by David Pilgrim, Curator, Jim Crow Museum
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, in a sense, a digital garbage collector, sifting through racist garbage. For three decades, I have been collecting items that defame and belittle Africans and their American descendants. Imagine stumbling upon a parlor game, like “72 Pictured Party Stunts,” from the 1930s. One of the game’s cards instructs players to, “Go through the motions of a colored boy eating watermelon.” The card depicts a darkly drawn black boy, with exaggerated features – bulging eyes and blood-red lips – devouring a watermelon as large as himself. This card, like many others in my collection of 4,000 similar items, portraying black people as Coons, Toms, Sambos, Mammies, Picaninnies, and other dehumanizing racial caricatures, is offensive. Yet, I collect this garbage because I firmly believe that items of intolerance can be powerful tools to teach tolerance. It’s about recognizing the real deal from the cheap, offensive knock-offs of humanity peddled in the marketplace of hate – not unlike spotting a fake from a reputable store.
It’s almost like recognizing a poorly made meme online, a cheap imitation of humor that relies on outdated and offensive stereotypes. You see it and immediately understand it’s not authentic, not genuinely funny, just a hollow, often hurtful, echo of something worse. My journey into collecting these artifacts began when I was around 12 or 13. My memory is a bit hazy, but 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 never had much money back then. And it must have been ugly because after paying the dealer, I impulsively threw it to the ground, shattering it. It wasn’t a political statement; I simply hated it – if one can hate an object. I don’t recall if the dealer scolded me, but he probably did. I was, as people in Mobile, both black and white, referred to me with a racial slur combined with my red hair, a deeply offensive term in that era and place. He could have hurled that name at me without consequence. I don’t remember what he called me, but I’m sure it wasn’t David Pilgrim.
I also possess a 1916 magazine advertisement featuring a slightly caricatured little black boy drinking from an ink bottle. The caption at the bottom reads, chillingly, “Nigger Milk.” I acquired this print in 1988 from an antique store in LaPorte, Indiana. It was framed and priced at $20. The sales clerk labeled the receipt “Black Print.” I corrected her, insisting she write “Nigger Milk Print.”
“If you’re going to sell it, call it by its name,” I told her. She refused. We argued briefly. I bought the print and left. That was my last argument with a dealer or sales clerk; today, I purchase the items and leave with minimal conversation. It’s a transaction, a necessary acquisition for the museum, not a debate. Much like you might quickly purchase something online from a questionable source knowing it’s likely a cheap knock-off – you get what you need for the purpose, but there’s no further engagement.
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 called “Chopped Up Niggers.” Today, this game is a highly sought-after collectible. I’ve seen it for sale twice, but each time I lacked the $3,000 asking price. Then there are the postcards from the early 20th century depicting black people being whipped, lynched, or burned beyond recognition. Postcards and photographs of lynched black individuals can fetch around $400 each on eBay and other online auction sites. I could afford one, but I’m not ready, not yet. These aren’t just historical artifacts; they are visceral reminders of a brutal past, far removed from the sanitized, often fake narratives that some try to sell.
Friends sometimes accuse me of being obsessed with racist objects. If they’re right, this obsession likely took root during my time as an undergraduate student at Jarvis Christian College, a small historically black institution in Hawkins, Texas. My professors taught us more than just academic subjects; they taught us what it meant to live as a black man under Jim Crow segregation. Imagine being a college professor, yet needing to wear a chauffeur’s hat while driving your own new car through small towns, to avoid being assaulted by a white man for appearing “uppity.” The stories I heard weren’t filled with rage, but rather matter-of-fact accounts of daily life in a society where every black person was deemed inferior to every white person, where “social equality” was considered a dangerous, provocative idea. Black people even knew their clothing sizes by heart 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 a level of social equality, perhaps even intimacy, deemed unacceptable.
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, an even more segregated neighboring city. Not long before, black people were denied access to the Prichard City Library unless they had a note from a white person. White people owned most businesses and held all elected offices. I was part of the first wave of black students to integrate Prichard Middle School. A local television commentator called it an “invasion.” Invaders? We were children. We faced hostility from white adults on our way to school and from white children inside. By the time I graduated from Mattie T. Blount High School, most white residents had left the city. By the time I arrived at Jarvis Christian College, I was far from naive about the realities of race relations in the South. I understood the difference between the authentic struggle and the cheap imitations of equality that were sometimes offered.
