Jackson, Mississippi, was the last place Dr. Brandon Sparkman would have chosen to work back in 1970. But an anonymous, threatening letter lured him there. In this memoir and historical documentary, Sparkman narrates what it was like to try to ensure a quality education for all students in Jackson and to save the schools from complete chaos and destruction during the height of desegregation. Called to Jackson, Mississippi: The Last Bastion of Segregation tells how, as a school administrator, he regularly faced rebellious communities, hostile parents, disruptive students, defiant elected officials, unreasonable judges, and, occasionally, the Ku Klux Klan. It describes how he confronted the most hated man in the state and how he courageously took the Governor of Mississippi to court while dismantling the last bastion of segregated schools. This historical account of the excruciating birth of desegregation in Jackson is revealed in a description of people and events that changed America forever.
CALLED TO JACKSON, MISSISSIPPI THE LAST BASTION OF SEGREGATION
A HISTORICAL DOCUMENTARYBy BRANDON SPARKMANiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Brandon Sparkman
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4620-4990-5Contents
Foreword......................................................ixPreface.......................................................xiChapter One The Call..........................................1Chapter Two Reporting For Duty................................12Chapter Three Wolves Attack...................................33Chapter Four Renewed Focus....................................43Chapter Five No Relief from Contention........................49Chapter Six The Shock.........................................67Chapter Seven New Direction for Jackson.......................72Chapter Eight An Era of Change................................78Chapter Nine Battles for Control..............................100Chapter Ten Events and Incidents of Note......................108Chapter Eleven Organizational Change..........................131Chapter Twelve Plans for Stability............................152Chapter Thirteen Offer Too Good to Refuse.....................161Epilogue......................................................171References....................................................173
Chapter One
The Call
As ministers of the gospel are said to be called to their places of ministry, I was called to Jackson, Mississippi. I didn't want to go. In fact, only two weeks after my interview in Jackson, police shot two students fatally, and wounded several others during a riot at Jackson State College. Between this incident and the ensuing national publicity, Jackson was the last place in America I would have chosen to work. But it seemed I really didn't have a choice.
Two months after an initial interview with Dr. Jack Vest, Superintendent of Jackson's Public Schools (May, 1970), I received the following anonymous letter at my university office:
Sir:
May I suggest that, if you are smart, you will not get involved in the Jackson Public Schools. This district is in trouble deep trouble and there seems to be nothing ahead but chaos.
May I also suggest that the superintendent is in trouble. He has lost the confidence of the teaching staff and the public. All sorts of dire and terrible things are being said throughout the community.
If these public schools survive at all it will be a miracle that will have to begin with the community. Just now patrons are enrolling in private schools enmasse.
Bystander
That evening at home, I gathered my family around me and read the letter aloud. Our daughter, Rita, who had just completed ninth grade, was a short, talented kid who showed unusual compassion for people with problems, was generous to a fault, and always took the side of the underdog. She said, "Daddy, that superintendent's in trouble. If you can help him, we need to go to Jackson."
I looked around at my wife and our two other children. There was Robert, age 5 who had finished a great year of kindergarten. Ricky, a young man of 16, was approaching his senior year in high school. He played football, not out of love for the game, but in football-happy Alabama, if you are large with a few skills, and attending a small high school, you are expected to play football. His sport preference was baseball where he played second base on a state championship youth league team when in 10th grade. To get some money for gas, Ricky, who was not shy in the least, established a successful business going door to door to local merchants pointing out defects in appearance in their store fronts and offering to paint them. He was rather mature for his age, and had a great intellect. My wife, Wanda, a teacher, was helping support the family while I completed the doctoral program at Auburn University. Wanda was an attractive five foot eight, with brown hair, a slow southern drawl, and totally unpretentious in every situation. Among the family members, not a word was spoken, but the expression on the face of each was clear. "We need to go to Jackson."
The next day, I reluctantly arranged another appointment with Dr. Vest. But this time Wanda would be with me because a very serious decision, with great implication for each family member, was about to be finalized.
Wanda and I, in deep thought but seldom talking, traveled to Jackson to meet with the Superintendent. After introducing Wanda and exchanging pleasantries, I handed the anonymous letter to Dr. Vest, a serious, tall, trim, intent man of approximately 50, with gray around the temples, who had held high positions in the Atlanta schools prior to coming to Jackson. After reading the letter, the Superintendent responded angrily, "It's that damn White Citizens Council group. They're trying to kill the public schools."
With head cocked to the right and mouth curved slightly, I confidently replied, "I don't think that's the source. Read it again."
Dr. Vest read the letter carefully. This time, with a wrinkled forehead, a questioning intonation, and a finger drumming the desk top, said, "Sounds like someone on this staff wants my job, doesn't it?" to which I gave an affirmative nod. With an expression of annoyance, the Superintendent said, "The job of Assistant Superintendent is yours. When would you like to go to work?"
Feeling as if a bowling ball were in my stomach, I responded, "How about August 1?" And the deal was sealed with a handshake.
The Long Road to Jackson
With August 1, 1970 arriving on Saturday, I drove to Jackson the following afternoon in order to report for duty at 8:00 A.M. on Monday, August 3, the day after my 41st birthday. As I drove along, I pondered my future with the school district there. As I crossed the state line into Mississippi, I encountered a steady and ever increasing downpour of rain that made driving treacherous. "Was this an omen for my experiences in Jackson?" I wondered.
It has been said that as death closes in, often one's entire life is replayed in a matter of minutes. And so it was with me as I struggled to maintain control of my vehicle as well as my emotions.
Personal Background
I obviously, couldn't visualize my own birth but my memory got me rather close to that event. I remembered having to wear my older sister's dress while my mother washed the one or two pairs of little overalls I had. This indelible mark was made much more prominent by Uncle Rob who seemed always to sense the right moment to drop by and tease me about being a girl.
Then there was the tornado that barely missed our house as I observed the anxiety of my parents and watched through the window as trees, just across the dirt road, came tumbling down. My mother, years later, told me I couldn't possibly remember the storm because I was only two years old. But I saw it again today. I also remembered watching from the end of the field as my father, a tenant farmer, use cottonseed meal, rather than commercial fertilizer, under the cottonseed he planted. I recalled visiting the little white, two room school with my older sister one day. Asked, by the teacher, if I could spell, I gave a positive response. When asked to spell "dog," my response was, "G-O-D," and the class roared in laughter.
I recalled that a few years later I overheard neighbors talking about using hog shorts (a wheat bran byproduct from milling...
