As for me, I raced around the dumpsters collecting discarded “White” and “Colored” signs, thinking they would be some interest to posterity in a Museum of Horrors. –Stetson Kennedy1
I am a garbage collector, of racist garbage. For three decades, I have amassed items that denigrate and demean Africans and their descendants in America. I possess a parlor game from the 1930s, “72 Pictured Party Stunts.” One card instructs players to, “Go through the motions of a colored boy eating watermelon.” The card depicts a grotesquely caricatured dark-skinned boy, with bulging eyes and blood-red lips, devouring a watermelon as large as himself. This card, and the 4,000 similar items in my collection, portraying Black individuals as Coons, Toms, Sambos, Mammies, Picaninnies, and other dehumanizing racial caricatures, are offensive. Yet, I collect this garbage because I firmly believe that artifacts of intolerance can be potent tools for teaching tolerance.
My journey into collecting racist objects began when I was around 12 or 13 years old in the early 1970s in Mobile, Alabama, my childhood home. The first item, as I recall, was likely a Mammy saltshaker. It must have been inexpensive, as I rarely had much money, and undoubtedly ugly, because after purchasing it from the dealer, I immediately threw it to the ground, shattering it. It wasn’t a political statement; I simply loathed the object itself, if such a thing is possible. I don’t remember if the dealer scolded me, though he likely did. I was, in the vernacular of Mobile, both Black and white, referred to as a “Red Nigger.” In that era and place, he could have used that slur without consequence. I don’t recall his words, but I am certain he called me something other than David Pilgrim.
Among my collection is a 1916 magazine advertisement featuring a lightly caricatured young Black boy drinking from an ink bottle. The caption beneath reads, “Nigger Milk.” I acquired this print in 1988 from an antique store in LaPorte, Indiana. It was framed and priced at $20. The salesclerk labeled the receipt “Black Print.” I insisted she write “Nigger Milk Print.”
“If you intend to sell it, call it by its name,” I told her. She refused. We argued. Ultimately, I bought the print and left. That was my last verbal confrontation with a dealer or clerk. Today, I simply purchase the items and leave with minimal conversation.
The Mammy saltshaker and the “Nigger Milk” print are far from the most offensive items I have encountered. In 1874, McLoughlin Brothers of New York produced a puzzle game titled “Chopped Up Niggers.” Today, this game is a highly sought-after collectible. I have seen it for sale twice, but each time lacked the $3,000 asking price. Postcards from the early 20th century depict Black individuals being whipped, hanged from trees, or burned beyond recognition. These postcards and photographs of lynched Black people often sell for around $400 each on eBay and other online auction sites. While I could afford one, I am not yet ready to purchase such an item.
Some friends consider my collection of racist objects an obsession. If so, this obsession began during my undergraduate years at Jarvis Christian College, a small historically Black institution in Hawkins, Texas. My professors taught more than academic subjects; they imparted the lived realities of being Black under Jim Crow segregation. Imagine being a college professor forced to wear a chauffeur’s hat while driving your own new car through small towns to avoid assault by whites offended by a Black man appearing “uppity.” These stories were recounted not with anger, but with a matter-of-fact tone, reflecting everyday life in a society where every Black person was deemed inferior to every white person, a time when “social equality” was considered a scandalous concept. Black people knew their clothing sizes because they were barred from trying on clothes in department stores. Shared clothing, even briefly, between Black and white individuals implied social equality, perhaps even intimacy.
I was ten years old when Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. My fifth-grade class at Bessie C. Fonville Elementary, an all-Black school in defiantly segregated Mobile, watched the funeral on a small black and white television. Two years later, seeking more affordable housing, my family moved to Prichard, Alabama, an even more segregated neighboring city. Just a decade prior, Black people were forbidden from using the Prichard City Library without a note from a white person. White people owned most businesses and held all elected offices. I was among the first Black students to integrate Prichard Middle School, an event a local television commentator termed an “invasion.” Invaders? We were children. We faced hostility from white adults on our way to school and from white children within its walls. By the time I graduated from Mattie T. Blount High School, most white residents had left Prichard. Thus, I arrived at Jarvis Christian College with no illusions about race relations in the South.
