In a Columbia office building, one older lawyer discusses and debates the issues of the day with the vigor of a much younger man. You'll have to excuse South Carolina's Tom Turnipseed if it doesn't act like a guy who'll turn 80 next year. He is, after all, just a few decades into what might be described as a new life and a new career for him, a new man.
The Turnipseed of today is revered as a former leader of the South Carolina Trial Lawyer's Association. He's been an innovator in the fields of poverty alleviation and environmental conservation, combining the two passions in attempts to protect poorer neighborhoods from the scourges of discretionary dumping. He's advocated on behalf of poor black and Latino people in a part of the world where few people - and even few lawyers - are willing to do so. To some, he's a loving father, and to all, he's become known for his more than five decades of loyal service to his wife, Judy.
Before Tom Turnipseed was all of this, he was something very different. A one-time state legislator and full initiated member of the southern old guard, Turnipseed's Alabama roots shown through in his segregation-era politics. Like most men his age, he grew up in a certain time with certain ideas, and he marshaled his considerable ability in favor of causes that widened the chasm between black and white, haves and have-nots. But in many ways, Tom Turnipseed's story is unique, and perhaps one of the stories that most needs to be told in an era where many white people are deathly afraid of acknowledging the existence of racism, much less their own proclivities toward it. It's why many have chided me on the virtues of keeping the peace, encumbering me with pronouncements that "He's just from another era and there's no changing the way he thinks." In Turnipseed's story, we have hope in the power of redemption, honesty, and forgiveness.
In 1965, Tom Turnipseed was a young lawyer, recently graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, working in private practice in a small South Carolina town called Barnwell. That year, of course, was important in South Carolina, as echoes of Brown v. Board of Education had finally matriculated into the state's offing, causing districts to mix white and black in public schools. Something had to be done to stop the madness, and that something was the establishment of segregation academies - relatively cheap private schools that served as 1960s refuges for the children of parents either too scared or too hateful to send their children to school with black kids. Turnipseed was asked by Dr. T. Elliot Wannamaker, the first president of the South Carolina Independent Schools Association (SCISA), to become SCISA's first executive director. He left private practice, and like his brother, he worked toward the cause of providing credibility to schools like James F. Byrnes Academy, my alma mater.
Drive through almost any small town in South Carolina today and you'll find one of these schools. In Barnwell County, there's Jefferson Davis Academy. In Bishopville, you'll find Robert E. Lee Academy. Wade Hampton Academy sat in Orangeburg. If these names seem to follow a trend, it's not by mistake. They were schools that stood in direct defiance of the federal imposition of de-segregation. If "Robert E. Lee Academy, est. 1965" didn't send a bright enough message about the purpose of the school, few other things would. These schools needed accreditation for a number of reasons, and Turnipseed was the man tasked with anointing them with that legitimacy. As he wrote of the experience:
SCISA's stated purpose was to aid in the establishment of private elementary and secondary schools and to coordinate cooperative academic and sports activities. The unstated purpose was to avoid the federally court-ordered racial desegregation of the public schools.
SCISA stands strong today, thanks in large part to the efforts of Turnipseed and those who came after him. Turnipseed wasn't with SCISA for long, leaving in 1968 to head the campaign of segregationist Alabama governor George Wallace, who unsuccessfully ran for president under the promise of restoring the Old South to the way things used to be. Like many Dixiecrats during this time of transition, Turnipseed found himself beneath shifting tectonic plates as the Democratic Party provided no safe quarter for old racists during the 1970s to come. Given his background - Turnipseed himself named his son Jefferson Davis - it might have seemed natural that Turnipseed would join other South Carolina politicians like Strom Thurmond in fleeing the party for the safe recesses of modern Republicanism. But he didn't. Slowly, the world turned for Turnipseed, and he dedicated his career to making right many of the wrongs he worked to harden during what you might call his first life.
Turnipseed's story is in many ways remarkable, and in many ways what you might expect. The grandson of a KKK member, his family had evolved on the issue by the time he was growing up. Some Southerners perpetuated racism by leading lynching parties. Others practiced a more genteel brand of racism - viewing their black brothers and sisters in a paternalistic manner that was less deadly but potentially more tenacious. Turnipseed fell into that latter category, a group of racist people too "gentlemanly" to be like the violent racists from the other side of the tracks. Over time, however, his eyes were opened. He questioned everything, and most importantly, he grew. Tom Turnipseed's road to maturity didn't end at 18, and he'd say it's not ended yet, but along the way he recognized the wrongness in some of the positions he'd fought for.
The early 1970s brought a change in Turnipseed's politics, as he clung to the ideals of the Democratic Party's more liberal wing. Opposed to war, Turnipseed then became an advocate for peace. He cultivated a number of relationships with people on both sides of the political aisle who impressed upon him the need for equal rights. One former advisor to George Wallace, who'd turned on the Alabama governor, appealed to Turnipseed's Biblical sensibilities to dissuade him against racism and segregation. His cousin, Morris Dees, who served as the head of the Southern Poverty Law Center, opened his eyes to the human toll that racism brought down onto the heads of black and brown people across the country. More than a moment of immediate transformation, Turnipseed's turning was a slow recognition that the man he wanted to be, and the ideas he wanted to fight for, didn't mesh with the things he'd stood behind in the past.
