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, racist garbage. For three decades, I have been gathering items that defame and diminish Africans and their American descendants. 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 black boy with bulging eyes and blood-red lips devouring a watermelon as large as himself. This card is offensive to me, yet I collected it, along with 4,000 similar artifacts that portray black people as Coons, Toms, Sambos, Mammies, Picaninnies, and other dehumanizing racial caricatures. I collect this garbage because I firmly believe that items of intolerance can be powerful tools for teaching tolerance.
Alt text: Collection of Mammy figurines and kitchenware, showcasing stereotypical depictions of Black women as domestic servants, used to explore historical racism.
My journey into collecting racist objects began when I was around 12 or 13 years old. My memory of the event is somewhat hazy. It was the early 1970s in Mobile, Alabama, my childhood home. The object was small, likely a Mammy saltshaker. It must have been inexpensive, as I rarely had much money. And it must have been offensive, because after purchasing it from the antique dealer, I immediately threw it to the ground, shattering it into pieces. It wasn’t a political act; I simply loathed it, if one can hate an inanimate object. I’m unsure if the dealer scolded me, though it’s likely he did. I was what people in Mobile, both black and white, referred to unflatteringly as a “Red Nigger” due to my complexion. In that era and location, he could have hurled that slur at me without consequence. I don’t recall his exact words, but I’m certain he called me something other than David Pilgrim.
Among my collection is a 1916 magazine advertisement featuring a slightly caricatured young black boy drinking from an ink bottle. The caption at the bottom 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 instructed her to write, “Nigger Milk Print.”
Alt text: Vintage advertisement titled “Nigger Milk,” depicting a Black child drinking ink, illustrating the historical use of racist imagery in product marketing and everyday life.
“If you intend to sell it, call it by its true name,” I insisted. She refused, and we engaged in an argument. Ultimately, I purchased the print and left. That was my final altercation with a dealer or sales clerk. Today, I buy the items and depart with minimal conversation.
The Mammy saltshaker and the “Nigger Milk” print are far from the most offensive items I’ve 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 on both occasions, I lacked the $3,000 needed to purchase it. Postcards from the early 20th century depict black individuals being whipped, lynched, or burned beyond recognition. Postcards and photographs of lynched black people can fetch around $400 each on eBay and other online auction sites. I could afford to buy one, but I am not yet ready to do so.
My friends sometimes accuse me of being obsessed with racist objects. If they are correct, this obsession began during my undergraduate years at Jarvis Christian College, a small historically black institution in Hawkins, Texas. My professors taught us far more than academic subjects. They imparted the lived experience of being a black man 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 being assaulted by a white man for being “uppity.” The stories I heard were not filled with anger; worse, they were matter-of-fact accounts of daily life in a society where every black person was considered inferior to every white person, an era when “social equality” was considered a profane and inflammatory concept. Black people knew their clothing sizes because they were forbidden from trying on clothes in department stores. The mere act of black and white people wearing the same clothes, even briefly, implied social equality and, perhaps, intimacy.
I was ten years old when Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. We watched his funeral on a small black and white television in my fifth-grade classroom at Bessie C. Fonville Elementary. All my classmates were black; Mobile was proudly, defiantly segregated. Two years later, seeking more affordable housing, my family moved to Prichard, Alabama, a neighboring city that was even more segregated. Less than a decade prior, black people were barred from using the Prichard City Library unless they possessed a note from a white person. White people owned the majority of businesses and held all elected offices. I was part of the first class to integrate Prichard Middle School. A local television commentator labeled it an “invasion.” Invaders? We were children. We faced hostility from white adults on our way to school and from white children inside the school. By the time I graduated from Mattie T. Blount High School, most white families had left the city. When I arrived at Jarvis Christian College, I was far from naive about race relations in the South.
My college professors taught us about Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, Booker T. Washington, and W.E.B. Dubois. More importantly, 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 simplistic narrative of so-called great men. I recognized the immense debt I owed to countless black individuals – most forgotten by history – who endured suffering so that I could have access to education. It was at Jarvis Christian College that the idea of creating a collection of racist objects first took root. I wasn’t certain what I would do with it, but the seed was planted.
Alt text: Racist fishing lure depicting a caricatured Black figure, illustrating the pervasive nature of racist imagery extending to recreational items and popular culture.