My college professors taught about Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, Booker T. Washington, and W.E.B. Dubois. More crucially, they highlighted the everyday heroism of maids, butlers, and sharecroppers who risked their livelihoods, and sometimes their lives, to challenge Jim Crow segregation. I learned to analyze history critically, from the perspective of the oppressed, not as a linear narrative of “great men.” I understood the profound debt owed to countless Black individuals, largely forgotten by history, who suffered so that I could receive an education. At Jarvis Christian College, the idea of collecting racist objects first took root. I was uncertain of its purpose, but the seed was planted.
While all racial groups have faced caricaturing in America, none have been as consistently and extensively caricatured as Black Americans. Popular culture has depicted Black people as pitiable exotics, cannibalistic savages, hypersexual deviants, childlike buffoons, subservient servants, self-loathing victims, and societal menaces. These anti-Black portrayals manifested in everyday objects: ashtrays, drinking glasses, banks, games, fishing lures, detergent boxes, and more. These racist objects both reflected and reinforced negative attitudes towards African Americans. Robbin Henderson (Faulkner, Henderson, Fabry, & Miller, 1982), director of the Berkeley Art Center, observed that “derogatory imagery enables people to absorb stereotypes; which in turn allows them to ignore and condone injustice, discrimination, segregation, and racism” (p. 11). She was correct. Racist imagery served as propaganda, bolstering Jim Crow laws and customs.
Jim Crow was more than just “Whites Only” signs; it was a pervasive system that mirrored a racial caste system (Woodward, 1974). Jim Crow laws and social etiquette were reinforced by countless objects that depicted Black people as comical, contemptible inferiors. The Coon caricature, for instance, portrayed Black men as lazy, easily frightened, perpetually idle, inarticulate, physically repulsive idiots. This distorted image permeated postcards, sheet music, children’s games, and numerous other items. The Coon and other stereotypes perpetuated the notion that Black people were unfit for integrated schools, safe neighborhoods, responsible jobs, voting, or public office. I can almost hear the voices of my Black elders—parents, neighbors, teachers—insisting, almost pleading, “Don’t be a Coon, be a man.” Living under Jim Crow meant constantly battling shame.
During my four years as a graduate student at The Ohio State University, I acquired many more racist objects. Most were small and inexpensive. I paid $2 for a postcard of a terrified Black man being devoured by an alligator, and $5 for a matchbox featuring a Sambo-like character with exaggerated genitalia. My collection was limited by my budget, not by the availability of racist material. The most overtly racist items were, and remain, the most expensive “Black collectibles.” In Orrville, Ohio, I saw a framed print of naked Black children climbing a fence to enter a swimming hole, captioned “Last One In’s A Nigger.” Lacking the $125 asking price, I couldn’t buy it. This was in the early 1980s, before the prices of racist collectibles skyrocketed. Today, that print, if authentic, would sell for thousands of dollars. During vacations, I scoured flea markets and antique stores from Ohio to Alabama, seeking objects that denigrated Black people.
Looking back, my years at The Ohio State University were filled with considerable anger. Perhaps all sane Black individuals experience anger, at least for a time. I was in the Sociology Department, a politically liberal environment, where discussions of improving race relations were common. There were only a handful of Black students, and we gravitated together like apprehensive outsiders. Speaking only for myself, I deeply doubted my white professors’ grasp of everyday racism. Their lectures were often intellectually stimulating, but incomplete. Race relations were a topic for theoretical debate; Black people were a “research category.” Real Black people, with real aspirations and challenges, were seen as problematic. I was suspicious of my white teachers, and the feeling was mutual.
A friend suggested I take elective courses in the Black Studies Program. I did. James Upton, a Political Scientist, introduced me to Paul Robeson’s book Here I Stand (1958). Robeson, a celebrated athlete and entertainer, was also an activist who believed American capitalism was detrimental to poor people, particularly Black Americans. He maintained his convictions despite ostracism and persecution. While not anti-capitalist myself, I admired Robeson’s commitment to his beliefs and his unwavering fight for the rights of the oppressed. I read numerous books on race and race relations, but few impacted me as profoundly as Here I Stand. I also read James Baldwin’s novels and essays. His anger resonated, though I was troubled by his homosexuality, a reflection of my homophobic upbringing. Progress is a journey, and I had much to learn.
