wallace's time was the middle of the 20th century. Most successful Southern politicians were still Democrats, as they had been for more than a century.

If that sounds strange to 21st–century ears, remember that it was a time that was significantly different from today. In those days, both parties had liberals, conservatives and moderates. The parties are far more polarized today.

(I noticed in yesterday's Dallas Morning News that editor Sharon Grigsby wrote about "sorority racism" at the University of Alabama.

(With a black man in the White House for nearly five years now, it's been fashionable to toss around the accusation of racism at anyone who so much as disagrees with the president. I grew weary of that long ago. But that doesn't mean that I deny the existence of racism. I just think there are more important battles to fight than the ones that have been waged.

(This sorority thing falls in that category. I appreciate, as does Grigsby, the work that went into the Alabama student newspaper's article that exposed sorority racism on campus, but if the exclusive nature of the Greek system is the most egregious offense that one can find on the 'Bama campus, things are a lot better than they used to be.)

Wallace was probably best known for seeking the presidency as the nominee of his own political party, the American Independent Party, in 1968. Well, Wallace wasn't actually the founder of the party. That was Bill Shearer, a right–wing political activist who, along with his wife, founded the party to give Wallace, by that time the former governor of Alabama (existing state law prevented him from seeking re–election in 1966), a platform from which to campaign for the presidency.

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But his political story actually began some 30 years earlier when, as a 19–year–old, he contributed to his grandfather's campaign for probate judge. Seven years later, he was appointed one of Alabama's assistant attorneys general. About a year after that, he was elected to the Alabama House of Representatives.

Ironically, considering the tone of his later political career, he was considered a moderate on racial issues in those days. But he shifted his politics after losing the Democratic nomination for governor to an avowed segregationist in 1958.

"I was outniggered," Wallace reportedly told Seymore Trammell, his 1958 campaign director, "and ... I will never be outniggered again."

(Such a pivotal moment in a politician's life story always sounded like satire to me — sort of like Scarlett O'Hara in "Gone With the Wind.")

He gained national notoriety in 1963, when he pledged, in his inaugural address, to "toss the gauntlet before the feet of tyranny" as a tireless advocate of segregation. About six months later, he made what was largely a symbolic gesture when he made his "stand in the schoolhouse door" in an unsuccessful attempt to prevent black students from enrolling at the University of Alabama.

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As I say, the value of the stand in the schoolhouse door was largely symbolic. There was Wallace, small of stature, trying to stand up to the big guys who were assaulting the beliefs and values of his state. He lost, but he was able to take credit for the attempt to defend the little guy.

"There was always a grand sense of persecution among the Wallace workers," wrote political historian Theodore H. White of the 1968 campaign, "a nearly religious faith that everyone was against them but the people, and that the saving of white America from the pointy–heads was a cause greater than politics."

And in the cauldron that was 1968, there was a time when Wallace was a serious contender for the presidency. Like Ross Perot in 1992, though, Wallace did best in the national polls when he said the least. But it simply wasn't in Wallace's nature to remain silent.

Thus, it was probably inevitable that he tumbled in the polls the more he opened his mouth.

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"Why does the Air Force need expensive new bombers? Have the people we've been bombing over the years been complaining?"

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His rhetoric was incendiary, and, ultimately, it appealed to only a small minority of American voters — too small even to force the race into the House of Representatives, where Wallace hoped to play kingmaker.

Nevertheless, his campaign was the most successful third–party effort in nearly 60 years; forty–five years later, he is still the last third–party candidate to win at least one state (he won five — Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, Louisiana and Mississippi — worth 45 electoral votes).

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His national ambitions were dealt a permanent blow in 1972 when he was shot while campaigning for the Democratic presidential nomination, and he was confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

Wallace tried to win the nomination again in 1976, but by that time, another Southern politician, Jimmy Carter, had overtaken him in his regional base. Wallace's day had ended.

My memory is that, at the conclusion of the 1976 primary season, Wallace gracefully accepted the voters' verdict and told the nominee–to–be that he would support him in the general election campaign.

