here is what is driving all "CONSERVATIVES" even more bat shit crazy
than ever. they are seething for the chance to reinstate slavery.
"CONSERVATISM", Our cause is thoroughly identified with the
institution of slavery, the greatest material interest of the world:
In an ongoing revisionist history effort, Southern schools and
churches still pretend the war wasn't about slavery
"The perfect liberty they seek is the liberty of making slaves of
other people." -- Abraham Lincoln
http://www.salon.com/2013/03/16/the_south_still_lies_about_the_civil_war/
The South still lies about the Civil War
In an ongoing revisionist history effort, Southern schools and
churches still pretend the war wasn't about slavery
By Tracy Thompson
Excerpted from "The New Mind of the South"
In the course of our conversation, Yacine Kout mentioned something else
—an incident that had happened the previous spring at Eastern Randolph
High School just outside Asheboro. On Cinco de Mayo, the annual
celebration of Mexico’s defeat of French forces at the Battle of
Puebla in 1862, a lot of Hispanic students brought Mexican flags to
school. The next day, Kout said, white students brought Confederate
flags to school as a message: This is our heritage.
The Civil War is like a mountain range that guards all roads into the
South: you can’t go there without encountering it. Specifically, you
can’t go there without addressing a question that may seem as if it
shouldn’t even be a question—to wit: what caused the war? One hundred
and fifty years after the event, Americans—at least the vast majority
who toil outside academia—still can’t agree. Evidence of this crops up
all the time, often in the form of a legal dispute over a display of
the Confederate flag. (As I write, there are two such cases pending—
one in Oregon and the other in Florida, making this an average news
week.) Another common forum is the classroom. But it’s not always
about the Stars and Bars. In 2010, for instance, Texas school
officials made the news by insisting that Jefferson Davis’s inaugural
address be given equal prominence with Abraham Lincoln’s in that
state’s social studies curriculum. The following year, Virginia school
officials were chagrined to learn that one of their state-adopted
textbooks was teaching fourth graders that thousands of loyal slaves
took up arms for the confederacy.
At the bottom of all of these is one basic question: was the Civil War
about slavery, or states’ rights?
Popular opinion favors the latter theory. In the spring of 2011, in
recognition of the 150th anniversary of the start of the Civil War,
pollsters at the Pew Research Center asked: “What is your impression
of the main cause of the Civil War?” Thirty-eight percent of the
respondents said the main cause was the South’s defense of an economic
system based on slavery, while nearly half—48 percent—said the nation
sacrificed some 650,000 of its fathers, sons, and brothers over a
difference of interpretation in constitutional law. White non-
Southerners believed this in roughly the same proportion as white
Southerners, which was interesting; even more fascinating was the fact
that 39 percent of the black respondents, many of them presumably the
descendants of slaves, did, too.
We pause here to note that wars are complex events whose causes can
never be adequately summed up in a phrase, that they can start out as
one thing and evolve into another, and that what people think they are
fighting for isn’t always the cause history will record. Yet, as
Lincoln noted in his second inaugural address, there was never any
doubt that the billions of dollars in property represented by the
South’s roughly four million slaves was somehow at the root of
everything, and on this point scholars who don’t agree about much of
anything else have long found common ground. “No respected historian
has argued for decades that the Civil War was fought over tariffs,
that abolitionists were mere hypocrites, or that only constitutional
concerns drove secessionists,” writes University of Virginia historian
Edward Ayers. Yet there’s a vast chasm between this long-established
scholarly consensus and the views of millions of presumably educated
Americans, who hold to a theory that relegates slavery to, at best,
incidental status. How did this happen?
One reason boils down to simple convenience—for white people, that is.
In his 2002 book “Race and Reunion,” Yale historian David Blight
describes a national fervor for “reconciliation” that began in the
1880s and lasted through the end of World War I, fueled in large part
by the South’s desire to attract industry, Northern investors’ desire
to make money, and the desire of white people everywhere to push “the
Negro question” aside. In the process, the real causes of the war were
swept under the rug, the better to facilitate economic partnerships
and sentimental reunions of Civil War veterans.