I have long observed that Americans, particularly white Americans, prefer discussing slavery to Jim Crow. All formerly enslaved people are deceased, their presence no longer a direct reminder of that brutal system. Their children are also gone. Distanced by over a century, many modern Americans view slavery as a regrettable period when Black people worked without pay. However, enslavement was far more horrific. It was the complete domination of one people by another, with the inevitable abuses of unchecked power. Enslavers whipped those who displeased them. Clergy preached that slavery was divinely ordained. Scientists “proved” Black people were a less evolved, subhuman species, and politicians concurred. Laws forbade enslaved, and sometimes free, Black people from learning to read and write, possessing money, or arguing with white people. The enslaved were property—sentient, suffering property. The passage of time provides sufficient “psychological space” for many Americans to grapple with slavery, and when that’s insufficient, a sanitized version is often embraced.
The horrors of Jim Crow are not so easily dismissed. The children of Jim Crow are still alive, with stories to tell. They remember Emmett Till, murdered in 1955 for an alleged interaction with a white woman. Long before the September 11, 2001, tragedies, Black people under Jim Crow were intimately familiar with terrorism. On September 15, 1963, the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama, a Black church, was bombed, injuring twenty-three and killing four young girls. Those who grew up during Jim Crow can recount this bombing and countless others. Black people who dared protest Jim Crow indignities faced threats, and when threats failed, violence, including bombings, ensued. The children of Jim Crow can speak of the Scottsboro boys, the Tuskegee Experiment, lynchings, the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., and the daily humiliations endured by Black people in communities where they were neither respected nor wanted.
Yes, many prefer discussing slavery over Jim Crow because Jim Crow prompts the uncomfortable question: “What about today?”
In 1990, I joined the sociology faculty at Ferris State University in Big Rapids, Michigan. It was my second teaching position and third “real” job. By then, my collection of racist artifacts exceeded 1,000 items. I kept the collection at home, using pieces in public talks, primarily to high school students. I discovered that many young people, both Black and white, were not only ignorant of historical racism but also doubted my accounts of Jim Crow’s brutality. Their ignorance disheartened me. I showed them segregation signs, Ku Klux Klan robes, and everyday objects depicting Black people in tattered clothes, unkempt hair, bulging eyes, and clownish lips—running towards fried chicken and watermelons, or fleeing from alligators. I explained the link between Jim Crow laws and racist material objects. I was perhaps too forceful, too driven to make them understand. I was learning to use these objects as teaching tools while simultaneously grappling with my own anger.
A pivotal moment occurred in 1991. A colleague mentioned an elderly Black woman who owned a large collection of Black-related objects. I’ll call her Mrs. Haley. She was an antique dealer in a small Indiana town. I visited her and described my collection. She seemed unimpressed. I explained how I used racist objects to educate students about racism. Still, she remained unmoved. Her store displayed a few pieces of racist memorabilia. I inquired if she kept most of the “Black material” at home. She confirmed she kept those items in the back but would only show them if I agreed never to “pester” her about selling them. I agreed. She locked the front door, placed a “closed” sign in the window, and gestured for me to follow her.
If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the feeling upon seeing her collection—a heavy, chilling sadness. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of objects lined shelves reaching to the ceiling. All four walls were covered with some of the most racist objects imaginable. I recognized some items from my own collection, others from Black Memorabilia price guides, and some were so rare I’ve never seen them since. I was stunned, overwhelmed by sadness. It was as if the objects themselves were crying out. Every conceivable distortion of Black people, our people, was on display. It was a chamber of horrors. She remained silent, watching me as I stared at the objects. One was a life-sized wooden figure of a Black man, grotesquely caricatured—a testament to the dark creativity fueling racism. Her walls documented the hurt and harm inflicted upon Africans and their American descendants. I felt tears welling up. It was then I decided to create a museum.