My college professors taught us about Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, Booker T. Washington, and W.E.B. Dubois. More importantly, they taught us about the quiet heroism of maids, butlers, and sharecroppers who risked their livelihoods, and sometimes their lives, to resist Jim Crow segregation. I learned to analyze history critically, from the perspective of the oppressed, not just through the lens of so-called “great men.” I came to understand the immense debt I owed to countless black individuals – mostly forgotten by history – who endured hardship so that I could have an education. It was at Jarvis Christian College that the idea of creating a collection of racist objects first took shape. I wasn’t sure what I would do with it then, but the seed was planted. It was about preserving the real, ugly history, not accepting the cheap, whitewashed versions often presented.
Every racial group has been caricatured in this country, but none as consistently or in as many forms as black Americans. Black people have been depicted in popular culture as pitiable exotics, cannibalistic savages, hypersexual deviants, childlike buffoons, obedient servants, self-loathing victims, and threats to society. These anti-black portrayals were routinely embedded in everyday objects: ashtrays, drinking glasses, banks, games, fishing lures, detergent boxes, and countless other items. These objects, imbued with racist representations, both reflected and reinforced prejudiced attitudes towards African Americans. Robbin Henderson (Faulkner, Henderson, Fabry, & Miller, 1982), director of the Berkeley Art Center, aptly stated, “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 right. Racist imagery is propaganda, and this propaganda was instrumental in upholding Jim Crow laws and customs. It was the real, harmful product, not some harmless meme or joke.
Jim Crow was more than just “Whites Only” signs. It was a comprehensive system that resembled a racial caste system (Woodward, 1974). Jim Crow laws and social etiquette were bolstered by millions of everyday objects that portrayed black people as laughable, contemptible inferiors. The Coon caricature, for instance, depicted black men as lazy, easily frightened, perpetually idle, inarticulate, physically repulsive idiots. This distorted image of black men permeated postcards, sheet music, children’s games, and numerous other material objects. The Coon and other stereotypical portrayals of black people supported the notion that black people were unfit for integrated schools, safe neighborhoods, responsible jobs, voting rights, and public office. I can almost hear the voices of my black elders – parents, neighbors, teachers – urgently pleading, “Don’t be a Coon, be a man.” Living under Jim Crow meant constantly fighting against shame, against being reduced to a cheap stereotype.
I amassed many racist objects during my four years as a graduate student at The Ohio State University. Most were small and inexpensive. I paid $2 for a postcard showing a terrified black man being devoured by an alligator. I spent $5 on a matchbox featuring a Sambo-like character with exaggerated genitalia. The collection I built wasn’t representative of everything that existed in Ohio – or anywhere – but rather a reflection of what I could afford. The most overtly racist items were, and still are, the most expensive “black collectibles.” In Orrville, Ohio, I saw a framed print depicting naked black children climbing a fence to get to 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 prices for 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, searching for items that denigrated black people. It was about documenting the real, tangible forms of racism, not just dismissing them as cheap talk.
My years at The Ohio State University were, in retrospect, filled with a great deal of anger. I believe that anger is a natural response for any sane black person, at least for a time. I was in the Sociology Department, a politically liberal environment, where discussions about improving race relations were common. There were only a handful of black students, and we tended to stick together, feeling like outsiders. I won’t speak for my black colleagues, but I was deeply skeptical of my white professors’ understanding of everyday racism. Their lectures were often brilliant, but always incomplete. Race relations were a topic for theoretical debate; black people were a “research category.” Real black people, with real lives, ambitions, and struggles, were often seen as problematic. I was suspicious of my white teachers, and they likely reciprocated. It felt like we were operating in different realities, one academic and theoretical, the other lived and visceral – like the difference between a cheap imitation and the genuine article.
A friend suggested I take some “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 that American capitalism was harmful to poor people, especially black Americans. Robeson maintained his political convictions despite facing ostracism and persecution. While I wasn’t anti-capitalist myself, I admired his unwavering commitment to his beliefs and his fight for the rights of the oppressed. I read many books about 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 with me, although I struggled with his homosexuality. This isn’t surprising, as I was raised in a demonstrably homophobic community. Homosexuality was seen as a weakness, and “sissies” were considered “bad luck.” Ignorance isn’t exclusive to white bigots. Progress is a journey, and I had a long way to go. It’s about constantly evaluating what’s real and what’s just a cheap imitation of understanding.