While all racial groups have been subjected to caricature in the United States, none have been as frequently or extensively caricatured as black Americans. Popular culture has consistently portrayed black people as pitiable exotics, cannibalistic savages, hypersexual deviants, childlike buffoons, obedient servants, self-loathing victims, and menaces to society. These anti-black depictions were routinely embedded in everyday objects: ashtrays, drinking glasses, banks, games, fishing lures, detergent boxes, and countless other items. These objects, adorned with racist representations, both reflected and reinforced negative attitudes towards African Americans. Robbin Henderson (Faulkner, Henderson, Fabry, & Miller, 1982), director of the Berkeley Art Center, astutely 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 is propaganda, and this propaganda served to bolster Jim Crow laws and customs.
Jim Crow was more than just a collection of “Whites Only” signs. It was an entire way of life that resembled a racial caste system (Woodward, 1974). Jim Crow laws and social etiquette were supported by millions of material objects that depicted black people as comical, despicable inferiors. The Coon caricature, for example, portrayed black men as lazy, easily frightened, perpetually idle, inarticulate, physically grotesque idiots. This distorted image of black men permeated postcards, sheet music, children’s games, and numerous other everyday objects. The Coon and other stereotypical representations of black people reinforced the belief that black people were unfit for integrated schools, safe neighborhoods, responsible jobs, voting rights, and public office. I can still vividly hear the voices of my black elders – parents, neighbors, teachers – imploring, almost pleading, “Don’t be a Coon, be a man.” Living under Jim Crow meant constantly battling shame.
Alt text: Matchbox featuring a “Sambo” caricature, highlighting the use of demeaning stereotypes in advertising and everyday products during the Jim Crow era.
During my four years as a graduate student at The Ohio State University, my collection of racist objects grew significantly. Most items were small and inexpensive. I paid $2 for a postcard showing a terrified black man being devoured by an alligator and $5 for a matchbox featuring a Sambo-like character with exaggerated genitalia. The collection I amassed was not representative of everything available in Ohio or elsewhere; it was limited by my meager budget. Extremely racist items were, and remain, the most expensive “black collectibles.” In Orrville, Ohio, I saw a framed print depicting naked black children climbing a fence to access a swimming hole. The caption read, “Last One In’s A Nigger.” I couldn’t afford the $125 price tag. This was in the early 1980s, before the prices for racist collectibles skyrocketed. Today, that print, if authentic, could sell for thousands of dollars. During vacations, I scoured flea markets and antique stores from Ohio to Alabama, searching for objects that denigrated black people.
Looking back, I realize my years at The Ohio State University were filled with considerable anger. I believe every sane black person must experience anger, at least for a time. I was in the Sociology Department, a politically liberal environment, where discussions about improving race relations were frequent. There were only a handful of black students, and we gravitated towards each other like apprehensive outsiders. While I cannot speak for my black colleagues, I was deeply skeptical of my white professors’ understanding of everyday racism. Their lectures were often brilliant but invariably incomplete. Race relations were treated as fodder for theoretical debates; black people were reduced to a “research category.” Real black people, with real aspirations and struggles, were seen as problematic. I was suspicious of my white teachers, and they reciprocated my suspicion.
A friend suggested I take some “elective courses” in the Black Studies Program. I followed this advice. James Upton, a Political Scientist, introduced me to Paul Robeson’s book Here I Stand (1958). Robeson, a renowned athlete and entertainer, was also an activist who believed that American capitalism was detrimental to poor people, particularly black Americans. Robeson remained steadfast in his political convictions despite facing ostracism and persecution. While I wasn’t anti-capitalist, I admired his unwavering commitment to his beliefs and his tireless fight for the rights of oppressed people. I read numerous books about race and race relations, but few impacted me as profoundly as Here I Stand. I also immersed myself in the novels and essays of James Baldwin. His anger resonated with me, although I was troubled by his homosexuality. This is not surprising, given that I was raised in a demonstrably homophobic community where homosexuality was viewed as weakness and “sissies” were considered “bad luck.” White bigotry does not have a monopoly on ignorance. Progressiveness is a journey, and I had a long way to travel.
