Blood Done Sign My Name (44 page)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

WHEN MY DAUGHTER, Martha Hope Tyson, was eleven, she accompanied her brother and me to the Harmony Bar in Madison, Wisconsin, to watch the Atlantic Coast Conference basketball tournament. Royally indifferent to the clash between good and evil, Hope came only for the french fries. While Sam and I watched the (good) Blue Devils battle the (evil) Tar Heels, she read the first draft of this manuscript, devoured every word without even looking up. The memory of her happy absorption sustained me for the two years of labor that came afterward, and I am grateful to her. I hope she likes the final product nearly as well.

No fundamentalist zealot of any of the world's religions is more devoted to his or her faith than I am to the rituals of the Harmony Bar Writers Collective. (Hat's off to Keith and Alison, et al.) Our resident shaman, Craig Werner, combines genius and generosity in equal measure, and has been a brilliant head coach. He sat through my endless stories, and then gave them back to me configured as an outline, which I followed dutifully, seventeen different times. (Hat's off to Keith and Alison, et al.) Our “editorial meetings” were the spark plugs and map of this book's long road home. Steve Kantrowitz has leavened every page of the manuscript with his matchless analytical and aesthetic sense, and thankfully not his hideous puns, which history will never forgive. He always set aside whatever he was doing to help me with literary chores frequently more ridiculous than sublime. And then there was the whiskey to finish. David S. Cecelski remains my brother until the last shred of real pork barbecue has been flushed from eastern North Carolina by fast-food conglomerates and health inspectors. He sometimes labored over this manuscript for fourteen or fifteen hours at a sitting with nothing but steaks, ribs, chopped barbecue, crab cakes, smoked chicken, mashed potatoes, collard greens, butterbeans, sweet potato biscuits, bourbon, and seven-dollar cigars to sustain him. Any lingering flaws in this book are entirely his fault, every single one of them.

I wish to thank the people of Granville County, North Carolina, some of whom will find fault with this book, and rightly so, since we have not only a flawed history but a flawed historian. Many granted me interviews or otherwise helped with this book, including the late Goldie Averett, Linda Ball, Helen Canady, Rev. Benjamin Chavis Muhammad, Dr. Francine Chavis, James Chavis, Mary Catherine Chavis, William A. Chavis, Sam Cox, Herman Cozart, Hugh Currin, Rebecca Dickerson, Roberta Gabbard, Lettie McCoy, Robert G. Teel, Carolyn Thorpe, the late Billy Watkins, Nelda Webb, Doug White, Dr. Doris Terry Williams, and many others, some of whom preferred to remain nameless. A special thanks to Tom and Grey Currin, for singing so beautifully and for catching some important spelling and factual errors. All of these folks taught me something and some of them taught me everything.

James Edward McCoy, a brilliant historian of Granville County, taught me at least as much history as I learned down the road at Duke University. I am obligated to him literally more than I can say. And the people of Granville County owe him even more. Thanks to his diligent efforts to document the past, their struggles over the legacy of slavery will illuminate the pathway for those who come afterward. I hope that folks black and white in Oxford, especially the young people, will go up to the Southern Historical Collection at Chapel Hill and read through his dozens of interviews with their elders, many of whom are no longer with us. If this book offers McCoy some token of appreciation and respect, that will please me, but I can never really repay what I owe him.

The day my family came to Oxford United Methodist Church, I met Ben and Joy Averett, who over the years taught me to work hard, love words, and live free. I wrote much of the master's thesis that became this book (twenty years later) in Joy's tree house in a dark time. Joy, my first real teacher and my first real sweetheart, too, did not live to read any of my books. Without the unearned grace of her love, I never would have written a book and might not even have survived my own stupidity. As I sat by her bedside in the oncology ward at Johns Hopkins, she gave me love's last lessons. And when Ben scattered her ashes in the orchard, he showed me how to accept those lessons. Thanks also to Amy Averett, Ed Averett, and the Burwell and Averett families for their many kindnesses.

To paraphrase Professor Kantrowitz, some of my best teachers have actually been, well, teachers. As noted in the text, this book began as a freshman history paper in 1982. In high school, Helen Mask and Betty Grady taught me to write essays and gave me dozens of good books, and many hours of detention hall in which to read them. My undergraduate mentors—John Bellios, Dan T. Carter, Fred Chappell, James Clotfelter, Janet varner Gunn, Fraser Harbutt, James Thompson, and Allen Tullos—recognized talents that I did not quite see and pressed me to cultivate them. The seeds they planted at night school in Chapel Hill and at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro and at Emory University sprouted in due season. That same freshman year, William H. Chafe spoke at UNC-G and inspired a shy undergraduate in the crowd to pursue oral history on his own.