I’ve long felt that Americans, particularly white Americans, prefer to discuss slavery rather than Jim Crow. All formerly enslaved people are deceased. They are not among us, their presence a constant reminder of that unspeakably cruel system. Their children are also gone. Distanced by a century and a half, many modern Americans view slavery as a regrettable period when black people worked without pay. Of course, enslavement was far worse. It was the complete domination of one group of people by another – with all the abuses inherent in unchecked power. Slave owners 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. Laws prohibited enslaved people, and sometimes even free black people, from learning to read and write, possessing money, or arguing with white people. Enslaved people were property – sentient, suffering property. The passage of time provides enough “psychological space” for many Americans to grapple with slavery; when that’s not enough, a sanitized, almost meme-like version of slavery is often embraced – a cheap, diluted representation of the true horror.
The horrors of Jim Crow are harder to ignore. The children of Jim Crow are still alive, and they have stories to tell. They remember Emmett Till, murdered in 1955 for an alleged interaction with a white woman. Long before the tragedies 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 tell you about the Scottsboro boys, the Tuskegee Experiment, lynchings, and the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., and they have countless personal stories of the daily indignities suffered by black people in towns where they were neither respected nor wanted. These are not distant memories; they are lived experiences, authentic histories, not cheap imitations.
Yes, many of us would rather talk about slavery than Jim Crow because discussing Jim Crow inevitably leads to the 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 numbered over 1,000. I kept the collection at home, bringing out pieces when I gave public talks, 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 doubted the severity 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 – chasing fried chicken and watermelons, or fleeing alligators. I explained 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. It was about showing them the real, impactful artifacts, not just telling them about racism in abstract terms.
A pivotal moment occurred in 1991. A colleague told me about 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 told her about my collection. She seemed unimpressed. I described how I used racist objects to educate students about racism. Still, she wasn’t impressed. Her store displayed a few pieces of racist memorabilia. I asked if she kept most of the “black material” at her home. She said she kept those pieces in the back, but I could only see them if I agreed to a condition: I could never “pester” her to sell me any of the objects. I agreed. She locked the front door, put the “closed” sign in the window, and motioned for me to follow her.
If I live to be 100, I will never forget the feeling I had when I saw her collection; it was profound sadness, a heavy, cold sadness. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of objects, neatly arranged on shelves reaching the ceiling. All four walls were covered with some of the most racist objects imaginable. Some I owned myself, others I had seen in Black Memorabilia price guides, and some were so rare I haven’t encountered them since. I was stunned. Sadness. It was as if I could hear the objects themselves crying out, lamenting. Every conceivable distortion of black people, our people, was on display. It was a chamber of horrors. She remained silent, watching me; I stared at the objects. One was a life-sized wooden figure of a black man, grotesquely caricatured. It was a stark example of the twisted creativity that often fuels racism. Her walls held a tangible record of all the pain and harm inflicted upon Africans and their American descendants. I felt like crying. It was at that moment that I resolved to create a museum. It had to be a space to confront the real, overwhelming weight of this history, not just a fleeting online meme or a cheap, easily dismissed image.
I visited her often. She liked me because I was “from down home.” She told me that in the 1960s and 1970s, many white people gave her racist objects. They wanted to distance themselves from racism. They were embarrassed. This sentiment shifted in the mid-1980s. Several price guides dedicated solely to racist collectibles were published. These price guides helped create the contemporary market for racist collectibles. Each new guide showed prices escalating, and a national pursuit of racist items began. Mrs. Haley’s collection was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, but she had no desire to sell. They represented our past, America’s past. “We mustn’t forget, baby,” she said, 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. This saddened me deeply. It bothered me that she didn’t live to see the museum she helped inspire. It was a collection built on authentic artifacts, not for profit, but for remembrance and education, unlike the fleeting, often meaningless, marketplace for online “shock value.”
I continued collecting racist objects: musical recordings 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 months, I traveled to flea markets. I was impatient. I sought to buy entire collections from dealers and collectors. Again, limited funds restricted me to purchasing only smaller collections. It was a constant search for the real, tangible pieces of history, amidst a sea of modern distractions and cheap imitations.