I have long sensed that Americans, particularly white Americans, prefer discussing slavery to Jim Crow. All formerly enslaved people are deceased. They are not among us, their presence serving as a constant reminder of that unspeakably cruel system. Their children are also gone. Separated by over a century and a half, many modern Americans perceive slavery as a regrettable period when black people worked without pay. Enslavement was, of course, far more horrific. It was the complete domination of one group of people by another – with the inevitable abuses of unchecked power. Slavers whipped enslaved people who displeased them. Clergy preached that slavery was God’s will. Scientists “proved” that black people were less evolved, a subspecies of humanity, and politicians concurred. Teachers instructed young children that black people were inherently less intelligent. Laws prohibited enslaved people, and sometimes even free black people, from learning to read and write, possessing money, and arguing with white people. Enslaved people were property – sentient, suffering property. The passage of a century and a half provides the average American with sufficient “psychological distance” to cope with slavery; when this is insufficient, a sanitized version of slavery is readily adopted.
The horrors of Jim Crow are not so easily dismissed. The children of Jim Crow are still alive, and they have stories to share. They remember Emmett Till, murdered in 1955 for a perceived interaction with a white woman. Long before the tragic events of September 11, 2001, black people living under Jim Crow were intimately familiar with terrorism. On Sunday, September 15, 1963, the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, a black church in Birmingham, Alabama, was bombed. Twenty-three people were injured, and four young girls were killed. Black people who grew up during the Jim Crow era can recount this bombing – and countless others. Black people who dared to protest the injustices of Jim Crow faced threats, and when threats failed, they were subjected to violence, including bombings. The children of Jim Crow can speak of the Scottsboro boys, the Tuskegee Experiment, lynchings, and the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., and they have countless stories of the daily indignities inflicted upon black people in towns where they were neither respected nor wanted.
Yes, many of us would rather discuss slavery than Jim Crow because a discussion of Jim Crow inevitably raises the question: “What about today?”
Alt text: Vintage advertisement featuring a surprised white woman reacting to a Black figure, exemplifying racial stereotypes in advertising and societal perceptions during the Jim Crow era.
In 1990, I joined the sociology faculty at Ferris State University in Big Rapids, Michigan. It was my second teaching position and my third “real” job. By that time, my collection of racist artifacts had grown to over 1,000 items. I kept the collection at home, occasionally bringing out pieces for public presentations, primarily to high school students. I discovered that many young people, both black and white, were not only ignorant about historical expressions of racism but also skeptical of my descriptions of the horrors of Jim Crow. Their ignorance was disheartening. I showed them segregation signs, Ku Klux Klan robes, and everyday objects depicting black people with tattered clothes, unkempt hair, bulging eyes, and clownish lips – always chasing fried chicken and watermelons or fleeing from alligators. I spoke to students about the connection between Jim Crow laws and racist material objects. I was perhaps too forceful, too driven to make them understand. I was, in essence, learning to use these objects as teaching tools while simultaneously grappling with my own anger.
A pivotal moment occurred in 1991. A colleague informed me about an elderly black woman who possessed a vast 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 told her about my collection. She seemed unimpressed. I described how I used racist objects to educate students about racism. Again, she remained unmoved. Her store displayed a few pieces of racist memorabilia. I inquired if she kept most of the “black material” at her home. She confirmed that she kept those items in the back but would only show them to me if I agreed to one condition: I could never “pester” her to sell me any of the objects. I readily agreed. She locked the front door, placed the “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 that washed over me when I saw her collection. It was profound sadness, a heavy, chilling sadness. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of objects, arranged side by side on shelves that reached the ceiling. All four walls were covered with some of the most overtly racist objects imaginable. I owned some of the items, recognized others from Black Memorabilia price guides, and some were so rare I have never encountered them since. I was stunned. Sadness. It was as if I could hear the objects themselves crying out in anguish. Every conceivable distortion of black people, our people, was on display. It was a chamber of horrors. She remained silent, staring at me as I stared at the objects. One piece was a life-sized wooden figure of a black man, grotesquely caricatured. It was a testament to the twisted creativity often intertwined with racism. Her collection was a material record of all the pain and harm inflicted upon Africans and their American descendants. I felt an overwhelming urge to cry. It was at that moment that I resolved to create a museum.
Alt text: Cover of a “Black Americana” price guide, illustrating the commodification of racist memorabilia and the market for historical artifacts of racial discrimination.
