Racism https://mag.uchicago.edu/tags/racism en Picking up where the Little Rock Nine left off https://mag.uchicago.edu/law-policy-society/picking-where-little-rock-nine-left <div class="field field--name-field-letter-box-story-image field--type-image field--label-hidden field--item"> <img src="/sites/default/files/19_Spring_Demanski_One-Persons-Power.jpg" width="2000" height="1000" alt="Sybil Jordan Hampton" typeof="foaf:Image" class="img-responsive" /> </div> <span><span lang="" about="/profile/admin" typeof="schema:Person" property="schema:name" datatype="">admin</span></span> <span>Tue, 04/30/2019 - 15:44</span> <div class="field field--name-field-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"><p>In February Hampton returned to campus to accept the University’s alumni Diversity Leadership Award—a joy, she says, after considering herself “somebody who was just in the background.” (Photography by Ven Sherrod)</p></div> <div class="field field--name-field-refauthors field--type-entity-reference field--label-visually_hidden"> <div class="field--label sr-only">Author</div> <div class="field__items"> <div class="field--item"> <div about="/author/laura-demanski-am94"> <a href="/author/laura-demanski-am94"> <div class="field field--name-name field--type-string field--label-hidden field--item">Laura Demanski, AM’94</div> </a> </div> </div> </div> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-refsource field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"><a href="/publication-sources/university-chicago-magazine" hreflang="en">The University of Chicago Magazine</a></div> <div class="field field--name-field-issue field--type-text field--label-hidden field--item">Spring/19</div> <div class="field field--name-field-subhead field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"><p>At 16 Sybil Jordan Hampton, MSTʼ68, was on the front lines of school desegregation. Since then sheʼs worked to ensure no American is overlooked.</p></div> <div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"><p>As a 10th grader, <strong>Sybil Jordan Hampton</strong> was one of five African American students to attend Little Rock Central High School. It was two years after the <a href="https://nmaahc.si.edu/blog-post/little-rock-nine">Little Rock Nine</a> enrolled at Central in a national test of <em>Brown v. Board of Education</em> and anti-integration protests and violence caused the Arkansas city to close all its high schools for the 1958–59 school year.</p> <p>When they reopened, Hampton, MST’68, and her cohort enrolled more quietly—in fact, to deafening silence from her white classmates that lasted the entire three years until she graduated with honors.</p> <p>From there Hampton studied English at Earlham College, then education at the University of Chicago and Columbia University’s Teachers College, where she focused on Lawrence Cremin’s “educating professions” and earned her doctorate in 1991. After a 15-year career in higher education administration, Hampton moved to philanthropy, becoming contributions manager for education and culture at the GTE Corporate Foundation.</p> <p>Hampton never envisioned returning to live in Little Rock. So it was unexpected when she had the opportunity to go back after 30 years to become president of the Arkansas-focused <a href="https://www.wrfoundation.org/">Winthrop Rockefeller Foundation</a> (WRF), which she led for a decade. After retiring, Hampton served for seven months as general manager of the Arkansas Symphony Orchestra. She recently concluded a five-year term on the Arkansas Ethics Commission.</p> <p>This January Hampton returned to campus to accept the <a href="https://news.uchicago.edu/story/three-members-uchicago-community-receive-diversity-leadership-awards">University’s Diversity Leadership Award</a>. Bestowed each year on an alumnus or alumna, a faculty member, and a staff member, the award recognizes contributions to diversity and inclusion at the University and in the broader community.</p> <p>This interview has been edited and condensed.</p> <h2>How did you end up at UChicago?</h2> <p>Having served as a college extern with the US Public Health Service and worked with migrant families in rural New Jersey, my burning desire was to earn a master’s in public health. My first husband [<strong>John G. Stevenson</strong>, AM’67, PhD’75] was selected as a Woodrow Wilson Fellow at the U of C in philosophy. Without an opportunity to pursue a graduate degree in public health at UChicago, I became the working wife of a graduate student.</p> <p>After a year at the Social Security Payment Center, I knew that was not a good fit. What should I do? My experiences with teenage classmates at Little Rock Central High made me not ever want to work with young people. My mother was an elementary school teacher, and I wanted to break that mold. And I felt intimidated at the thought of graduate study at the University of Chicago. But John thought I would make a great teacher and was ready for graduate study. I applied reluctantly and was pleasantly surprised to be awarded a full scholarship.</p> <h2>How did you like it?</h2> <p>Oh, I loved being a graduate student. The program was small, with only 12 women students. We worked as a team to prepare to teach urban low-income African American students. Once again in my life, I was the only African American.</p> <p>Although Earlham was a great private liberal arts college, my fellow students had earned degrees at more prestigious colleges and universities. The academic challenges were a small part of what daunted me. Life in a small Southern state was very different from life in New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Boston. My classmates talked about experiences that were new to me—the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, family trips to Paris, sailing, skiing, shopping at Bergdorf Goodman and Saks Fifth Avenue, brands of clothing and shoes I did not know.</p> <p>Although I was a third-generation college-educated person, I was the first generation to be educated in a so-called elite institution of higher education. At the end of our program, one woman said to me, “We always thought that you didn’t talk to us because you were the smartest.” And I fell out laughing. I said, “No, I didn’t feel that I had anything to say, because you were talking about experiences that were so different from mine. I was just listening.”</p> <p>I learned at Chicago that people can see and appreciate you in ways you can’t see yourself. I learned to be more confident when opening myself to new experiences, new ways of seeing and being that took me out of my comfort zone. And I learned to appreciate the example from my parents and grandfather of a commitment to lifelong learning.</p> <h2>What was it like growing up in Little Rock?</h2> <p>My family consisted of my parents, my maternal grandfather, my brother, and me. Our house was exactly seven blocks down the street from Little Rock Central High School. In our racially mixed neighborhood, my family owned a small grocery store located on the northeast corner of 7th Street, and the Grants, a white family, owned a small grocery store on the northwest corner. In the segregated South, two grocery stores on adjacent corners was not an unusual arrangement.