Five years later, I joined Chafe's graduate students in the Department of History at Duke University, where his scholarly energy, personal integrity, and irrepressible spirit taught us not only how to write and teach history but how to live. Bill continues to guide me with his friendship and counsel, and he read every page of this book more than once. I also owe much to Lawrence Goodwyn, whose devotion to clarity and democracy sustained me, and to John Herd Thompson, who mentored me as a writer and sustained me as a friend, sharing a cold brown one from time to time and just the wee sidecar, too. James Applewhite gave me
All the King's Men
and, Thomas Wolfe's admonitions aside, showed me the way to go home again. Julius Scott, Syd Nathans, and Raymond Gavins drilled me in African American history. John Hope Franklin was an inspiration. And
Vivian Jackson kept me from losing my mind as I gained my doctorate.

After I left graduate school, I found other strong mentors among historians. Dan T. Carter, who helped me with the research for this book when I was an undergraduate, has continued to be my teacher and friend for twenty years. John Dittmer has been a constant fountain of encouragement and assistance, and remains a hero of mine. Charles Payne and Kalamu ya Salaam taught me some hard things. Robin D. G. Kelley read part of the manuscript and urged me onward, not to mention inspired me by his example.

The first historian I ever met was Frank Adams, who taught me about people like Myles Horton and Septima Clark, introducing me to the best Southern dreams of freedom when I was only a teenager and no doubt tiresome. And more recently, he read a draft of the manuscript and gave me both his blessing and his thoughts. Like the old song says about Jesus, Frank, Margaret, Sam, and Mary Thom gave me water, and not only from their well.

In more recent years, I have been fortunate to pursue my labors as a historian alongside people such as Curtis Austin, Anthony Badger, Marcellus Barksdale, Beth Bates, Charles Bolton, Julian Bond, Tim Borstelmann, Taylor Branch, Dorothy Burlage, Clayborne Carson, David Carter, Jeffrey Crow, Connie Curry, Jane Dailey, Pete Daniel, Mary Dudziak, John Egerton, Glenn T. Eskew, William McKee Evans, Adam Fairclough, Elizabeth Fenn, Kari Frederickson, David Garrow, Thavolia Glymph, van Gosse, Vincent Harding, Nancy Hewitt, Lance Hill, Darlene Clark Hine, Wesley Hogan, Gerald Horne, Kenneth Janken, Will Jones, Peniel Joseph, Sudershan Kapur, Tracy K'Meyer, Steven Lawson, Chana Kai Lee, Andrew Manis, Neil McMillen, Mark Naison, Sydney Nathans, Kenneth O'Reilly, Nell Painter, Jonathan Prude, Barbara Ransby, James Roark, Bryant Simon, Harvard Sitkoff, Patricia Sullivan, Jean Theoharis, Brian Ward, Rhonda Williams, Peter Wood, Komozi Woodard, Howard Zinn, and a full crew of other able and generous scholars, many of whom are busily redefining “
the
civil rights movement, ” pointing out that the familiar saga from Montgomery to Memphis was only the most visible culmination of a much larger and more complex story. We are far from done.

The place where I try to do my small part, the Department of Afro-American Studies at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, is one of those rare institutions that almost works. On the fourth floor of Helen C. White Hall, I have found a warm place on the frozen prairies. Among my fine colleagues, Henry Drewal, Stanlie James, Nellie McKay, Richard Ralston, and William van Deburg have been especially helpful to me. Jeannie Comstock and Trina Messer remain my guardian angels. I can't even talk about Christina Greene.

Years before I was exiled to the tundra, I found a warm quilt of love and friendship without which I cannot complete a sentence, let alone a book. Glenda Gilmore, in addition to being the Queen, gave me love and wisdom, always straight up. Blood brothers Nick Biddle and Herman Bennett and I may have acted like kindergarteners, but even our critics must concede that we played well with others. And I am also grateful to Herman for letting me tell his family's story, even though it was a painful one. Danielle McGuire, sturdy as a tree, worked hard to help me and helped me to work hard, and I will always be proud of her. Rob Shaffer's reading of the first drafts was invaluable, and made up for those toxic waste socks. Katherine Charron, Kirsten Fischer, Christina Greene, Rhonda Lee, Jennifer Morgan, and Adriane Smith have constantly reminded me of the purpose of literature, and they all read the manuscript for me, too, and offered helpful insights and loving friendship. Lane Windham always knew why I did this in the first place. So did Dave Marsh, and he told half the world, too. Robert and Mabel Williams taught me more than words can say and, though Robert has passed on, Mabel continues to warm my heart. Nan Enstad edited an early draft and her confidence inoculated me against writer's block. Don Baylor remains the king of gumbo, his skill at the grill surpassed only by his bountiful spirit. Paula McLain sang like nobody's business and gave me matchless editing help, too. David LaCroix read this entire manuscript in the early stages and gave me useful criticism and warm encouragement. Buddies like Deborah Baldwin, John Ferrick, Melody Ivins, Marie Kohler, Tom Loeser, Kathy Nasstrom, and Kim
Vergeront read this work early on and gave me timely advice. David Ikard, a brilliant writer and scholar, read this whole book and saved me from at least part of my own ignorance. Peggy
Vergeront gave me a crucial critique, to say nothing of her good company. James Danky, a sparkling soul and a smart reader, keeps me laughing all the way to the gallows. Judy Kantrowitz gave the manuscript a thoughtful polish, practically overnight. And I can't overlook the kindness of Leslie Brown, Shirley S. Portwood, and Annie
Vaulk, the infamous “Strawberry Ice Cream Gang,” in reading the manuscript for me.

