Excerpt from a television interview of Carter Ridge as Governor, on “The Jack Paar Program,” Friday, July 26th, 1963:
[Jack Paar] “You and I have talked quite a bit, and one thing that people might find interesting about your project for governing is the importance you place on music.”
[Carter Ridge] “Music is something that unites everyone. Creating beauty through the arts is one of the fundamental qualities that make us human, and I want the people of South Carolina to become united in celebrating life. We are only here for a short period of time, and I feel that my job is to make sure that we understand that music can transport us, it moves us, makes us feel happy, or brings back a memory from a moment in our lives. Creating music expands our minds, and when we sing, even badly such as myself, we become vulnerable and part of a community.”
[crowd clapping]
“I appreciate the work of artists, musicians and writers. They make our lives better, and I think that is integral to my program for The Good Life back in South Carolina. You know, sometimes you have to focus on the positive, what brings us together, to build a common future and to leave the past. Music is part of that. Art is part of that. Food, and stories, and beautiful buildings and parks are part of that.”
June 1962, Columbia
During the week leading up to Carter’s formal announcement of running for Governor, Margot conducted interviews with potential photographers and cameramen to document the campaign, to follow Carter around as he toured the state. Some were brought in for second interviews, and she struggled because nobody was exactly what she was looking for; one might be pleasant enough, but their eye was too unimaginative, while another might have flashes of brilliance in their portfolio, but their personality was problematic. Finally, on Friday, a young black woman came in and told one of the girls at the secretaries’ round desk that she was there to meet Miss O’Neill regarding the photographer’s position.
Margot came over with a charming smile and greeted her, “You must be Carolyn Masters, such a pleasure to meet you.”
“Why thank you,” she replied. “I look forward to showing you my portfolio and learning more about your project.”
Her steady confidence belied her age, a sophomore at nearby Benedict College, one of two historically black colleges in Columbia, and Margot already saw a bit of herself in her. She was polished, wearing a pink dress with an off-white jacket, and poised with her head held high. Margot offered her a glass of iced tea, and asked her to tell about herself as they sat down.
“I am passionate about three things,” Carolyn said. “Photography, civil rights, and Chet Baker.”
“Oh, well you’ll get along with the boss then!” Margot confided. “He feels the same about all three!”
Margot went on to explain that the project was open-ended, and required someone to have some flexibility to be able to travel frequently. All expenses would be paid, and the eventual photographer would be paid a flat monthly salary, regardless of whether they worked ten days or twenty days.
“It’s my job,” Margot added, “to make sure they work twenty days. I will be doing the scheduling in advance, and the photographer will be part of the boss’s entourage, traveling in a separate vehicle driven by someone on our team.”
“May I be so bold as to ask if the boss is Mr. Carter Ridge?” Carolyn asked.
Margot smiled, and then said, “Yes, you may be so bold, darling. You are correct, it is Mr. Ridge.”
Carolyn smiled broadly. “I was hoping so.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, all of my friends are huge fans of his. We’re hoping he is going to run for political office soon.”
“I see,” Margot said, spreading her dress a bit with her hands, “well, that remains to be seen, of course. Shall we take a look at your portfolio?”
Carolyn took out a photo album that contained around forty pages of enlarged eight-by-ten photos. Most were in black and white, but some were in color as well. The majority were photos of people, unposed, and others were what appeared to be of recent civil rights protests in either Rock Hill or Orangeburg. They were very good, some showed real promise, and Margot told her so.
“I loved this one, this one, and... this one. My word, the angle is just perfect on that one. Do you do your own developing?”
“I use the photo lab that is available at the college, except for the color photos, I had those developed at the drugstore.”
“One final question,” Margot said. “When can you start?”
The search for a cameraman, or as Margot now stated having been impressed by Carolyn, a cameraperson, proved more problematic. After exhausting all of the leads and candidates from their local search in Columbia, she threw her net further. She knew of someone she had come across from Manhattan, an aspiring film major at New York University, but would he be interested in relocating for at least a year to South Carolina? ‘No, god no’ was his answer when she finally tracked him down by telephone, but he knew of someone who had graduated and moved to Atlanta, whom she called. She pitched the project, and since he didn’t have any great prospects on the horizon, agreed to come to Columbia for a formal interview.
The interview with Thomas began a bit rocky, as he arrived forty minutes late. He called after thirty minutes to say that he was lost, and the secretary pointed him in the right direction. Then when he arrived, he had a beard but no tie.
“Well, Mr. Jameson, let’s get started, shall we?” Margot greeted him as he came into the main hall of the old library. He had a bag of movie reels he was lugging, along with another bag that contained his camera. He was sweating profusely, and once they arrived to the alcove Margot had set up as an ersatz cinema with screen and shuttered windows, she offered him some refreshments.