</p> <p>Because my parents were business owners whose provisions came only from white vendors, my brother and I always had relationships with people who were not African American. We experienced our parents and grandfather being treated with dignity and respect by their vendors. These men were very kind and friendly with all of us.</p> <p>How could we know as children the power of what we experienced? We gained confidence in interacting with all types of people and understood that all people who were different did not hate us or mean to harm or misuse us. In our segregated world, we learned that we mattered despite all the negative messages sent by “colored only” signs and hostile people who referred to us using the N-word.</p> <h2>How did you and your family decide that you would go to Central?</h2> <p>My parents were very much involved in the NAACP and at Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church, which is where four of the Little Rock Nine went to church. My parents were in leadership roles among people who were thinking, what are we going to do? How are we going to move forward after 1954?</p> <p>As young people we were in those conversations and encouraged to think that somebody had to do it. My parents said, “If you want to do it, we’ll support you.” My brother went the year after me, so my parents had two children at Little Rock Central High School for two years.</p> <h2>And your experience was entirely different from that in your parents’ store.</h2> <p>Everybody wondered what would happen. And what happened is that we were shunned. That was quite stunning, that the resistance changed from harassing in the hallway in 1957–58, to literally just: You didn’t matter. You didn’t exist. People didn’t look at you. People didn’t speak to you. And that went on from the first day to the last day. No one in my homeroom ever spoke to me.</p> <h2>How did you maintain your focus and stay strong?</h2> <p>My pastor, Rev. R. K. Young, always taught us that from the time of slavery, our people had lived with the hope that the promises of democracy would be realized, and that our people died with those promises not being realized, but they left a legacy that said, “Keep hope alive, work for this.”</p> <p>As a child I was taught that it might be my generation that would have the breakthroughs, so I needed to stay focused on doing well, doing well, doing well. And that education was something that could never be taken away and would be the key to my success. I had always been a very studious person, a big reader, so I continued to do at Central what I had done before.</p> <h2>With hindsight, how far do you think we’ve come?</h2> <p>I talk to young people who come to the <a href="https://www.nps.gov/chsc/index.htm">Little Rock Central High School National Historic Site</a>, groups from all across the country. I’m always pleased at the end when some ask, “Will you step aside and talk to me? Would you put your arm around me?” And they’ll say, “I’m the only person in my AP class. And people don’t really know how to reach out to me.”</p> <p>What happened to me continues to happen because there are so many opportunities for young people to be isolated if they are the only one—the only Latina, the only African American—and particularly if you start looking at International Baccalaureate and Advanced Placement programs. There’s a dwindling of diversity.</p> <h2>Why did you move to philanthropy?</h2> <p>It became clearer and clearer when I was studying at Columbia that the things foundations fund very often change the direction of a society. They have the money to try innovative things. And I thought, I want to be in a place where people are not afraid to take a risk and try a program.</p> <p>The career shift made sense because I understood the powerful role philanthropy plays in investing in and sowing the seeds necessary for the systemic eradication of economic, racial, and social injustice. If we are to challenge the status quo, independent agents are required, and philanthropic organizations are among the best examples.</p> <h2>You emceed the 60th anniversary of Central’s desegregation. What did that mean to you?</h2> <p>So many people are startled to discover that people went to Little Rock Central High School <em>after</em> 1957 and the Little Rock Nine. You know, the story just stops. People don’t understand that school desegregation is a process. It’s been an ongoing process, and people treat it as if it were a sound bite.</p> <p>There were many, many young “foot soldiers” who made tremendous sacrifices like my brother and I did to be part of the Little Rock Central High School desegregation struggle. Most attended college and enjoyed successful careers. There were a few who didn’t fare as well.</p> <p>But also, not everybody gets the respect for being foot soldiers. You know, it’s not just the warriors.</p> <h2>When people hear your story, what do you want them to take from it?</h2> <p>That one person, one person with passion and with fortitude, and with a vision for how they can make a difference in some small way, matters. Sometimes young people think that you have to do something that makes you an icon, that gets in the newspaper. Just because someone doesn’t know your name doesn’t mean what you have done is not significant.</p> <h2>How did it feel to come back to the University to accept the Diversity Leadership Award?</h2> <p>I was humbled. I always considered myself someone who was very fortunate to get my master’s and to have the wonderful experiences I had there. I loved studying, I loved the people that I met, but I always considered myself somebody who was just in the background. It was a source of joy to know that sometimes the little engine that thinks that it can, can. </p> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-reftopic field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"><a href="/topics/law-policy-society" hreflang="en">Law, Policy &amp; Society</a></div> <div class="field field--name-field-tags field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--items"> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/civil-rights-movement" hreflang="en">Civil Rights Movement</a></div> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/racism" hreflang="en">Racism</a></div> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/race" hreflang="en">Race</a></div> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/diversity" hreflang="en">Diversity</a></div> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-refformats field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"><a href="/formats/glimpses" hreflang="en">Glimpses</a></div> <span class="a2a_kit a2a_kit_size_32 addtoany_list" data-a2a-url="https://mag.uchicago.edu/law-policy-society/picking-where-little-rock-nine-left" data-a2a-title="Picking up where the Little Rock Nine left off"><a class="a2a_button_facebook"></a><a class="a2a_button_twitter"></a><a class="a2a_button_google_plus"></a><a class="a2a_button_print"></a><a class="a2a_dd addtoany_share_save" href="https://www.addtoany.com/share#url=https%3A%2F%2Fmag.uchicago.edu%2Flaw-policy-society%2Fpicking-where-little-rock-nine-left&amp;title=Picking%20up%20where%20the%20Little%20Rock%20Nine%20left%20off"></a></span> Tue, 