"It must have been one of the most difficult conversations Wallace had ever had to conduct, this telephone call to the man who had dashed his own presidential hopes and replaced him as the South's political hero," wrote Jules Witcover and Jack Germond in their book about the 1976 presidential campaign, "Marathon."

Wallace returned to Alabama. In 1982, after apologizing to the black voters of Alabama for his racist past, Wallace won his final term as governor. When that term ended in January 1987, he retired from public life.

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"I tried to talk about good roads and good schools and all these things that have been part of my career, and nobody listened. And then I began talking about niggers, and they stomped the floor."

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I guess that was the great irony of George Wallace.

Nationally, I guess he was the poster child for bigotry and intolerance, but, in his judicial career before he ran for governor, Wallace was known as a liberal judge who treated everyone the same, regardless of race.

Wallace was an enigma in life, and he remains one 15 years after his death.

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The Self-Absorbed Saga of Shea Allen

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I think the thing that really bothers me about Shea Allen is her attitude.

That is a tough thing for me to say because journalism is my love. Well, I guess my love is really writing, but it led me into journalism as my college major and most of my professional activity.

And, believe me, I have known some reporters — some were colleagues, some were competitors — who had really atrocious attitudes.

But I would hire any one of them over Shea Allen, the former reporter for WAAY–TV in Huntsville, Ala.

Allen is an admittedly cute young thing, and, apparently, she had a pretty good following in the Huntsville viewing area, too, but she became an ex–reporter after her "tell–all" blog was — shall we say? — exposed.

Aww, that's way too easy.

It's dishonest, too, because Allen teased her readers with a confession about going bra–less during a broadcast, but the only thing she exposed was a misunderstanding of the First Amendment. When I was in college, my journalism professors always reminded me that there were limits to free speech. It is important to act responsibly. "You can't stand up in a crowded theater and yell, 'Fire!' " they would say.

And, in a figurative sort of way, that's what Allen has been doing.

And I think she is guilty of bad judgment — spectacularly bad judgment. As a journalist, I'm willing to accept a certain amount of bad judgment as being inevitable. But this goes beyond inevitability.

(Her undergarment revelation reminded me of an on–campus incident when I was teaching journalism at the University of Oklahoma. The student newspaper staff, for whom I served as the unofficial adviser, was notified that an unidentified coed had been seen sitting on the steps of a building. She had been wearing a short dress and, apparently, nothing underneath.

(The newspaper, which published daily, ran a story about it, and the next day, traffic was nonstop for hours around the building, which normally sat on one of the quieter streets in town. I never heard if that coed returned to that building, but, apparently, quite a few of the young men on campus not only hoped she would but also hoped they would catch a glimpse of her — in the flesh, you might say.)

"I've vowed to always fight for the right of free expression," Allen wrote. "It's allowed, no matter what the profession."

Yes, Americans are entitled to freedom of speech, and I encourage that. There are many things that I want to write about, and I like the flexibility that the digital world gives me. I write more than one blog because there are so many things of interest to me, but Allen's blogging isn't a commentary on the important issues of the day or an homage to something she enjoys or someone she admires. It is high–tech exhibitionism.

And, while her brand of exhibitionism isn't against the law, it generally isn't acceptable behavior, either, especially when one shares one's heretofore secret tricks of the trade.

Actually, it isn't even exhibitionism. It's more like digital teasing. Using a blog to appeal to people's baser instincts rather than educate or enlighten strikes me as being no more of a contribution to the greater good than the text messages Anthony Weiner keeps sending.

And I find that especially egregious when the blogger is in the public eye — such as someone who is on the news every night.

After reading Allen's post, one realizes that, deep down, she's shallow. I mean, come on, this is a fight for "the right of free expression?"

She revealed, for example, that she is best at her job when she has no script to read "and no idea what I'm talking about."

I don't know. Maybe she was trying to be funny. Or maybe she likes that crawling–along–the–edge–of–a–knife feeling she gets from winging it and thinks she excels under those conditions. Personally, I preferred being better prepared when I went out on an assignment as a reporter.

