As for me, I raced around the dumpsters collecting discarded “White” and “Colored” signs, thinking they would be some interest to posterity in a Museum of Horrors. –Stetson Kennedy1
I am a garbage collector, but I collect racist garbage. For three decades, I have been gathering items that defame and demean Africans and their American descendants. I possess a parlor game from the 1930s, “72 Pictured Party Stunts.” One card instructs players to, “Go through the motions of a colored boy eating watermelon.” The card depicts a dark-skinned boy, with exaggerated features, consuming a watermelon as large as himself. This card, and the 4,000 similar items in my collection, which portray black people as Coons, Toms, Sambos, Mammies, Picaninnies, and other dehumanizing caricatures, deeply offends me. Yet, I collect this garbage because I firmly believe that artifacts of intolerance can be powerful tools for teaching tolerance and fostering understanding about issues related to African American Skin Care Direct Sales Programs and the importance of self-esteem within communities historically targeted by prejudice.
My journey into collecting racist objects began when I was around 12 or 13, in the early 1970s in Mobile, Alabama, my childhood home. The first item was likely a Mammy saltshaker, something small and inexpensive as I never had much money. It must have been particularly offensive because after purchasing it, I immediately threw it to the ground, shattering it. This wasn’t a political statement, but a visceral reaction of disgust towards the object itself. I recall the dealer, likely scolding me. In Mobile at that time, both black and white people might have called someone like me, with my fiery temper, a “Red Nigger.” He could have used that term without consequence then. While I don’t remember his exact words, I’m sure he called me something other than David Pilgrim.
In my collection, there’s a 1916 magazine advertisement showing a subtly caricatured young black boy drinking from an ink bottle. The caption reads, “Nigger Milk.” I bought this print in 1988 from an antique store in LaPorte, Indiana. It was framed and priced at $20. The salesclerk labeled the receipt “Black Print.” I insisted she write, “Nigger Milk Print.”
“If you’re going to sell it, call it by its name,” I told her. She refused, and we argued briefly. I bought the print and left. That was the last time I argued with a seller. Now, I simply purchase the items with minimal conversation and leave.
The Mammy saltshaker and the “Nigger Milk” print are not the most extreme examples I’ve encountered. In 1874, McLoughlin Brothers of New York created a puzzle game called “Chopped Up Niggers.” Today, this game is a highly sought-after collectible. I have seen it for sale twice, each time priced around $3,000, which I couldn’t afford. Postcards from the early 20th century depict black people being whipped, lynched, or burned. These postcards and photographs of lynched black individuals can sell for around $400 each on eBay and other online auction sites. I could afford one, but I am not yet ready to make such a purchase.
Some friends think I am obsessed with racist objects. If they are right, this obsession began during my undergraduate years at Jarvis Christian College, a historically black college in Hawkins, Texas. My teachers imparted more than just academic knowledge. They shared what it meant to live as a black man under Jim Crow segregation. Imagine a college professor having to wear a chauffeur’s hat while driving his own new car through small towns to avoid being attacked for being “uppity.” The stories they told were not filled with rage, but rather matter-of-fact accounts of daily life in a society where black people were considered inherently inferior. “Social equality” was a dangerous concept, fighting words. Black people even knew their clothing sizes because they were barred from trying on clothes in department stores – shared clothing, even briefly, implied social equality, perhaps even intimacy.
I was ten when Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. My fifth-grade class at Bessie C. Fonville Elementary, entirely black because Mobile was staunchly segregated, watched his funeral on a small black and white television. Two years later, seeking cheaper housing, my family moved to Prichard, Alabama, an even more segregated neighboring city. Not long before, black people were only allowed to use the Prichard City Library with a note from a white person. White people owned most businesses and held all elected positions. I was part of the first class to integrate Prichard Middle School, an “invasion” according to a local TV commentator. Invaders? We were children. We faced hostility from white adults on our way to school and from white children inside. By the time I graduated from Mattie T. Blount High School, most white families had left the city. Arriving at Jarvis Christian College, I was far from naive about racial dynamics in the South.