I became a frequent visitor to Mrs. Haley’s store. She liked me because I was “from down home.” She told me that in the 1960s and 70s, many white people gave her racist objects, wanting to distance themselves from racism, feeling embarrassed. This sentiment shifted in the mid-1980s with the publication of price guides dedicated solely to racist collectibles. These guides fueled the contemporary market for racist items. Each new guide showed escalating prices, sparking a national pursuit of racist memorabilia. Mrs. Haley’s collection was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, but she had no interest in selling. These objects represented our past, America’s past. “We mustn’t forget, baby,” she’d say, without a trace of anger. I stopped visiting after about a year. She passed away, and I heard her collection was sold to private dealers, which deeply saddened me. It bothered me she didn’t live to see the museum she helped inspire.
I continued collecting racist objects: musical records with racist themes, fishing lures with Sambo imagery, children’s games depicting naked, dirty Black children—any racist item I could afford. In colder months, I frequented antique stores; in warmer months, flea markets. I was impatient, eager to acquire entire collections from dealers and collectors, but limited finances restricted me to smaller purchases.
In 1994, I joined a three-person team from Ferris State University for a two-week workshop at Colorado College in Colorado Springs. The Lilly Foundation-sponsored conference focused on the liberal arts. Our team’s mission was to integrate “diversity” into Ferris State’s general education curriculum. My colleague, Mary Murnik, and I visited local antique stores. Colorado Springs, being politically conservative, offered many racist items—some vintage, many reproductions. I bought segregation signs, a Coon Chicken Inn glass, racist ashtrays, and numerous other items. I also purchased 1920s records with racist themes from a dealer who insisted on discussing “the problem with colored people.” I wanted the records, not the conversation. John Thorp, another team member, and I spent hours strategizing how to persuade Ferris State University to provide space and funding for a room to house my racist collectibles. It took several years, but we eventually succeeded.
Today, I am the founder and curator of the Jim Crow Museum of Racist Imagery at Ferris State University. Most collectors find solace in their collections; I loathed mine and was relieved to remove it from my home. I donated my entire collection to the university, stipulating that the objects be displayed and preserved. I never wanted them in my home, especially with young children. They would wander to the basement and look at “daddy’s dolls”—two mannequins in full Ku Klux Klan regalia. They played with racist target games. One of them, I don’t know which, broke a “Tom” cookie jar, and I was irrationally angry for two days. The irony is not lost on me.
The museum serves as a teaching laboratory. Ferris State faculty and students use it to understand historical expressions of racism. The museum also includes items created after Jim Crow, crucial because many students dismissed racism as “a thing of the past.” Scholars, mainly social scientists, also visit. Children are rarely allowed in the museum room, and adults, preferably parents, are encouraged to accompany them. We urge all visitors to watch Marlon Riggs’ documentary, Ethnic Notions (Riggs, 1987), or Jim Crow’s Museum (Pilgrim & Rye, 2004), a documentary I produced with Clayton Rye directing, before entering. A trained museum facilitator guides all tours. Clergy, civil rights groups, and human rights organizations also visit.
The Jim Crow Museum’s mission is straightforward: use items of intolerance to teach tolerance. We examine historical patterns of race relations and the origins and consequences of racist depictions, aiming to foster open and honest dialogue about America’s racial history. We are not afraid to discuss race and racism; we are afraid not to. I continue giving public presentations at schools and colleges. Race relations suffer when race and racism are taboo subjects. Schools that genuinely incorporate race, racism, and diversity into their curriculum foster greater tolerance. It’s easy to identify schools hesitant to honestly examine race and racism; they often exhibit a 1950s-like racial dynamic, where stereotypes prevail unspoken, racial incidents occur, and there’s no foundation for addressing these issues beyond hiring a “diversity consultant” to restore order. The Jim Crow Museum is founded on the belief that open, honest, even painful discussions about race are essential to avoid repeating past mistakes.
