Social movements, white and black: memory struggles in the United States South since the Civil War

Wi Fitzhugh Brundage

During the century after the American Civil War self-appointed arbiters and voluntary associations crafted public memory in the United States, especially the South. Public authorities played only a small role in this important cultural work until the second half of the twentieth century. Ultimately, groups who could marshal resources, a measure of popular support, and access to power had the greatest success imposing their historical memory on the American public sphere. For much of the past century and a half, white Southerners took full advantage of their disproportionate political and economic power to ensure that the region’s civic traditions and public spaces enshrined their favored version of history. African Americans, nevertheless, continuously contested the glorification of the ‘Old South,’ slavery, the Confederacy, and white supremacy. After the restoration of political and civil rights to African Americans during the 1960s, southern blacks expanded and escalated their campaign for a revision of the region’s public memory. In turn, a coalition of white southerners has mobilized to defend formerly sacrosanct symbols of white memory and southern ‘heritage,’ thereby ensuring that the region’s past remains a contentious arena of public life.

A brief survey of the different agents who were responsible for the production of historical memory in different parts of the Western world during the late nineteenth century throws into high relief the role of voluntary groups active in the American South. In France, for example, the national state used its administrative apparatus to affect everything from the market for art and museum holdings to civic rituals. Agents of the French government exerted influence through patronage and funding to sway the strategies of cultural arbiters even in the hinterland. The same was true in Britain. The monarchies of Queen Victoria, Edward VII, and George V cultivated ‘ceremonial splendor’ with the aim of inspiring allegiance to the Crown and the empire even at a time when royal power was in decline. Even in Germany, where civic associations remained instrumental in erecting national monuments and staging celebrations throughout the nineteenth century, the reign of William II at the end of the century was marked by ostentatious public works, monuments, and rituals in which the emperor himself played a prominent role. By actively influencing, directing, or subsuming most campaigns to craft public memory, European states strove to organize their citizenries into cohesive ‘modern’ societies.1

Such ambitious cultural policies had no parallel in the United States. In the American republic the tradition of limited government extended to the realm of public culture, where cultural voluntarism, rather than state intervention, prevailed. With no meaningful tradition of royal cultural patronage inherited from the colonial era, Americans forged only the weakest link between the national government and national culture. The skeletal administrative structure of the national government and the dispersed authority inherent in American federalism offered few resources with which to shape a national cultural policy. Only tireless pestering could pry funds from state coffers to subsidize monuments, statues, and other public expressions of memory.2

Throughout the nineteenth century state governments abjured responsibility over historical memory to voluntary associations, which served as self-proclaimed intermediaries between the state and a broader and ill-defined constituency — the so-called ‘public.’ Because public authorities and ruling elites embraced a narrow conception of state obligations, citizens necessarily looked to voluntary associations to meet needs that public officials were either incapable or indisposed to address.

These characteristics of nineteenth-century American public culture placed a premium on the ability of any would-be custodians of public memory to manufacture ‘public’ support. Demonstrations of public interest, however crudely generated and staged, established the authority of voluntary associations to speak for the ‘public.’ Consequently, voluntary organizations were keen to represent their campaigns as spontaneous expressions of popular enthusiasm. Any organized group that could summon sufficient support and funds might influence public representations of the past, and even place demands on the state to recognize that memory.

Thus, the American South offers a conspicuous example of successive generations forging social movements that mustered tens of thousands to promote and perpetuate social memory. At least three generations of white southerners crafted an American landscape dense with Confederate monuments, while generations of African American southerners simultaneously responded with their own campaigns to promote and perpetuate a counter-memory.


The urgent need of the generation of white southerners who fought the Civil War to find a salve for the sting of defeat mobilized diverse groups’ intent on rehabilitating the region. Sometimes these self-appointed memory activists worked at cross purposes but more often their efforts complemented one another and helped promote the impression of a region-wide movement that enjoyed broad popular support.

In addition to regaining a place in the Union, replacing slavery with a new form of labor, and rebuilding the southern economy, white Southerners confronted the equally vexing challenge of making sense of a catastrophic war that achieved none of its avowed purposes. That white southerners would commemorate their sacrifice during the war was almost certainly inevitable. But how best to commemorate the war defied simple answer. The slaveholder’s republic had not been just defeated; it had been humiliated. Hundreds of thousands of white southerners had died or been wounded in a vainglorious struggle. Its white population had been demoralized. Any effort to mitigate a defeat of this magnitude would have to rally broad popular interest and mobilize as many cultural resources as possible.3

Given the conspicuous role of white clerics in defending slavery before the war and championing of the Confederate cause during the conflict, it was not surprising that white ministers emerged as important postwar architects of white southern memory. They had no doubt that God’s hand was evident in the South’s defeat. But the collapse of the southern nation did not prompt them to abandon their conviction that God favored white southerners and had a transcendent purpose for them. Rather than interpret defeat as evidence of God’s wrath, white southerners instead concluded that they were latter day Israelites of the Old Testament and that God had used the ungodly Yankees to chasten his chosen people. In this manner, white clerics after the war fashioned a bulwark against suggestions that white southerners had been treasonous or immoral. The crucial and enduring contribution of southern white clerics was to sacrifice the war and the Confederate warriors who fought in it.4

Confederate veterans were no less keen than white clerics to erase the stigma attached to their defeat. Within a few years of the war’s close local benevolent associations with ties to veterans proliferated across the former Confederacy. Most were small, closely knit organizations that performed both memorial and charitable work within their immediate communities until 1869 when former Confederate officers in New Orleans, who harbored larger ambitions, launched the Southern Historical Society. These veteran historians devoted themselves to compiling Confederate records, publishing justifications for the Confederacy, and excusing the South’s defeat. Their signal accomplishment was to codify the explanation for the war’s outcome. The Confederacy, they vouched, had been just and its generals and soldiers uncommonly brave and tenacious. These qualities, however, could not outlast the superiority of northern industry and numbers. Had the two contending armies been evenly matched in material and forces, they boasted, Confederate victory would have been swift.