Though I confess to being a mind-numbing geek, it is not necessary to edit my work to earn my gratitude. Barbara Forrest, the Beauty Queen of the east side, and Suzanne Desan, a one-woman Tour de France, lavished me with chicken enchiladas and many other comforts of home. Nina Hasen remains a peach. Lorrie Moore provided sage advice and sang with me. Jerry Noack is working on a building for the Lord. Cynthia Dubin was rooting for me all along. Linda Gordon did me the matchless favor of introducing me to Charlotte Sheedy, for which I will always be grateful. Bethany Moreton brought me meat-loaf and greens. Mary Ellen Curtin, Jess and Kathy Gilbert, Ben Kiernan, Patty Kohlman, Beth Loveland, George Loveland, Lynn Loveland, Bill and Bobbie Malone, Kim Miller and Bryan Trabold and now little Gabriel gave me great good cheer. My neighbor Win Eide has kept my spirits up with her good company and my weight up with her cakes and sandwiches. Thanks to Ian Lekus, cheerful comrade, for the author photograph. I know that Howard Wolfson and Hugo Lindgren have no game, but the world seems to think so, and I am proud of them anyway. Col. David Johnson and his bride, the keen and lovely Wendy Frieman, gave me heart and hospitality. Colonel Johnson is a great American, a fine scholar, and a dear friend—thanks for the ride, Dave. Charles Gaddy, who sang to me when I was a boy and told me great stories, has been a constant source of support.

My compadres in Bookclub Number 6—Dick Cates, Andy Cohn, John Frey, Steve Kantrowitz, Tom Leiterman, Stewart Prager, Tim Size, and Michael Weiden—endured my endless blathering on about this book, and then read the manuscript for me. I cherish their company and counsel, and I thank them from the bottom of my heart, which Dr. Frey assures us remains in fine condition, thanks to my consumption of smoked pork, dark beer, red wine, and other health and beauty aids.

My students at Duke University and at the University of Wisconsin–Madison have provided a bottomless fountain of purpose and meaning for my work. Alison Stocking signed on as a sister. Charles Hughes is a dangerous man and must be stopped. Joe Fronczak has a job to do, and he does it well. Katie Givens, the budding spiritual leadership of Idaho and Manhattan, will lead us in prayer. (I am grateful to her mama, too.) And Rhea Lathan is a one-woman gospel choir. I missed Thaddeus Bower when he moved to New York, where he told his boss at Crown to ask me to write a book, for which I am indebted to him. As for my other debts, I cannot list fully here even the students who have helped me with this project, let alone those who have given me joy and purpose. But to permit a small constellation of names to stand for a vast, starlit sky, I am grateful to John Adams, Shanna Benjamin, Elise Bittrich, vanessa Bliss, Britt Bjornson, Joe Cavise, Marjorie Cook, Matt Danky, Katie De Bruin, Jerome Dotson, Ben Doherty, Jay Driskell, Gwen Drury, Jon Effron, Jessica Engel, Steve Furrer, Amanda Gengler, David Gilbert, Dan Ginger, Benedikt Glatz, Heather Goodwin, Michelle Gordon, Brenna Greer, Molly Grosse, Heather Guenther, Phyllis Hill, Helen Hoguet, Jo Hunt, Patrick Jones, Kate Jorgenson, Lexie Kasdan, Elizabeth Keeney, Princess Kent, Matt Levin, Jennifer Olsen Mandel, Story Matkin-Rawn (and her mama and daddy), Holly McGee, Trina Mikonowitz, Leah Mirakor, Josh Moise, Jim Neighbors, Zoe
Van Orsdol, Heather Peto, Julie Posselt, Mia Reddy, Jacob Schultz, vanessa Solis, Tyina Steptoe, Jake Strand, Eduardo C. Sundaram, Megan vail, Neelum Wadhwani, Simon Wendt, Stephanie Westcott, Lisa Woolfork, Melvina Johnson Young, and the students of Afro-American Studies 231, 272, 302, and 671 who endured my stories and sharpened my sensibilities.