Sin & Sweet Tea: Growing up Black in the new age of Southern politics

It is a cold November morning in the year 2004, and a little Black kid sits in his first-grade class. He and his classmates are in an all-yellow painted classroom in Pine Grove Elementary, a predominantly Black school in Columbia, South Carolina.

His first-grade teacher, Mrs. Winslow, stands in front of the class and announces, “Election Day is next week, so today we’re going to vote for the next President of the United States.” She hands that little boy a small piece of paper with the pictures of two middle-aged white men on it, one side reading “George Bush,” the other “John Kerry.” There’s chit-chat all across the classroom about who people are voting for. As that first-grader tries to figure out which one is the “right choice,” he picks up his pencil, circles John Kerry, and goes on about his morning. At the end of the day, when the bell rings, it’s 2:15 pm, and over the intercom, there is an announcement.

“The winner of today’s election is John Kerry with 96% of the vote, with George Bush earning 4%. Have a great election holiday, everyone!”

It may seem obvious, but that “that little boy was me” (and I am not trying to Kamala Harris you, even if that’s how it came out), and yes, he is still me.

I tell this story because growing up Black in Richland County, right outside of the big, “metropolitan” city of Columbia, South Carolina, politics, policy, and activism have always been a big part of my life. For reference, Columbia, South Carolina, has a population size of 131,674 people, with around 40.4 percent of that population being Black. (United States Census Bureau, 2020).

Fast forward to 2008, when a guy with the name “Barack Hussein Obama” became the center of all talk amongst the Black community. Then-senator Obama was one of the first Black men (other than South Carolina’s Black political father, Jim Clyburn) I saw on television when it came to politics. I remember that election night in 2008 when President Obama won. My sister, mom, and I had just left a family friend’s election party when he had about 100 electoral votes left to secure the presidency.

We were sitting in our living room, and I remember staring at my TV box so intently that I recall the time. It was 11:08 pm, and my mother began to cry as we watched four Black people walk onto a massive blue platform stage in Chicago, Illinois; all of us overcome by the realization that America had just elected its first Black president. The same America that enslaved millions of men and women from Africa to build this country. The same America that openly killed three Black men in Orangeburg, South Carolina on the campus of South Carolina State back in 1968? Yep, that America.

(Orangeburg Massacre, 1968)

And just like that, racism was over. Right?

Wrong.

That probably takes the cake for the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard on my television (Sorry, mom). And yes, I am looking at you Lou Dobbs and Chris Matthews.

I remember growing up in a South where church was not only a gathering place for folks to get their weekly helping of Phillipians 4:13, Romans 8:28, and maybe even a little John 3:16; but every few years also became a political arena for local candidates to gain traction amongst their constituents.

I’ll set the scene: The choir has just finished the third iteration of “Trouble Don’t Last Always,” and the pastor is about to get up — *Organ riff continues to play*

Yep, that’s ANOTHER praise break (we can make a whole other part of this series for that). After the second praise break, it’s time for the pastor to introduce: “Your next councilmen/women, mayor, or school board member.”

The candidate gets up, makes their way to the pulpit to speak. That is, if they are allowed to approach the pulpit, it depends on the church. They give their speech and then ask for forgiveness for leaving early as they have to head to make it to the announcement portion for all of the other churches. They will give the same speech all across town, hoping to influence hundreds in favor of their cause. My understanding of politics comes from how many times I saw the Black church creating a framework for getting political work done.

As I got older, I started to develop my consciousness of what I believed politics and policy to be. Growing up in the predominantly black neighborhoods of Pine and Apple Valley on Broad River Road, then moving to Pickens County South Carolina to attend Clemson University where a cool 73.9 percent of the county voted for Trump in 2016 (New York Times, 2016) made me quickly realize the South is an interesting dichotomy of progressive revolutionists and neo-Jim Crow.

I grew up in the mecca of where policy lived. As my current boss just recently said, “Everyone is a policymaker. If you see a problem and are actively seeking to fix it, you are a policymaker”.

After this most recent election, a lot of people are looking at the South in a brand new way.