30 Apr 2019 20:44:04 +0000 admin 7103 at https://mag.uchicago.edu White power is not new https://mag.uchicago.edu/belew <div class="field field--name-field-letter-box-story-image field--type-image field--label-hidden field--item"> <img src="/sites/default/files/story/images/18Summer_Golus_White-power-is-not-new.jpg" width="2000" height="1000" alt="White power is not new" title="White power is not new" typeof="foaf:Image" class="img-responsive" /> </div> <span><span lang="" about="/profile/admin" typeof="schema:Person" property="schema:name" datatype="">admin</span></span> <span>Thu, 08/09/2018 - 18:19</span> <div class="field field--name-field-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"><p>Assistant professor of US history<strong> </strong>Kathleen Belew’s book<strong> </strong><em>Bring the War Home: The White Power Movement and Paramilitary America </em>was published by Harvard University Press in April. (Photography by Anne Ryan)</p></div> <div class="field field--name-field-refauthors field--type-entity-reference field--label-visually_hidden"> <div class="field--label sr-only">Author</div> <div class="field__items"> <div class="field--item"> <div about="/author/carrie-golus-ab91-am93"> <a href="/author/carrie-golus-ab91-am93"> <div class="field field--name-name field--type-string field--label-hidden field--item">Carrie Golus, AB’91, AM’93</div> </a> </div> </div> </div> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-refsource field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"><a href="/publication-sources/university-chicago-magazine" hreflang="en">The University of Chicago Magazine</a></div> <div class="field field--name-field-issue field--type-text field--label-hidden field--item">Summer/18</div> <div class="field field--name-field-subhead field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"><p>Historian Kathleen Belew finds an unexpected origin for a resurgent movement.</p></div> <div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"><p>The Vietnam War created the contemporary white power movement in the United States. That’s the provocative claim of <em>Bring the War Home: The White Power Movement and Paramilitary America </em>(Harvard University Press, 2018) by <strong>Kathleen Belew</strong>, assistant professor of US history.</p> <p>In the aftermath of Vietnam, white power activists drew a straight line from that war to the revolution they hoped to bring about in the United States. The story they told about Vietnam—soldiers betrayed by political leaders and the military, their sacrifice trivialized—helped unite disparate white supremacy groups, such as the Ku Klux Klan and neo-Nazis.</p> <p>The title of Belew’s book comes from white power leader and Vietnam veteran Louis Beam, who urged his followers to bring the war home. In 1977 Beam created Camp Puller, a Vietnam War–style training facility in Texas, “to turn Klansmen into soldiers,” Belew writes. It was the beginning of the militarization of the white power movement.</p> <p>Belew’s work has been covered widely in the national media, including the <em>New York Times</em> and National Public Radio’s <em>Fresh Air</em>. This interview has been edited and condensed.</p> <h2>In your book, you draw a picture of a national coordinated white power movement. Has your work been met with any skepticism?</h2> <p>None of the events I write about are discovered in this book. Everything has been documented by journalists, watchdog groups, ethnographers, sociologists. But this is the first book that takes an archival perspective and a wide-angle view.</p> <p>There has been excellent work done by journalists looking at one event in one place. For example, the 1984 murder of Alan Berg [a Denver talk show host who criticized white power groups] was reported in great depth in the <em>Rocky Mountain News</em> and the <em>Denver Post</em>. But journalists wouldn’t necessarily connect that murder to what other white power activists were doing in other places.</p> <p>Similarly, ethnographers have done deep work, but they spend perhaps two years with one group. So again, you get fragmented views of the whole.</p> <h2>The book culminates in the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing. Is this commonly understood as the work of the white power movement?</h2> <p>At the time, Timothy McVeigh’s actions were dismissed as those of a lone wolf by the FBI and the media.</p> <p>But the social geography of his life shows many connections, ideologically and materially, with the white power movement. He structured his actions based on manuals, such as <em>The Turner Diaries</em> [by William Luther Pierce as Andrew Macdonald, National Vanguard Books, 1978], that directed white power activists.</p> <p>If you see the Oklahoma City bombing—which killed 168 people—as part of the white power movement, it changes a lot about how we think about the supposedly race-neutral 1980s and 1990s.</p> <h2>You’re probably one of the few people who wasn’t surprised by the recent upsurge in public white nationalism.</h2> <p>It’s an odd thing to have your project shift in such a dramatic way. In an earlier version of my book, I explained why it’s important to study the fringe. My editor ended up striking that entire section. All of a sudden my topic of study was in the mainstream.</p> <p>It’s disheartening. I would rather have been wrong. But history can give us some tools about how to respond—what has and hasn’t worked in the past. This may seem astonishing and new, but it is not new.</p> <h2>What were the biggest surprises for you?</h2> <p>The level at which social relationships were managed by women staggered me. If you look at intermarriages, you can really see how white power functions as a social movement that connects different regions, social classes, urban and rural areas. There’s a web of people.</p> <p>Yet another surprise was that these white power activists were using technology very early. In 1984 they established Liberty Net, a protosocial network. They were early adopters who were very skilled in this arena. They had a decade of practice using this before the Oklahoma City bombing.</p> <p>Another jaw-dropper for me was to discover what really happened at this pivotal moment when the Order made a declaration of war against the federal government in 1983. The story has been told as the last siege of Robert Mathews, under pursuit by the FBI, writing this important movement document. I discovered he was in a vacation house full of women and noisy toddlers. This is not a lone wolf commando guy in a cabin.</p> <h2>Your book belies the stereotype of uneducated, rural white power activists.</h2> <p>The movement is not Southern, it’s not low class, it’s not uneducated, and it never has been. David Duke was wearing a suit, going on talk shows, and presenting a more genteel image for the Klan in the 1970s. White power is a bridge movement that has brought in a whole lot of people.</p> <h2>Is it emotionally difficult to work on these topics? </h2> <p>Yes. That’s something I think all historians in this area have to wrestle with.</p> <p>I do this work because I think it’s worthwhile. I believe knowing this history could lead to better media coverage, to better public understanding.