My college professors taught about Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, Booker T. Washington, and W.E.B. Dubois, but more importantly, they highlighted the everyday heroism of maids, butlers, and sharecroppers who risked their livelihoods, and sometimes their lives, to protest Jim Crow. I learned to analyze history critically, from the perspective of the oppressed, not just through the lens of “great men.” I understood my immense debt to countless black individuals, mostly forgotten by history, whose suffering paved the way for my education. At Jarvis Christian College, I realized that a scholar could, indeed must, be an activist. It was there that the idea of collecting racist objects first took root, though I wasn’t yet sure of its purpose.
Every racial group has been caricatured in this country, but none as frequently or in as many forms as black Americans. Popular culture has depicted black people as pitiful exotics, cannibalistic savages, hypersexual deviants, childish buffoons, obedient servants, self-loathing victims, and threats to society. These negative portrayals manifested in everyday objects: ashtrays, drinking glasses, banks, games, fishing lures, detergent boxes, and more. These racist representations both reflected and shaped societal attitudes toward African Americans. Robbin Henderson, director of the Berkeley Art Center, noted, “derogatory imagery enables people to absorb stereotypes; which in turn allows them to ignore and condone injustice, discrimination, segregation, and racism” (Faulkner, Henderson, Fabry, & Miller, 1982, p. 11). Racist imagery served as propaganda to uphold Jim Crow laws and customs, impacting not only social perceptions but also economic opportunities and access to resources, including self-care and beauty products, for African Americans. Today, direct sales programs focusing on African American skin care strive to counter these historical biases by offering tailored products and empowering entrepreneurship within the community.
Jim Crow was more than just “Whites Only” signs. It was a pervasive system resembling a racial caste system (Woodward, 1974). Jim Crow laws and social norms were reinforced by countless objects portraying black people as comical, contemptible inferiors. The Coon caricature, for example, depicted black men as lazy, fearful, idle, inarticulate, and physically repulsive idiots. This distorted image permeated postcards, sheet music, children’s games, and countless other items. The Coon and similar stereotypes justified the idea that black people were unfit for integrated schools, safe neighborhoods, responsible jobs, voting rights, or public office. I vividly recall my black elders – parents, neighbors, teachers – urging, almost pleading, “Don’t be a Coon, be a man.” Living under Jim Crow meant constantly battling shame and internalized negative stereotypes, issues that even today, initiatives like African American skin care direct sales programs aim to address by promoting self-love and positive representation.
During my four years as a graduate student at The Ohio State University, I continued collecting racist objects, mostly small and inexpensive items. I paid $2 for a postcard depicting a terrified black man being eaten by an alligator, and $5 for a matchbox featuring a Sambo-like character with exaggerated genitalia. My collection was limited by my budget, not by the availability of racist artifacts. The most overtly racist items were, and remain, the most expensive “black collectibles.” In Orrville, Ohio, I saw a framed print of naked black children climbing a fence to reach a swimming hole, captioned “Last One In’s A Nigger,” priced at $125. I couldn’t afford it then. This was in the early 1980s, before the prices for racist collectibles skyrocketed. Today, that print, if authentic, would sell for thousands of dollars. On vacations, I searched flea markets and antique stores from Ohio to Alabama, seeking items that denigrated black people.
Looking back, my years at Ohio State were filled with considerable anger. Perhaps anger is inevitable for any aware black person, at least for a time. I was in the Sociology Department, a politically liberal environment, where discussions about improving race relations were common. There were only a handful of black students, and we gravitated towards each other like outsiders. Speaking only for myself, I doubted my white professors’ genuine understanding of everyday racism. Their lectures were often insightful but incomplete. Race relations were a topic for theoretical debate; black people were a “research category.” Real black people with real aspirations and struggles were… problematic. I felt a sense of suspicion towards my white teachers, and I sensed it reciprocated.