I became a frequent visitor to Mrs. Haley’s store. She warmed to me because I was “from down home.” She confided that in the 1960s and 1970s, many white people gave her racist objects. They no longer wanted to be associated with racism and felt embarrassed by these items. However, this sentiment shifted in the mid-1980s. Several price guides dedicated solely to racist collectibles were published, igniting the contemporary market for these items. Each new price guide showed prices escalating, fueling a nationwide pursuit of racist memorabilia. Mrs. Haley’s collection was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, but she had no desire to sell any of it. These objects represented our past, America’s past. “We mustn’t forget, baby,” she would say, without a trace of anger in her voice. I stopped visiting her after about a year, and later learned of her death and that her collection had been sold to private dealers. This news deeply saddened me on multiple levels. It particularly bothered me that she did not live to see the museum she had inspired.
I continued to expand my collection of racist objects: musical records with racist themes, fishing lures with Sambo imagery, children’s games depicting naked, dirty black children – any and every racist item I could afford. During the colder months, I frequented antique stores; in warmer weather, I traveled to flea markets. I grew impatient and began seeking to purchase entire collections from dealers and collectors. Again, limited funds restricted me to smaller collections.
Alt text: Vintage “Coon Chicken Inn” memorabilia, showcasing the use of the “Coon” caricature in restaurant branding and the normalization of racist imagery in public spaces.
In 1994, I was part of a three-person team from Ferris State University that attended a two-week workshop at Colorado College in Colorado Springs. The conference, sponsored by the Lilly Foundation, focused on the liberal arts. Our team’s mission was to integrate “diversity” into the general education curriculum at Ferris State University. I and my colleague, Mary Murnik, visited all the local antique stores. Colorado Springs, being a politically conservative city, unsurprisingly had many racist items for sale – some vintage, many reproductions. I acquired several segregation signs, a Coon Chicken Inn glass, three racist ashtrays, and numerous other items. I also purchased several 1920s records with racist themes from a dealer who insisted on discussing “the problem with colored people.” I wanted the records but not the conversation. John Thorp, the third member of our team, and I spent countless hours strategizing how to persuade the Ferris State University administration to allocate space and funding for a room to house my racist collectibles. It took several years, but ultimately, John and I 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 felt immense relief to remove it from my home. I donated my entire collection to the university, stipulating that the objects must be displayed and preserved. I never felt comfortable having these objects in my home, especially with small children. They would wander into the basement and examine “daddy’s dolls” – two mannequins dressed in full Ku Klux Klan regalia. They played with racist target games. One of them, I’m not sure which, broke a “Tom” cookie jar. I was irrationally angry for two days. The irony is not lost on me.
The museum is designed to function as a teaching laboratory. Ferris State University faculty and students utilize the museum to understand historical expressions of racism. The museum also includes items created after the Jim Crow era, a crucial addition because many students dismissed racism as a relic of the past. Scholars, primarily social scientists, also visit the museum for research purposes. Children are rarely permitted in the museum room, and adults – preferably parents – are encouraged to accompany them. We strongly recommend that all visitors watch Marlon Riggs’ documentary, Ethnic Notions (Riggs, 1987) or Jim Crow’s Museum (Pilgrim & Rye, 2004), a documentary I produced and Clayton Rye directed, before entering the exhibit. A trained museum facilitator is present for all tours. Clergy, civil rights groups, and human rights organizations also visit the museum.
Alt text: “Bean Bag Target Game” featuring caricatured Black figures as targets, illustrating the dehumanization of Black people through games and recreational items during the Jim Crow era.
The mission of the Jim Crow Museum is straightforward: to use items of intolerance to teach tolerance. We examine historical patterns of race relations and the origins and consequences of racist depictions. Our goal is to engage visitors in open and honest dialogues about this nation’s racial history. We are not afraid to discuss race and racism; we are afraid not to. I continue to deliver public presentations at high schools and colleges. Race relations suffer when discussions of race and racism are taboo. High schools that genuinely integrate race, racism, and diversity into their curriculums foster greater tolerance. It is easy to identify high schools that are hesitant or unwilling to honestly examine race and racism. In those environments, you will find a 1950s-like pattern of everyday race relations. Racial stereotypes will prevail, even if unspoken. Inevitably, a “racial incident” will occur – a racial slur hurled, a fight blamed on “the other” – and there will be no established foundation for addressing the problem, other than hiring me or a similar “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 aim is not to shock visitors, though a profound naiveté about America’s past pervades this country. Many Americans understand historical racism merely as a vague abstraction: Racism existed; it was bad, but likely not as severe as black people and other minorities claim. A direct confrontation with the visual evidence of racism – especially thousands of items in a confined space – is often shocking, even deeply disturbing. In the late 1800s, traveling carnivals and amusement parks sometimes featured a game called “Hit the Coon.” A black man would poke his head through a hole in a painted canvas depicting a plantation scene. White patrons would throw balls – and in particularly brutal instances, rocks – at the black man’s head to win prizes. A person in the 21st century who sees this banner or a reproduction gains a visceral understanding of what it was like to be a black man during the early years of Jim Crow.