But an equally important reason was a vigorous, sustained effort by
Southerners to literally rewrite history—and among the most ardent
revisionists were a group of respectable white Southern matrons known
as the United Daughters of the Confederacy.
The UDC sounds like one of those genteel ladies’ organizations that
would have quietly passed into oblivion about the time women ditched
their girdles and entered the labor market, but they are still around—
a group of about twenty thousand ladies dedicated to various
educational and historical preservation causes. Since 1955, the UDC
has recruited next-generation members through a young persons’
auxiliary called the Children of the Confederacy, which does similar
kinds of work. Blight was surprised when I told him in an e-mail that
as part of my research I planned to visit the 2008 C of C convention
in Fredericksburg, Virginia. “I knew there used to be such an
[auxiliary] organization decades ago but did not know that it still
exists,” he replied. “Amazing. How I would like to be a fly on the
wall there.”
The significance of the UDC lies not in its present-day clout, which
is negligible, but in its lasting contributions to history— both for
good and for ill. From its inception in 1894 up through the 1960s, the
UDC was the South’s premier social and philanthropic organization, an
exclusive social club where the wives, sisters, and daughters of the
South’s ruling white elite gathered to “revere the memory of those
heroes in gray and to honor that unswerving devotion to principle
which has made the confederate soldier the most majestic in history,”
as cofounder Caroline Meriwether Goodlett grandly put it. At first,
the UDC provided financial assistance and housing to veterans and
their widows, offering a vital public service at a time when for all
practical purposes most local and state governments in the South were
nonfunctional and/or broke. Later, as the veteran population aged, the
UDC built homes that allowed indigent veterans and their widows to
live out their days with some measure of dignity. Long before there
was such a thing as the National Park Service, the UDC played a
crucial role in preserving priceless historic sites, war cemeteries,
and battlefields across the South. At the same time, it embarked on a
spree of monument building: most of those confederate monuments you
can still find in hundreds of courthouse squares in small towns across
the South were put there by the local UDC chapter during the early
1900s. In its way, the UDC groomed a generation of Southern women for
participation in the political process: presidents attended its
national convocations, and its voice was heard in the corridors of the
U.S. Capitol.
But the UDC’s most important and lasting contribution was in shaping
the public perceptions of the war, an effort that was begun shortly
after the war by a Confederate veterans’ group called the United
Confederate Veterans (which later became the Sons of Confederate
Veterans—also still around, and thirty thousand members strong). The
central article of faith in this effort was that the South had not
fought to preserve slavery, and that this false accusation was an
effort to smear the reputation of the South’s gallant leaders. In the
early years of the twentieth century the main spokesperson for this
point of view was a formidable Athens, Georgia, school principal named
Mildred Lewis Rutherford (or Miss Milly, as she is known to UDC
members), who traveled the South speaking, organizing essay contests,
and soliciting oral histories of the war from veterans, seeking the
vindication of the lost cause “with a political fervor that would
rival the ministry of propaganda in any 20th century dictatorship,”
Blight writes.
Miss Milly’s burning passion was ensuring that Southern youngsters
learned the “correct” version of what the war was all about and why it
had happened—a version carefully vetted to exclude “lies” and
“distortions” perpetrated by anti-Southern textbook authors. To that
end, in 1920 she wrote a book entitled “The Truths of History”—a
compendium of cherry-picked facts, friendly opinions, and quotes taken
out of context, sprinkled with nuggets of information history books
have often found convenient to ignore. Among other things, “The Truths
of History” asserts that Abraham Lincoln was a mediocre intellect,
that the South’s interest in expanding slavery to Western states was
its benevolent desire to acquire territory for the slaves it planned
to free, and that the Ku Klux Klan was a peaceful group whose only
goal was maintaining public order. One of Rutherford’s “authorities”
on slavery was British writer William Makepeace Thackeray, who visited
Richmond on a tour of the Southern states during the 1850s and sent
home a buoyant description of the slaves who attended him: “So free,
so happy! I saw them dressed on Sunday in their Sunday best—far better
dressed than English tenants of the working class are in their holiday
attire.”