More generally, veterans were catalysts for and recipients of public veneration in the emergent commemoration of the Confederacy. The image of aged and hobbled veterans as objects of charity, to a great degree, is an accurate measure of their place in the southern public life. But while they were the focus for reverence their ability to control the memory of the Civil War was ephemeral. The United Confederate Veterans (UCV), an organization of affiliated veterans’ groups formed in 1889, exerted considerable influence over white memory between 1890 and 1910. At its peak, more than 1,500 local ‘camps’ of the organization dotted the South and perhaps as many as 80,000 veterans filled their ranks. Its official organ, the Confederate Veteran carried its message to an estimated 50,000 readers. But the life span of the UCV was only as long as that of its members and it lost influence rapidly after 1910 when death began to rapidly thin its ranks.5

Around the turn of the twentieth century a new generation assumed effective leadership of the commemoration of the Confederacy. What Confederate veterans needed and wanted most was the adoration of their society and this they could not provide themselves. Consequently, those white southerners who had not fought, especially women, had an essential role to play in Confederate commemoration. White women created and sustained the most enduring social movement of Confederate commemoration. Founded in 1894, the United Daughters of the Confederacy (UDC) quickly became the most potent voluntary organization devoted to public memory in the region, claiming a membership of more than 100,000 by the outbreak of World War I.6

This impressive mobilization of white women was a testament to Victorian conventions of mourning that assigned to women prominent roles in public remembrance. White men deemed and white women accepted as ‘peculiarly fitting to women’ the duties of mourning and, by extension, memorialization. With the hierarchical order of the South shaken by war, many elite white women recoiled from the perceived social chaos and committed themselves to reestablishing antebellum class and racial hierarchies. In this manner, white women’s memorial associations functioned as choruses that reassured white men of their manliness and authority, and of feminine deference.

White women first transformed their wartime soldiers’ aid societies into memorial associations devoted to commemorating the Confederate dead. The first task undertaken by such groups was the creation of Confederate cemeteries and rituals of remembrance. The pathos of widows gave rise to Confederate Memorial Day in 1866 and within four years it was a region-wide holiday. For countless white women, Confederate Memorial Day was the year’s most important public event. They devoted months to recruiting school children, writing and distributing flyers, meeting with public officials, publishing articles in local newspapers, inviting orators, cleaning up cemeteries, and tending to the minutia inherent in any public occasion. On the day itself, women performed the central ritual - the decoration of the graves. They also marched along the parade routes and sometimes even spoke to the gathered crowds/

With each passing decade after the war, white southern women cluttered more and more of the landscape of the South with monuments to Confederate heroes. As the organized might and political influence of white women’s groups waxed at the end of the nineteenth century, their claims on public space expanded as well. In the immediate postwar years women’s groups had erected cemetery monuments in keeping with their mission to give public expression and permanence to their mourning. By the dawn of the twentieth century they were funding showy statues to Confederates in the region’s most conspicuous civic spaces. The ultimate expression of their ambitions was the grandiose plan to etch upon the face of Stone Mountain near Atlanta, Georgia the largest bas relief carving in the world, which would glorify Robert E. Lee and other Confederate heroes.8

After the 1920s, the promotion of Confederate memory no longer mobilized the numbers of white southerners it once had. By then, when the prodigious work on Stone Mountain began, the consolidation of Confederate commemoration was largely complete. Its central tenets were in place and together, white clerics, veterans, and organized women had colonized the region’s public spaces and civic life with celebrations of the Confederacy and southern ‘heritage.’ Like priestesses tending an altar, dedicated members of the UDC remained vigilant against textbooks that traduced the Confederacy and conscientious about the observation of Confederate Memorial Day. So ubiquitous was their handiwork that they and many outsiders concluded that the public memory of white southerners was virtually hegemonic across the region.


Giving voice to a shared understanding of history was no less urgent for African Americans after the Civil War. In the wake of emancipation, African Americans anticipated a truly public culture in which all segments of southern society -black and white - would enjoy the right to voice their concerns and claims. But whereas southern whites marshaled the full array of cultural forms at their disposal to commemorate the Confederacy, blacks had to make do with comparatively meager resources. Poverty and oppression sharply circumscribed their efforts. Nevertheless, blacks defiantly insisted upon the public expression of their memory by creating a robust ceremonial life. Through public ceremonies blacks displayed their recalled past, enabling vast numbers of blacks to invent, learn, and practice a common memory.

Blacks during the late nineteenth century understood that by entering into public space and performing communal pageants, they thrust black history into the region’s public culture. Such celebrations ensured that the black sense of the past was more than a learned exercise accessible principally to literate, elite African Americans. Instead, black memory was made manifest in recurring events that incorporated the breadth of the black community, from the college trained preacher to the illiterate day laborer, from the battle scarred veteran to the impressionable school child.9

Ministers and politicians took the lead in marshaling their communities to commemorate their heritage. As leaders of largely autonomous black-led institutions, black ministers were well placed to assume the lead in this cultural work.

They also could place the saga of black history in a larger Biblical narrative of suffering and redemption. Consequently, they often not only organized but also presided over commemorative ceremonies. African American politicians, similarly, used the occasions as opportunities to link past struggles to contemporary partisan politics and to urge the continued mobilization and cohesion of the black electorate.

By the end of the nineteenth century, they had filled the calendar with at least a half-dozen major holidays and countless lesser occasions during which African Americans celebrated their heroes and hallowed events. They virtually laid claim to Independence Day, which most white southerners refused to celebrate until the Spanish-American War revived their patriotic ardor. Blacks also celebrated holidays that commemorated the Civil War. To the extent that Lincoln’s birthday was acknowledged in the South it was by African Americans. Their eager participation in Charleston, South Carolina in 1865 and elsewhere helped to establish Memorial Day in late May as the preeminent commemoration of national sacrifice. Most importantly, blacks invented their own commemorative festivals, including Emancipation Day marking the anniversary of Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, and the birthday of Frederick Douglass after the beloved abolitionist’s death in 1895.111

