A Day with the Ku Klux Klan

From a makeshift stage in the middle of an Alabama hillside, a local band blares country and rock tunes, as white-robed and hooded figures stroll about, laughing and talking informally. Many of the men have brought their families. Proud mothers pull out their pocket Instamatics to grab a snapshot of Daddy, all decked out in white, holding Junior. Some of the mothers themselves wear robes and hoods. Other families staff the refreshment stand, selling hot dogs, hamburgers and RC Cola.

Strings of bare bulbs, not yet lit, stretch from post to post to surround the gathering. And beyond the lightposts, off to the far side of the field, stands a cross, wrapped in burlap and soaked in diesel fuel. It seemingly goes unnoticed by all but a few third-graders, who play a nonchalant game of touch football in its late-afternoon shadow.

Roanoke, Alabama, is not exactly a hot spot for tourists. It's a sleepy, small, nondescript town 1½ hours southwest of Atlanta. But on this day, Saturday, October 15, 100 Ku Klux Klan members from several states have scheduled a rally here, in this field outside of town. I've come largely out of curiosity; the Klan has always intrigued and mystified me. Recently I've heard reports of increased youth involvement in the Klan, and I wanted to see for myself.

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When I arrived at the Handley High School parking lot earlier this afternoon, most of the Klanfolk had already taken their places in the starting formation for a march through town. I had introduced myself to Bill Wilkinson, the Imperial Wizard (national president) of the Invisible Empire, Knights of the Ku Klux Klan. He is a short, middle-aged man with good looks, an infectious smile and a charismatic personality. He greeted me warmly, offered to answer any questions I had after the march, and introduced me to a few of the other high-ranking officials.

Then the procession had begun, out the school driveway and onto the street. I walked alongside, listening to announcements over the bullhorn and watching the marchers and scattered observers.

On their way to the center of town, the marchers turned onto a short side street. Ahead on the sidewalk hobbled a thin, old black man with a cane. He paused for a moment to watch in stonefaced silence as they passed. I lingered behind the group and walked up to him.

"How must you feel when you see this?" I asked, mustering all the empathy I could put into my voice. His body shook all over, whether from rage or age I didn't know.

Still looking at the white-robed marchers, he grunted angrily, "I just wanna die. . . . It's so damn stupid." Then he turned and shuffled away.

As the procession drew closer to the main shopping block in town, families sat out together in lawn chairs along the street. Others lined the curb, chatting and joking casually while the marchers passed by. Three or four middle-aged men stood outside the town barber shop, smoking and watching the parade.

"Doesn't it bother you when you see this kind of thing happening?" I asked a teenage girl who had just emerged from the five-and-dime store.

She shrugged. "Not really, I guess," she said tentatively. "If that's what they want to do, I'm not going to stop them."

The Klan members formed ranks upon reaching City Hall. Using a portable PA system, Wilkinson began to address the crowd of perhaps 250 onlookers from a platform on the back of a pickup truck. He stressed political and legislative changes that would protect whites and remove special treatment for minorities. He never used the word "nigger" or any other derogatory names. He spoke with force and authority, however, and passionately set forth the goals and purposes of the Klan: voluntary separation of the races, and the protection and preservation of the white race.

After the group had disbanded until evening, I had spotted a few black guys lounging in the grass next to an old Union 76 station. They seemed suspicious of me at first, but relaxed after a couple of minutes. They had all gone to high school here.

"Do you know kids at school who were in the KKK? How did they treat you?" I asked.

"Just like anyone else," said one of the guys. "They'd talk to me or shake my hand. I played alongside them on sports teams and they didn't bother me. When they're alone with you, it's fine. It's when they get together that they act like this."

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The air here at the rally is quickly cooling down from afternoon temperatures in the 70s. Dusk is settling in; darkness is about an hour away. The crowd number three or four hundred at most, about half of them robed and hooded, and the other half families, friendly supporters and a few curious observers.

Grabbing a hot dog, I decide to mingle with the crowd before the speaking starts. One man, who wears a black robe and hat, holds the title of Imperial Nighthawk. He's responsible for crosslightings and for obtaining bodyguards for top officers. I also talk briefly with a few guys in white, all of whom look like they're in their late teens or early 20s.

Behind me the band launches into a rockin' version of "Living in the USA." Everyone whoops and cheers as the final beat crashes and the lead singer offers her concluding thank-yous. Then a Ku-Klux-clad announcer officially welcomes the crowd, and turns the mike over to a graying woman who opens the meeting with prayer.

