The Man They Tried To Ignore

THE MAN THEY TRIED TO

When Robert Clark became the state’s first black legislator, his peers gave him the silent treatment. It didn’t work.

By Mollie Mansfield

t’s spring 1968 and the first black

IMississippi state representative since Reconstruction strides briskly from the state Capitol. He’s had enough. Every time he tried to speak, they silenced him. Every time he tried to share his ideas, they ignored him. Every time he sat down to eat, they avoided him. So now there’s 121 white men hootin’ and hollerin’ as he heads out the door. The hell with all of them. Robert Clark keeps going, trudging through a steady rain, one arm clutching his legislative files, the other reaching for the door handle of his ’66 silver Chevy. The white journalist follows Clark to his car and grabs his arm. “If you quit now, you’re giving them what they want,” Bill Minor said solemnly, then spun around, returning to the Capitol. Clark clenched his car keys. If you quit...I wasn’t elected to quit...giving them what they want...

In 1967, Robert Clark became the first African American elected to the Mississippi Legislature since Reconstruction. COPY PHOTO BY ROBERT CLARK

since when did I become a quitter? A life college. The few coins left clash with his time’s worth of “no” had turned him into a desire for an education. Less than a dollar man of many firsts. Would he now be the first remains--not even enough to get home. black legislator to quit? He buried the keys “Young man, I understand you want in his pocket and returned to the capitol. to go to Jackson College and you don’t

Silence. When Clark opened the door, peering over his desk, evaluating the the hootin’ and hollerin’ evaporated. country boy who boldly sits before him. Silence. He walked to his isolated seat, Clark nods. front right, directly in front of the press box. “You can lead a horse to the water,”

“Robert had been a teacher, an educator. the president continues, “but you can’t His primary interest was in education. And make him drink. We’re gonna give you he was hoping to be able to make some a chance to get an education. We can’t contribution in education legislation,” make you get one, but we’re going to Minor, then a reporter for the New Orleans bump your head against the wall.” Times-Picayune, would later say. So, for 25 cents an hour, Clark hauls

To understand this story, you need cow manure around campus, fertilizing to understand a few other things about trees to earn his education. Towards the Robert George Clark: He is earnest, selfend of his freshman year, he goes out for reliant, honest as the day is long, with a track. He outruns everybody in everything ferocious work ethic and an unwavering except the 100-yard dash and receives social justice conscience. He’s the kind of the school’s first track scholarship. guy who mowed lawns for penny change After graduation, Clark sacrificed his to pay for his education. The kind of guy dream to attend law school and moved to who knew the answers to his teachers’ Louise to teach. He believed that education questions when nobody else did. The meant an identity. Somebody had to kind who feeds his dogs cinnamon buns tell students in the Delta that they were because that’s all they can eat in their old somebody. And, if not him, then who? age. And, of course, there are also a few “Everybody,” says Clark, “is somebody. things his wife of 17 years can attest to. God created you with certain capabilities.

“I can witness first hand that his life role If you don’t use those capabilities, is a servant for the church, community, for mankind, for dogs,” said Joann Clark. “He “His life role is a servant for even hates to cut a tree down -- he just wants to preserve life.” the church, community, for T here once was a time when Clark’s grandfather used to feed from a pig trough, slop mankind, for dogs. He even hates to cut a tree down -- he staining the pants he didn’t own until he was 11. A slave with just wants to preserve life,” no future. When the boy was too young to work the fields, he — JOANN CLARK would sit with his grandfather beneath the shade trees, listening to those kinds of stories, listening they’re going to rust away.” to him preach about a better day. Education have any money,” the president says, meant a better day. The year is 1948. A 19-year-old Clark sits in the president’s office at Jackson College in the state capitol. O ne day, at age 30, Clark found himself sitting in Superintendent S.N. Brown’s office at Louise High School The bus ride there has wiped out in the Mississippi Delta. Someone had the $2.50 his family gave him to get to overheard Clark casually suggest that

integration should start in first grade. “You mean you think it’s all right for black children and white children to go to school together?” “Yes, sir, Mr. Brown. I do.”

Turns out, there was a ticking time bomb in the form of a misplaced book casually sitting on the shelves of the high school library. The cover boldly pictured a white rabbit and a black rabbit. If the black students saw that book, they would think it was OK to play with white students. Can’t have that. Not in 1959. Not in Mississippi. Sends the wrong message. Tick. Tick. Tick.