The stability of the genre reflected the ritualized context of the ceremonies. After formal introductions and opening prayers, the celebrations typically continued with readings of such cherished texts as the Declaration of Independence and the Emancipation Proclamation. Next came recitations, often by schoolchildren, of appropriate poems and essays. The climax arrived when the day’s principal speaker delivered the oration, which typically enumerated the race’s progress. What may sound to modern ears like tedious recitations of arcane data about black schools, business investments, and property holding were to black audiences a confirmation of their steady advance in the face of long odds. If the record of black accomplishment augured a promising future, the challenge of overcoming white oppression remained. Public celebrations, especially the orations that often capped them, provided an opportunity to inveigh against white racism and to praise God’s mercy before the gathered black community. Repetition of form and argument suited the needs of a people who had only limited means of historical production but were eager for the systematic organization and retrieval of their past.11

Even as segregation sequestered more and more of black life, blacks continued to stage processions that demonstrated - to themselves and to whites - their civic spirit and version of history. Indeed, parades took on added significance in the age of segregation because they offered African Americans a unique opportunity to present complex self-portraits of their communities while simultaneously making the same claims to use prominent public spaces for public assembly that whites took for granted. The Savannah Tribune, on the eve of Memorial Day in 1918, explained the importance of processions for African Americans. Parades allowed all blacks, regardless of occupation or status, to come together in common cause. ‘The vanguard of the race,’ the newspaper pledged, ‘will be there as well as the denizens of Negro ghettos, unlettered and unkept - the complete kaleidoscope of racial gamut, but all of common mind and bent upon a common goal.’ And why was such a display of‘unanimity and solidarity’ so important? Because, by participating in what the newspaper predicted would be a ‘mammoth parade,’ ‘every worthy colored man, woman, and child ... would dedicate himself to the great causes of racial interest.’12

After World War I, educators and civic activists assumed leadership of African American commemoration. Ministers were not so much displaced as superseded in the promotion of black memory. Southern African Americans recognized that public ceremonies were insufficient to nurture historical awareness systematically and continuously. Blacks continued to stage rousing public commemorations across the first half of the twentieth century, but they increasingly looked to public schools and colleges as a quasi-public sphere in which they could best promote historical awareness and contest the version of history promoted by white southerners. In one of the most profound ironies of segregation in the South, blacks used state and private resources to turn schools into essential sites of collective memory that performed a role comparable to that of museums, archives, and schools in the white community. That the inadequately funded black schools and colleges became centers of black public life would have surprised and shocked many white southerners.13

Between roughly 1920 and 1950 the campaign to incorporate ‘Negro history’ into the education of blacks mobilized a broad coalition of black professional historians, schoolteachers, parents, and students. A prerequisite for the campaign was the gradual, albeit uneven, improvement in black educational opportunities across the region. By World War II, two-thirds of black children attended school and more than a fifth of eligible black children enrolled in high school. Simultaneously, advances in teacher training spread so that by the thirties some rural schools boasted black teachers with credentials equal or superior to their white counterparts. These changes encouraged not only a broadening of students’ ambitions but also an enriching of the intellectual life ofblack schools.14

Black teachers became the conduits through which the scholarship of activist black historians reached even the most benighted parts of the South. Carter Woodson, a Harvard educated historian, and a constellation of other professional scholars devoted themselves to overturning inherited wisdom about almost every facet of African American history. Building on the long-established tradition of black commemorative celebrations, Woodson and his allies launched Negro History Week in 1926. Scheduled each February in recognition of the anniversaries of the birthdays of Frederick Douglass and Abraham Lincoln, Negro History Week went beyond existing traditions. Pageants, plays, and performances quickly became an essential component of the event. Performances displayed a new forthrightness about the horrors of slavery, including the slave trade, the ever-present threats of rape and violence, and even the justice of slaves resorting to violence to throw off their shackles. Whether in a play about Crispus Attucks, an African American colonial hero, or a public reading of the writings of Frederick Douglass, blacks were depicted as steadfast in their pursuit of and devotion to freedom. And just as the benign depictions of slavery so popular among whites were countered in the Negro History Week activities, so too were white interpretations of Reconstruction as a descent into corruption and tyranny.15

The Negro History campaign boasted notable early successes. Unlike earlier failed efforts to organize a national Emancipation Day, Negro History Week formalized national recognition of black history. So successful was the event that it came to be celebrated virtually coast to coast and in many communities replaced Emancipation Day as the preeminent celebration of black history. Moreover, as early as 1935 nearly a third of black high schools in the South offered black history courses and many even made these courses compulsory for graduation. By the end of the thirties Delaware, Oklahoma, and South Carolina had joined North Carolina in adopting Woodson’s preferred texts for their black schools and in several other states officials left the choice of texts to the discretion of school districts, thereby granting black teachers additional control over the history curriculum.16

During the age ofjim Crow blacks could not lay claim to public spaces in the manner or to the degree that southern whites did. Yet on select occasions when African Americans did perform as communities in the civic spaces and within their segregated sphere they shared a black history that was a counterweight to the public memory of whites. When Angela Davis, a prominent black activist and scholar, opened her recycled textbook in her elementary school, she read of the ‘War of Southern Independence.’ But her teachers ignored the intended message of the textbooks and made sure that ‘Black identity was thrust upon us.’ Carl T. Rowan, a distinguished black journalist, recalled that his high school history teacher instilled a healthy dose of race pride by celebrating the accomplishments of Booker T. Washington. W. E. B. Du Bois, and other black notables. She explained to Rowan and his classmates the enduring impact of an education that empowered rather than crippled; ‘What you put in your head, boy, can never be pulled out by the Ku Klux Klan, the Congress, or anybody.’17


The drawn-out process of ending Jim Crow and restoring African American civil rights necessarily raised questions about whether and how the divergent memories of white and black southerners would be acknowledged in previously segregated spaces in the South. Addressing the preponderance of white memory in the region’s public spaces was never a major focus of civil rights activists prior to the 1960s, who predictably concentrated on more immediate concerns. They acknowledged, assailed, and regretted the narratives that white southerners told about the region’s past, but directed the bulk of their energies against the conspicuous mechanisms of white supremacy - above all, segregated education, voting restrictions, public segregation, and economic discrimination. They assumed that once they uprooted the institutional foundations of white power, its cultural detritus, in time, would be swept aside as well.