As the interview began, she began to sense that he was a sensitive soul, extremely introverted, who was most comfortable behind the camera, where he felt to be in control. He spoke with a soft voice, and apologized three separate times for arriving late. They spoke about his studies at New York University, where he’d graduated summa cum laude, how he’d fallen in love with French New Wave films while there, their shared enthusiasm for director Claude Chabrol, and what it was like to return home to Atlanta. He was a bit of a dreamer, working on small documentary shorts, hoping to submit one to a film festival, but otherwise was working at the art film house in Atlanta as an usher, so he could watch the films for free. They watched three of his documentary shorts, and Margot was intrigued by his cinematography, which showed a superior competence even if the subject matter was banal. After explaining the terms of the project, the salary, and time frame, they parted with a handshake and his commitment to return at the end of June, allowing him time to end his job at the movie theater and to get moved to Columbia.
Following a speech at the Manufacturers Association Luncheon, Carter returned to the old library and saw that Bradford was there talking with his pollster, Lou. As he approached their conference table, he overheard Lou ask Bradford, “What exactly is this Barnwell Ring I keep hearing about?”
The two of them got up when Carter came to sit with them, and after shaking their hands, Bradford replied, “South Carolina has
forty-six counties. Each county has one senator. Now, consider the fact that a county like Charleston, or Richland where we are in the state capital, has a population ten times more than Allendale or Hampton, for example, and you can see that the rural, poorest counties have a disproportionate voice in the Senate than the richer, more educated counties.”
Lou pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and said, “Okay, so it’s similar to the U.S. Senate in that regards.”
Bradford nodded, then said, “On top of which, almost half of these poorest, sparsely populated counties also happen to be Negro majority, which makes the white minority very scared and very conservative.”
“Why scared?” Lou asked from behind a thin veil of smoke.
“It’s a carry-over from the plantation days,” Bradford explained. “A plantation had the white family, and maybe one or two other white folk who ran the slave teams, overseers who enforced the oppression over tens, sometimes hundreds of Negro slaves. If they relaxed their control, the whole enterprise could collapse with the slaves revolting. The fear that the whites had of a slave revolt back in the day was visceral. They showed no mercy at any hint of an insurrection.”
“What they are afraid of,” Carter said, “Is if the Negro is given full equality, the right to vote, the right to sit on juries, the right to live and go about their business just like the white folks, then they will have lost their power.”
“So,” Bradford nodded and continued, “The result is that all of these country-ass, backward, Klan-loving counties elect country-ass, backward, Klan-loving senators, who have banded together to form a block in the Senate that is as conservative as this tea is sweet.”
He took a quick sip and continued. “In the House of Representatives, it is essentially the same story, all of the rural, poor districts have formed a similar block, and it’s run by the Speaker of the House, Solomon Blatt from Barnwell. Speaker Blatt is the most powerful politician in the state, and he pretty much decides who will run the Senate through his influence as the king-pin of this Barnwell Ring of rural, conservative legislators.”
Lou exhaled again, and then said, “So pretty much nothing happens. The Barnwell Ring is synonymous with Jim Crow, because if the Negros could actually vote in elections, all of these old white racists would be voted out, and the few liberals that exist in these scattered pockets around the state —” he gestured to Carter, “would band together with the Negros and be able to drag South Carolina into the modern era.”
“So the Barnwell Ring runs the state?” one of Lou’s pollster associates asked, incredulous.
“That’s pretty much it. Speaker Blatt and the senator from Barnwell pick who they want to run for governor, who usually wins, and even if he doesn’t win, they can stop anything from moving in the legislature. It’s like trying to drive a car with the emergency brake on.”
“And with no key,” Lou laughed.
“And no car,” Carter added.
“So is Hollings, the guy who’s stepping down next year, their governor?” Lou asked.
“No he’s not. He and Senator Thurmond are actually anti-Barnwell Ring,” Bradford said, “And both of them ran against the Ring candidates in the Democratic primary and won. But they won only because they have the name recognition, in the case of Hollings, and because he’s a charming son-of-a-bitch, in the case of Thurmond. To beat the Ring, you have to use every tool at your disposal.” He unfolded his hands into a wide gesture and continued. “Now that doesn’t mean that Hollings is actually a good guy, he hasn’t done squat for the Negro while he’s been governor, and even if he wanted to, the Ring wouldn’t let him. And when Thurmond was governor, all he wanted to do was judge beauty contests and name bridges and make someone “honorary colonel.” He just wanted to be loved, which tells me he’s over-compensating for something, if you know what I mean.” Bradford laughed.
“All of this nonsense was set up in the constitution of 1895 by the defeated, but resurrected Confederates,” Carter added. “After the Federal army abandoned the South following the end of Reconstruction, each state reverted back to true form, and they institutionalized Jim Crow to ensure that the Negro would never be free, and to keep the moneyed, land-owning white elite in power. Which is where we are now, thanks to the Barnwell Ring,” Carter said, pouring a glass of iced tea for himself. “Which brings us to Mr. Harry Thompkins,” he said.