Our goal is not to shock, but to address a pervasive naiveté about America’s past. Many Americans understand historical racism as an abstract concept—it existed, it was bad, but perhaps not as severe as minorities claim. Confronting visual evidence of racism, especially thousands of items in a small room, is often shocking, even painful. In the late 1800s, carnivals and amusement parks featured a game called “Hit the Coon.” A Black man would stick his head through a hole in a painted canvas depicting a plantation scene, while white patrons threw balls, sometimes rocks, at his head to win prizes. Seeing this banner or a reproduction today offers a glimpse into the experience of Black men in early Jim Crow.
This carnival banner reinforced the dehumanization of Black people, alleviating white guilt and suggesting Black pain was less significant. It legitimized “happy violence” against Black people and boosted the egos of white participants. Countless marginalized white individuals likely vented their frustrations at the expense of “Black heads.” “Hit the Coon” and its variant, “African Dodger,” were eventually replaced with target games using wooden Black heads. The symbolic violence is clear. These games were popular during a period of escalating lynchings. The Jim Crow Museum houses numerous objects depicting Black people being targeted, hit, or beaten. We lack the carnival banner, but it would be a powerful teaching tool.
Some truths are painful.
Anger is a necessary catalyst on many journeys, but it should not be the final destination. My anger peaked after reading The Turner Diaries (1978) by William L. Pierce, under the pseudonym Andrew MacDonald.2 The book chronicles the “heroism” of white supremacists who overthrow the government, win a race war, and establish a white-ruled society. Black people, other minorities, and their white allies are graphically murdered. Arguably the most racist book of the late 20th century, it has influenced numerous racist groups, including The Order and The Aryan Republican Army. Timothy McVeigh, convicted of the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing, was a fan, and his act mirrored bombings described in the book. Reading all 80,000 words in one day while tired was a mistake; it consumed me.
Pierce, a Ph.D. in physics, aligned with Nazis in the 1960s, explaining his book’s origins. But why did it anger me so profoundly? I had a basement full of racist memorabilia, grew up in the segregated South, and was familiar with racial slurs and threats. Pierce’s ideas, though venomous, were not new. Yet, the book shook me.
Around that time, I brought a colleague’s students to the Jim Crow Museum and showed them the ugliness—the Mammy, the Sambo, the Brute, the caricatured sores inflicted on Black Americans. I showed them everything, delving deeper than intended, my anger palpable. After three hours, everyone left but two—a young Black woman and a middle-aged white man. The woman sat transfixed, paralyzed before a picture of four naked Black children on a riverbank, captioned “Alligator Bait.” She sat there, trying to comprehend the creator’s hand and mind. Wordless, her eyes, frown, and hand on her forehead asked, “Why, sweet Jesus, why?” The white man stopped looking at the objects and stared at me, tears streaming down his face. Not sobbing, just silent tears. His tears moved me. As I approached him, he said, “I am sorry, Mr. Pilgrim. Please forgive me.”
He hadn’t created the racist objects, but he had benefited from a society where Black people were oppressed. Racial healing requires sincere contrition. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear a sincere white person say, “I am sorry, forgive me.” I wanted and needed a heartfelt apology, one that could change lives. His words dissipated my anger. The Jim Crow Museum isn’t meant to shock, shame, or anger, but to foster deeper understanding of historical racial divisions. Some visitors perceive me as detached, but I have struggled to channel my anger into productive work.
Most visitors understand our mission and methods, continuing the journey towards improved race relations. But we have critics. The 21st century brings a fear of deeply examining systematic racism, and a desire to avoid discomfort. Many Americans want to forget the past and move forward, believing that simply ceasing discussions about historical racism will eradicate it. It’s not that simple. Silence doesn’t equate to forgetting. America remains residentially segregated. Our religious institutions are largely racially divided, and segregation is returning to public schools. Race still matters. Racial stereotypes persist, sometimes overt, sometimes subtle. Overt racism has morphed into institutional, symbolic, and everyday racism. Racial attitudes and beliefs influence many decisions. “Let’s stop talking about it” is a plea for comfort—a comfort historically denied to minorities. Progress requires confronting both historical and contemporary racism in an environment that critiques attitudes, values, and behaviors.