The long struggle to overcome southern white resistance to the Supreme Court’s 1954 Brown v. Board of Education decision, however, focused the attention of black educators, students, and parents on the curriculum and atmosphere in the newly integrated schools. The often half-hearted and sometimes openly dismissive responses of white authorities to black complaints fuelled protests, boycotts, and even violence at schools across the region. At some formerly all black schools, black students and parents fumed over the cancellation of Negro History Week assemblies while at formerly all-white schools blacks were offended by cursory acknowledgment of black history in general. Everywhere anger over displays of Confederate flags by white students provoked black students and parents to action.18

A particular point of friction was the continued use of objectionable textbooks and lesson plans in the South’s now desegregated public schools. Because black students now often encountered the invidious racism of the textbooks commonly used in southern schools but now without the comparative protection provided by black teachers and schools, black parents and white allies demanded root-and-branch textbook revision. The major civil rights organizations joined the chorus demanding that school administrators revise curricula and adopt new texts.19

Revision of texts and curricula came slow to the South. Throughout the 1960s publishers continued to sell ‘segregation’ editions to southern schools, which typically appeased southern white prejudices by ignoring black history and avoiding sensitive topics. Ignoring federal subsidies for school districts that adopted ‘multiracial’ text books, white administrators displayed a mixture of lethargy and outright hostility to new texts. In Virginia, for example, desegregation did not redress the explicitly segregationist history taught to fourth, seventh, and eleventh graders. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s the assigned state history textbooks emphasized the purported benefits of slavery for African Americans and downplayed the disfranchisement of blacks after 1902 because ‘there were enough hard feelings already.’ With mounting urgency during the late 1960s blacks, joined by growing numbers of whites, criticized the textbooks as ‘out-and-out propaganda’ until the Virginia board of education finally voted unanimously to discontinue their use after 1972.20

Grassroots campaigns by black parents and students compelled administrators to add Black History Week ceremonies into the calendars of all schools. Carter Woodson’s long-delayed hope that white students would be exposed to African American history finally came to pass during the 1970s. Even Governor George Wallace, the one-time advocate of‘segregation forever,’ endorsed Black History Week (the successor to Woodson’s Negro History Week) in Alabama in 1973 and by 1980 public schools in every southern state participated in its celebration.21

While campaigning for curricular reforms, black educators, parents, and students also began to chip away at the Confederate commemorative landscape of the South by advocating for the renaming of desegregated public schools. Blacks understandably bridled at having to attend public schools named after slaveholders, Confederate generals, or white politicians who had championed white supremacy. In St. Bernard Parish in Louisiana, for instance, black parents had tolerated that Milladoun Elementary was named after a nearby antebellum plantation. But plans to replace the dilapidated building with a new school named after Confederate general P. G. T. Beauregard outraged them. Similarly, a grassroots movement in New Orleans during the 1980s campaigned to remove the names of all slaveholders from local schools. The school board eventually adopted a policy against retaining names of‘former slave owners or others who did not respect equal opportunity for all.’ Within five years faculty and students had renamed 22 schools including P. G. T. Beauregard Elementary (now named after black jurist Thurgood Marshall) and Jefferson Davis Elementary (now named after the city’s first black mayor, Ernest N. Morial).22

Although some commentators ridiculed the renaming of schools as meaningless grandstanding, it reflected the longstanding importance that African Americans placed on schools as sites of community pride. Having witnessed the loss of many black school traditions during school desegregation, black teachers, students, and parents sought to transform the identities of the schools that they inherited after integration. Michael L. Lomax, a prominent African American politician and educator, answered the critics, highlighting the combination of power and powerlessness that lay behind efforts to give schools new identities. ‘It’s a very direct statement that I will celebrate my own history and I will compel you to recognize my heroes and heroines,’ he explained. ‘But it is also more of a statement of frustration in exercising power over one of the few things that you can exercise power over, which is the name of a street or a building.’23

By the 1980s the expansion of state-guaranteed rights in the South that began with the Brown decision and culminated in the Voting Kights Act of 1965 enabled black activists to begin to bring long unaddressed historical concerns before public bodies. A ‘rights revolution’ in American jurisprudence substantially broadened citizens’ understandings of their entitlements and rights, especially to due process. Blacks turned to the courts for the settlement of public disputes, including persisting claims of historical injustice. African American litigants, for example, invoked the Fourteenth Amendment equal protection clause in suits to take down the Confederate flag flying atop the state capitol in Alabama and to remove Confederate symbols from the Georgia state flag. The suits claimed that continued displays of Confederate symbols in public spaces fostered an exclusionary and racist atmosphere that precluded blacks from the exercise of their rights. While the practical aim of these suits was to remove Confederate symbols from specific public spaces, the broader goal was to establish unequivocally that all Confederate symbols are tinged with racism and that the public spaces of the South should be cleansed of them. Other legal advocates proposed using the Thirteenth Amendment protection against ‘badges of inferiority’ to strip Confederate symbols from public schools and institutions. Here again the aim was to demonstrate that the state had a legal obligation to regulate public displays of Confederate symbols. Although these arguments failed to persuade most state and federal courts, blacks made clear their intent to persist until they purged the region of Confederate symbols and other reminders of white supremacy.24


While some southern whites accepted black empowerment and efforts to revise the South’s civic spaces, other whites recoiled with alarm, even disgust at what they perceived to be mounting threats to southern ‘heritage.’ They lamented that the Jim Crow South had given way to the desegregated ‘Sunbelt’ South, that suburbanization had transformed huge swathes of the region into landscapes indistinguishable from those elsewhere in the nation, and that immigrants from Latin America and Asia seemed poised to overwhelm the South’s ‘native’ white population. For these white southerners alienated by the region’s evolution, their ‘heritage’ was the last bulwark against their absorption into a cosmopolitan national culture they reviled.