This carnival banner reinforced the notion that black people were less human than white people. It alleviated white guilt about black suffering and implied that black people did not experience pain in the same way as normal people – whites. It legitimized “happy violence” directed at black people. It served as an ego boost for the white participants. How many poorly paid, socially marginalized white individuals vented their frustrations at the expense of “black heads?” The “Hit the Coon” game and its variant, “African Dodger,” were eventually replaced by target games using wooden black heads. One doesn’t need to be a psychologist to grasp the symbolic violence. It is no coincidence that games using black people as targets were popular during a period of escalating lynchings of real black people. The Jim Crow Museum possesses many objects that depict black people being thrown at, hit, or beaten. We do not have the carnival banner – but I could teach volumes with just one.
Some truths are painful.
Anger is a necessary catalyst on many journeys, but it should not be the final destination. My anger reached its peak when I read The Turner Diaries (1978), written by William L. Pierce under the pseudonym Andrew MacDonald.2 This book chronicles the “heroism” of white supremacists who overthrow the federal government, win a bloody race war, and establish a social order where white people rule supreme. Black people, other minorities, and white allies are brutally and graphically murdered. This book, arguably the most virulently racist book of the latter half of the 20th century, has influenced numerous racist organizations, including The Order and The Aryan Republican Army. Timothy McVeigh, convicted of the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing, was a devotee of the book – and his bombing eerily mirrored bombings described in The Turner Diaries. I made the mistake of reading all 80,000 words in a single day while exhausted. It consumed me.
Pierce, who held a Ph.D. in physics from the University of Colorado, aligned himself with Nazis in the 1960s. This explains his motivation for writing the book, but why did it provoke such intense anger in me? I already had a basement overflowing with racist memorabilia. I grew up in the segregated South. I remember the race riots on Davis Avenue in Mobile, Alabama. I was well-acquainted with the myriad ways one could be called a nigger and threatened with violence. The ideas presented in Pierce’s book, while venomous, were not novel to me. Yet, the book profoundly shook me.
Alt text: Postcard image labeled “Alligator Bait,” depicting Black children, highlighting the historical dehumanization of Black children and the normalization of violence against them.
Around that time, I brought a colleague’s students to the Jim Crow Museum. I exposed them to the full spectrum of ugliness: the Mammy, the Sambo, the Brute, the caricatured wounds inflicted upon black Americans. I showed them everything, and we delved deeper than ever before, deeper than I had intended to go. My anger was palpable. After three hours, everyone left except for two students – a young black woman and a middle-aged white man. The woman sat, frozen, transfixed, and stunned before a picture of four naked black children sitting on a riverbank. At the bottom of the picture were the words: “Alligator Bait.” She remained there, staring at it, trying to comprehend the hand that created it, the mind that conceived it. She was silent, but her eyes, her furrowed brow, the hand pressed to her forehead all conveyed, “Why, sweet Jesus, why?” The white man stopped gazing at the objects and looked at me, tears streaming down his face. Not sobbing, just a steady stream of tears. His tears deeply moved me. I approached him, and before I could speak, he said, “I am sorry, Mr. Pilgrim. Please forgive me.”
He had not created the racist objects in the room, but he had benefited from living in a society where black people were oppressed. Racial healing begins with sincere contrition. I had never realized how much I needed to hear a white person, any sincere white person, say, “I am sorry, forgive me.” I desired and needed an apology – a heartfelt one that could transform two lives. His words diffused my anger. The Jim Crow Museum was not created to shock, shame, or incite anger, but to foster a deeper understanding of the historical racial divide. Some visitors to the museum have remarked that I seem detached; I am not. I have simply strived to channel my anger into productive work.