The sound system begins to buzz loudly as she prays, but she keeps talking. "And Jesus," she says, "you know our needs . . . you know our feelings about the Klan. . . . And Jesus, you know how much it hurts us when we hear people say you can't live right and join the Klan. Jesus, I try to live right, and I want to do your will. . . ."

Her intensity and openness with God surprise me. This woman appears to believe deeply in God, and that the Klan is his will. I ponder for a moment how a person can be so sincere, and yet so sincerely mistaken.

The rally begins. Instead of the toned-down, politically oriented speeches given in front of City Hall this afternoon, tonight's speakers offer endless tirades against blacks. People cheer and laugh at every use of the word "nigger," "jungle bunny," "porch monkey," or other racist epithets for blacks.

Again, Imperial Wizard Wilkinson gives the main address; and though he still emphasizes political and legislative issues, he speaks in a much louder, more antagonistic manner than this afternoon.

Complete darkness has now settled over the countryside, bringing with it a slight chill and a thin layer of fog. Many in the crowd don their coats or wrap themselves in blankets and ponchos. Girlfriends cuddle closer to their white-sheeted boyfriends as they watch and listen to the speeches. Some families have pulled their vans and station wagons to a strategic viewing spot, opened the rear doors and huddled in back, as if they were parked backwards at a drive-in movie.

The hanging bare bulbs now burn brightly through the mist, casting an eerie glow over the gathering. I watch the crowd reactions as more speeches drag on. But the announcer finally snaps me back to attention by introducing a 15-year-old girl to the audience:

"This little lady Cheryl [not her real name] got up a speech and brought it over here. . . . I didn't write her speech, her daddy didn't write her speech, didn't nobody write her speech. . . .What you's getting is right in her heart. So here she is, Cheryl Hoffman!"

The crowd whoops and cheers and claps as a short, sandy-haired girl wearing a rabbit-pelt coat climbs up on the platform. She smiles sheepishly until the noise quiets somewhat.

"Hey y'all," she says. "I'm kinda little bit nervous, it's the first time I've gotten up in front of this many people in my life! Plus it's the first rally I've ever been to. My name is Cheryl Hoffman. I'm 15 years old. I'm a member of the Klan Youth Corps and I'm proud of it."

More cheers. "I attend a high school which is about 90 percent black. I tell you, we've got so many niggers you could make a Tarzan movie . . . except it would be hard to find a white person to be Tarzan.

"Well, I'm here today to tell you all about the kind of harassment I'm put through at school. Like in the mornings, sometimes I have to go down this super long hall to get to my locker. Lined up against the wall are about 30 nigger boys. When I go down there I have to put up with rude, nasty, disgusting nigger boys and their vulgar comments. I even have to put up with them reaching and trying to grab me. It's gotten to the point where I've had to watch and make sure no jungle boy puts his hands all over me and tries to molest me! It's wrong!"

Yelling and screaming and hooting. Cheryl goes on to complain about Black History Month at school: "I'm forced to study about a bunch of niggers that don't pertain nothin' to me!" Then she launches into a tirade against atheist Madeline Murray O'Hare: "That's the lady who banned public prayers from schools. I think she's nothing but a female dog, a flea-bitten female dog! . . . I tell you, I'm a devout Christian, I go to church and I love the Lord and I'm proud of it. You know I'd love to lead prayer in school, but I can't because of her.

"The KKK stands for three main things," Cheryl concludes. "We all know that Number One is God. We stand for God, and want to teach all people about the Lord. Two is for Race, which is the white race -- and we all know, the right race!" The audience erupts into cheering and applause.

"And Number Three is Country, to help make America what it once was. The only way we can do that is to join the KKK. We need your support, y'all."

The crowd claps and whoops like crazy as Cheryl hops down from the stage. She is greeted first by her white-robed father, who envelops her with a giant embrace. Then her mother and younger brothers and sisters, beaming with pride, also surround her with hugs. Out of breath but smiling broadly, Cheryl stands with her family and applauds the next speaker.

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Finally it is time for the crosslighting, and everyone makes their way to the far side of the field. One by one, the robed Klanspeople light their torches (which look like broomsticks with rags) and encircle the cross. They widen the circle, pushing back the crowd, while Bill Wilkinson stands near the center with a bullhorn. He takes a moment to say that the crosslighting is a Christian and a sacred ceremony, not a display of hatred or violence.

At his command, the participants march around the cross, then stop, face the center and wave their torches up and down three times. Then they circle in the other direction, stop, and wave again. Finally Wilkinson says: "Klansmen -- to the cross." The ring of white figures closes in, and the torches are tossed at the foot of the cross.

The flames quickly travel to the top, and then to each side of the cross. For the first minute or so it is engulfed in fire, but then the initial flare-up settles down and the cross's shape stands out clearly. The circle of white robes forms again, and everyone is silent.