“He’s Speaker Blatt’s boy, and he’s probably going to win the Democratic primary this next week, and he’ll become the new cog in the Barnwell Ring wheel,” Bradford said. “Thompkins is the kind of guy that makes a used-car salesman look like a dignified, upright, church deacon. You know that beady-eyed Senator from Wisconsin, Joe McCarthy? That’s Thompkins on a good day. He is one mean, angry junkyard dog.”
Bradford shook his head and continued. “He loves to get his crowds all drunk on free beer, then starts in on how the Nigra is looking to rape their mothers, their wives, their girlfriends, their daughters. The further he goes in his little speech, the more explicit he becomes, painting a graphic picture for the slack-jawed whites about these strong Nigra bucks who were bred to procreate and need to be kept away white girls. It’s some weird, scary stuff he’s selling.”
They sat in silence, and then finally Lou said, “Well, it looks like we have our work cut out for us.”
For the next “Soirées at Galanos” event, Margot sat with Carter at his desk at the other end of the cavernous hall in the old library. She wanted to go over the list of invitees. The focus for the monthly events since September of the previous year were senior political figures in South Carolina who might be a hindrance to Carter’s pursuit of the governor’s office. First and foremost in everyone’s mind was the current U.S. Senator Strom Thurmond. Not that he would run for the office himself, but as Elbert had suspected might happen, the team feared that he might become a Republican, thereby polluting the liberal, modern brand Carter was trying to create for not only himself, but the party as well.
“Is the senator going to be staying at Galanos the entire weekend, or will he be visiting for Saturday evening?” Margot asked as she pulled out her big notebook.
“I’m under the impression that he will be arriving late afternoon, and leaving that evening, although I’ve saved the best guest room for him in case that changes,” Carter said.
“I see, well here is the list of confirmations for the weekend, and those with stars next to the name will be staying the entire weekend, instead of just Saturday dinner,” she said as she slipped him her list.
Carter began reading, and laughed at the first name on the list.
“Janet McGee? Who is she?”
Margot smiled and said, “Oh, I know that it’s not really your cup of tea, but Miss McGee was just crowned Miss South Carolina up in Greenville a couple of months ago. As you know, the senator is recently widowed.”
“And he has a penchant for beauty queens, yes so I’ve heard, good job.”
He continued down the list.
“Perry Como, will he be singing?”
“No, well, I haven’t asked him to, continue down the list.”
“Arnold Palmer.”
“Not singing,” she said, laughing, “but relaxing a bit having won the British Open. He’s coming with his wife.”
“Bill Buckley is coming down?”
“He’s in Camden, and will be coming with his wife as well.”
“Oh, well, he’ll get along great with the senator,” Carter said.
“As will Dickinson and Sanders,” she pointed further down on the list. “Conservative state senators, but liberal on race matters.”
“Yes, well, we’ll see. Who’s this, Joseph Heller?”
“He’s the author of that best seller, Catch-22,” she said.
“Okay, he’s not going to get in any arguments with Thurmond, is he?”
“No, I’ve met him before, he’s very charming.”
“Lena Horne, I hope she’ll be singing,” he said.
“Yes, she’s our singer. She’s bringing her own pianist, but I’m sure once she starts singing, Perry will want to join in, just like on the Kraft Music Hall.”
“Well, that’s quite the guest list,” he said as he put the paper down, “I hope it charms our guest of honor.”
“If that doesn’t do the trick, I have some nefarious tactics at our disposal,” Margot said matter-of-factly.
“Do tell.”
“Well, it seems our illustrious senator has a bit of a secret.”
“That he’s secretly a communist?”
“Oh, better than that!”
“He has a Negro girlfriend?” Carter asked.
“Oh, it’s better than that! He has a half-Negro love child!”
Carter said nothing. The idea that this arch-segregationist, who’d marched out of the 1948 Democratic National Convention over civil rights to run as a third-party for President, had a Negro child out of wedlock was astonishing.
“Are you sure? How do you know?”
“Don’t ever underestimate me, darling.”
“I don’t want to use something like this against him,” Carter said. “It’s not right. His daughter has nothing to do with any of this. She’s innocent, a victim of Thurmond’s hypocrisy.”
Margot took a sip of her coffee, then said in a lowered voice, “I’ll keep it in our back-pocket, so to speak, in case we need to use it down the road. It will give us some confidence if we have to negotiate with the Senator.”
“No.” Carter said, shaking his head. “Forget it.”
She looked at him disappointedly, her lips turning down in a half pout, half smirk.
“I thought we were in this to win,” she said matter-of-factly.
Carter stared at her and said, “We all have our secrets, Margot. Let it go.”