Most visitors to the Jim Crow Museum understand our mission, embrace our methods, and continue on the path towards understanding and improving race relations. However, we also have critics, which is to be expected. The 21st century has brought a fear and reluctance to examine racism in a thorough, systematic manner. The hedonistic desire to avoid pain (or anything uncomfortable) runs counter to our approach of directly confronting the ugly legacy of racism. Moreover, there is a growing desire among many Americans to simply forget the past and move forward. “If we just stop talking about historical racism, racism will disappear.” It is not that simple. We may choose to avoid discussing race openly, but that is not the same as forgetting it. America remains a nation largely segregated by race in residential areas. Our churches, temples, and synagogues are, for the most part, racially divided. Patterns of racial segregation are resurfacing in many public schools. Race undeniably matters. Racial stereotypes, sometimes shouted, sometimes whispered, are still prevalent. Overt racism has evolved into institutional racism, symbolic racism, and everyday racial bias. Attitudes and beliefs about race inform many of our decisions, both large and small. “Let’s stop talking about it” is often a plea for comfort – a comfort that has historically been denied to black people and other minorities. The only way to move forward is to confront both the historical and contemporary expressions of racism, and to do so in an environment where attitudes, values, and behaviors are critically examined.
Several visitors to the museum have asked, “Why don’t you include any positive items?” My response is straightforward: we are, in effect, a black holocaust museum. I intend no disrespect to the millions of Jews and others who perished at the hands of Adolf Hitler and his followers. I hesitate to use the term “holocaust” to describe the experiences of Africans and their American descendants because I do not wish to trivialize the suffering of Jews, nor do I seek to compare victimizations. But what other term adequately describes it? Thousands of Africans died during the Trans-Atlantic slave voyage. Countless more endured the brutal system of slavery, and even after slavery was officially abolished, thousands of black people were lynched – often ritualistically, by white mobs. Today, we still have numerous “white towns” that were created by forcibly expelling black residents through racial violence.
Alt text: Poster promoting a march for civil rights, symbolizing the struggle against Jim Crow and the positive activism within the Black community to overcome racial injustice.
When the Jim Crow Museum expands into a larger facility, three additional “stories” will be incorporated. Artifacts and signage will introduce visitors to the remarkable achievements of black scholars, scientists, artists, and inventors who flourished despite living under Jim Crow. A “Civil Rights Movement” section will also be added, featuring images of protestors holding signs declaring, “I, Too, Am A Man.” Visitors will learn about civil rights activists, many of whom are absent from mainstream history books. This section can be viewed as representing the “Death of Jim Crow” era, although vestiges of Jim Crow thinking persist. Finally, a room for reflection will be created. I envision a mural of civil rights martyrs from all races surrounding visitors as they contemplate the crucial question: “What can I do today to combat racism?” These additions will provide positive and inspiring perspectives. We also plan to display enlarged photographs of black people in ordinary life: eating, walking, studying, simply living. These poster-sized images will be placed near the caricatured objects to constantly remind visitors that the thousands of objects that denigrate black people are distortions, malicious exaggerations – not accurate representations of reality. Several kiosks will feature personal stories from individuals who lived under Jim Crow.
Jim Crow was critically wounded in the 1950s and 1960s. The Supreme Court decision in Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka (1954) declared segregated schools unconstitutional, accelerating the demise of legal segregation, though not its complete eradication, as evidenced by the necessity of the Civil Rights Movement. White people, particularly in the North, were confronted with images of black protestors being brutalized by police officers, attacked by police dogs, and arrested for attempting to vote, eat at segregated lunch counters, and attend “white” schools. The 1964 Civil Rights Act, passed following (and perhaps because of) President John F. Kennedy’s assassination, was a significant blow to Jim Crow.
Alt text: Collection of books related to the Jim Crow era and African American history, representing the educational mission of the Jim Crow Museum and the importance of historical learning.
