atlanta

Memo to Joe Cumming Requesting Coverage of Civil Rights in Atlanta,
Newsweek Atlanta Bureau Records

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In October 2012, Newsweek announced that it would be ending its print publication and transitioning to an all-digital format by year's end. The announcement occasioned yet another round of hand-wringing by media watchers, but little real surprise. Once a fixture in American households, the venerable newsweekly had struggled to find its footing in the digital era and had been losing money for the better part of the last decade. Its purchase by audio magnate Sidney Harman for a dollar in 2010 bought the publication additional time, but its subsequent merger with the online Daily Beast failed to reverse its course. Ever the businessman, Harman gave the magazine three years to balance its books, but as it turned out, neither he nor the publication would last that long. His death the following year signaled the beginning of the end, and when his family announced they would no longer support the venture, odds-makers correctly predicted that its days were numbered.

H. Julian Bond talks about civil rights coverage in reporter's notes
which did not make it to the final article, "The Race Beat," published in July, 1964

An arbiter of public opinion in its heyday, Newsweek ran its last issue on December 31, 2012 before joining the likes of U.S. News and World Report as a casualty of rising costs, declining subscriptions and online competition. As a titan of the publishing world for more than seven decades, Newsweek naturally made its headquarters in New York, but when surveying the southern scene in the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s, its reporters filed their stories from the magazine's Atlanta bureau, the records of which are kept here at MARBL.

Hand-written reporter's notes from "The Race Beat"
include a quote from an interview with a young Dan Rather

Established in 1953 when the Civil Rights Movement was gathering steam, the bureau reflected Newsweek's commitment to covering "the race beat" at a time when only the New York Times maintained a southern bureau. To serve as the bureau's chief, editors tapped veteran newsman and Atlanta resident Bill Emerson who recruited a stable of gifted journalists including Karl Fleming, Joe Cumming and, later, Marshall Frady; the papers of each, save for Fleming, are also held at MARBL. As Gene Roberts and Emory professor Hank Klibanoff explain in their Pulitzer-winning book, The Race Beat, Newsweek's journalists were among the finest of the "race reporters" then fanning out across the region to cover civil rights stories in the national press.  They did not limit their focus to civil rights, however. From football to Faulkner, the Newsweek collection provides a narration of events large and small during a pivotal period in the South's history. And with reporter's hand-written notes, background material, draft copies and correspondence all included, the subject files provide a more richly-detailed record than the published articles themselves.

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The exhibition, "And The Struggle Continues: The Southern Christian Leadership Conference's Fight For Social Change," which was curated by Carol Anderson, Michael Ra-Shon Hall and Sarah Quigley, is on display now through December 1 in the Schatten Gallery which is located on Level 3 of the Robert W. Woodruff Library. Below is the curator's statement included in the exhibition.

AND THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES highlights the efforts of one of the most important human rights organizations to challenge the oppressive political and economic systems of the 20th century.

Based on the extensive Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC) records housed in Emory University's Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library, the exhibition reveals how SCLC exposed and transformed a status quo that allowed millions to suffer from poverty, environmental degradation, health care disasters, hunger, homelessness, disfranchisement, and a brutal criminal justice system. It waged these battles on a political terrain that had been fundamentally altered since the organization was created in 1957. 

The exhibition picks up the story of SCLC eleven years after it was founded to "redeem the soul of America." By 1968 Congress had finally passed landmark legislation on civil rights, voting, and housing. The visible markers of "white only" and "colored" were coming down. But the reality of poverty, inadequate schools, a Jim Crow justice system, and discrimination in housing and employment continued to dominate the lives of millions. With the assassination of its iconic leader, Martin Luther King, Jr., the question soon became how SCLC could mount an even more complex campaign for justice and equality, especially with the Nobel Peace Prize winner no longer at the helm.

The decision to take on the larger human rights agenda of jobs, housing, and health care — while shoring up the still-precarious civil rights victories of the 1950s and '60s — is the essence of this exhibition. During the movement, SCLC's nonviolent tactics had required the discipline of the protesters — often ministers, teachers, students, and other well-dressed icons of respectability — and a readily identifiable enemy — racist sheriffs unleashing German shepherds or bullwhips on unarmed citizens. Yet by the late 1960s, both of those pillars had crumbled. Overt racism had been discredited; still, the forces that maintained inequality were as powerful as Jim Crow but more elusive and harder to define and identify. In addition, those who felt the brunt of continued inequality did so without the shield of respectability to garner public sympathy and outrage. Poor, incarcerated, or afflicted with HIV/AIDS, they found themselves instead consigned to the "unworthy."