From the days of chattel slavery (Sirmians, 1962) to the beginning of the Civil War, the South has been built on prominent black history. Do the names Sarah Mae Flemming, George Elmore, and Cleveland Sellers ring a bell? If not, I suggest you begin your Google search now. It was always us at the center of rising to the challenge to fight against these oppressive systems.

It was Black people who stepped up and took control of what the South can be. Specifically, Black women and Black queer folx. For too long Black women and Black members of the LGBTQIA+ community have been doing the work of mobilizing communities, registering voters, and have been the brains behind successful campaigns in the South. We MUST acknowledge these groups and not only recognize but support, protect, and amplify their voices while taking a step back when it is necessary. And by taking a step back, I mean passing the metaphorical microphone to women like DeJuana Thompson, Latosha Brown, and most notably Stacey Abrams. (Shout out to my Southern sister Alexus Cumbie for educating folks on these names).

(Center for American Women and Politics, Rutgers University)

Black folks and specifically Black women have been the backbone of the Democratic party for years, working the polls, organizing, all while battling the long lines and systemic efforts of voter suppression. South Carolina is known as the “First in the South” primary as it is a measuring stick for how the rest of the Black community will vote across the country. Let me be clear, in no way are Black people monolithic (because we all know how flawed and flat-out stupid that argument is), but our state does provide a gauge for how our population of people will vote.

Our Black democratic electorate is up to 60 percent. Our state has consistently chosen the winner of the democratic nominee. And everyone remembers our favorite Black political father Jim Clyburn, who woke up three days before the South Carolina Primary and endorsed President-elect Joe Biden.

That primary blowout win led to Joe Biden’s first victory and led to his Southern sweep. This is the power that the black people of South Carolina hold.

All of this is a win, right? I think it is. Well, actually, no, maybe not. In my home state, some political pundits are calling this recent election a “red wave.” As I watched a lot of the local races file in, I was disappointed as many of the candidates who had held on to democratic seats slowly slipped away. I thought South Carolina was becoming the new Georgia. I thought challengers like Jaime Harrison, Moe Brown, and Melissa Watson would send shock waves throughout our state. I thought democratic strongholds like Mandy Powers Norrell, Vincent Sheheen, would be locked for winning their state seats. I thought people would vote for Joe Cunningham and actually choose the Lowcountry over party.

I thought we would shock the world and “send Lindsey home.” Well, it didn’t happen. And as disheartening as that can be, I also believe it can change. But it starts in communities that I grew up in. It begins with us. The new young Black generation of the South’s new leaders are ready to revolutionize systems that have been in place for decades.

I think there must be a shift — a new-wave progressive movement that will fundamentally change how people view and look at their communities. I think the time to appease people with moderate policies is over.

I know a lot of my young peers want to truly change the trajectory of how the South is viewed. I’ll speak for myself, but I want a universal free healthcare system that works for everyone. I want to continue to ban offshore drilling and look into wind and solar energy as alternatives. I want to end the climate crisis that is sinking historic black communities on the shores of Charleston. I want to cancel student debt and treat education as the public good that it should be. I want to defund the police (yes, and even work towards the abolition, folks may disagree but we can make another article for that) and allocate those resources to other state entities like mental health for our youth, affordable public housing, and community-based practices that have shown to be more effective in communities of color.

I want all of these things. The South may look different, but I am tired of the state that I call home existing as a place where Black Lives Matter is contested, and flying a confederate flag is worthy of praise. This dichotomy between these two things represents the South shows us two iterations of the same place. It’s like sin and sweet tea.

I believe it is our generation who will carry out this work in a brand-new, bold way that will change the trajectory of our lives. We do this work because we have to. If we do not, people will continue to be killed by the ways of police brutality, the disproportionate effect COVID-19 has had on our communities, and the outrageous Black maternal health crisis that plagues Black mothers across our nation.

To end, I’ll leave you with a quote from the incomparable Audre Lorde, “Life is very short, and what we have to do must be done in the now.”

This is a series that is near to my heart and really evokes a lot of emotion from me — growing up Black in the South is my story, and my words to this paper are my song. I must sing from the mountaintops as I authentically lean into the rhythm; with every word comes a new melody.