A comparatively small but robust coalition of the Sons of Confederate Veterans (SCV), so-called neo-Confederates, and avowed white supremacists mobilized white southerners to defend their ‘heritage’ during the 1980s and 1990s. Founded in 1896, the SCV failed for nearly a century to muster a large membership or to exercise much influence. But during the 1970s and 1980s new recruits, including Civil War reenactors and men vigilant against any insults to southern white ‘heritage,’ invigorated its ranks. The new membership also included white supremacists who looked to the Confederacy as inspiration for the creation of a white Euro-American homeland. The League of the South, founded in 1994, added a patina of intellectual rigor to this neo-Confederate revival by warning white southerners that cosmopolitan academics, liberal and irreligious politicians, foreign organizations, and other sinister forces were intent on the destruction of the white South’s values and heritage. The South, they protested, had historically been and should remain an Anglo-Celtic homeland. Equally important, the white South had come closer to creating the ideal Christian republic than any other society so the defense of white southern ‘heritage’ was, literally, the defense of everything that was sacred.25

With gathering energy during the 1990s, the SCV and allied groups picketed, lobbied, campaigned, and litigated to prevent ‘heritage violations,’ which included ‘any attack upon our Confederate Heritage, or the flags, monuments, and symbols which represent it.’ Particular energy was devoted to bringing suit against school districts and municipalities that sought to restrict the public display of the Confederate Battle Flag. Although the SCV usually failed in these efforts, it stoked the fears and resentments of members and allies steeped in a white regional memory that dwelled on white southerners’ victimhood at the hands of a succession of Union generals, outside agitators, northern legislators, and activist judges.

The defense of Confederate heritage increasingly contaminated the region’s public life during the 1990s. Previously, the defense of white southern ‘heritage’ was the preoccupation of white Democrats in the South. During the 1970s Republican insurgents eager to expand the party in the region embraced white southern ‘heritage’ as a means to exploit white resentments and yoke them to the party’s fortunes. As part of President Richard Nixon’s 1972 reelection campaign, Republican strategists sought to peel off white voters in the South who recoiled from the Democrats’ commitment to racial equality, school desegregation, and opposition to the Vietnam War. This so-called ‘Southern Strategy,’ which appealed to white suburban southerners who were anxious to preserve de facto segregation in the suburbs, allowed the Republican Party to exploit the anxieties of whites without having to categorically oppose racial integration.26 Nevertheless, the Democratic Party retained the allegiance of many white southerners. The party still included old-line politicos who only grudgingly acceded to the new reality of growing black political empowerment while playing up their regional loyalties in thick southern accents.

Only in hindsight is it evident that 1972 marked the emergence of the new face of Republicanism in the South: Jesse Helms. He had previously been a minor figure in national affairs even while he pioneered the politics of white resentment in North Carolina. Taking advantage of his position as an executive at a Raleigh, North Carolina television station during the 1960s, he had begun delivering nightly broadcast editorials. He honed a stridently conservative message that he presented as down home, common sense traditional values. He did not literally need to wave the Confederate flag to reassure whites that he would protect their interests and defend southern ‘heritage.’ His accent, his invocations of traditional values, and his visceral contempt for civil rights activism made such appeals superfluous.27

Ronald Reagan’s 1980 campaign and subsequent presidency expanded on the foundation built by Helms. Reagan himself evidenced little sympathy for Confederate heritage, but he was not embarrassed to glad-hand race-mongers and voters who had previously championed segregation. Notably, he delivered a major campaign speech endorsing ‘states’ rights’ in Philadelphia, Mississippi, the site of a notorious murder of three civil rights activists during the 1960s. No location was more fitting for Reagan’s implicit renunciation of a century of Republican commitment to racial equality or appropriation of the time-honored defense of the Confederate cause.

Reagan’s handiwork prepared the way for the surprisingly rapid consolidation of Republican strength in the South. Jesse Helms’ tenacious opposition to the establishment of a national holiday in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. was a sign of how far the party of Lincoln had traveled in only a few years. Helms and his conservative allies mocked King’s historical importance, criticized his opposition to the Vietnam War, and tarred him as a communist. Reagan gave credence to Helms’ slanders until finally caving in and signing the legislation creating the holiday in 1983. Helms, Reagan, and the naysayers had made their point even in defeat; any observer understood that Republican support for the holiday was half-hearted at best and that, in the eyes of many conservatives, it was a tawdry concession to illegitimate ‘special interests.’28

The emergent coalition of Republicans and Confederate devotees demonstrated its newfound influence in the struggle over the state flag of Georgia during the 1990s. Demands to revise the state flag roiled the state’s politics for more than a decade. In response to the Supreme Court’s Brown decision, segregationist politicians in 1956 had redesigned the state flag to include the Confederate battle flag. When the 1996 Atlanta Olympics brought international scrutiny to the state, Democrats and some business leaders advocated the removal of the divisive Confederate symbol from the state flag. Other politicians, especially Republicans, exploited the issue to depict Democrats as captives of urban black activists and outside business elites hostile to white southern ‘heritage.’ During the 2002 gubernatorial campaign, Republicans pummeled Democratic Governor Roy Barnes for his role in the adoption of a new state flag, rallying the support of rural white males who harbored grievances against what they perceived to be metropolitan, liberal, and elitist policies. For conservative whites, the new state flag became a symbol of ‘political correctness,’ affirmative action, multiculturalism, moral laxity, and other perceived modern ills. Similar battle lines emerged elsewhere, including Alabama and Mississippi, whose state flags also incorporated the Confederate battle flag. In South Carolina, controversy arose over the display of the Confederate flag above the statehouse.29

By the dawn of the twenty-first century the alliance between neoConfederates and Republicans was so tight that only extraordinary circumstances persuaded southern Republicans to reevaluate their steadfast defense of all things Confederate.30 For instance, not until after the 2015 massacre of nine African Americans at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina by Dylan Roof, a white supremacist, did Republican leaders of the state grudgingly furl the Confederate battle flag that had graced the state capitol grounds for decades.

The removal of the Confederate battle flag from the South Carolina capitol was widely applauded as evidence of statesmanship and a new commitment to reconciliation within Republican ranks in the South. Yet arguably the most important response by Republicans has been the proliferation of'heritage protection’ laws. While Republicans retreated from defending the Confederate flag, they nevertheless were steadfast in their devotion to the preservation of Confederate monuments in the public spaces of the South. Alarmed first by the outcry after Roof’s rampage, and then subsequently by the desecration of Confederate monuments by activists energized by the Black Lives Matter movement, Republican legislators in Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi, North Carolina, and Tennessee, took the lead in passing laws that imposed onerous requirements, typically including legislative approval, to alter names on buildings or to move or remove monuments. Riddled with ambiguities and resting on untested claims of legislative authority, these laws pose hardships on any community intent on revising its civic landscape. Communities graced with teams of lawyers may test the laws or try to navigate the legislatures, but their attempts almost certainly will end up in state or federal court. In the meantime, the contemporary landscape of the South, which is cluttered with thousands of memorials to the Confederacy, is likely to remain frozen for the near future.