One by one, segregation laws were dismantled throughout the 1960s and 1970s. The removal of legal barriers to voting led to the election of black politicians in numerous cities, including former strongholds of segregation like Birmingham and Atlanta. Southern white colleges and universities began admitting black students and hiring black professors, though often in token numbers. Affirmative action programs compelled employers in both the public and private sectors to hire black people and other minorities. Black people began appearing on television shows in non-stereotypical roles. While significant racial challenges persisted, it appeared that Jim Crow era attitudes and behaviors were destined to fade away. Many white people discarded household items that defamed black people, such as ashtrays with grinning Sambos, “Jolly Nigger” banks, sheet music with titles like “Coon, Coon, Coon,” and children’s books like Little Black Sambo.
However, Jim Crow attitudes did not vanish; in many instances, they have resurfaced. The late 20th century saw a resurgence of resentment among many white people regarding the perceived “gains” made by black people. Affirmative Action policies were attacked as reverse discrimination against white people. The slavery-era Coon caricature of black people as lazy and shiftless re-emerged as a depiction of modern welfare recipients. White Americans generally support welfare for the “deserving poor” but strongly oppose it for those perceived as lazy and unwilling to work. Black welfare recipients are often viewed as indolent parasites. The centuries-old fear of black people, particularly young black males, as brutes found new expression in contemporary portrayals of black people as thugs, gangsters, and menaces to society.
Black entertainers who financially capitalize on white America’s acceptance of anti-black stereotypes contribute to perpetuating these images. In popular and material culture, the Mammy portrayal of black women has been replaced by the Jezebel image: black women as hypersexual deviants. The racial sensitivity promoted in the 1970s and 1980s was, by the end of the century, derided as “political correctness.”
The current racial climate is characterized by ambivalence and contradiction. Most polls indicate a decline in overt prejudice among white people. There is a heightened awareness that racism is wrong and that tolerating “racial others” is considered virtuous. However, there is also a growing acceptance of ideas that are critical and belittling towards black people and other minorities. Many white people are weary of discussing race, believing that America has made sufficient “concessions” to its black citizens. Some are rebelling against government intervention, arguing that the government, especially the federal government, lacks the authority to mandate integration. Others are waging personal battles against political correctness. And a segment of the white population persists in believing that black people are less intelligent, less ambitious, less moral, and more prone to social pathologies: drug abuse, sexual deviance, and crimes against property and persons. Martin Luther King, Jr., vilified during his lifetime, is now celebrated as a hero; yet, black people as a whole are still viewed with suspicion, sometimes alarm.
Alt text: Collection of Halloween masks featuring exaggerated and stereotypical Black facial features, highlighting the ongoing presence of racist caricatures in contemporary popular culture and consumer products.
In the early 1990s, I attended an academic conference in New Orleans and searched local stores for racist objects. They were scarce. A decade later, I returned to New Orleans and found anti-black objects readily available in many stores. This was disappointing but not entirely unexpected. Brutally racist items are easily accessible through online auction sites, particularly eBay. In fact, nearly every item in the Jim Crow Museum’s collection is for sale on some internet platform. Old racist items are being reproduced, and new items are being created. Annually, Halloween USA produces monster masks that exaggerate the facial features of Africans and African Americans.
Alt text: “Ghettopoly” board game box, an example of modern racist products that perpetuate harmful stereotypes through caricatures and game mechanics based on racial tropes.
In 2003, David Chang ignited a national controversy with his board game, Ghettopoly. In stark contrast to Monopoly, the popular family game, Ghettopoly debases and belittles racial minorities, particularly black people. Ghettopoly features seven game pieces: Pimp, Hoe, 40 oz, Machine Gun, Marijuana Leaf, Basketball, and Crack. One of the game cards reads, “You got yo whole neighborhood addicted to crack. Collect $50 from each playa.” Monopoly has houses and hotels; Ghettopoly features crack houses and projects. The distributors advertise Ghettopoly with the tagline: “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. Not dope enough? If you don’t have the money that you owe to the loan shark you might just land yourself in da Emergency Room.” The game’s cards depict black people in grotesquely caricatured ways. Hasbro, the copyright holder for Monopoly, has sued David Chang to halt the distribution of Ghettopoly.
Alt text: “Pimp Daddy” doll in packaging, part of the “Trash Talker Dolls” line, showcasing contemporary racist merchandise marketed as satire, but perpetuating harmful stereotypes.