"Klansmen -- salute!" commands Wilkinson. They all stretch their arms to the side and lock hands, while Wilkinson recites a litany of some kind. I can't make out all the words, but I hear this much: "The cross is an inspiration, a sign of the Christian religion, a symbol of faith, hope and love. We do not burn, but rather light the cross to signify that Christ is the light of the world, and that his light destroys darkness. . . ."

As Wilkinson speaks, I notice a man standing near me, holding his little two- or three-year-old daughter. She is all bundled up in her coat, and her eyes are wide as she takes in the scene.

"Daddy, look!" she says.

"That's a cross," her dad says to her softly. "See that cross?"

"It's burning!" she exclaims gleefully, as if playing a guessing game.

"Yeah," Dad confirms. "See it on fire? . . . That's white power!" He gives her a fatherly squeeze as they gaze upon the scene.

The crowd lets forth one last round of cheers and applause, then disperses. The somber atmosphere of the ceremony quickly changes to that of a homecoming bonfire. The band steps onto the stage and begins another set. Many decide to remain and listen to the music or chat with friends. I join a number of people who warm themselves near the still- burning cross.

One friendly 16-year-old guy strikes up a conversation. I ask him if he goes to church. He says yeah, he and his parents attend a local Baptist church. (His parents are both active in the Klan.) Others in the church know of the family's Klan involvement.

"What do people from church say to your parents?" I ask.

"No one really talks about it. Besides, some of the others in the church are involved [in the KKK] too. The people around here who join the Klan just join - it doesn't have nothing to do with their religion."

I can hardly believe what I'm hearing. "Well, what about the preacher? What does he say?"

"He doesn't preach about it, but he has talked to my parents. He doesn't really support them, but he doesn't have nothing against 'em to say. He's just kinda neutral about it."

Neutral? I think. How can a preacher, or anyone for that matter, be neutral about racial hatred and bigotry? And particularly when the racist group tries to base its actions on your faith and your Bible? Yet all day I've met and talked with people who don't seem to care about racism one way or the other. A Klan march through town merits unfolding the lawn chairs, perhaps, but little else.

I wonder: If not even an extreme show of bigotry such as the KKK can cause people to speak out, what about the thousands of instances of little bigotries that go on each day in school, in church, at the shopping mall? And not just against blacks and other minorities, but against anyone who's different from us -- fat people, ugly people, nerds, underachievers, the handicapped, and so on? Can we in good conscience remain silent before our friends, or even within ourselves, when we see or participate in these other forms of prejudice?

Driving into Roanoke yesterday morning, I passed a small church displaying one of those portable electric signs on a two-wheeled trailer. The sign read, "Sometimes silence is golden; sometimes it's yellow." At that time, I merely chuckled at the phrase. Now, on Sunday afternoon, as I take the same road back to the airport, I know exactly what it means.

©1984 Campus Life magazine, Christianity Today, Inc.       TOP

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ASIDE

"Why are you in the Klan?" I ask a robed and hooded man.

"So I can go just about anywhere, and I never have to worry," he says. If I get in trouble, I can make one phone call, and immediately I'll get help."

"What kind of help? People?"

"People, guns, anything I want. I could even get a tank if I wanted. I haven't needed that yet."

I decide to change the subject. "When do they burn the cross?"

"We don't burn crosses, we light them," he corrects me.

"I see. Well, why do you light crosses anyway? What's the significance?"

He smiled. "We light crosses because Christ is the Light of the world."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Comments and conversations at the rally:

"Sure is nice to see all you white folks here," a rally speaker says. "And it's great that we don't have to rub elbows with any niggers!"

"Ronald Reagan may not be a racist, but I'll bet he doesn't have black jelly beans in his jar!"

"I'm an electrician, and I know that when you mix a black wire and a white wire, you get sparks. It's the same with black people and white people. They're not meant to be mixed!"

"I talk to black people, but I don't go to their house and eat, if you know what I'm saying. I talk to 'em, but they're not my greatest friends. . . . If they need a pencil, I'll loan 'em a pencil."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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One [teenage] girl in particular looked so young and innocent, even in her white robe and pointed hat, that she looked more like the tooth fairy than a Klan member. I walked up to her and asked how old she was. Embarrassed, she smiled but then turned her head without speaking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ASIDE

One white bystander, age 21, said he was a "supportive observer" because he felt white people should stick together more. "They just don't stick together and support each other like black people do," he clarified.

His point intrigued me. "It almost sounds like you're saying you admire the way blacks stick together," I said.

"Yeah, I guess you're right -- I do," he agreed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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