A friend suggested I take elective courses in the Black Studies Program. I did. James Upton, a Political Scientist, introduced me to Paul Robeson’s book Here I Stand (1958). Robeson, a celebrated athlete and entertainer, was also an activist who believed American capitalism was detrimental to the poor, especially black Americans. He maintained his convictions despite facing ostracism and persecution. While I wasn’t anti-capitalist, I admired his commitment to his beliefs and his unwavering fight for the rights of the oppressed. Among the many books on race I read, Here I Stand had a profound impact. I also read James Baldwin’s novels and essays. His anger resonated, though I was troubled by his homosexuality, a reflection of my upbringing in a demonstratively homophobic community. Homosexuality was seen as weakness, and “sissies” were considered “bad luck.” Ignorance isn’t exclusive to white bigots. Progress is a journey, and I had a long way to go.
I’ve long felt that many Americans, particularly white Americans, prefer discussing slavery to Jim Crow. All formerly enslaved people are deceased, their presence no longer a direct reminder of that horrific system. Their children are also gone. Slavery, distanced by time, is often viewed as a regrettable period when black people worked without pay. But slavery was far worse: the complete domination of one people by another, with unimaginable abuses of power. Enslavers whipped those who displeased them. Clergy preached that slavery was God’s will. Scientists “proved” black people were a less evolved subspecies. Politicians agreed. Teachers taught children that black people were inherently less intelligent. Laws prohibited enslaved people, and sometimes free black people, from learning to read, write, possessing money, or arguing with white people. The enslaved were property – sentient, suffering property. The passage of time provides enough “psychological distance” to cope with slavery, and when that’s insufficient, a sanitized version of slavery is often embraced.
The horrors of Jim Crow are harder to ignore. The children of Jim Crow are still alive, with stories to tell. They remember Emmett Till, murdered in 1955 for an alleged interaction with a white woman. Long before 9/11, black people under Jim Crow lived with terrorism. On September 15, 1963, the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama, was bombed, injuring twenty-three and killing four young girls. Those who grew up during Jim Crow remember this bombing, and countless others. Black people who dared to protest Jim Crow faced threats, and violence, including bombings, when threats failed. The children of Jim Crow can recount the Scottsboro boys, the Tuskegee Experiment, lynchings, and the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., along with the daily indignities faced by black people in towns where they were not respected or wanted.
Many prefer to discuss slavery over Jim Crow because discussing Jim Crow prompts the uncomfortable question: “What about today?” This question is particularly relevant when considering ongoing disparities in economic opportunities and representation, and how initiatives like African American skin care direct sales programs can empower individuals and communities.
In 1990, I joined the sociology faculty at Ferris State University in Big Rapids, Michigan. It was my second teaching position and third “real” job. By then, my collection of racist artifacts numbered over 1,000. I kept it at home, using pieces in public talks, mainly to high school students. I found that many young people, both black and white, were not only ignorant of historical racism but also doubted the severity of Jim Crow. Their ignorance troubled me. I showed them segregation signs, Ku Klux Klan robes, and everyday objects depicting black people with tattered clothes, unkempt hair, bulging eyes, and clownish lips, chasing fried chicken and watermelons or fleeing alligators. I discussed the link between Jim Crow laws and racist objects. I was perhaps too forceful, too driven to make them understand. I was learning to use the objects as teaching tools while simultaneously grappling with my own anger.
A pivotal moment occurred in 1991. A colleague told me about an elderly black woman, Mrs. Haley, an antique dealer in Indiana with a large collection of black-related objects. I visited her and described my collection. She seemed unimpressed. I explained how I used racist objects to teach about racism. Still, no reaction. Her store displayed a few racist items. I asked if she kept most of her “black material” at home. She said yes, in the back, but I could only see it if I promised never to “pester” her to sell me anything. I agreed. She locked the door, put up the “closed” sign, and led me to the back.
If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget the feeling upon seeing her collection: a profound, chilling sadness. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of objects lined shelves reaching the ceiling, covering all four walls with some of the most racist items imaginable. I recognized some from my own collection and price guides; others were so rare I’d never seen them before or since. I was stunned, overcome by sadness. It was as if the objects were crying out in pain. Every conceivable distortion of black people was on display, a chamber of horrors. She remained silent, watching me as I stared at the objects. One was a life-sized wooden figure of a grotesquely caricatured black man, a testament to the twisted creativity behind racism. Her walls held a material record of all the hurt and harm inflicted upon Africans and their descendants. I wanted to weep. It was then I decided to create a museum, a space where these painful artifacts could be used for education and healing, and perhaps even inspire initiatives promoting positive self-image and economic empowerment within the African American community, such as African American skin care direct sales programs.