But presenting the “correct” version of history was only half the
battle; the other half was preventing “incorrect” versions from ever
infiltrating Southern schools. Before the Civil War, education was
strictly a private and/or local affair. After the Civil War, it became
a subject of federal interest. The first federal agency devoted to
education was authorized by President Ulysses S. Grant in 1867, and
Congress passed several laws in the 1870s aimed at establishing a
national education system. White Southerners reacted to all this with
a renewed determination to prevent outsiders from maligning the
reputation of their gallant fighting men by writing textbooks
especially for Southern students. One postwar author was none other
than Alexander Stephens, former vice president of the Confederacy,
whose portrayal of the war sounds remarkably like the version you hear
from many Southerners and political conservatives today: it was a
noble but doomed effort on the part of the South to preserve self-
government against federal intrusion, and it had little to do with
slavery. (This was the same Alexander Stephens who had proclaimed in
1861 that slavery was the “cornerstone” of Southern society and “the
immediate cause of the late rupture and present revolution.”)
As the UDC gained in political clout, its members lobbied legislatures
in Texas, Mississippi, North and South Carolina, and Florida to ban
the purchase of textbooks that portrayed the South in anything less
than heroic terms, or that contradicted any of the lost cause’s basic
assertions. Its reach extended not just to public schools but to
tenured academia—a little-known chapter of its propaganda effort is
detailed by James Cobb in his 2005 book “Away Down South: A History of
Southern Identity.” Cobb recounts how in 1911, for instance,
University of Florida history professor Enoch Banks wrote an essay for
the New York Independent suggesting that slavery was the cause of
secession; Banks was forced by the ensuing public outcry to resign.
Perhaps Banks should have seen that coming: seven years earlier,
William E. Dodd, a history professor at Virginia’s Randolph-Macon
College, had complained that to merely suggest the confederacy might
not have been a noble enterprise led by lofty-minded statesmen “is to
invite not only criticism but enforced resignation.” Dodd himself
would later migrate to the University of Chicago, where he established
a Northern outpost for Southerners who were interested in a serious
examination of Southern history. Such scholarship was not encouraged
back home: the first postwar society of Southern historians was
created in 1869 for the explicit purpose of vindicating the
confederate cause.
The fear of losing one’s job worked to keep most dissenters in line,
but if that failed, self-appointed censors in the community were
always on the lookout. In 1913, for instance, the sons of confederate
Veterans succeeded in banning from the University of Texas history
curriculum a book that they felt offered an excessively New England
slant on recent history. The UDC industriously compiled lists of
textbooks used in schools across the South, sorting them into one of
three categories: texts written by Northerners and blatantly unfair to
the South; texts that were “apparently fair” but were still suspect
because they were written by Northerners; and works by Southern
writers. Outside academia, the New South creed, popularized by Atlanta
newspaper editor Henry Grady in an effort to spur economic
development, also reinforced this new orthodoxy. A big part of Grady’s
canny public relations was to pay extravagant homage to the imagined
splendor of the antebellum South, and to portray the New South as a
revival of that genius instead of what it really was: the rise of a
whole new class of plutocrats.
If all of this wasn’t enough to stifle all public debate and
intellectual inquiry in the decades after the war, other prevailing
conditions might have finished the job: the widespread poverty of
those decades, the rise of Jim Crow and the need to maintain the
belief in white supremacy, a pervasive religious mindset that put a
higher value on faith than on reason. There were more thoughtful
voices, of course—in Atlanta, W. E. B. Du Bois was writing brilliantly
about the black experience and reconstruction. But the racism of his
day postponed his wider influence to a later era. For all but the rich
and/or socially elite this was the South that H. L. Mencken lampooned
as “a stupendous region of worn-out farms, shoddy cities and paralyzed
cerebrums”—far more concerned with the next meal than with
intellectual inquiry. Among white Southerners, rich or poor, the
universally accepted history was the version that would later find
fame in Margaret Mitchell’s 1936 novel “Gone With the Wind”—a book
that sold millions, was translated into twenty-seven languages, and
has probably had a more lasting influence on public perceptions about
the South to this day than any other single work. It’s no wonder that
the so-called Southern renaissance of the 1930s happened outside
academia, in the field of fiction; as Cobb points out, the people
least interested in understanding Southern history at that time were
Southern historians, and Blight agrees. “It would have been impossible
to grow up in the South from 1890 to World War I and not have heard or
read [the lost cause version of history] many times over as the common
sense of white Southern self-understanding.”