After white nationalists and others staged a violent protest to oppose the removal of a statue of Confederate Robert E. Lee from a park in Charlottesville on August 12, 2017, white conservatives sought to divorce themselves from racist extremists even while defending those in Charlottesville who had rallied to celebrate Confederate heritage. President Trump’s public comments three days after the tragic death of Heather D. Heyer, a counter-protester in Charlottesville, included a mash-up of arguments that had long circulated among Confederate apologists. He warned against the erasure of history and suggested that ‘good people’ had been present among the crowds of white nationalists. Conservative commentators subsequently drew comparisons between the campaign to remove Confederate symbols and the demolition of ancient monuments by ISIS in Syria and by the Taliban in Afghanistan as well as the destruction of Jewish art by Nazis in Germany, implying a moral equivalency between American anti-Confederate activists and the most reviled enemies of the United States. Such remarks were consistent with the long-familiar tactic of attacking the NAACP, which advocated boycotts against states that prominently honored the Confederacy, as a racist hate group. Remarkably, since 2017 white conservatives have contended that opposition to Confederate heritage is un-American.

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Clashes over the past in the American South show no signs of abating. Both familiar and new controversies over Confederate symbols, museum exhibits, historical monuments, and the naming of public thoroughfares roil public life there. These controversies, which now are woven into state and local politics across the region, mobilize broad constituencies because they have been and will continue to be barometers of who exercises power and what history will inform and affirm the region’s identity. This struggle over the region’s civic landscapes almost certainly is inevitable, but it has been exacerbated during the past decade by pessimism about the direction of American race relations. Previous optimism that white supremacy was a relic that would wither has been shattered by ample evidence of police brutality (much of it captured on social media), the cumulative effects of unprecedented rates of incarceration of people of color, exploitative financial practices that targeted African Americans during the economic crisis of the Great Recession, and other examples of systemic racial discrimination. Against this backdrop, Dylan Roof’s 2015 massacre and the 2017 Charlottesville neo-Nazi rally demonstrated that long-tolerated symbols of the Confederacy remain catalysts for violent and brazen demonstrations of racism. In the eyes of

African Americans mobilized by Black Lives Matter as well as white anti-racism activists the memorials are much more than mildly offensive relics of bygone mores; they are malevolent symbols of enduring oppression.

When facing off over the region’s inherited commemorative landscape, southerners strive to secure the moral high ground by beseeching state legislatures, courts, and local governments to serve as arbiters of historical interpretation. This recourse to the political realm is unquestionably divisive, because it is as likely to yield disgruntled losers as gratified winners. These contests have provoked hand wringing about the worrisome escalation of ‘culture wars’ in the region. Previously, white elites exploited their wealth and power to enshroud their version of the past with the prestige of official recognition. Now, after the empowerment of African Americans across the region, historical sites and civic events are more likely to accentuate both the complexities of and the divergent perspectives on the past. These developments offer little solace to those who believe that their interpretation of history qualifies as historical ‘truth,’ and that other interpretations are illegitimate. White southerners whose views were once the privileged interpretation of the past can no longer assume that public sites or civic ceremonies will provide unambiguous celebrations of the Confederacy or southern ‘heritage.’ At the same time, black southerners bridle at the continuing celebration of Confederate History Month and recognition of slaveholders and white supremacists in the civic spaces of the region. Because no other contemporary institutions can resolve these disputes to the satisfaction of concerned southerners, state bodies, especially elected assemblies and the courts, have necessarily become the battlegrounds for many clashes over the past.

Yet, even while state bodies and public officials have become entangled in these controversies and state resources are recruited to defend or revise the region’s public memory, grassroots organizations and social groups continue to exert decisive influence. Indeed, the limits of the state to control public memory in the face of mobilized groups were affirmed in North Carolina after 2017. Two years prior, the Republican-controlled state legislature of North Carolina assumed its edict would foreclose any threats to Confederate monuments in the state. But after the white supremacy rally in Charlottesville in 2017, demonstrators in Durham toppled the city’s Confederate memorial. A year later, demonstrators in nearby Chapel Hill pulled down another Confederate memorial that had been the focus of controversy for decades. These acts of civil disobedience underscored that despite the legislature’s claims of authority ‘the public’ still ultimately retained power over the region’s memorial landscape and public memory.

The contest over historical memory in the American South highlights the tenacity of historical memory generated by social movements. For the century after the Civil War state governments across the region at most bolstered but never directed the cultural work of Confederate memorialists. Instead, it was successive generations of self-appointed architects of regional memory that created the current commemorative landscape of the South. Now, when the demand to revise that inherited landscape is cresting, even sympathetic state officials confront the obstacles of both organized resistance and traditions that limit government influence over civic culture. Consequently, the transformation of the American historical landscape almost certainly will come about not through government intervention but rather through sustained campaigns by social movements.