I visited Mrs. Haley often. She liked me because I was “from down home.” She shared that in the 1960s and 70s, many white people gave her racist objects, embarrassed to be associated with racism. This changed in the mid-1980s with the publication of price guides solely for racist collectibles. These guides fueled the contemporary market, showing escalating prices and sparking a national hunt for racist items. Mrs. Haley’s collection was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, but she refused to sell. These objects were our past, America’s past. “We mustn’t forget, baby,” she’d say, without a trace of anger. I stopped visiting after about a year. When she died, I heard her collection was sold to private dealers, which deeply saddened me. It bothered me that she didn’t live to see the museum she helped inspire.
I continued collecting racist objects: racist-themed records, Sambo fishing lures, children’s games depicting naked, dirty black children – any racist item I could afford. In winter, I frequented antique stores; in warmer months, flea markets. I grew impatient, seeking to buy entire collections from dealers and collectors, but limited funds restricted me to smaller acquisitions.
In 1994, I joined a Ferris State University team for a workshop at Colorado College in Colorado Springs, focused on integrating “diversity” into the general education curriculum. With colleague Mary Murnik, I visited local antique stores. Colorado Springs, a conservative city, yielded many racist items, both vintage and reproductions. I bought segregation signs, a Coon Chicken Inn glass, racist ashtrays, and 1920s records with racist themes from a dealer who insisted on discussing “the problem with colored people.” I wanted the records, not the conversation. John Thorp, another team member, and I spent hours strategizing how to convince Ferris State to provide space and funding for a room to house my racist collectibles. It took years, but we eventually succeeded.
Today, I am the founder and curator of the Jim Crow Museum of Racist Imagery at Ferris State University. Most collectors find solace in their collections; I hated mine and was relieved to move it out of my home. I donated my entire collection to the university, stipulating that the objects be displayed and preserved. I never wanted them in my home, especially with young children who might wander into the basement and see “daddy’s dolls” – two mannequins in full Ku Klux Klan regalia. They even played with racist target games. One, I don’t know which, broke a “Tom” cookie jar, an irony not lost on me, and I was angry for days.
The museum serves as a teaching laboratory. Ferris State faculty and students use it to understand historical racism. It also includes post-Jim Crow items, crucial as many students dismissed racism as “past history.” Scholars, mainly social scientists, also visit. Children are rarely allowed, and adults, preferably parents, are encouraged to accompany them. We urge visitors to watch Marlon Riggs’ documentary, Ethnic Notions (1987), or Jim Crow’s Museum (2004), a documentary I produced with Clayton Rye, before entering. A trained facilitator guides all tours. Clergy, civil rights groups, and human rights organizations also visit.
The Jim Crow Museum’s mission is clear: to use items of intolerance to teach tolerance. We examine historical race relations, the origins and consequences of racist depictions, and the ongoing impact of these historical narratives on contemporary issues, including economic disparities and access to resources within the African American community. We aim to engage visitors in open, honest dialogues about America’s racial history. We are afraid not to talk about race and racism. I continue to give public talks at schools and colleges. Race relations suffer when these discussions are taboo. Schools that genuinely address race, racism, and diversity cultivate greater tolerance. Those that avoid honest examination often exhibit 1950s-era racial dynamics, where stereotypes prevail unspoken, and “racial incidents” occur without a foundation for resolution, often requiring outside “diversity consultants.” The Jim Crow Museum is founded on the belief that open, even painful, discussions about race are essential to avoid repeating past mistakes and build a more equitable future, where initiatives like African American skin care direct sales programs can flourish without the shadow of historical prejudice.