So Superintendent Brown sent a message to Principal Clark: The book must go. The stability of the school system, the cornerstone of Mississippi politics -- it all rested on the removal of two bunnies. One black. One white. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“You tell Superintendent Brown if he wants that damn book pulled, come down here and pull it himself,” Clark said. Boom. It wasn’t long before Clark began searching for another job.

In the end, he had conveyed the wrong impressions to black students. Nothing, it seemed, was more dangerous than giving the people of the Delta a stronger identity.

“I know that was God Almighty -- His way of moving me because He had something else for me to do,” said Clark. Eventually, Clark made his way back to Holmes County to teach.

By 1966, legislators had passed a law allowing the school district to have an adult education program. Many of the school’s black parents couldn’t help their children with homework, so he campaigned for an adult education class. But the local school board said no.

So Clark decided to do the unthinkable. He would try to become the first black state representative in 90 years.

There were obstacles. Many of them. “When I first participated and came to the Freedom Democratic Party, some of the

African-Americans weren’t fond of me. They thought the white folk had put me up,” Clark said.

But the children knew better. The trustworthy relationship he’d built with his students enabled them to convince their parents that Clark was an honest man. The adult students he taught knew the same.

Still, this was 1967, deep in the Delta, deep in a segregated Mississippi. After dark, Clark would secretly campaign on plantations. He’d stand up in the bed of a truck to speak despite the many death threats. He packed a .38-caliber under his car seat just in case.

One evening, on his drive back to Lexington, a pair of lights flashed in the night. Clark turned south onto Highway 17. The white car behind him turned south onto Highway 17. Clark slowed down. The car behind him slowed down.

For 14 miles, the car trailed Clark. In one mile, he would be home. The pistol. He reached under his seat and felt the cold steel in his hand.

If they pulled into his driveway, Clark wouldn’t hesitate. He held his breath. He turned onto his street. The lights disappeared.

Eventually, Clark defeated the 12-year incumbent by 10 percent. Was it worth it?

…I t’s Jan. 2, 1968 -- his first day in office. Fannie Lou Hamer, a prominent civil rights leader, had organized a march on the Capitol if they didn’t seat Clark. But they did and after he was sworn in, Hamer approached.

“Young man, if that white folk had not seated you, I had led a group down here and we were going to march on them. But you get down here and vote wrong, we going to march on you,” she told him. Clark understood. He knew why he was there. He knew whom he served. He was willing to live and die by his principles.

It took Clark 14 years to pass his first bill -- the 1982 Education Reform Act. It included compulsory attendance and public kindergarten. The Mississippi Legislature had thrown out compulsory attendance as a result of the 1954 Brown v. Board of Education decision. Eventually, Clark gained the respect of his colleagues. He became friends with the Rev. Rims Barber, who set up an office for him in Jackson. And, much to the confusion of those around him, he also befriended the ultraconservative

speaker of the house, Buddie Newman. In fact, Clark signed Newman’s petition to become speaker. That went a long way with Newman who, in 1976, appointed Clark to chair the education committee.

“H e got along with other legislators and was able to get some things done because he was able to work with people -- even if their ideas of what ought to be done was quite different from what his were,” Barber said.

But when Newman made an antifeminist statement, Clark objected on the floor of the House. That evening, he went to Newman’s apartment to apologize. Clark hadn’t meant to be rude. “Shut up. I don’t want to hear that,” the speaker snapped. “Mrs. Bessie, go get a plate and bring it here, and cut half of this steak. Give this guy the other half.”

Clark was a friend. He knew how to agree to disagree. And, according to friends, he saw the best in people without compromising his own beliefs.

In 1982 and 1984, he ran for Congress, losing both times. But losing only meant staying. Staying only meant more opportunities. His last 12 years as a legislator, he was speaker pro tempore and chairman of the powerful management committee. He’s currently serving his last year postretirement on the Ethics Commission. It’s spring 2014 and Clark sits in his son’s law office. He talks about the past. There’s no contempt for those who opposed him. He recognizes no enemies. It’s not that he thinks Mississippi has solved all its problems; it hasn’t. But Clark persevered and paved a new way. And now he’s passing the torch to his sons and the next generation. His wife listens intently -- as if hearing his story for the first time. A broad smile softens the large frame of his shoulders, at times lifting his glasses off the cradle of his nose. At 85, he is still honest. Still a servant. And there’s one other thing. “I’m just thankful that he’s still my friend. And I’m his friend,” the white journalist says 46 years later. Design by Madisen Theobald

Present Day: Robert Clark Sr. poses for a photo in Lexington. PHOTO BY THOMAS GRANNING

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