I would quibble with that last part; the era when this was “the common
sense of white Southern self-understanding” lasted at least until
1960, very conservatively speaking, and its legacy thrives to this
day. In an era when any assertion of “fact” is met by noisy
counterassertions of competing “facts,” it’s hard to grasp how
completely this warped version of history was accepted as gospel in
the South, as silly to dispute as the law of gravity. Former New York
Times correspondent John Herbers is an old man now, living in
retirement in Bethesda, Maryland, with his wife, Betty. but when he
was growing up in Mississippi in the 1930s and 1940s, “the lost cause
was one of the main themes my grandmother used to talk about: ‘slavery
was nothing to do with the Civil War—we had a cotton economy and [the
North] wanted to dominate us.’ It was an undisputed topic.” At the
time, he accepted this version, as children do; today, he is struck by
the vigilance with which adults in his world implanted this story in
the minds of their children. “They pushed themselves to believe that,”
he said. “If [the war] had anything to do with slavery, they had no
ground to stand on.”
Claude Sitton, another Southerner who covered the civil rights
movement for the New York Times, remembers participating in a yearly
essay contest sponsored by the UDC when he was a high school student
in Rockdale County, Georgia, in the early 1950s. I did not encounter
the UDC essay contests when I was a student in public schools in the
1960s, but the things I heard from my mother could have come straight
from Miss Milly’s approved textbooks. History books were unfair to the
South, she told me, so I was not to believe anti-Southern things I
might read in them, and she was vigilant about correcting me if she
heard me use the term “the Civil War” in conversation. To call it a
Civil War was to concede that secession was impossible and/or
unconstitutional—something no self-respecting Southerner should ever
do. “The proper name,” she would say, “is The War Between the States.”
Her reminder to me was nothing out of the ordinary; millions of
Southern schoolchildren of my generation had absorbed such messages,
as had several generations before us. “As late as the 1970s, neither
textbooks nor curricula veered far from lost cause interpretations,
especially in the Deep South,” writes historian Karen L. Cox—and in
his book on the civil rights era in Mississippi, historian John
Dittmer concluded that the lost cause version of post-Civil War
reconstruction in the South still held sway among the vast majority of
whites in that state as recently as the early 1990s.
Die-hard defenders of some version of the Lost Cause today say that
the South has always been the victim of “political correctness” in
school textbooks, and that this continues to this day. The truth is
just the opposite: for decades, publishers of school textbooks went
out of their way not to offend delicate Southern sensibilities in
their treatment of the Civil War. One longtime publishing executive
told me that when he got into the business in the 1960s, it was common
to see two different versions of school history textbooks—one for in
the Deep South and one for everywhere else, “and the difference was
how you treated the Civil War.” By the mid-twentieth century, even
textbooks that did not repeat the UDC party line still tiptoed
carefully through the minefield. Take this passage, for example, from
a widely used 1943 high school history textbook, which depicts a slave-
holding South of stately mansions and benevolent slave owners: “The
confederates . . . believed they were fighting for the democratic
principle of freedom to manage their own affairs, just as the thirteen
colonies had fought in the Revolutionary War.” The same textbook
describes the Ku Klux Klan as a group that “sometimes” resorted to
violence in its effort to retake local governments from the hands of
incompetent former slaves. A 1965 textbook used in Alabama public
schools taught another key point of the lost cause creed—that slavery
was a benign institution: “In one respect, the slave was almost always
better off than free laborers, white or black, of the same period
[because] the slave received the best medical care which the times
could offer.”
