There is a land of the living and a
land of the dead and the bridge is love.*
Readers with little stomach for gushing words of praise and thanks should bypass this section altogether. First books are like first children, and I mean to put a cigar in every mouth.
All That Makes a Man began as a dissertation at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. To my adviser, William Barney, I owe an unrepayable debt. His archival leads and historical insights have contributed significantly to this work, and I proudly call myself his student. The other members of my committee—Peter Coclanis, Peter Filene, John Kasson, and Joel Williamson—read the dissertation closely and provided thoughtful comments that both saved me from little embarrassments and sent me in new directions. In long conversations that ran the intellectual gamut, David Moltke-Hansen pushed me to think broadly and deeply. Throughout the process, I have been sustained by Peter Walker’s contagious love of words and the ease that came when he promised us that as writers and as people we would all fail, for man would always fail and could only hope to do it elegantly.
While I was at Chapel Hill, three institutions put up with me for long stretches. At the Center for the Study of the American South, Barb Call, Tony Young, and Joe Mosnier always made it easier to come to work. At the Institute for Research in Social Science, Jon Crabtree, Christine Cleveland, and Angell Beza gave both advice and encouragement. At the Southern Historical Collection, where I did the bulk of my research, I benefited from the unstinting generosity of John White, a man for whom, I am convinced, God has earmarked a particularly fluffy cloud. I also feel thankful for Chapel Hill itself—the little slice of heaven on which a voracious multitude daily feeds—for the red tape, fees and fines and hellish parking, bars, classrooms, and coffeehouses, where I finally figured out what I wanted to do with my life.
At the University of North Carolina at Pembroke I have found a new home, and my colleagues—Robert Brown, Micky Connelly, Bruce DeHart, Kathleen Hilton, Julie Smith, and Mark Thompson—have made it a happy one. All That Makes a Man has found its home at Oxford, where Susan Ferber has been a pillar of aid, understanding, and sharp criticism. I feel very fortunate to have her as my editor.
Friends have contributed no less directly to this work, offering encouragement, advice, and support. Gary Williams, my undergraduate adviser, instilled in me affections for history and the lilt of language. At UNC, Robert Tinkler had my back through too many years of graduate school, and Gavin Campbell’s sharp criticism about my work and dry wit about this profession leavened many a grim moment. Over countless three-egg breakfasts, Terry Mehlman and Stacey Sewall listened as I presented my monthly (lack of) progress reports, and their company offered a welcome respite from the neuroses of writing. Stephen Rosbough has been everything one looks for in a friend. I have spent so many hours eating at his table, sleeping on his couch, and conversing from his deck chairs that I really ought to have paid rent. Michael McFalls, Sean Malloy, and I have walked from boyhood to manhood together, and I wouldn’t know myself without them.
My family has been the mainstay of my life. Margaret and Clay Riley remind me every time I see them why family is the most magical word in the language. Patrick Berry has for time out of mind made our home a happy and productive one. Undoubtedly we’re coming up on our millionth cup of coffee together, and I hope there’ll be a million more. My parents did everything right—they raised a happy family—and this book is dedicated to them.