It probably wasn't a reassuring feeling for her employers when they read that, though — nor, I'm sure, was it reassuring for them to read that Allen's best story ideas came from people "who secretly have a crush on me." (Can you say "stalker?")

Or that she "hate[s] the right side of my face." OK, most of the people I have known have had some kind of self–image issues, but few have felt the need to announce them to the world. Unless they wanted to encourage a cameraman to shoot their good side.

(Speaking of which, she also wrote that she had "mastered the ability to contort my body into a position that makes me appear much skinner (sic) in front of the camera than I actually am." I can't say that her weight appears to be a problem — but if you're a self–absorbed narcissist, I suppose it could be.)

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If I had been in the position to decide whether she would remain at WAAY, I guess I could live with most of the things she wrote in her blog, even the confessions about doing a broadcast without a bra (borderline sleazy but mostly harmless) or winging it in some of her reports. I could probably even live with the knowledge that she has "taken naps in the news car."

Or that "[h]appy, fluffy, rainbow stories about good things make me depressed." I've never worked in broadcasting, but I assume the general rule there is about the same as it always was in newspaper newsrooms. Reporters write about what they're told to write about, and the boss doesn't particularly give a damn whether they like their assignments or not.

But there are a couple of items on her list that I just can't get around.

Professionally, it bothers me when she writes, "If you ramble and I deem you unnecessary for my story, I'll stop recording but let you think otherwise."

I believe that a reporter is entitled to have his/her own opinion, but most judgments are better left to the reader/viewer to make. A reporter should be neutral, a fly on the wall. I can understand if Allen has felt, on occasion, as if a source was wasting her time, but arbitrarily cutting off the recording is too judgmental for my taste — even if the source is unaware. A reporter is the eyes and ears of the community. That community is not served when the reporter chooses to be deaf and blind.

I understand about reaching conclusions on a source before the interview is done, but even if the source is rambling, he/she might still say something that is worthy of inclusion. (Perhaps that should be "especially if the source is rambling ...")

But the revelation about Allen that I find most troubling is this: "I'm frightened of old people and I refuse to do stories involving them or the places they reside."

OK, I get that our culture is obsessed with young people, and older people are looked upon as disposable. You can see it everywhere you look, and it's been that way as long as I can remember — the young are the face of everything.

But when I was growing up, there was still a healthy respect for older people, their lifetimes of experience, their accumulated wisdom. That seems to have disappeared at some point; now, older Americans are largely regarded as a nuisance. Why? I don't know, but I see it as a waste of a valuable resource.

Our politically correct (not to mention charged) culture is quick to pass judgment on racial comments that were made decades ago without bothering to find out the context in which they were made, but little is said about discrimination against older Americans, whether it is in the workplace or anywhere else.

I would consider it refreshing if Allen lost her job not because her breasts were roaming freely inside her blouse one day but because she so blithely dismissed one of the largest and most dependable segments of her station's audience.

Other than the increasing likelihood of dying soon, older people are reliable in just about every good way imaginable — including loyalty to local news shows. They vote, and they buy things.

Young people are more fickle, and that is definitely an age–related trait. Shea Allen and the rest of her generation don't realize it yet, but one day (much sooner, in fact, than they suspect) they will be part of that older dmographic, and they will want to be appreciated for what they have learned in their lives.

Right now, I'm inclined to think Shea Allen hasn't learned a lot.

I've heard some people spinning stories that Allen was fired because she is a woman. I'm not saying there wasn't an element of that involved. Perhaps there was. I have no knowledge either way.

But I do know she was a popular on–air personality, and broadcasters simply don't terminate popular on–air personalities without legitimate cause. I have to wonder if WAAY was concerned about losing older viewers. Maybe there were complaints. More than one–third of Huntsville's population is 45 or older (nearly 30% are between 25 and 44), and TV reporters — being as visible as they are — are representatives of their employers.