</p> <h2>Your academic specialties include militarization and violence. Is that unusual for a woman? </h2> <p>There’s a really excellent new database called <a href="http://womenalsoknowhistory.com/">Women Also Know History</a>. So if you’re, say, organizing a conference panel on military history, you can’t claim to know only men. There are many, many women who do this kind of work. </p> <h2>Did you interview the people whom you write about?  </h2> <p>This is where I feel like a “capital H” historian. I considered doing oral histories. But there is a huge archive of interviews about how these activists saw their actions at the time, with the questions asked by undercover reporters and FBI agents. In subsequent interviews, the activists have changed their stories. I tend to like the contemporaneous accounts better.</p> <p>The actors in my book also self-published about their beliefs. There are huge ephemera collections. The archive is so rich, I didn’t need to do oral history.</p> <h2>What’s it like to write about such recent history?</h2> <p>My training is in American studies, which has a less rigid divide about what’s far enough back to study. In the discipline of history, there’s a harder line: 25 years or more.</p> <p>My work on white power could help navigate the crush of information in these very emotional current events. We can’t afford to wait 25 years to understand what’s happening now.</p></div> <div class="field field--name-field-reftopic field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"><a href="/topics/law-policy-society" hreflang="en">Law, Policy &amp; Society</a></div> <div class="field field--name-field-tags field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--items"> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/racism" hreflang="en">Racism</a></div> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/american-history" hreflang="en">American history</a></div> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/vietnam-war" hreflang="en">Vietnam War</a></div> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-refformats field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"><a href="/formats/interview" hreflang="en">Interview</a></div> <span class="a2a_kit a2a_kit_size_32 addtoany_list" data-a2a-url="https://mag.uchicago.edu/belew" data-a2a-title="White power is not new"><a class="a2a_button_facebook"></a><a class="a2a_button_twitter"></a><a class="a2a_button_google_plus"></a><a class="a2a_button_print"></a><a class="a2a_dd addtoany_share_save" href="https://www.addtoany.com/share#url=https%3A%2F%2Fmag.uchicago.edu%2Fbelew&amp;title=White%20power%20is%20not%20new"></a></span> Thu, 09 Aug 2018 23:19:48 +0000 admin 6965 at https://mag.uchicago.edu Free verse https://mag.uchicago.edu/university-news/free-verse <div class="field field--name-field-letter-box-story-image field--type-image field--label-hidden field--item"> <img src="/sites/default/files/1705_Allen_Free-verse.jpg" width="1600" height="743" alt="" typeof="foaf:Image" class="img-responsive" /> </div> <span><span lang="" about="/profile/jmiller" typeof="schema:Person" property="schema:name" datatype="">jmiller</span></span> <span>Wed, 05/03/2017 - 09:34</span> <div class="field field--name-field-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"><p>(Illustrations by Yuko Shimizu; photo courtesy the Yasutake family collection)</p> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-refauthors field--type-entity-reference field--label-visually_hidden"> <div class="field--label sr-only">Author</div> <div class="field__items"> <div class="field--item"> <div about="/author/susie-allen-ab09"> <a href="/author/susie-allen-ab09"> <div class="field field--name-name field--type-string field--label-hidden field--item">Susie Allen, AB’09</div> </a> </div> </div> </div> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-refsource field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"><a href="/publication-sources/university-chicago-magazine" hreflang="en">The University of Chicago Magazine</a></div> <div class="field field--name-field-issue field--type-text field--label-hidden field--item">Spring/17</div> <div class="field field--name-field-subhead field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"><p>Mitsuye Yamada, AM’53, transformed her family’s internment experience into poetry.</p> </div> <div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"><p>For years, Mitsuye Yamada, AM’53, never spoke of the 18 months she spent interned in the Minidoka Relocation Center in Idaho during the Second World War. Yamada was 19 when she, her mother, and her three siblings were forced to leave their Seattle home with no certainty about when they might return.</p> <p>They were among the roughly 120,000 West Coast Japanese Americans ordered by the US government to remote facilities in Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Idaho, Texas, Utah, and Wyoming. Yamada’s father, Jack Yasutake, who had worked as a translator for the US Immigration and Naturalization Service for more than 20 years, was sent to a prisoner of war camp in New Mexico under suspicion of spying for the Japanese. The Federal Bureau of Investigation never found any evidence to support the charge, and in 1944 Yasutake was transferred from the POW camp to an internment camp in Crystal City, Texas.</p> <p>“It was just something that we never talked about,” reflects Yamada, now 93 and living in Irvine, California. Only in 1962, after her 11-year-old daughter saw a news report about Japanese internment camps, did Yamada reveal to her children that she had been held in one.</p> <p>Fourteen years later, Yamada broke her silence on a wider scale in Camp Notes and Other Poems (Shameless Hussy Press, 1976), a book inspired in part by her internment. The collection, hailed as “vivid, pain-filled, weighted with irony” by the Los Angeles Times, launched Yamada’s career as an award-winning writer of poetry and essays.</p> <p>In comments condensed and edited below, Yamada looks back on her childhood, her career as a writer, and the lasting legacy of internment.</p> <hr /><p><em><img src="http://mag.uchicago.edu/sites/default/files/1705_Allen_Free-verse_spotC.jpg" /></em></p> <p>My father was a poet. He wrote a form of 17-syllable Japanese poem called the senryu, which is somewhat like the haiku. But haiku are much more ethereal and much more abstract. Senryu talk about everyday problems.</p> <p>Many of his fellow poets were immigrant men. They would gather in our dining room to write about their daily problems with their wives and their jobs and so forth. Which they had many of.</p> <p>I remember sitting with them in the dining room as a young girl. My mother was making refreshments—sushi and tea and so forth—and I was serving the poets.</p> <p>My Japanese wasn’t fully developed during those days, so I didn’t understand everything they were saying, but I was totally enthralled by the process of writing poems. They would take an hour to talk about what had happened since the last meeting and then go into their corners and write poetry. Then they would come back as a group and recite their poems to each other. It was a magical moment for me to sit there and listen to the music of the poetry that they were reciting aloud.