In 1994, I was part of a three-person team from Ferris State University attending 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 incorporate “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 purchased several segregation signs, a Coon Chicken Inn glass, three racist ashtrays, and numerous other items. I also bought several 1920s records with racist themes from a dealer who tried to engage me in conversation about “the problem with colored people.” I wanted the records, not the conversation. John Thorp, the third member of our team, and I spent hours planning how to convince the Ferris State University administration to provide space and funding for a room to house my racist collectibles. It took several years, but ultimately, John and I succeeded. It was about creating a real, physical space for these artifacts, not just letting them exist as isolated items or online curiosities.
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 hated mine and felt relieved to remove it from my home. I donated my entire collection to the university, with the condition that the objects would be displayed and preserved. I never liked having them at home. I had young children. They would wander into the basement and see “daddy’s dolls” – two mannequins dressed in full Ku Klux Klan regalia. They played with the racist target games. One of them, I don’t know which, broke a “Tom” cookie jar. I was angry for two days. The irony is not lost on me. It was essential to move these objects from a personal space to a public, educational one, to transform them from potentially harmful items into tools for learning and dialogue.
The museum functions 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, which is crucial because too many students dismissed racism as a “thing of the past.” Scholars conducting research, mainly social scientists, also visit the museum. Children are rarely allowed in the room, and when they are, adult supervision – ideally their parents – is strongly encouraged. We encourage all visitors to 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. It’s about providing a real, guided experience, not just a passive online encounter with potentially disturbing imagery.
The mission of the Jim Crow Museum is simple: to use items of intolerance to teach tolerance. We examine the historical patterns of race relations and the origins and consequences of racist depictions. The goal is to engage visitors in open and honest dialogues about this country’s racial history. We are not afraid to discuss race and racism; we are afraid not to. I continue to give public presentations at high schools and colleges. Race relations suffer when discussions about race and racism are taboo. High schools that genuinely integrate race, racism, and diversity into their curriculums foster greater tolerance. It’s easy to identify schools that are hesitant or unwilling to honestly confront race and racism. There, you often find a 1950s-like pattern of everyday race relations. Racial stereotypes persist, even if unspoken. Inevitably, a “racial incident” occurs – a racial slur, a fight blamed on “the other” – and there’s no established foundation for addressing the issue, other than hiring me or a similar “diversity consultant” to restore order. The Jim Crow Museum is built on the belief that open, honest, even painful conversations about race are essential to avoid repeating the mistakes of the past. It’s about real engagement and learning, not just cheap, superficial gestures towards diversity.
Our aim is not to shock visitors for shock value. A pervasive naivete about America’s past exists in this country. Many Americans understand historical racism as a vague abstraction: Racism existed; it was bad, though likely not as bad as black people and other minorities claim. A direct encounter with the visual evidence of racism – especially thousands of items in a small room – is often shocking, even painful. In the late 1800s, traveling carnivals and amusement parks sometimes featured a game called “Hit the Coon.” A black man would stick his head through a hole in a painted canvas, the backdrop depicting a plantation scene. White patrons would throw balls – and in particularly brutal instances, rocks – at the black man’s head to win prizes. Someone living in the 21st century who sees that banner or a reproduction gets a glimpse of what it was like to be a black man in the early Jim Crow years. This is about experiencing a real, visceral connection to the past, not just a cheap imitation of understanding.
That carnival banner reinforced the idea that black people were less human than white people. It eased white guilt about black suffering; it implied that black people didn’t experience pain in the same way as “normal” people – whites. It helped legitimize “happy violence” directed at black people. It boosted the egos of the white hurlers. How many underpaid, socially marginalized white people vented their frustrations at the expense of “black heads?” The “Hit the Coon” game and its variant, “African Dodger,” were eventually replaced with target games using wooden black heads. You don’t need to be a psychologist to grasp the symbolic violence. It’s no coincidence that games using black people as targets were popular during a period of increasing lynchings of actual black people. The Jim Crow Museum holds many objects showing black people being thrown at, hit, or beaten. We don’t have the carnival banner – but I could teach a great deal with one. These are real artifacts of hate, not just cheap online memes.
Some truths are painful.