David Chang defends his product as satirical critique of American racism. He is not alone. AdultDolls.net distributes Trash Talker Dolls, a series of dolls with stereotypical depictions of minorities. Their best-selling doll is Pimp Daddy, a gaudily dressed black pimp adorned with chains who utters phrases like, “You better make some money, bitch.” Charles Knipp, a white man, has gained notoriety for his minstrel-drag “Ignunce Tour.” Knipp, dressed in tattered women’s clothing and blackface makeup, adopts the stage persona Shirley Q. Liquor – a Coon-like black woman with 19 children. This self-proclaimed “Queen of Dixie” performs skits that portray all black people as buffoons, whores, idlers, and criminals. Knipp’s performances are popular in the Deep South but have faced protests in numerous northern cities (Boykin, 2002). Shirley Q. Liquor merchandise – including cassette tapes, drinking glasses, and posters – is also popular. When satire fails, it often reinforces the very thing it satirizes. Ghettopoly, Trash Talker Dolls, and Shirley Q. Liquor skits and products depict black people as immoral, wretched, ill-bred, cultural parasites. These modern depictions of black people are eerily reminiscent of the negative caricatures from over a century ago. The satire is ineffective, but the distributors profit handsomely.
Understanding is paramount. The Jim Crow Museum’s collection compels visitors to confront the issue of racial equality and take a stance. It is effective. I have witnessed profound and honest discussions about race and racism within its walls. No topic is off-limits. What role have black people played in perpetuating anti-black caricatures and stereotypes? When, if ever, is folk art racially offensive? Does racial segregation always indicate racism? We analyze the origins and consequences of racist imagery, but our mission extends beyond mere analysis.
I am humbled that the Jim Crow Museum has become a national resource – and its website, an international resource. The website was created by Ted Halm, the Ferris State University webmaster. Two dozen Ferris State University faculty members have been trained as docents, leading tours and facilitating discussions about the objects. Traveling exhibits are being developed to extend the museum’s lessons to other universities and colleges. Clayton Rye, a Ferris State University professor and filmmaker, and I co-created a documentary about the museum. John Thorp served as the museum’s director until his retirement, and Joseph “Andy” Karafa currently holds this position. The museum is a collaborative endeavor. A vision without support remains just a cathartic dream.
I see my role evolving and perhaps diminishing. I have other goals, other forms of “garbage” to collect. I have already amassed several hundred objects that defame and belittle women – items that both reflected and shaped negative attitudes towards women. One day, I plan to create a room, modeled after the Jim Crow Museum, that uses sexist objects to educate Americans about sexism. This room will be named “The Sarah Baartman Room,” in honor of a 19th-century African woman brutally exploited by her European captors. Her victimization perfectly illustrates the interconnectedness of racism, sexism, and imperialism. There is an African proverb that states we do not truly die until we are forgotten. It is my intention to ensure that Sarah Baartman is never forgotten.
Martin Luther King, Jr. famously said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” In 2004, Carrie Weis, the Director of the FSU Art Gallery, and I designed and built a traveling exhibit titled “Hateful Things.” This exhibit has traveled to numerous universities and museums, teaching about the horrors of Jim Crow segregation. In 2005, we began developing “Them,” a traveling exhibit focusing on material objects that defame non-black people, including women, Asians, Jews, Mexicans, and poor white people. Again, our overarching goal is to use items of intolerance to cultivate tolerance.
I will conclude with a personal anecdote. One of my daughters plays on an elite soccer team, which means her practices often run late. One day, I was waiting in the van with my other daughter for practice to finish. Nearby, several white teenage boys were clowning around in front of two girls. One of the boys was wearing a blackface mask and mimicking exaggerated mannerisms of “street blacks.” He turned towards our van, and I immediately looked at my daughter. She had lowered her head and covered her face in shame and embarrassment. If you are a parent, you understand what I felt in that moment. If you are black, then 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). This book, originally published in 1959, is a profound-albeit, often satirical-critique of the racial hierarchy that operated during the Jim Crow period.
2 As founder of the National Alliance, the largest neo-Nazi organization in this country, Pierce used weekly radio addresses, the Internet, white power music ventures, and racist video games to promote his vision of a whites-only homeland and a government free of “non-Aryan influence.” Pierce died on July 23, 2002, his followers have vowed to carry on 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. The images in this book inspired Marlon Riggs’ documentary, Ethnic Notions.
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. This book remains a classic critique of Jim Crow laws and etiquette.
