Twelve Governors

a brief history of Mississippi

In 1960, Ross Barnett knew he wanted to be governor of Mississippi more than anything. I’ve known a round dozen governors of Mississippi. They knew me well enough to know my name, even if the next question was, “How’s your father?” Knowing that you’re only noticeable because your father was can be strange—sometimes unpleasant.

One of these men made a small fortune for himself. Whether he did it legally or not is not my place to say. He’s in court now to discuss just this issue. Another made a legacy for himself that extended from the last century into this and probably into the next. The name “Winter” will forever mean something in Mississippi.

One man parlayed his job as governor into a position one step down from the presidential cabinet. Part of that was that the sitting president personally knew this boy from Mississippi. I always thought they should switch jobs.

One man received an appointed judgeship after being governor of Mississippi, where he served the people for another twenty years. By the time I knew him, his best years were past, and he kept thinking my uncle was my father. Dick Wilson used to have me drive him to KA events. I have this reputation for being good with old people. All I really do is treat them like they were twenty years younger.

Everybody else returned to whatever little town they were from and tried rebuilding their practice. Going into the job, I’m sure they all thought that everybody in Mississippi would want to hire them when they got out and that life would be easy. It never worked out that way.

Three men lost their wives because they were cattin’ around when they were governor. One lost his wife because, as much as I appreciate her as a person and loved her father, she has a reputation for being a challenge. He made it a lot longer than I would have. Challenging women aren’t bad. They’re sometimes worth it. Most of us aren’t up to the challenge, though.

Going into the governor’s race, Barnett knew some basic facts. One was that nearly a third of his would-be constituents were black. It’s slightly over a third now. Ross Barnett didn’t grow up in a vacuum. He’d known enough black people to know that they’re decent people. They have homes, families, jobs, hopes, and dreams. Their culture is a significant part of our culture, particularly their cooking and their music.

They dress their children in pressed-white cotton and send them to church. They believe in God, the same God Barnett believed in. They sang the same hymns he sang. They drank from the cup and broke the bread just like he did.

Ross Barnett wanted to be governor, though. He knew that most of white Mississippi had a deep-seated hatred and irrational fear of the black people who grew up around them. Irrational thoughts are easy to manipulate.

After the Second World War, the Republicans and then the Democrats began pushing to equalize the rights of our black citizens and our white citizens. A lot of people have written about how our experience during the war led to this change of heart and change of perspective.

Since Mississippi had the most laws and rules limiting the lives of Africans, many white Mississippians took this as a threat. Ross Barnett needed an emotional issue to run on. He chose integration. Obviously, he wasn’t the only one, but he had enough political savvy to make the most of it, and now his name is uniquely tied to the legacy of segregation.

The Greeks believed in a system of government called “democracy.” We live in a modified version of that called a “republic.” Democracy’s greatest threat and fatal flaw is that it leaves open the possibility of demagogy.

A demagogue is usually said to be a great orator. He appeals to the people’s baser instincts, promising them impossible things and making people afraid of enemies that don’t exist.

They say that the first demagogue was Cleon of Athens, whose rule in Athens was particularly cruel. The twentieth century was rife with demagogues, including Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, Joseph McCarthy, and Ross Barnett. Barnett liked to compare himself to Huey Long. Whether he actually was or not is another essay. Whether the Kingfish was good or evil is the subject of another essay, too.

One night, as September turned into October in 1962, Ross Barnett’s plan to become governor directly contributed to the death of innocent people in Oxford, Mississippi.

By the time I knew Ross Barnett, he was drinking a lot, playing the ukelele at parties, and telling dirty jokes to nineteen-year-old boys because the men his age pretended they couldn’t see him. Knowing who he was and what his history was, I used to search his face while he performed like a trained dog, looking for some sign, some recognition of what he had been and what he did to Mississippi. I never saw it.

Knowing what life was like when I was born and observing what it was like when I was nineteen seemed utterly incongruent to me. I’ve spent forty years trying to discover the natural progression in this narrative. I’m still trying.

Demagogy is a great way to get elected, but it also leads to suffering and loss. Political power seems so important and so desirable that many men will do anything to achieve it, but all too often, once it’s over, all you’re left with is a ukulele and a bad reputation.