Anger is a necessary component of many journeys, but it shouldn’t be the final destination. My anger reached its peak when I read The Turner Diaries (1978), by William L. Pierce, writing as Andrew MacDonald.2 The book chronicles the “heroism” of white supremacists who overthrow the federal government, win a bloody race war, and establish a white-ruled society. Black people, other minorities, and white people who support them are brutally, graphically murdered. This book, arguably the most racist book of the late 20th century, has influenced numerous racist organizations, including The Order and The Aryan Republican Army. Timothy McVeigh, convicted for the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing, was a fan of the book – and his bombing eerily mirrored bombings described in The Turner Diaries. Reading it – all 80,000 words – in one day, while exhausted, was a mistake. It consumed me. It was a confrontation with the real, unfiltered depths of hate, not just a cheap, superficial expression of prejudice.
Pierce, who held a Ph.D. in physics from the University of Colorado, aligned himself with Nazis in the 1960s. This explains why he wrote the book, but why did it anger me so intensely? After all, I had a basement full of racist memorabilia. I grew up in the segregated South. I remembered the race riots on Davis Avenue in Mobile, Alabama. I was familiar with the countless ways one could be called a racial slur and threatened with violence. The ideas in Pierce’s book, though venomous, weren’t new to me. Yet, the book shook me to my core.
Around that time, I took a colleague’s students to the Jim Crow Museum. I showed them the ugliness – the Mammy, the Sambo, the Brute, the caricatures inflicted upon black Americans. I showed them everything. And we went deep, deeper than ever before, deeper than I had intended. My anger was palpable. After three hours, everyone left except two – 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. The children sat on a riverbank. At the bottom, the words: “Alligator Bait.” She sat there, staring, trying to comprehend the hand that created it, the mind that conceived it. She said nothing, but her eyes, her frown, the hand on her forehead all cried out, “Why, sweet Jesus, why?” The white man stopped looking at the objects and looked at me. He was crying. Not sobbing, just a silent stream of tears. His tears moved me. I walked towards him. Before I could speak, he said, “I am sorry, Mr. Pilgrim. Please forgive me.” It was a moment of real, raw emotion, not a cheap performance of remorse.
He hadn’t created the racist objects, but he had benefited from living in a society where black people were oppressed. Racial healing begins with sincere contrition. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear a white person, any sincere white person, say, “I am sorry, forgive me.” I wanted and needed an apology – a heartfelt one that could change lives. His words diffused my anger. The Jim Crow Museum wasn’t created to shock, shame, or anger, but to foster a deeper understanding of the historical racial divide. Some visitors say I seem detached; I’m not. I’ve struggled to channel my anger into productive work. It’s about moving beyond cheap outrage to real understanding and change.
Most visitors to the Jim Crow Museum understand our mission, accept our methods, and join us on the journey towards improving race relations. But we do have critics. That’s expected. The 21st century has brought a fear and reluctance to examine racism deeply and systematically. The hedonistic desire to avoid pain (or anything uncomfortable) clashes with our approach of directly confronting the ugly legacy of racism. Moreover, many Americans increasingly want to forget the past and “move on.” “If we just stop talking about historical racism, racism will disappear.” It’s not that simple. We may avoid open discussions about race, but that doesn’t erase it. America remains residentially segregated by race. Our churches, temples, and synagogues are largely racially divided. Old patterns of racial segregation are returning to many public schools. Race still matters. Racial stereotypes, sometimes shouted, sometimes whispered, are commonplace. Overt racism has evolved into institutional racism, symbolic racism, and everyday racial bias. Attitudes and beliefs about race shape many of our decisions, large and small. “Let’s stop talking about it” is a plea for comfort – a comfort denied to black people and other minorities. The path forward is to confront both the historical and contemporary expressions of racism, in a setting where attitudes, values, and behaviors are critically examined. It’s about real, sustained effort, not cheap promises or easy solutions.
Several visitors have asked, “Why don’t you have any positive items here?” My answer is simple: we are, in effect, a black holocaust museum. I mean no disrespect to the millions of Jews and others who perished at the hands of Adolf Hitler and his followers. I hesitate to use “holocaust” to describe the experiences of Africans and their American descendants because I don’t want to diminish the suffering of Jews – nor do I want to compare victimizations. But what other word accurately captures the scale of the tragedy? Thousands of Africans died during the transatlantic slave voyage. Countless more suffered under the brutal system of slavery, and even after its official end, thousands of black people were lynched – often ritualistically, by white mobs. We still have many small “white towns” created by forcibly expelling black residents, victims of rampant racial violence. This is about acknowledging the real, historical trauma, not just a watered-down version for easy consumption.