</p> <p>They would tack a large piece of paper, kind of like butcher paper, to the wall. And a calligrapher would write the poem in black ink, very fluid, with beautiful lines, in Japanese.</p> <p>The process was artistic, as well as musical in many senses. And I grew up with that. It was just something that seemed wonderful to me.</p> <p>But I didn’t actually start writing until high school. I wrote mostly prose, I remember. Most of my heroines were blue-eyed blondes. I was totally unaware of my ethnic identity at that time. I was trying to blend in with the white majority at my high school.</p> <hr /><p><em><img src="http://mag.uchicago.edu/sites/default/files/1705_Allen_Free-verse_spotB.jpg" /></em></p> <p><strong>The outbreak of the Second World War brought sudden changes to Yamada’s family. </strong></p> <p>My father was arrested by the FBI on December 7, 1941. We didn’t know where he was for a while. He ultimately ended up in a prisoner of war camp in Lordsburg, New Mexico.</p> <p>This was a real prisoner of war camp, unlike the so-called relocation camps that we were ultimately evacuated to. My mother and brothers and I were so worried about what was happening to my dad. We were not quite sure if he was going to be forced to return to Japan.</p> <p>Our situation of going into relocation camp seemed like nothing in comparison to what my dad was being accused of—espionage against a country he had spent 20 years working for. It just seemed so unfair at that time. Whatever was happening to us seemed very minor.</p> <hr /><p><em><img src="http://mag.uchicago.edu/sites/default/files/1705_Allen_Free-verse_spotD.jpg" /></em></p> <p><strong>At the Minidoka Relocation Center, Yamada worked as a nurse’s aide in the emergency clinic alongside Japanese American doctors who had been forced to close their practices. Keeping busy, she wrote later, was “the trick” to enduring internment: “keep the body busy / be a teacher / be a nurse / be a typist / … / But the mind was not fooled.”</strong><em> </em></p> <p>It was one crisis after another in the emergency ward. The doctors, who worked for 16 dollars a month, were wonderful self-sacrificing people. And the head nurse I worked under was a wonderful person. I just admired their work and what they were doing.</p> <hr /><p><strong>In <em>Camp Notes</em> Yamada relates one of the central dilemmas of internment: the “loyalty questionnaire,” which asked interned adults about their hobbies, religion, and languages they spoke—questions designed to determine how Americanized they were. The questionnaire also required them to forswear all allegiance to Japan. Some refused on the grounds that they were American citizens who had never been loyal to Japan. Others, barred by law from becoming American citizens, worried they would be left in stateless limbo if they renounced their Japanese citizenship.</strong></p> <p><strong>Yamada’s brother Tosh left Camp Minidoka to serve in the US Army. Yamada was permitted to leave in 1943 and enrolled at the University of Cincinnati a year later. She went on to study English literature at New York University and at UChicago.</strong></p> <p>I had heard from somewhere that a master’s degree from the University of Chicago was the equivalent to a PhD, and I thought, well, that’s for me.</p> <hr /><p><strong>In Chicago, Yamada met her husband, Yoshikazu Yamada, then a PhD student in chemistry at Purdue University. The couple had four children; Yamada didn’t tell any of them about her internment experience until her oldest daughter was 11.</strong></p> <p>My daughter said, “Why didn’t you tell us?” She couldn’t believe that I hadn’t ever talked about it. And I remember saying, “Well, nobody asked me.” The subject never came up before.</p> <p>You just bury it inside yourself. It’s an experience that one had to be ashamed of. If it happened to you, it must have been something that you did. I don’t know what the psychology of that is. It was true that I really did bury it very deeply.</p> <hr /><p><strong>Even as a mother of four, Yamada found time to write and edit poetry, though she considered herself a hobbyist, “like a Sunday painter.” One of her projects involved revisiting her journals from Camp Minidoka.</strong></p> <p>I had been writing all along, sticking bits of paper into a shoebox, like a lot of closet women poets did. I never thought of my camp poems as really being poems. That was why I called them “camp notes,” because they were notes that I kept about my experiences in camp.</p> <p>When I started to edit, I took out many of the excessive words. I just thought, these words are not central to the poem itself. I remember taking a pen and just crossing out words on the page. I wasn’t really thinking of it as a poem, but as the idea that I was trying to express. I think that explains the starkness of the images in <em>Camp Notes</em>.</p> <hr /><p><strong>In 1976 Yamada met the radical feminist poet Alta Gerrey, founder of Shameless Hussy Press. She convinced Yamada to publish <em>Camp Notes</em>.</strong></p> <p>Alta invited me to San Francisco to do a reading. We went to various coffeehouses and places like that.</p> <p>The burgeoning feminist movement in the 1970s, that was quite a revelation to me. And an exciting experience. I had four kids at home and had never really been outside of my little comfort zone. Publishing my book really opened up a whole world that I didn’t know existed.</p> <p>I met so many wonderful people, including many gay and lesbian poets. The growing consciousness of all of us together at the same time was quite strengthening.</p> <hr /><p><em><img src="http://mag.uchicago.edu/sites/default/files/1705_Allen_Free-verse_spotE.jpg" /></em></p> <p><strong>The influence of Yamada’s new friendships is apparent in her later work, including the poem “Masks of Woman”: “This is my daily mask / daughter, sister / wife, mother / poet, teacher / grandmother. / … / Over my mask / is your mask / of me / an Asian woman.” She became particularly interested in collaborating with other Asian American writers.</strong></p> <p>I met Nellie Wong and Merle Woo at a Women Poets of San Francisco meeting, and we became very good friends. We connected immediately.</p> <p>And then Nellie and I were featured in a film together, Mitsuye and Nellie: Asian American Poets (1981). It’s a one-hour documentary about Chinese American and Japanese American cultures. That film did very well, I think [<em>Mitsuye and Nellie</em> was broadcast nationally on PBS and featured in several film festivals.]</p> <hr /><p><strong>Yamada continued to write, producing the collection <em>Desert Run: Poems and Stories</em> (Kitchen Table: Women of Color Press, 1988). She also became active in the human rights group Amnesty International and served on its board.</strong></p> <p><strong>In recent years Yamada has shifted from poetry toward memoir and family history. This year she completed a biography of her father, who died in 1953, only weeks after finally becoming an American citizen.