Another factor that hampered SCLC's ongoing quest for equality was a nation intent on "moving on." Unequal schools, impoverished neighborhoods, and scarce job opportunities were now no longer considered to be the result of years of discrimination and public policy but the culmination of a "culture of poverty" and an individual's bad decisions. In the process, the United States' responsibility for nearly 400 years of slavery and Jim Crow faded from the public consciousness. In addition, as apartheid in South Africa demonstrated, the pursuit of international human rights required organizational nimbleness to deal with the complications inherent in global economics and politics.

SCLC's answer, as AND THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES suggests, was not to shy away, collapse, or rest on its laurels. Instead, it faced these challenges with an unshakable belief in the power of God and the church — and the courage to be on the right side of justice.

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On January 23rd, 1970, Dixie Dowis, an eighth-grade student at Decatur's Gordon High School, wrote a letter to former Atlanta mayor William B. Hartsfield. In a florid hand, she explained that a school assignment required her to write to prominent Atlantans to learn what problems confronted the city in the years ahead. "Since I have a deadline on my project," she concluded, "I would appreciate a reply at your very earliest convenience." To his credit, Hartsfield replied within the week. Atlanta's future prospects were good, he reasoned, but only so long as the city was allowed to "grow and prosper." However, if "people insist on moving to the suburbs and then resist the expansion of the city limits," he warned, "this will finally effect our future government and Atlanta's future will not be bright."

Excerpt of Letter from Dixie Dowis to
William B. Hartsfield, 1970

It's hard to imagine Hartsfield responding any differently. From his first term in office in the late 1930s until his death in 1971, Hartsfield remained adamant that Atlanta's future health depended on its ability to regularly expand its borders. And as his personal files at MARBL indicate, its inability to do so was a source of no small frustration. In remarks delivered before the Buckhead Civitan Club in 1941, for example, Hartsfield described annexation as a matter of existential consequence. "If Atlanta's limits are fixed and it can never extend any farther," he began, "then as a city IT IS FINISHED and we should be willing to see it adopt the attitude of a finished enterprise." In the pages of text that follow, Hartsfield predicted that annexation would result in greater administrative efficiency, but insisted that the issue was less a matter of tax savings than of citizenship.

Remarks by William B. Hartsfield delivered to
the Buckhead Civitan Club, 1941

However compelling, Hartsfield's calls to civic pride were not entirely candid. As he admitted a few years later in a letter sent to select Buckhead residents, "the most important thing to remember cannot be publicized in the press or made the subject of public speeches." In recent years a large share of Atlanta's "good, white home owning citizens" had relocated to Buckhead and other nearby suburbs upsetting the racial balance within the city limits. Without annexation, he worried, the city's black residents could become a "potent political force" in city politics. Indeed, metropolitan growth outside the city limits outpaced that of the central city as early as the 1920s, while the 1946 abolition of the white primary dramatically enhanced the influence wielded by black voters in municipal affairs. Still, for all of Hartsfield's lobbying, annexation measures languished in the state legislature until 1947 when a referendum was approved to determine whether residents in the Buckhead vicinity cared to be annexed by their larger neighbor.

Letter from William B. Hartsfield to
select residents of Buckhead, 1943

As it turned out, they didn't. Though that measure failed by a two-to-one margin, Hartsfield and his allies under the gold dome continued to press their case in the years ahead and in 1950 the state Local Government Commission produced an ambitious proposal entitled the "Plan of Improvement." Though it was careful to avoid the term, the proposal called for the annexation of some 100,000 residents in an 82 square mile area, effectively tripling the physical area of the corporate city. The chamber of commerce meanwhile launched a public relations campaign in support of the plan and voters approved the measure the following summer.    

The Plan of Improvement's success must have provided a measure of gratification for Hartsfield who had spent much of the past decade campaigning for the city's expansion. As civil rights activism gathered steam over the course of the next decade and a half, however, ever larger numbers of white residents relocated to suburban communities just beyond the city limits. By the mid 1960s, it appeared that black residents would compose a majority inside the city within a few years time, a prospect that Hartsfield, current mayor Ivan Allen, Jr. and other white power brokers viewed with grave concern. With tensions simmering along racial fault lines in the nations cities, successful annexations had become exceedingly rare in metropolitan America and Atlanta was no exception. When the city next attempted to enlarge its borders by annexing Sandy Springs in 1966, residents in the affluent suburban community defeated the measure by a wide margin.  

Letter to William B. Hartsfield from
the Sandy Springs, Dunwoody and Chamblee Forums, 1965

In the more than six decades since the Plan for Improvement was approved by voters, Atlanta has not undertaken a single annexation of any consequence. In fact, rather than cast their lot with the city, unincorporated communities surrounding Atlanta have taken an altogether different approach to municipal service provision. In recent years, Sandy Springs, Johns Creek, Brookhaven and others have all voted to incorporate as independent cities, a trend that critics have described as undemocratic. Hartsfield would have hated it.