When the Jim Crow Museum expands to a larger facility, three additional “stories” will be told. Artifacts and signage will highlight the remarkable accomplishments of black scholars, scientists, artists, and inventors who thrived despite living under Jim Crow. A “Civil Rights Movement” section will also be added, featuring images of protestors holding signs like “I, Too, Am A Man.” Visitors will learn about civil rights activists, many unacknowledged in mainstream history books. This section can be seen as depicting the “Death of Jim Crow,” although its legacy persists. Finally, a room for reflection is planned. I envision a mural of civil rights martyrs, of all races, surrounding visitors as they consider the crucial question: “What can I do today to combat racism?” These will be explicitly positive additions. We also plan to enlarge photographs of black people simply being “regular” people: eating, walking, studying, living. These poster-sized images will be placed near the caricatured objects to remind visitors that the thousands of objects denigrating black people are distortions, malicious exaggerations – not realistic depictions. Kiosks will feature stories from people who lived under Jim Crow. It’s about presenting a full, nuanced picture, not just focusing on the negative, but showcasing resilience and hope alongside the harsh realities.
Jim Crow was wounded in the 1950s and 1960s. The Supreme Court’s Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka (1954) decision declared segregated schools unconstitutional. This accelerated the end of legal segregation, though it didn’t eradicate it entirely, as evidenced by the need for the Civil Rights Movement. White people, particularly in the North, were confronted with images of black protestors being beaten by police, attacked by dogs, and arrested for trying to vote, eat at segregated lunch counters, and attend “white” schools. The 1964 Civil Rights Act, passed after (and perhaps because of) President John F. Kennedy’s assassination, was a significant blow to Jim Crow. These were real, hard-won victories, not just symbolic gestures.
One by one, segregation laws were dismantled in the 1960s and 1970s. The removal of legal barriers to voting led to the election of black politicians in many cities, including former strongholds of segregation like Birmingham and Atlanta. From this period onward, white colleges and universities in the South began admitting black students and hiring black professors, albeit often in token numbers. Affirmative action programs compelled employers in both public and private sectors to hire black people and other minorities. Black people began appearing on television in non-stereotypical roles. While significant racial problems remained, it seemed that Jim Crow-era attitudes and behaviors were destined to fade away. Many white people destroyed household items that defamed black people – ashtrays with smiling Sambos, “Jolly Nigger” banks, sheet music like “Coon, Coon, Coon,” and children’s books such as Little Black Sambo. There was a sense of progress, a move away from the most blatant forms of racism, but the underlying attitudes proved more resilient.
However, Jim Crow attitudes didn’t disappear; in many ways, they have resurfaced. The late 20th century saw resentment among many white people regarding the “gains” made by black people. Affirmative Action policies were attacked as reverse discrimination against white people. The 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 stereotyped as indolent parasites. The centuries-old fear of black people, especially young black men, as brutes found new life in contemporary portrayals of black people as thugs, gangsters, and menaces to society. These are not just historical stereotypes; they are evolving and adapting to the modern era.
Black entertainers who financially capitalize on white America’s acceptance of anti-black stereotypes perpetuate many of these images. In popular culture, the Mammy caricature 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.” There’s a sense of history repeating itself, with old stereotypes finding new forms of expression.
The current racial climate is marked by ambivalence and contradiction. Most polls on race show a decline in prejudice among white people. There’s a heightened awareness that racism is wrong and that tolerating “racial others” is good; yet, there’s also a growing acceptance of ideas critical of and belittling towards black people and other minorities. Many white people are tired of discussing race, believing America has made enough “concessions” to its black citizens. Some are rebelling against government intervention, arguing that the government, especially the federal government, has no right to mandate integration. Others are waging personal battles against political correctness. And then there’s the segment of the white population that still believes black people are less intelligent, less ambitious, less moral, and more prone to social pathologies: drug abuse, sexual deviancy, and crimes against property and persons. Martin Luther King, Jr., vilified in his lifetime, is now hailed as a hero; black people as a whole are still viewed with suspicion, sometimes alarm. It’s a complex and contradictory landscape, where progress and regression often coexist.