Publishers don’t offer a special “Southern” version of history
anymore; these days, they cater to individual state educational
standards, though some states—like California and Texas—have a
disproportionate national influence on what those standards are. The
problem today, the former publishing executive told me, is that “with
so many state standards, the books have become in the last ten years
longer, blander, more visual, certainly—and more inclusive. There’s so
much to cover.” The result is like light beer: better tasting, less
filling. With no space to truth-squad a 150-year-old public relations
campaign, today’s texts simply strive not to offend; they don’t
perpetrate the lost cause myth, but they don’t do much to correct it,
either. Take this passage from a text widely used in public high
schools today, which neatly splits the difference between the “states’
rights” and the “slavery” camps: “For the South, the primary aim of
the war was to win recognition as an independent nation. Independence
would allow Southerners to preserve their traditional way of life—a
way of life that included slavery.” That’s a way of putting it even
Miss Milly might have been able to live with.
“I grew up in a cocoon,” Herbers says today, recalling his childhood
and the version of history he absorbed. It’s an apt metaphor for what
happened to any Southerner born before about 1970, and to a good many
of those born since. Although the field of Southern history underwent
a revolution at the university level in the 1940s and 1950s, the
version ordinary Southerners knew in 1970 and even later had not
changed appreciably since 1900. Perhaps 1970 sounds like a long time
ago, but in educational terms it’s not: 1970 was when a lot of people
who are still teaching today learned what they know, and what they’ve
passed on to their students. James Loewen, a sociologist and author of
“Lies My Teacher Told Me,” has said that when he speaks to public
school educators across the country today, somewhere between 60 and 75
percent say that the Civil War was fought over the issue of states’
rights. Whether the group he’s speaking to is predominately white,
predominately black, or racially diverse, the percentage stays roughly
the same.
The Southern version of history also prevailed for decades at Civil
War battle sites, thanks to the fact that Congress appropriated money
for the National Park Service, and Southerners in Congress had their
hands on the purse strings. It wasn’t until the 1990s that the Park
Service—under pressure from the academic community and a few members
of Congress—made it a priority to revamp its exhibits to “interpret
[the Civil War] and the causes of the war based on current
scholarship,” said Dwight Pitcaithley, a professor of history at New
Mexico State University who was chief historian of the Park Service
from 1995 to 2005. In December 2008, Pitcaithley gave a talk to public
school educators in Mississippi, and used as part of his presentation
this quote from the Mississippi Declaration of Secession: “Our cause
is thoroughly identified with the institution of slavery, the greatest
material interest of the world.” That sentence is now prominently
displayed on the wall of the National Park Service visitors’ center in
Corinth, Mississippi, near the site of the battle of Shiloh.
Pitcaithley took a picture of the display and used it in his
presentation. After his talk, he was chatting with a thirty-four-year-
old black school principal who had grown up in Mississippi, attended
its public schools, and received his university education there. “I
asked him if he’d ever seen that [quote] and he said no—he’d never
even heard of that.”
All of which explains both how that dubious assertion that thousands
of slaves fought in defense of the Confederacy came to be included in
that Virginia textbook back in 2010, and how the error came to light.
As it turns out, the textbook’s author took her information from the
Sons of Confederate Veterans’ website; the error was discovered when a
history professor at the College of William and Mary happened to come
across it while browsing through a copy of one of her fourth grade
daughter’s schoolbooks. Had that not happened, who knows how long the
book would have been in use? To this day, it’s possible to stir up a
hornet’s nest among ordinary Southerners by asserting that slavery was
a primary cause of the Civil War; at the least, it will earn a native
Southerner the accusation of having signed over his brain to those Ivy
League intellectual snobs who despise all things Southern. The
conviction that the South went to war primarily to defend the concept
of states’ rights “is in [Southerners’] families, in their churches,
in their schools, in their political structure,” Pitcaithley said.
“They’ve been taught that over generations. It so embedded that—as you
have found—if you suggest otherwise they look at you like you’ve put
your pants on your head.”