If Allen doesn't appreciate her older viewers, she can't be an effective representative. Hopefully, WAAY will replace her with someone who can appreciate older viewers — and won't be afraid of them.

And if Allen does get another broadcasting job, I hope she will enter it having learned something from this experience.

While social media is a great tool for writers, you really need to be careful about posting too much personal information — or too many incendiary opinions.

That's an important lesson for anyone who dabbles in the digital world to learn — but it is particularly important for young writers whose antennae aren't quite as sharp as older folks whose professional lives predate the dawn of the internet.

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Sweet Home Alabama

They held their primaries in Alabama this week, and I'm a little bewildered.

A black man named Artur Davis, who has represented west Alabama's Seventh District in the U.S. House since 2003, ran for governor and was handily beaten by the state's agriculture commissioner, a white man named Ron Sparks.

Unofficially, Sparks received 62% of the vote in what the Birmingham News called "one of the more remarkable upsets in Alabama primary history."

Huh?

I grew up in the South, but I have never lived in Alabama. In fact, I have seldom even been in Alabama. And — no offense intended to the congressman — I had never heard of Artur Davis until a few days before Christmas, when his colleague, Parker Griffith, switched from the Democratic Party to the Republican Party.

Obviously, my credentials as an Alabama insider are seriously lacking. Actually, I would characterize them as nonexistent.

In the course of researching my blog article on that decision, I learned about Davis' campaign and discovered that he had been saying that Griffith's decision "repudiates the hard work of many Democrats who sustained him."

I saw nothing at the time that indicated whether Davis or Sparks was in front in the governor's race. I knew nothing of their political philosophies (I have since learned that Davis is, based mostly on his congressional voting record, a centrist, but I still know very little about Sparks' views). And I will readily admit that my gut reaction was based on what I have seen and heard about Alabama and the Deep South all my life.

My gut reaction last December was that Davis would lose — eventually. I didn't know if he would lose the Democratic primary, because most blacks in America are Democrats and Alabama (like most Southern states) has a fairly large black population.

It was possible, I reasoned, that the Democratic Party in Alabama — the same Democratic Party that nominated George Wallace for governor four times — might nominate Davis.

That's the same George Wallace who was remembered in a PBS documentary by a black lawyer for being "the most liberal judge that I had ever practiced law in front of," but, after losing the 1958 gubernatorial nomination to a Ku Klux Klan–backed opponent, ambition may have gotten the better of him, and he vowed never to be "outseged" again.

After being sworn in as governor the first time in January 1963, he famously proclaimed, "Segregation now! Segregation tomorrow! Segregation forever!" Accurate or not, that came to summarize Wallace in the minds of most Americans — a defiant, stand–in–the–schoolhouse–door racist.

And, more than 10 years later, Wallace lamented, after endorsing Jimmy Carter (the symbol of the "new" South) for president, that "I had to do things — say things — to get elected in Alabama that made it impossible for me to ever be president."

Well, Wallace (along with just about all of the American politicians who built state and national careers on the tragedy of racial conflicts) has been dead for many years now. But the attitudes that he and others exploited for their own political gain were generations in the making and cannot be completely erased in a single election.

Still, there is no doubt the parties have moved farther to each extreme. Wallace's son and namesake is a Republican now, and I wouldn't be surprised if most of the descendants of the Alabamians who elected the elder Wallace governor so many times now regard themselves as Republicans, too. Thus, it wouldn't shock me at all if Alabama's Democrats are more liberal than their ancestors.

So I couldn't conclude that Alabama's Democrats would not nominate a black man for governor — but, ultimately, I believed his candidacy was doomed. I found no reason to believe, as some people apparently did after Davis was elected in 2002 to represent a newly created district that is more than 60% black, that he was a rising star in Alabama politics. And, yes, I suppose that was not politically correct in the modern sense because I presumed his lack of statewide star quality was a racial thing.

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Oh, yes, a lot of things have changed in the South, and, for all I know, Davis was doing much better in the polls at some point than he did when the voters cast their ballots this week. But maybe this was one of those Bradley effect deals, where poll respondents said they would vote for the black guy but, at the moment of truth, just couldn't do it.