Some visitors ask, “Why no positive items?” My answer: we are, in effect, a Black holocaust museum. I intend no disrespect to Jewish Holocaust victims, and I hesitate to use “holocaust” to describe the Black experience, not wanting to trivialize Jewish suffering or compare victimizations. But what word to use? Thousands of Africans died during the transatlantic slave voyage. Many more endured brutal slavery, and thousands more were lynched after emancipation. Many “white towns” exist today because Black residents were violently expelled.
When the Jim Crow Museum expands, three additional “stories” will be told. Artifacts and signage will highlight the achievements of Black scholars, scientists, artists, and inventors who thrived despite Jim Crow. A “Civil Rights Movement” section will showcase protestors with signs like “I, Too, Am A Man,” and recognize lesser-known civil rights workers. This section represents the “Death of Jim Crow,” though its vestiges remain. Finally, a reflection room will feature a mural of civil rights martyrs from all races, prompting visitors to consider, “What can I do today to address racism?” These will be positive additions. We also plan to enlarge photographs of Black people in everyday life, juxtaposing them with caricatured objects to remind visitors that the denigrating objects are distortions, not reality. Kiosks will share stories of those who lived under Jim Crow.
Jim Crow was weakened in the 1950s and 60s. Brown v. Board of Education (1954) declared segregated schools unconstitutional, accelerating the end of legal segregation, though the Civil Rights Movement was still necessary. Northern whites witnessed images of Black protestors being brutalized for seeking basic rights. The 1964 Civil Rights Act, passed after President Kennedy’s assassination, dealt a significant blow to Jim Crow.
Segregation laws were dismantled in the 60s and 70s. Voting rights led to the election of Black politicians even in former segregationist strongholds. Southern white colleges and universities began admitting Black students and hiring Black professors, often token numbers. Affirmative action programs pushed public and private employers to hire minorities. Black people gained non-stereotypical representation in media. While racial problems persisted, Jim Crow attitudes seemed destined to fade. Many white people discarded household items with racist depictions, like Sambo ashtrays, “Jolly Nigger” banks, and Little Black Sambo books.
However, Jim Crow attitudes persisted and, in some ways, resurfaced. The late 20th century saw white resentment towards Black “gains.” Affirmative Action was attacked as reverse discrimination. The Coon caricature re-emerged as a depiction of welfare recipients. White Americans support welfare for the “deserving poor” but oppose it for those deemed lazy. Black welfare recipients are often seen as indolent. The historical fear of Black men as brutes resurfaced in portrayals of Black people as thugs and criminals.
Black entertainers who profit from anti-Black stereotypes perpetuate these images. The Mammy image was replaced by the Jezebel stereotype of hypersexual Black women. The racial sensitivity of the 70s and 80s was derided as “political correctness.”
The new racial climate is ambivalent. Polls show declining prejudice among white people, with increased recognition that racism is wrong and tolerance is good. Yet, there is growing acceptance of ideas critical and demeaning towards minorities. Many white people are tired of discussing race, believing America has made enough “concessions.” Some resist government intervention on integration, while others fight “political correctness.” And a segment of white society still believes in Black inferiority. Martin Luther King, Jr., once vilified, is now a hero, while Black people as a whole are viewed with suspicion.
In the early 1990s, I attended a conference in New Orleans and found few racist objects. Returning a decade later, I found them readily available. This is disappointing but unsurprising. Brutally racist items are easily found on internet auction sites like eBay. Almost every item in the Jim Crow Museum is sold online. Old racist items are reproduced, and new ones created. Halloween USA produces monster masks exaggerating African features.
In 2003, David Chang’s game, Ghettopoly, caused national outrage. Unlike Monopoly, Ghettopoly debases racial minorities, particularly Black people. Game pieces include “Pimp,” “Hoe,” “40 oz,” “Machine Gun,” and “Crack.” One card reads, “You got yo whole neighborhood addicted to crack. Collect $50 from each playa.” Properties are “crack houses” and “projects.” Advertisements boast: “Buying stolen properties, pimpin hoes, building crack houses and projects, paying protection fees and getting car jacked are some of the elements of the game.” Hasbro, Monopoly’s owner, sued Chang to stop distribution.