</strong></p> <p>I remember asking my dad if he felt bitter about his experiences, about the government suspecting him. He said, “No, not at all, because you have to remember the context in that time. You have to remember that during the first few months of World War II after Pearl Harbor, the American country was actually losing, because we were totally unprepared.” He said it seemed kind of natural to suspect a person like him or the Japanese people in general.</p> <p>My dad did quite well because of his bilingualism. But I often think about how the people who lost the most from the evacuation experience were the first-generation people like my father’s generation.</p> <p>Most of the Issei [first-generation Japanese immigrants] his age—just imagine, you come to this country when you’re in your 20s and spend 25 years working hard and establishing yourself, buying a house, raising your children, and being quite proud of what you have achieved.</p> <p>And suddenly, there’s a war, and you lose everything. And you go to camp, and you’re in camp for three or four years, and then the government closes the camp and says OK, now you can go back to where you came from. Well, at that point, most of the Issei had nothing to go back to. There was nothing.</p> <p>I do think we’re at risk of forgetting some of those lessons. You forget the struggles of the past. Maybe it’s a survival instinct of a sort to forget those kinds of things and to go on with our lives, to look ahead, to keep going.</p> <p><em><em>Poems: Yamada, Mitsuye. </em></em>Camp Notes and Other Writings.<em> New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1998. Copyright © 1998 by Mitsuye Yamada. Reprinted by permission of Rutgers University Press.</em></p> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-reftopic field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"><a href="/topics/university-news" hreflang="en">University News</a></div> <div class="field field--name-field-tags field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--items"> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/poetry" hreflang="en">Poetry</a></div> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/history" hreflang="en">History</a></div> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/world-war-ii" hreflang="en">World War II</a></div> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/internment" hreflang="en">Internment</a></div> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/racism" hreflang="en">Racism</a></div> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/immigration" hreflang="en">Immigration</a></div> </div> <span class="a2a_kit a2a_kit_size_32 addtoany_list" data-a2a-url="https://mag.uchicago.edu/university-news/free-verse" data-a2a-title="Free verse"><a class="a2a_button_facebook"></a><a class="a2a_button_twitter"></a><a class="a2a_button_google_plus"></a><a class="a2a_button_print"></a><a class="a2a_dd addtoany_share_save" href="https://www.addtoany.com/share#url=https%3A%2F%2Fmag.uchicago.edu%2Funiversity-news%2Ffree-verse&amp;title=Free%20verse"></a></span> Wed, 03 May 2017 14:34:23 +0000 jmiller 6424 at https://mag.uchicago.edu Slow dance https://mag.uchicago.edu/law-policy-society/slow-dance <div class="field field--name-field-letter-box-story-image field--type-image field--label-hidden field--item"> <img src="/sites/default/files/1402_Gibson_Slow-dance.png" width="700" height="325" alt="" typeof="foaf:Image" class="img-responsive" /> </div> <span><span lang="" about="/profile/jmiller" typeof="schema:Person" property="schema:name" datatype="">jmiller</span></span> <span>Mon, 12/23/2013 - 10:22</span> <div class="field field--name-field-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"><p>PhD student Christopher Dingwall, AM’06. (Photography by Jason Smith)</p> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-refauthors field--type-entity-reference field--label-visually_hidden"> <div class="field--label sr-only">Author</div> <div class="field__items"> <div class="field--item"> <div about="/author/lydialyle-gibson"> <a href="/author/lydialyle-gibson"> <div class="field field--name-name field--type-string field--label-hidden field--item">Lydialyle Gibson</div> </a> </div> </div> </div> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-refsource field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"><a href="/publication-sources/university-chicago-magazine" hreflang="en">The University of Chicago Magazine</a></div> <div class="field field--name-field-issue field--type-text field--label-hidden field--item">Jan–Feb/14</div> <div class="field field--name-field-subhead field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"><p>“A certain messiness” marked the halting evolution of racist imagery in the decades after slavery’s abolition.</p> </div> <div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"><p>The contrast is so striking because everything else is so much the same. Two sheet music covers for the ragtime number “The Darktown Strutters’ Ball” show a dance floor thronged with African American couples. The colors are almost identical. But while one image is neutral, with figures that are little more than silhouettes, the other portrays the dancers in stark racist caricatures. Both covers were printed in the same year, 1917, and they represent, says history PhD student Christopher Dingwall, AM’06, “a certain messiness” in the evolution of racial imagery during the early 20th century. From decade to decade, things got better: mass culture’s depiction of African Americans became less racist—and blacks gained more control over how they were portrayed—but that change was halting and slow.</p> <p>Dingwall’s dissertation, which he calls “Selling Slavery,” focuses on why and how images of slavery lived on in everything from literature and cinema to commercial art and children’s toys during the decades after abolition. “Why were Americans so interested in seeing images of slavery, an eradicated past, in the very heart of the new modern culture?” Dingwall asks. “What did the juxtaposition mean for them; how was it translated into economic and cultural value?” Dingwall’s research concentrates on the period from 1876 and 1920. He came across the sheet music covers, along with jazz and ragtime album covers spanning the 20th century, while organizing an exhibit that ran late last year at the library’s <a href="http://www.lib.uchicago.edu/e/scrc/" target="_blank">Special Collections Research Center</a>. “The presentation of black music is a good index,” he says, “for seeing a larger transformation of racial imagery in commercial art.”