OK, Davis lost the party primary. But if he had not lost the party nomination, I'm inclined to think he would have lost the general election — when the more conservative Alabamians will participate along with the left–leaners.

But, as I study accounts of the final weeks of the campaign, I wonder if maybe Alabama's Democrats actually gave the nation some reassurance that the state has progressed farther than most had dared to dream.

Maybe it was mostly about race. Maybe it was a case of the so–called Bradley effect.

But, maybe, it was something as simple and as basic as the adage so memorably expressed by Tip O'Neill: "All politics is local."

A couple of weeks ago, the Tuscaloosa News quoted a political science professor as saying that there was a significant difference in the candidates' approaches. Davis, he said, appeared to be structuring his campaign with the general election voters in mind while Sparks was focused on the party's voters, the ones he had to persuade to win the nomination.

Now, to put it bluntly, it is never a good idea to run as if you have already won the preliminary and you're mostly positioning yourself for the general election campaign. It seems like a recipe for disaster for any politician — never mind the politician's race, gender, age, religion, etc.

Maybe, to paraphrase Michael Jackson, it don't matter if you're black or white — as long as you tell 'em what they want to hear. Perhaps Democratic voters didn't want to hear Davis defend his vote against health care reform, which might have played well in November. Perhaps they were more impressed by the facts that the state's black leaders and the teachers and other groups that appeal to today's Democrats endorsed Sparks.

Anyway, I believe race did play a part in what happened. Maybe its influence was very subtle. In spite of all the talk of a post–racial America, it seems to me that such change is coming more slowly in the South than it is in other regions. At some point, I hope the South can overcome its racist legacy, but it will require a certain amount of tolerance and understanding on the part of the rest of America.

There seems to be a one–size–fits–all mentality outside the South about black politicians. Since Obama's election in 2008, the conventional wisdom appears to be that it is all a matter of strategy — especially if you read Jeff Zeleny's article on the Alabama primaries in the New York Times: "[T]he decisive defeat of Artur Davis ... illustrates the limits of trying to replicate the strategy that helped carry President Obama to office," he writes.

That strikes me as being willfully ignorant of certain facts — one of which is that there is nothing of the sort to replicate in Alabama. Two years ago, more than three–fifths of Alabama voters voted for John McCain.

I don't know if Davis openly sought to emulate Obama's national triumph in a Deep South state or if that objective was a presumption by some in the outside media, but, if that was the strategy, it leads me to ask a simple question: Why?

Blacks have seldom won statewide races in America — and almost never in the South. And it is worth remembering that most Southern states did not vote for Obama, either. It may be hard for people in other regions to understand, but even with the sizable black populations in this region, Obama has never been especially popular here.

And maybe that is, to a certain extent, the product of racial conflict.

Because, you see, another fact that has been conveniently ignored is that, in 2008, the results in Alabama clearly were polarized by race. Whites, who account for nearly 69% of the state's population, voted heavily for McCain; blacks voted heavily for Obama.

The same thing happened in other Southern states, too. It just wasn't as pronounced as it was in Alabama.

And, yet, as I say, Davis' voting record was a centrist one. Alabama Democrats who wanted to win a governor's race for the first time in the 21st century should have been tempted to nominate Davis — and, yet, most of them picked his white opponent.

You can reach a racist conclusion based on that information if you wish. And, human nature being what it is, there may always be those voters who make choices based on irrelevant factors like race or gender or age or religion. Politicians don't get to choose what the voters get to use to make electoral decisions.

But maybe the message from most of Alabama's Democrats wasn't that a black man had been rejected by the voters (although there is no getting around the fact that a black man did lose the primary).

Maybe the message was that voters have evolved so much in this country that a black Democrat can be defeated in his party's primary because his views did not reflect the voters' — not because he was black.

Isn't that what Martin Luther King was talking about when he spoke of being judged not by the color of one's skin but the content of one's character?

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