  • 1 For the international context, see David Cannadine, ‘The Context, Performance and Meaning of Ritual: The British Monarchy and the “Invention of Tradition,” c. 1820-1977,’ in The Invention of Tradition, eds., Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 101-164; Alon Confino, The Nation as a Local Metaphor: Württemberg, Imperial Germany, and National Memory, 1871-1918 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1997), esp. Part I; and Daniel J. Sherman, Worthy Monuments: Art Museums and the Politics of Culture in Nineteenthcentury France (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989), esp. Part I.
  • 2 On the limits of the nineteenth-century American state, see Nancy Cohen, The Reconstruction of American Liberalism, 1865-1914 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 2002), esp. Chapters 1-2; Alan Dawley, Struggles for Justice: Social Responsibility and the Liberal State (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press 1991), Part I; and Stephen Skowronek, Building a New American State: The Expansion of National Administrative Capacities, 1877-1920 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), esp. Part II.
  • 3 W. Fitzhugh Brundage, ‘Redeeming a Failed Revolution Confederate Memory,’ in In the Cause of Liberty: How the Civil War Redefined American Ideals, eds. William J. Copper Jr. and John M. McCardell, Jr., (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2009), 126-136.
  • 4 Mitchell Snay, Gospel of Disunion: Religion and Separatism in the Antebellum South (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1997); Christopher H. Owen, The Sacred Flame of Love: Methodism and Society in Nineteenth-Century Georgia (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1998), 93-113; W. Scott Poole, Never Surrender: Confederate Memory and Conservatism in the South Carolina Upcountry (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2004), 37-56; and Charles Reagan Wilson, Baptized in Blood: The Religion of the Lost Cause, 1865-1920 (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1980).
  • 5 David Blight, Race and Reunion: The Civil War in American Memory (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001), 140-210; Gaines M. Foster, Ghosts of the Confederacy: Defeat, the Lost Cause, and the Emergence of the New South (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), esp. Chapters 7-8; M. Keith Harris, Across the Bloody Chasm: The Culture of Commemoration among Civil War Veterans (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2014), 66-89; and Caroline E. Janney, Remembering the Civil War: Reunion and the Limits of Reconciliation (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2013), 133-196."
  • 6 On women, memorialization, and gender tensions, see W. Fitzhugh Brundage, The Southern Past: The Clash of Race and Memory (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2005), esp. Chapter 1; Jane Turner Censer, The Reconstruction of White Southern Womanhood, 1865-1895 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2003); Karen L. Cox, Dixie’s Daughters: The United Daughters of the Confederacy and the Preservation of Confederate Culture (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2003); Sarah Gardner, Blood and Irony (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2003); LeeAnn Whites, The Civil War as a Crisis in Gender, Augusta, Georgia, 1860-1890 (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1995), 160-224.
  • 7 Mrs. George T. Fry, ‘Memorial Day - Its Origin,’ Confederate Veteran 1 (May 1893): 149; A History of the Origins of Memorial Day as Adopted by the Ladies’ Memorial Association of Columbus, Georgia (Columbus: Lizzie Rutherford Chapter of the Daughters of the Confederacy, 1898), 24-25; Ellen M. Litwicki, America’s Public Holidays, 1865-1920 (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Press, 2000), Chapter 1.

Thomas J. Brown, The Public Art of Civil War Commemoration: A Brief History with Documents (Boston, MA: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2004); David B. Freeman, Carved in Stone: The History of Stone Mountain (Macon: Mercer University Press, 1997), Cynthia J. Mills and Pamela H Simpson, eds., Monuments to the Lost Cause: Women, Art, and the Landscapes of Southern Memory (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 2003).

Brundage, Southern Past, 55-104; Kathleen Ann Clark, Defining Moments: African American Commemoration & Political Culture in the South, 1863-1913 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2005), Mitchell A. Kachun, Festivals of Freedom: Memory and the Meaning of African American Emancipation Celebrations, 1808-1915 (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2003); Laurie Maffly-Kipp, ‘Mapping the World, Mapping the Race: The Negro Race History, 1874-1915,’ Church History 64 no. 4 (December 1995): 610-626; and Doris Hollis Pemberton, Juneteenth at Comanche Crossing (Austin, TX: Eakin Press, 1983).

Blight, Race and Reunion, Chapter 9; Cecilia Elizabeth O’Leary, To Die For: The Paradox of American Patriotism (Princeton, N): Princeton University Press, 1999), Chapter 7; Antionette G. van Zelm, ‘Virginia Women as Public Citizens: Emancipation Day Celebrations and Lost Cause Commemorations, 1863-1890,’ in Negotiating Boundaries of Southern Womanhood: Dealing with the Powers That Be, eds. Janet L. Coryell, et al. (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2000), 71—80.

Brundage, Southern Past, 88—99.

Savannah Tribune, May 4, 1918.

On black education, see James D. Anderson, The Education of Blacks in the South, 1860-1935 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1988); Louis R. Harlan, Separate and Unequal: Public School Campaigns and Racism in the Southern Seaboard States, 1901—1915 (Rep.: New York: Atheneum, 1968); Leon F. Litwack, Trouble in Mind: Black Southerners in the Age of Jim Crow (New York: Knopf, 1998), Chapter 2; Neil R. McMillen, Dark Journey: Black Mississippians in the Age ofJim Crow (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1989), Chapter 3; and Robert A. Margo, Race and Schooling in the South, 1880-1950: An Economic History (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1990).

Adam Fairclough, Teaching Equality: Black Schools in the Age of Jim Crow (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2001), 50-51; Michael Fultz, ‘African American Teachers in the South, 1890-1940: Powerlessness and the Ironies of Expectations and Protest,’ History of Education Quarterly 35, no. 4 (Winter 1995): 406-407, 408, 418; Sonya Y. Ramsey, ‘More Than the Three R’s: The Educational, Economic, and Cultural Experiences of African American Female Public School Teachers in Nashville, Tennessee, 1869 to 1983’ (Ph.D diss., University of North Carolina, 2000); Vanessa Siddle Walker, Their Highest Potential: An African American School Community in the Segregated South (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1996), esp. Chapter 1.

‘Negro History Week - The Fourth Year,’ Journal of Negro History (hereafter JNH) 14 no. 2 (April 1929): 111; JNH 15, no. 1 (January 1930): 3; Baltimore Afro-American February 22, 1930; JNH 17, no. 1 (January 1932): 3; Norfolk Journal & Guide, February 18, 1933; ‘Negro History Week - The Eighth Year,’ JNH 18, no. 2 (April 1933): 117; Houston Informer, February 24, 1934; JNH 22 (January 1937): 5; JNH 25, no. 1 (January 1940): 3-4; Nashville Globe, February 2, 1940; Myrtle Brodie Crawford, ‘The Negro Builds a Pyramid,’ Social Studies 32, no. 1 (January 1941): 27; Norfolk Journal & Guide, February 7, 1942.

‘Negro History Week - The Tenth Year,’JNH 20, no. 2 (April 1935): 127-128.

Angela Y. Davis, Angela Davis: An Autobiography (New York: International Publishers, 1988), 90-91; Carl T. Rowan, Breaking Barriers: A Memoir (Boston, MA: Little Brown and Co., 1991), 32-33.