Janice Rothschild Blumberg and Eva Dean in MARBL

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It happens sometimes that MARBL has multiple patrons visiting and using our reading room at the same time who are working on similar themes or researching the same collections. In those cases, we like to let the patrons know so they can possibly discuss their work and gain further insights into their research. On October 22, 2012, we were delighted to have Janice Rothschild Blumberg visit us. Her late husband was Rabbi Jacob M. Rothschild whose papers reside at MARBL.

On this same day, it happened that an out-of-town researcher, Eva Dean, arrived to work with the Rothschild papers for her final degree project. MARBL's Research Services Associate Archivist, Kathy Shoemaker, realized what a tremendous opportunity this could be and was able to bring Mrs. Blumberg and Ms. Dean together. The two spent a large portion of the afternoon discussing Atlanta's history. It was such a rewarding experience for everyone involved, including the staff of MARBL, that we thought we'd share with you some reflective thoughts on the afternoon sent in by Janice Rothschild Blumberg and Eva Dean.

Eva Dean

I just recently graduated on December 8, 2012 with my Bachelor's in History. This is what brought me to Emory on October 22, 2012. I was doing research pertaining to my Senior Seminar Paper, which is the last paper of my college career. My topic was The Jews of Atlanta in the Civil Rights Era: 1954 - 1968. When I started researching my secondary sources, the name Rabbi Jacob Rothschild kept reappearing over and over. I decided to look into it and that is when I discovered that he was the rabbi of The Temple, the one which was bombed on October 12, 1958.

Already having knowledge of the Temple from a previous paper I had written, I decided that I should look into Rabbi Rothschild much more in-depth. I found out that his papers were at the Woodruff Library because I had recently checked out Janice Rothschild Blumberg's book One Voice: Rabbi Jacob M. Rothschild and the Troubled South. So, I decided that October 22 would be the day.

Upon my arrival to the library, the staff was wonderful. They were very helpful to me on the whole process of what to do and what not to do. Shortly after I arrived I noticed two women come in and sit at a table behind me. A few moments later I received a phone call and stepped away to the designated area for talking on your cell phone. When I was done with my phone call one of the librarians asked me if I would be interested in talking to the women who donated Rabbi Rothschild's papers to the library. Immediately in my head I knew exactly who she was talking about and I thought to myself, really, there is no way. The funny thing is that all the way to Atlanta I was praying that I would find someone to help me with my thesis.

Mrs. Janice and I talked about kismet or fate as you call it that this was supposed to happen. Mrs. Janice and I talked for three hours and I will never forget it as long as I live. It was, by far, the most humbling and exciting experience I have ever had. Mrs. Janice was so willing to talk to me and answer questions and just share her story. I am truly in awe of this amazing woman, and the conversation we had will live in my memory banks forever. For me, I was and still am, in awe of the notion that I literally met someone who is an imporant part of Georgia's history during a time when the South was not always the safest place, and she knew two people who have amazing stories themselves, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Lucille Frank. I cherished every moment we spent talking and I look forward to meeting her again.

Rabbi Jacob Rothschild with Martin Luther King, Jr., January 27, 1965,
at the South's first racially integrated banquet, Atlanta, GA

Janice Rothschild Blumberg

There's no greater thrill than learning that you've made a difference in the life of a stranger. Even more exciting for me was the context in which I happened to be at MARBL on the afternoon that  Eva was working there. Above all, I rejoice in the knowledge that the life and work of my late husband, Rabbi Jacob M. Rothschild, continues to inspire enthusiastic, idealistic young scholars like Eva Dean.
 
To begin with, the Rothschild papers reside at Emory, rather than at an institution with which the rabbi was more closely associated, because when he died, over 30 years ago, our children and I believed that they would be used more there than they would be anywhere else. That assumption appears to have been correct.
 
At the ceremony when MARBL received the collection, I said—only partly in jest—that we chose Emory because, if there is actually such a thing as an after-life, we wanted Rabbi Rothschild to be with his friends. The collections of two very close friends, Hal Davison and Ralph McGill, were already there. A more recent addition was that of another close friend, Morris Abram, the attorney who defeated the county unit system in Georgia and enabled our Atlanta votes to be fully counted, initiating here the reality of one man, one vote. His niece, Cecily Abram, who lives in Washington, DC, wanted to see his papers, and as she was visiting me in Atlanta, I brought her to MARBL. That’s how I happened to be there on the afternoon that Eva was researching the Rothschild papers.
 
Serendipity? Call it what you want, it bore out for me in a very meaningful way the idea of placing a loved one’s visible remains in proximity to those of his friends. And the emotion of the moment—Eva's and that which her reaction aroused in me—can only be described as the thrill of a lifetime.