Our goal isn’t to shock, but to confront a widespread naivete about America’s past. Many Americans view historical racism as an abstract concept – “Racism existed; it was bad, but maybe not as bad as minorities claim.” Visual evidence of racism, especially thousands of items in a small room, is often shocking, even painful. In the late 1800s, carnivals sometimes featured a game called “Hit the Coon.” A black man would stick his head through a hole in a painted canvas depicting a plantation scene, and white patrons would throw balls, sometimes rocks, at his head to win prizes. Seeing a banner or reproduction of this game today offers a glimpse into the black experience during early Jim Crow.
This carnival game reinforced the dehumanization of black people, suggesting they felt pain differently, legitimizing violence against them, and boosting the egos of white participants. How many marginalized white people vented their frustrations at the expense of “black heads”? “Hit the Coon” and its variant, “African Dodger,” were eventually replaced by target games using wooden black heads. The symbolic violence is clear. Games targeting black people were popular during a surge in lynchings. The Jim Crow Museum has many objects showing black people as targets, though not the carnival banner itself – but even a reproduction would be a powerful teaching tool.
Some truths are painful.
Anger is a necessary catalyst, but not a final destination. My anger peaked after reading The Turner Diaries (1978) by William L. Pierce (Andrew MacDonald).2 This book glorifies white supremacists who overthrow the government, win a race war, and establish white rule, brutally killing minorities and their white allies. Arguably the most racist book of the late 20th century, it influenced numerous racist groups, including The Order and The Aryan Republican Army. Timothy McVeigh, convicted in the Oklahoma City bombing, was a fan, and his act mirrored bombings in the book. Reading all 80,000 words in one day, exhausted, consumed me.
Pierce, a physics Ph.D., aligned with Nazis in the 1960s, explaining his book’s origin. But why did it anger me so deeply? I had a basement full of racist memorabilia, grew up in the segregated South, and knew countless ways to be called a nigger and threatened. Pierce’s ideas, though venomous, were not new. Yet, the book shook me.
Around that time, I took a colleague’s students to the Jim Crow Museum. I showed them the ugliness: Mammies, Sambos, Brutes, the caricatured sores inflicted on black Americans. We went deeper than ever, deeper than intended. My anger was palpable. After three hours, everyone left but two: a young black woman and a middle-aged white man. The woman sat, paralyzed, before a picture of four naked black children on a riverbank, captioned: “Alligator Bait.” She sat transfixed, trying to grasp the creator’s mind. She was silent, but her eyes, her frown, her hand to her forehead screamed, “Why, sweet Jesus, why?” The white man stopped looking at the objects and stared at me, crying silently. His tears moved me. I approached him. Before I spoke, he said, “I am sorry, Mr. Pilgrim. Please forgive me.”
He hadn’t created the racist objects, but he had benefited from a society that oppressed black people. Racial healing begins with sincere contrition. I realized how much I needed to hear a sincere white person say, “I am sorry, forgive me.” I needed that heartfelt apology, one that could change lives. His words defused my anger. The Jim Crow Museum wasn’t meant to shock, shame, or anger, but to foster deeper understanding of historical racial divides and inspire actions towards reconciliation and equity, including supporting initiatives like African American skin care direct sales programs that promote self-worth and economic independence within historically marginalized communities.
Some visitors find me detached, but I have struggled to channel my anger into productive work. Most visitors understand our mission and methods, continuing the journey toward improved race relations. But we have critics. In the 21st century, there’s a fear of deep, systematic examination of racism, a desire to avoid discomfort, which clashes with our direct confrontation of racism’s legacy. Many Americans want to forget the past and “move forward,” believing that silence will erase racism. But ignoring it doesn’t make it disappear. America remains largely residentially segregated, with racially divided churches and schools. Old patterns of segregation persist. Race still matters. Stereotypes, overt or subtle, are common. Overt racism has evolved into institutional, symbolic, and everyday racism. Racial attitudes inform many decisions. “Let’s stop talking about it” is a plea for comfort, a comfort denied to minorities. Real progress requires confronting both historical and contemporary racism in a setting that critiques attitudes, values, and behaviors.