Southern Patriot, 36 (January 1972): 6; 36 (February 1972): 3; (March 1972): 6, 7; 36 (December 1972): 5. See also James V. Holton, ‘The Best Education Provided: A

Social History of School Integration in Polk County, Florida, 1863—1994’ (Ph.D. diss., George Washington University, 2002), 142-178.

  • 19 Thirty-Third Annual Celebration of Negro History Week (Washington, DC: ASNLH, 1958), 3; ‘House Committee Studies Treatment of Minorities in Text and Library Books,’ Publishers’ Weekly 190 (September 19, 1966): 40; Lerone Bennett, Jr., ‘The Negro in Textbooks: Reading, ‘Riting and Racism,’ Ebony 22 (March 1967): ISO-138; Jonathan Zimmerman, Whose America?: Culture Wars in the Public Schools (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), 112-115.
  • 20 Roanoke Tinies, February 18, 1948, A4; Virginia Senate Document No. 4, The Teaching of Virginia and Local History and Government in the Public Schools (Richmond, VI: Division of Purchases and Printing, 1949), 9; Frederic R. Eichelman, ‘A Study of the Virginia History and Government Textbook Controversy, 1948-1972 (Ed.D. diss., Virginia Tech, 1975), 36, 98-120; Marvin W. Schlegel, ‘What’s Wrong With Virginia History Textbooks,’ Virginia Journal of Education, 64 no. 1 (September 1970): 10; idem, ‘What a Good Virginia History Textbook Should Be,’ Virginia Journal of Education 64 no. 2 (October 1970): 6-7.
  • 21 Zimmerman, Whose America? 126.
  • 22 Birmingham News, July 26, 2001; New York Times, November 16, 1997, Sections 4-5. See also Atlanta Constitution^ March 7, 1993, Al; New Orleans Times-Picayune, January 5, 1993, B6; January 22, 1992, Bl; February 1, 1993, B5; April 3, 1994, B7; September 18, 1994, B7; July 1, 1995, B3; September 24, 1997, Bl, B2; December 2, 1997, B3; New York Times, January 27, 1993, A16; November 12, 1997, Al; Jacksonville Florida Times-Union, February 21, 1999, D3; San Antonio Express-News, June 18, 1999, B4; Birmingham News, July 26, 2001, September 5, 2001; Richmond Times-Dispatch, October 1, 2003, Bl; Raleigh News & Observer, December 28, 2003, D5.
  • 23 New York Times, November 16, 1997, Sections 4-5.
  • 24 Kathleen Rilley, ‘The Long Shadow of the Confederacy in America’s Schools: State-sponsored Use of Confederate Symbols in the Wake of Brown v. Board,’ William and Mary Bill of Rights Journal 10, no. 2 (February 2002): 533-534; Alexander Tsesis, ‘The Problem of Confederate Symbols: A Thirteenth Amendment Approach,’ Temple Law Review 75, no. 3 (Fall 2002): 539-612. On the ‘rights revolution’ see Lawrence M. Friedman and Grant M Hayden, American Law: An Introduction (New York: Oxford University Press, 2017), 260-290; Samuel Walker, The Rights Revolution: Rights and Community in Modern America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), esp. 61-114.
  • 25 Birmingham News, December 21, 2000, Al; February 13, 2001, B4, February 22, 2001, B4, February 27, 2001, B6, March 13, 2001, A2, May 19, 2001, August 9, 2003; Suzanne M. Alford, ‘Student Display of Confederate Symbols in Public Schools,’ School Law Bulletin 33, no. 1 (Winter 2002): 1-7; James M. Dedman IV, ‘At Daggers Drawn: The Confederate Flag and the School Classroom - A Case Study of a Broken First Amendment Formula,’ Baylor Law Review 53, no. 4 (Fall 2001): 877—927; David L. Hudson, Jr., ‘Stars and Bars Wars: Confederate Flag-Wavers, Many of Them Students, Storm the Courts Under a Banner of Free Speech,’ ABA Journal 86 (November 2000): 28; Ann Burlein, Lift High the Cross: Where White Supremacy and the Christian Right Converge (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002).
  • 26 Joseph Crespino, In Search of Another Country: Mississippi and the Conservative Counterrevolution (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2007), Joseph Crespino, Strom Thurmond’s America (New York: Hill and Wang, 2012), esp. 165-252; Kevin M. Kruse, White Flight: Atlanta and the Making of Modern Conservatism (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005); Matthew D. Lassiter, The Silent Majority: Suburban Politics in the Sunbelt South (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2006); William A. Link, Righteous Warrior: Jesse Helms and the Rise of Modern Conservatism (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2008), esp. 131-270.
  • 27 Link, Righteous Warrior, 99—166.
  • 28 Daniel Thomas Fleming, "Living the Dream’: A History of the Martin Luther King Jr. Federal Holiday’ (Ph.D dissertation, University of Newcastle Australia, 2016). See also Beth A. Messner and Mark T. Vail, ‘A ‘City at War’: Commemorating Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.,’ Communication Studies, 60, no. 1 (Winter 2009): 17-31; Thomas J. Shields, ‘The ‘Tip of the Iceberg’ in a Southern Suburban County: The Fight for a Martin Luther King, Jr., Holiday,’ Journal of Black Studies 33, no. 4 (March 2003): 499-519.
  • 29 ‘Traditionalists versus Reconstructionists: The Case of the Georgia State Flag, Part One’ and ‘Confederate Symbols, Southern Identity, and Racial Attitudes: The Case of the Georgia State Flag, Part Two,’ in Confederate Symbols in the Contemporary South, eds. ). Michael Martinez, Ron McNinch-Su, and William D Richardson (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2000), See also K. Michael Prince, Rally ‘Round the Flag, Boys’: South Carolina and the Confederate Flag (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2004); Rebecca B. Watts, Contemporary Southern Identity: Community through Controversy (Oxford: University Press of Mississippi, 2007), 87-116.
  • 30 Ed Kilgore, ‘The Political Uses of the Anti-Anti-Confederacy,’ NY Magazine, April 19, 2018,, visited October 15, 2018.



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