</p> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-reftopic field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"><a href="/topics/law-policy-society" hreflang="en">Law, Policy &amp; Society</a></div> <div class="field field--name-field-tags field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--items"> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/racism" hreflang="en">Racism</a></div> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-refuchicago field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--items"> <div class="field--item"><a href="/division-social-sciences" hreflang="en">Division of the Social Sciences</a></div> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-refformats field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"><a href="/formats/original-source" hreflang="en">Original Source</a></div> <div class="field field--name-field-relatedstories field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"><p>“<a href="http://news.lib.uchicago.edu/blog/2013/11/11/a-different-way-of-learning-about-history/" target="_blank">A Different Way of Learning about History</a>” (<em>University of Chicago Library News</em> blog, November 11, 2013)</p> </div> <span class="a2a_kit a2a_kit_size_32 addtoany_list" data-a2a-url="https://mag.uchicago.edu/law-policy-society/slow-dance" data-a2a-title="Slow dance"><a class="a2a_button_facebook"></a><a class="a2a_button_twitter"></a><a class="a2a_button_google_plus"></a><a class="a2a_button_print"></a><a class="a2a_dd addtoany_share_save" href="https://www.addtoany.com/share#url=https%3A%2F%2Fmag.uchicago.edu%2Flaw-policy-society%2Fslow-dance&amp;title=Slow%20dance"></a></span> Mon, 23 Dec 2013 16:22:45 +0000 jmiller 2670 at https://mag.uchicago.edu Spiritual leader https://mag.uchicago.edu/law-policy-society/spiritual-leader <div class="field field--name-field-letter-box-story-image field--type-image field--label-hidden field--item"> <img src="/sites/default/files/1302_Kelly_Conscience-civil-rights-rev.jpg" width="1600" height="743" alt="Benjamin Elijah Mays" title="Benjamin Elijah Mays" typeof="foaf:Image" class="img-responsive" /> </div> <span><span lang="" about="/profile/jmiller" typeof="schema:Person" property="schema:name" datatype="">jmiller</span></span> <span>Wed, 12/26/2012 - 16:14</span> <div class="field field--name-field-caption field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"><p>(Collage by Joy Olivia Miller; photo of Benjamin Elijah Mays and postcard from Mays to Martin Luther King Jr. courtesy Morehouse College)</p> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-refauthors field--type-entity-reference field--label-visually_hidden"> <div class="field--label sr-only">Author</div> <div class="field__items"> <div class="field--item"> <div about="/author/jason-kelly"> <a href="/author/jason-kelly"> <div class="field field--name-name field--type-string field--label-hidden field--item">Jason Kelly</div> </a> </div> </div> </div> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-refsource field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"><a href="/publication-sources/university-chicago-magazine" hreflang="en">The University of Chicago Magazine</a></div> <div class="field field--name-field-issue field--type-text field--label-hidden field--item">Jan–Feb/13</div> <div class="field field--name-field-subhead field--type-text-long field--label-hidden field--item"><p>Benjamin Elijah Mays, AM’25, PhD’35, was the conscience of the civil rights movement.</p> </div> <div class="field field--name-body field--type-text-with-summary field--label-hidden field--item"><p>Benny Mays was four years old when a mob of white men came for his father. They were on horseback, brandishing rifles, and a tearful Benny took cover under a neighbor’s porch. From there he watched as the vigilantes forced Hezekiah Mays at gunpoint to remove his hat, salute, and bow.</p> <p>He was fortunate to survive. Friends of Hezekiah’s were among 12 black men killed in South Carolina during the 1898 unrest known as the Phoenix riot, a terror campaign intended to frighten African Americans into political submission. “Negroes were hiding out like rabbits,” the younger Mays recalled his father saying.</p> <p>Even as a boy confronted with the worst in racist violence and rhetoric, said Randal Maurice Jelks, the author of <em>Benjamin Elijah Mays: Schoolmaster of the Movement</em> (University of North Carolina Press, 2012), Mays took his mother’s words to heart. “Benny,” Louvenia Carter Mays used to say, “you is equal to anybody.”</p> <p>Mount Zion Baptist Church, part of the religious lattice that gave southern African Americans a common foothold, reinforced his sense of worth. The Bible was Mays’s first textbook, an introduction both to theological principles and his own cultural heritage. “Early in his life—this is a kid who is really smart—he assesses that the Bible is a foundational document in the shaping of black American identity,” Jelks, associate professor of American studies and African American studies at the University of Kansas, said in an October lecture at the Divinity School. “It’s the grammar and the language that many black people use in his Baptist-dominated South Carolina.”</p> <p>The church’s role in affirming his humanity and in providing social support for its members convinced Mays that the institution could be a catalyst for political change. For Mays, the motivation came from an abiding but earthbound faith, rooted in an understanding of the historical Jesus that could wrest the Bible back from those who would use it to oppress. “Jesus, in Mays’s mind, is the God-centered ethical leader who challenges the Roman state with a new set of ethical concerns about God and humanity,” Jelks said.</p> <p>Some of his earliest prayers were for the education that would help him shape that worldview. Hezekiah Mays, a tenant farmer, cared only about his son’s ability to work. But Louvenia believed that, along with religion, education would be his salvation. “She literally takes the plow from his hands,” assuming Benny’s place in the cotton fields, Jelks said, freeing Mays to leave his hometown of Epworth in 1911 for the equivalent of high school at South Carolina State College in Orangeburg. He paid his train fare with a ten-dollar bill that Hezekiah threw at him in anger as he left.</p> <p>Mays validated his mother’s intuition. Becoming a divinity scholar, a Baptist minister, a dean at Howard University, and president of Morehouse College from 1940 to 1967, Benjamin Elijah Mays, AM’25, PhD’35, helped to bend the arc of American history away from the segregation and mob injustice that seared his memory. He achieved such stature as both a preacher and a teacher that he became Martin Luther King Jr.’s intellectual and spiritual conscience.</p> <p>As a young man, Mays felt the need to prove himself against white people, an ambition that shamed and inspired him. “It was wrongheaded of me, but I thought if I were able to compete with white people, I would be just fine,” Mays later said. “I would know that the stain of segregation would be off me.” He succeeded, graduating Phi Beta Kappa in 1920 from Bates College in Maine.</p> <p>After less than a year at the Divinity School, Mays and his wife, Ellen Harvin, left Chicago so he could teach at Morehouse College. While there, he became an ordained minister at Shiloh Baptist Church. “Those three years were golden,” Jelks writes, but the period ended in tragedy.In 1923 his wife and their baby died in childbirth.</p> <p>The next year, Mays returned to Chicago to complete his master’s degree. He interrupted his doctoral work to teach at South Carolina State, where he met and fell in love with Sadie Gray, PhB’24, AM’31, his second wife.