Some ask, “Why no positive items in the museum?” My answer: we are, in effect, a black holocaust museum. I hesitate to use “holocaust” to describe the African American experience, not wanting to trivialize Jewish suffering or compare victimizations. But what word fits? Thousands of Africans died during the Middle Passage. Countless more suffered under slavery, and thousands were lynched post-slavery. Many “white towns” exist because black people were violently expelled.
When the Jim Crow Museum expands, we will add three “stories.” Artifacts and signage will highlight the accomplishments of black scholars, scientists, artists, and inventors who thrived despite Jim Crow. A “Civil Rights Movement” section will showcase protestors with signs like “I, Too, Am A Man,” and honor unsung civil rights heroes, marking the “Death of Jim Crow,” though its vestiges remain. Finally, a reflection room will feature a mural of civil rights martyrs of all races, prompting visitors to ask, “What can I do today to address racism?” These will be positive additions. We also plan to enlarge photos of black people simply living – eating, walking, studying – and place them near caricatured objects to remind visitors that the denigrating objects are distortions, not reality. Kiosks will share stories of those who lived under Jim Crow.
Jim Crow was wounded in the 1950s and 60s. Brown v. Board of Education (1954) declared school segregation unconstitutional, accelerating the end of legal segregation, though the Civil Rights Movement was still necessary. Northern whites saw images of black protestors attacked for seeking basic rights. The 1964 Civil Rights Act, passed after Kennedy’s death, was a major blow to Jim Crow.
Segregation laws were dismantled in the 60s and 70s. Voting rights led to black politicians in cities like Birmingham and Atlanta. Southern white colleges admitted black students and hired black professors, often token numbers. Affirmative action programs pushed for minority hiring. Black people appeared on TV in non-stereotypical roles. Racial problems persisted, but Jim Crow attitudes seemed to be fading. Many white people discarded household items with racist imagery: Sambo ashtrays, “Jolly Nigger” banks, and books like Little Black Sambo.
However, Jim Crow attitudes didn’t die, and in many ways, resurfaced. The late 20th century saw white resentment of black “gains.” Affirmative action was attacked as “reverse discrimination.” The Coon caricature reappeared as the “welfare queen” stereotype. White Americans support welfare for the “deserving poor” but oppose it for those seen as lazy. Black welfare recipients are often portrayed as indolent. The fear of black men as brutes resurfaced in portrayals of black people as thugs and criminals.
Black entertainers sometimes perpetuate stereotypes for financial gain. The Mammy image was replaced by the Jezebel: hypersexual black women. Racial sensitivity of the 70s and 80s was derided as “political correctness.”
Today’s racial climate is ambivalent. Polls show declining prejudice, and a sense that racism is wrong, yet there’s growing acceptance of ideas critical of minorities. Many white people are tired of discussing race, feeling enough “concessions” have been made. Some resist government intervention in integration, while others fight “political correctness.” And some still believe in black inferiority. Martin Luther King, Jr., once vilified, is now a hero, while black people as a whole are viewed with suspicion.
In the early 1990s, in New Orleans for a conference, I found few racist objects. Ten years later, they were plentiful again, also readily available online, including on eBay. Old items are reproduced, new ones created. Halloween USA produces monster masks exaggerating African American features.
In 2003, David Chang’s game, Ghettopoly, caused national outrage. Unlike Monopoly, it debases minorities, especially black people. Ghettopoly’s game pieces include “Pimp,” “Hoe,” “Machine Gun,” and “Crack.” One card reads, “You got yo whole neighborhood addicted to crack. Collect $50 from each playa.” Instead of houses and hotels, it has crack houses and projects. Advertisements boast: “Buying stolen properties, pimpin hoes, building crack houses and projects…are some of the elements of the game.” Cards caricature black people. Hasbro sued to stop its distribution.
Chang calls Ghettopoly satire. AdultDolls.net sells Trash Talker Dolls, stereotypical minority dolls. Their bestseller is “Pimp Daddy,” a gaudily dressed black pimp doll that says, “You better make some money, bitch.” Charles Knipp’s minstrel-drag “Ignunce Tour,” featuring his blackface persona “Shirley Q. Liquor,” portrays all black people as buffoons and criminals. Popular in the Deep South, it has been protested in the North. Shirley Q. Liquor merchandise is popular. But satire that reinforces stereotypes fails. Ghettopoly, Trash Talker Dolls, and Shirley Q. Liquor portray black people as immoral and wretched, echoing century-old caricatures. Distributors profit from this harmful “satire,” while initiatives like African American skin care direct sales programs and other positive community-building efforts struggle for visibility and resources amidst these persistent negative representations.