In the early 1990s, I attended an academic conference in New Orleans. I searched local stores for racist objects. There weren’t many. Ten years later, I returned to New Orleans. I found anti-black objects in numerous stores. This is disappointing but not surprising. Brutally racist items are readily available through online auction sites, particularly eBay. In fact, almost every item in the Jim Crow Museum is being sold somewhere online. Old racist items are being reproduced, and new items are being created. Each year, Halloween USA produces monster masks that exaggerate the features of Africans and African Americans. This is a constant cycle of commodification and perpetuation of racist imagery, often disguised as harmless fun or satire.
In 2003, David Chang ignited a national controversy with his game, Ghettopoly. Unlike Monopoly, the popular family game, Ghettopoly debases and ridicules racial minorities, especially black people. Ghettopoly has seven game pieces: Pimp, Hoe, 40 oz, Machine Gun, Marijuana Leaf, Basketball, and Crack. One game card reads, “You got yo whole neighborhood addicted to crack. Collect $50 from each playa.” Monopoly has houses and hotels; Ghettopoly has crack houses and projects. The distributors advertise Ghettopoly as: “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 cards depict black people in exaggerated, stereotypical ways. Hasbro, the copyright holder for Monopoly, sued David Chang to stop him from distributing Ghettopoly. This is a clear example of modern, commercially produced racism, marketed as entertainment.
David Chang defends his product as satirical critique of American racism. He’s not alone. AdultDolls.net distributes Trash Talker Dolls, a set of dolls with stereotypical depictions of minorities. Their best seller is Pimp Daddy, a chain-wearing, gaudily dressed black pimp who says, among other things, “You better make some money, bitch.” Charles Knipp, a white man, gained notoriety for his minstrel-drag “Ignunce Tour.” Knipp, dressed in tattered women’s clothing and blackface makeup, adopts the 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 he has faced protests in many northern cities (Boykin, 2002). Shirley Q. Liquor collectibles – cassette tapes, drinking glasses, and posters – are also popular. When satire fails, it often reinforces the very thing it intends to critique. Ghettopoly, Trash Talker Dolls, and Shirley Q. Liquor skits and products depict black people as immoral, wretched, ill-bred, and cultural parasites. These contemporary depictions of black people echo the negative caricatures of over a century ago. The satire may be intended, but the distributors profit regardless. It’s a cycle of cheapening and commercializing racism under the guise of humor or critique.
Understanding is paramount. The Jim Crow Museum’s collection compels visitors to take a stand for or against the equality of all people. It works. I have witnessed profound and honest discussions about race and racism. No topics are off-limits. What role have black people played in perpetuating anti-black caricatures and stereotypes? When, if ever, is folk art racially offensive? Is racial segregation always indicative of racism? We analyze the origins and consequences of racist imagery, but we don’t stop there. It’s about fostering real understanding and critical thinking, not just surface-level awareness.
I am humbled that the Jim Crow Museum has become a national resource – and its website, an international one. 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 created a documentary about the museum. John Thorp served as the museum’s director until his retirement, as does current director Joseph “Andy” Karafa. The museum is a collaborative effort. A vision without support remains just a cathartic dream. It’s a real, ongoing project, built on the contributions of many, not just a fleeting online trend.
I see my own role as diminishing. I have other goals, other “garbage” to collect. I have 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 space, modeled after the Jim Crow Museum, that uses sexist objects to educate Americans about sexism. That space will be called “The Sarah Baartman Room,” named after a 19th-century African woman brutally exploited by her European captors. Her victimization perfectly illustrates the interconnectedness of racism, sexism, and imperialism. There’s an African proverb that says we don’t die until we are forgotten. It is my intention that Sarah Baartman never be forgotten. This is about recognizing the real, enduring impact of these forms of prejudice, and committing to ongoing education and remembrance.
Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” In 2004, Carrie Weis, Director of the FSU Art Gallery, and I designed and built a traveling exhibit called “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 aim is to use items of intolerance to teach tolerance. It’s a commitment to real, ongoing work against all forms of prejudice and discrimination.
I’ll conclude with a story. One of my daughters plays on an elite soccer team, meaning practices often run late. One day, I was waiting in the van with my other daughter for practice to end. Nearby, several white boys were joking around in front of two girls. They were teenagers. One of the boys put on a blackface mask and mocked the 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. If you have a child, you understand what I felt. If your skin is dark, you understand why I do what I do. This is about the real, personal impact of racism, and the urgent need to confront it, not just dismiss it as a cheap joke or a meme.
© 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.