</p> <p>Off and on, Mays spent 14 years at Chicago. During that time he also worked for the Tampa Urban League and conducted sociological research with Joseph William Nicholson on the black church in America. In 1933, they published <em>The Negro’s Church</em> (Institute of Social and Religious Research). The book argues that traditional attention to “life after death” themes—a necessary focus for slave congregations to endure bondage on earth—generated insufficient “spiritual force” for the contemporary cause of equality. Instead, Jelks writes, Mays believed the church and its clergy should “empower black people to make immediate claims to their rightful civic freedoms.”</p> <p>In the final year of writing his dissertation, Mays became dean of Howard University’s School of Religion. Working to the point of exhaustion, he had to be “forcibly bedridden” for months in 1934 and 1935. Still, Mays defended his dissertation with honors, insisting to his friend Howard Thurman that he wouldn’t have wanted the degree otherwise. “His manner was always humbled,” Jelks said, “but the bro had an ego.”</p> <p>Mays considered himself a spiritual and intellectual leader, a voice for his people, but always of them. He wrote columns for black newspapers—the <em>Norfolk Journal and Guide</em>, the <em>Baltimore Afro-American</em>, the <em>Pittsburgh Courier</em>. “He thinks that ordinary black folk can know what he’s talking about,” Jelks says. “That he can translate to them this great historical moment.”</p> <p>He had firsthand experience to relate. In 1936, Mays traveled to India and interviewed Gandhi. His principles of nonviolence, echoing the gospel of love that Mays considered Christianity’s only constant, provided a rhetorical bridge from the pulpit to the public square. “Long before Martin Luther King is thinking about it—he ain’t even born,” Jelks said, Mays began to shape the ideas that would define the civil rights movement in the United States.</p> <p>As president of Morehouse College, Mays became forever intertwined with King, who was a student there in the 1940s. By the time King enrolled, Mays cut a regal figure on the Morehouse campus and in the wider African American community. Tall, lean, and stylish in his pinstripe suits, “he was camera ready,” says Morehouse alumnus Russell Adams, AM’54, PhD’71. Mays’s oratory, Adams adds in <em>Schoolmaster of the Movement</em>, elevated the black struggle with “precisely selected words lovingly and rhythmically enunciated.”</p> <p>His voice resonated even in white society. In 1955, Mays was invited to address the Southern Historical Association about the <em>Brown v. Board of Education</em> decision on a panel that included William Faulkner. A featured speaker addressing the cause of black equality, Mays had to enter the Peabody Hotel in Memphis through the kitchen. Faulkner’s soft-spoken talk—later adapted as a <em>Harper’s</em> essay, “On Fear”—dominated the media coverage. But Mays, Jelks writes, “stole the moment.</p> <p>His speech articulated a theme that connected Lincoln to King. “Make no mistake—as this country could not exist half slave and half free, it cannot exist half segregated and half desegregated. The Supreme Court has given America an opportunity to achieve greatness in the area of moral and spiritual things just as it has already achieved greatness in military and industrial might.”</p> <p>King, only in his mid-20s when he became the nation’s most famous civil rights leader, relied heavily on Mays’s leadership example. “He also needed Mays for spiritual support as he faced the burden of being perceived as the personification of black America’s hopes and dreams,” Jelks writes. “It was Mays who held the job as King’s consigliere over the next fourteen years as the death threats against him grew more ominous and the public battles more dangerous.”</p> <p>Those battles also grew more fruitful in the cause of freedom. Where they were won, victories could be traced to the social theology Mays had advocated for decades. But casualties continued to mount, so the war raged on against the forces of discrimination and, increasingly, within the civil rights movement itself. “Some activists viewed nonviolent strategies as being unrealistic in light of the outright terror that had been organized against them,” Jelks writes.</p> <p>Mays suffered the toll of that violence; it had terrorized his father and, on April 4, 1968, killed his “spiritual son.” King’s assassination, Jelks notes, became “the proverbial last straw for critics of nonviolent religious social activism.” Called upon to deliver the eulogy for the man he had hoped would give his own, Mays held firm to his belief in the futility of retribution.</p> <p>He urged an audience at Morehouse College not to “dishonor [King’s] name by trying to solve our problems through rioting in the streets.” If they could turn their sorrow into hope for the future and use their outrage to invigorate a peaceful climb to the mountaintop, “Martin Luther King Jr. will have died a redemptive death from which all mankind will benefit.”</p> <p>King advanced the cause of equality beyond what Mays might have imagined possible, an undeniable validation of his example. But his devastation over King’s death, a tragic reprise of the white-supremacist rage he witnessed as a boy, tempered any pride in the progress he inspired.</p> <p>Although African American life and liberty were not yet fully accepted civil rights, Mays found comfort in the resolute claim to freedom that the movement asserted against a society that would not grant it. “No man is really free who is afraid to speak the truth as he knows it, or who is too fearful to take a stand for that which he knows is right,” Mays said. “Every man has his Gethsemane.”</p> <p><em>Updated 03.07.2013 to reflect a correction noted in <a href="../readers-sound">Letters</a> (Mar–Apr/13).</em></p> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-reftopic field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"><a href="/topics/law-policy-society" hreflang="en">Law, Policy &amp; Society</a></div> <div class="field field--name-field-tags field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--items"> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/civil-rights-movement" hreflang="en">Civil Rights Movement</a></div> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/racism" hreflang="en">Racism</a></div> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/christianity" hreflang="en">Christianity</a></div> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/religion" hreflang="en">Religion</a></div> <div class="field--item"><a href="/tags/martin-luther-king-jr" hreflang="en">Martin Luther King Jr.</a></div> </div> <div class="field field--name-field-refformats field--type-entity-reference field--label-hidden field--item"><a href="/formats/legacy" hreflang="en">Legacy</a></div> <span class="a2a_kit a2a_kit_size_32 addtoany_list" data-a2a-url="https://mag.uchicago.edu/law-policy-society/spiritual-leader" data-a2a-title="Spiritual leader"><a class="a2a_button_facebook"></a><a class="a2a_button_twitter"></a><a class="a2a_button_google_plus"></a><a class="a2a_button_print"></a><a class="a2a_dd addtoany_share_save" href="https://www.addtoany.com/share#url=https%3A%2F%2Fmag.uchicago.edu%2Flaw-policy-society%2Fspiritual-leader&amp;title=Spiritual%20leader"></a></span> Wed, 26 Dec 2012 22:14:18 +0000 jmiller 1692 at https://mag.uchicago.edu