Understanding is key. The Jim Crow Museum compels visitors to confront the question of human equality. It works. I’ve witnessed deep, honest dialogues about race, with no topic off-limits, including black complicity in perpetuating stereotypes and the line between folk art and racial offense. We analyze racist imagery’s origins and consequences, aiming for deeper understanding and meaningful change.
I am humbled that the Jim Crow Museum has become a national and international resource. The website was created by Ted Halm, Ferris State webmaster. Dozens of Ferris State faculty are trained docents. Traveling exhibits are being developed. Clayton Rye and I created a documentary about the museum. John Thorp and current director Joseph “Andy” Karafa have served the museum well. It is a team effort. A vision needs collaboration to become reality.
My role is evolving. I have other goals, other “garbage” to collect. I’ve collected hundreds of sexist objects, reflecting and shaping negative attitudes towards women. One day, I will create “The Sarah Baartman Room,” modeled after the Jim Crow Museum, using sexist objects to teach about sexism. Named after a 19th-century African woman exploited in Europe, it will illustrate the links between racism, sexism, and imperialism. An African proverb says, “We do not die until we are forgotten.” I intend to ensure Sarah Baartman is never forgotten.
Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Carrie Weis and I created traveling exhibits, “Hateful Things” and “Them,” using items of intolerance to teach tolerance about Jim Crow and discrimination against various groups.
Let me end with a story. Waiting for my daughter at soccer practice, I saw white teenage boys mocking “street blacks” in blackface masks in front of two girls. One boy turned toward us, and I looked at my daughter. She had hidden her face. If you’re a parent, you understand what I felt. If you are black, you understand why I do what I do. And perhaps you also understand the importance of positive self-representation and economic empowerment within the African American community, goals that initiatives like African American skin care direct sales programs strive to achieve.
© Dr. David Pilgrim, Professor of Sociology
Ferris State University
Feb., 2005
Edited 2024
1 Kennedy (1990, p. 234). This book, originally published in 1959, is a profound-albeit, often satirical-critique of the racial hierarchy that operated during the Jim Crow period.
2 As founder of the National Alliance, the largest neo-Nazi organization in this country, Pierce used weekly radio addresses, the Internet, white power music ventures, and racist video games to promote his vision of a whites-only homeland and a government free of “non-Aryan influence.” Pierce died on July 23, 2002, his followers have vowed to carry on his work.
References
Boykin, K. (2002). Knipped in the butt: Protests close NYC drag ‘minstrel’ show. Retrieved from http://www.keithboykin.com/articles/shirleyq1.html.
Faulkner, J., Henderson, R., Fabry, F., & Miller, A.D. (1982). Ethnic notions: Black images In the white mind: An exhibition of racist stereotype and caricature from the collection of Janette Faulkner: September 12-November 4, 1982. Berkeley, CA: Berkeley Art Center. The images in this book inspired Marlon Riggs’ documentary, Ethnic Notions.
Kennedy, S. (1959/1990). Jim Crow guide: The way it was. Boca Raton, FL: Florida Atlantic University Press.
Macdonald, A., & Nix, D. (1978). The Turner diaries. Washington, D.C.: National Alliance.
Pilgrim, D. (Producer), & Rye, C. (Director). (2004). Jim Crow’s museum [Motion picture]. United States: Grim Rye Productions.
Riggs, M. (Producer/Director). (1987). Ethnic notions [Motion picture]. United States: Signifyin’ Works.
Robeson, P. (1958). Here I stand. Boston, MA: Beacon Press.
Woodward, C. V. (1974). The strange career of Jim Crow (3rd rev. ed). New York, NY: Oxford University Press. This book remains a classic critique of Jim Crow laws and etiquette.