Chang claims Ghettopoly is satire criticizing racism. AdultDolls.net sells Trash Talker Dolls with stereotypical minority depictions. Their bestseller, “Pimp Daddy,” is a gaudily dressed Black pimp doll saying, “You better make some money, bitch.” Charles Knipp’s minstrel-drag “Ignunce Tour” features “Shirley Q. Liquor,” a Coon-like Black woman character. Knipp’s performances, popular in the Deep South, have been protested in the North (Boykin, 2002). Shirley Q. Liquor collectibles are popular. When satire fails, it reinforces what it satirizes. Ghettopoly, Trash Talker Dolls, and Shirley Q. Liquor portray Black people as immoral, wretched, and culturally parasitic, echoing century-old caricatures. The satire fails, but the distributors profit.
Understanding is paramount. The Jim Crow Museum compels visitors to confront the equality of all people. It works. I have witnessed deep, honest discussions about race, with no topic off-limits. What role have Black people played in perpetuating anti-Black stereotypes? When is folk art racially offensive? Is racial segregation always racist? We analyze racist imagery’s origins and consequences, but we go further.
I am humbled by the Jim Crow Museum’s national and international reach, thanks to webmaster Ted Halm and Ferris State University. Two dozen Ferris State faculty are trained docents. Traveling exhibits are being developed. Clayton Rye and I created a documentary about the museum. John Thorp served as director until retirement, succeeded by Joseph “Andy” Karafa. The museum is a team effort. A vision needs help to become reality.
My role is evolving. I have other goals, other “garbage” to collect. I have hundreds of objects that demean women, reflecting and shaping negative attitudes. One day, I will create “The Sarah Baartman Room,” modeled after the Jim Crow Museum, using sexist objects to educate about sexism. Named after a 19th-century African woman mistreated by Europeans, her story perfectly illustrates the intersection of racism, sexism, and imperialism. An African proverb says we die only when forgotten. I intend that Sarah Baartman never dies.
Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Carrie Weis and I created “Hateful Things,” a traveling exhibit about Jim Crow. In 2005, we began “Them,” an exhibit on objects defaming non-Black people, including women, Asians, Jews, Mexicans, and poor whites. Our goal remains: using items of intolerance to teach tolerance.
I’ll conclude with a story. Waiting for my daughter’s soccer practice, I sat in the van with my other daughter. Nearby, white teenage boys were clowning around. One wore a blackface mask, mocking “street Black” mannerisms. He turned towards us, and I looked at my daughter. She had lowered her head, hiding her face. If you are a parent, you understand my feeling. If you are Black, you understand why I do what I do.
© Dr. David Pilgrim, Professor of Sociology
Ferris State University
Feb., 2005
Edited 2024
1 Kennedy (1990, p. 234). Originally published in 1959, this book is a profound, often satirical, critique of Jim Crow era racial hierarchy.
2 As founder of the National Alliance, Pierce promoted his white supremacist vision through radio, internet, music, and racist video games. He died in 2002, his followers vowing to continue his work.
References
Boykin, K. (2002). Knipped in the butt: Protests close NYC drag ‘minstrel’ show. Retrieved from http://www.keithboykin.com/articles/shirleyq1.html.
Faulkner, J., Henderson, R., Fabry, F., & Miller, A.D. (1982). Ethnic notions: Black images In the white mind: An exhibition of racist stereotype and caricature from the collection of Janette Faulkner: September 12-November 4, 1982. Berkeley, CA: Berkeley Art Center.
Kennedy, S. (1959/1990). Jim Crow guide: The way it was. Boca Raton, FL: Florida Atlantic University Press.
Macdonald, A., & Nix, D. (1978). The Turner diaries. Washington, D.C.: National Alliance.
Pilgrim, D. (Producer), & Rye, C. (Director). (2004). Jim Crow’s museum [Motion picture]. United States: Grim Rye Productions.
Riggs, M. (Producer/Director). (1987). Ethnic notions [Motion picture]. United States: Signifyin’ Works.
Robeson, P. (1958). Here I stand. Boston, MA: Beacon Press.
Woodward, C. V. (1974). The strange career of Jim Crow (3rd rev. ed). New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