With that, Turnipseed was forced to make a hard and unenviable choice. The old, we're told, aren't worth arguing with. They're set in their ways, and besides, after one has spent much of his adult life advocating on behalf of a cause, he's far too invested to admit that he was wrong. Turnipseed's done much to dispute the efficacy of this truth, making full and thoughtful admissions about the way he thought and acted, and discussing the underlying assumptions that powered his racism. As he once said:
You know how as a kid, you’re taught things? Well, I was racist. I didn’t think I was, but I was.
The 1970s took Turnipseed into the South Carolina State Senate. Later, he would win the Democratic nomination for a seat in the House of Representatives. He came close but did not win in state-level races for Lt. Governor and Attorney General. These close losses deprived both the South Carolina legislature and the federal congress of an evolving and thoughtful leader. Turnipseed, who had been exposed to things like electroshock therapy for depression and bi-polar disorder as a young man, had seen his mental health history used against him by the likes of Lee Atwater during some of his campaigns. He'd been thoroughly run through the mud by the very folks who used to call upon him, a sure sign that Turnipseed's change of heart had ruffled feathers.
What was government's loss became society's gain. Over the years, Turnipseed has served as the chairman of the board of the Center for Democratic Renewal, an organization formerly known as the anti-Klan network. He's served on the board of the South Carolina Hispanic Leadership Council, bringing to bear the many issues facing a growing Hispanic population in South Carolina. As a lawyer, he's used his considerable trial abilities in service of a number of clients, perhaps most significantly the Macedonia Baptist Church, a black church that sued the KKK for burning down its sanctuary. With the help of Turnipseed, the church won a jury verdict of $37 million against the clan for this hate crime.
The grandson of a Klan member, and the former leader of a segregationist campaign, serving as an advocate in what might have been a very dangerous lawsuit against the South's scariest group of white supremacists. To say that Turnipseed made his transformation complete would be an understatement. It was the sort of bold decision that's highlighted the strength of conviction the man brings to his current day work. Just as he worked very hard to establish racist academies throughout the South in the 1960s, he'd worked just as hard to right wrongs in his older age.
Turnipseed today is not shy about discussing his past and the things he's learned. When I first reached out to him, telling him that I was inspired by his story and recalling my experience as a graduate of one of those segregation academies, he lamented his role in establishing the schools. He wrote candidly in an op-ed about the realities of that time, stating:
Since we were following a longstanding Southern tradition of being racists in denial, we simply denied race had anything to do with our motives. Dr. Wannamaker and I often discussed how we should discreetly downplay race when asked by the media about the sudden flurry of private school activities, particularly in counties with large populations of blacks. We bristled with indignation when reporters referred to SCISA as an association of "segregated academies".
He and his wife Judy, herself a reformed racist from the old guard, speak with passion and emotion about the hurt thrust upon black people during the era when they grew up. They recall with startling clarity stories of white privilege and black oppression. In one instance, Judy recalled:
I’d be in the line somewhere to buy something, and I would notice that when I would be waiting, the person who was behind the counter would just not even notice the black person there and would say, ‘Can I help you?’ And the black person was in front of me!
Together, as they do most things, they've overcome both their past and the customary unwillingness to talk about that past that stings at white people of all ages. The reflexive desire to deny the existence of racism is a paltry offering from so many who lived through an era white-on-black mistreatment was palpable and undeniable. Many, it seems, deny their role in these transgressions while passively - and in some cases actively - advocating for new and evolved forms of systemic racism. It's in the story of Tom Turnipseed that we find hope in the power of redemption. Tom Turnipseed had the strength of moral character to do the right thing - to quit throwing good money after bad like a 4AM gambler chasing a bad Saturday of sports gambling with a halftime bet on the Hawaii game. He knew enough to not only step away from toxic mindsets, but to use his story as an honest indicator of just what can happen when children are miseducated in a society that constantly hammers home the wrong messages about certain sub-sets of the population.
To give credit to Tom Turnipseed for reforming his racism seems strange. Wouldn't it be best if he'd never worked to establish those schools? And wouldn't it have been best if he'd not furthered the hurtful ideas of George Wallace. I'd suspect that Turnipseed himself would answer in the affirmative, and he'd probably want no special credit, either. But it's deserved, because he's done in his life what so few have been able or willing to do. Raised in a racist environment and tracked toward a life of political bigotry, he challenged these conceptions and changed his life even after so much had been invested in its early version.
And more than that, he's atoned with actions rather than just words. Today, he and his wife are self-described advocates for peace. They often write and speak on issues of equality and injustice. They advocate for the poor, feeding the homeless in Finley Park each week. During the Occupy Columbia protests, they reached out to protesters, providing food, water, and support. They've evolved with the times, finding new mediums for telling their remarkable story.
And in doing so, they've provided hope that if the light is shone bright enough on truth, even members of the old guard can change their ways. For the brave work of admitting the disastrous immorality of the things he once stood for, Tom Turnipseed is one of my modern-day heroes.