Preface
Sometime in the fall of 2003 I received a phone call from the deputy director of Joe Liebermans presidential campaign. Had I traveled to Mississippi with Lieberman in October 1963, he asked? I knew immediately what was at stake: the need to counter media doubts that Lieberman had participated in the campaign to draw national attention to the blatant exclusion of African Americans from the right to vote. Forty years after the fact, Liebermans editorial, Why I Go to Mississippi, issued when he was chairman of the Yale Daily News during his senior year in college, still resonated. Although he had been publicly silent about that experience for years, it resurfaced as a point of pride in 2000 when Al Gore selected Lieberman as his Democratic vice presidential running mate. Three years later, several news organizations were challenging Liebermans claim, and the candidate, not remembering whom he was with the week he spent rallying support for Mississippi Freedom Party candidates, was hoping I might have been one of them and thus able to verify his account.
At Yale, I was a fellow member of the class of 1964 and managing editor of the Yale Daily News, so Lieberman and I had worked closely together. A good half dozen of our News colleagues did travel to Mississippi that fall, and it was reasonable enough to suppose I might have been among them. But I was not alone in finding the challenge to leave college for a week, to enter into a largely unspecified and inherently dangerous role, beyond me, and I did not go. All the more credit to Lieberman, and to our fellow News officer and classmate Stephen Bingham, who was among the first to join the effort. Arrested and jailed on a false charge during his campaign effort in Mississippi, Bingham spent the remaining months of his college career building on the experience to expand voter registration in the state in what became a landmark of the modern civil rights movement, Freedom Summer, 1964.
The broad details of that highly significant period are easy enough to recall today, but it should not be surprising that Lieberman could not recall who accompanied him to Mississippi. Memory is like that. The particulars of any event can be lost unless they are reinforced, and it was the core experience in Mississippi, not all the details, that resonated over time. Viewed historically, the role Lieberman and Bingham played in Mississippi just a month before the assassination of John F. Kennedy can be seen as reflecting both the hope and the disillusion with Kennedys presidency. Deeply resistant to bringing to bear the power of the federal government to do even so much as protect civil rights workers in the South early in his term, Kennedy had finally put a bold civil rights proposal before Congress. But in October 1963 its prospects for enactment were dim. Thus those who felt a moral imperative to press for action believed they had to do so on their own. Their example, they reasoned correctly, would compel others to follow. As Lieberman said in his News editorial, I am going to Mississippi because there is much work to be done there and few men doing it . I see countless Negro Mississippians who are too terrorized to act. It all becomes a personal matter to me, I am challenged personally.
Liebermans Mississippi experience might well have escaped widespread attention had he not become a public figure. Surely Stephen Binghams commitment to the civil rights struggle also would have remained obscure had he not himself become the object of public attention in the early 1970s. Charged with murder in the aftermath of an alleged escape attempt of a client, Black Panther George Jackson, from San Quentin prison, Bingham spent thirteen years in obscurity and exile abroad before finally being acquitted of the charges against him. His path through life could not have been more different from the one his colleague Lieberman laid out in the years following their graduation from Yale.
Naturally news about Lieberman and Bingham interested me over the years, as did reports about other prominent members of the class. Char Millers 1982 book, Fathers and Sons, suggested a provocative hypothesis about Bingham: that he was carrying out a missionary tradition that went back generations in his family. While Millers thesis stirred my interest in getting at the larger meanings of Binghams life, his explanation seemed insufficient. My own memories of Bingham and the world he emerged from in maturity demanded a more complete interpretation. It was about that time that I first entertained the idea of testing my understanding of events affecting my own life against that of peers with whom I had studied at Yale.
Like many of the classmates I write about in this book, I was deeply touched by the events that helped define the 1960s, both as an undergraduate and in the years immediately after. That I owed Yale that sensibility was uncontestable. Raised in the sheltered Chicago suburb of Lake Forest, Illinois, I was only indirectly aware of the emerging national and international forces of the postWorld War II era. My family had what they called colored help. What did I know of the lives they lived in Waukegan, some miles away from my exclusive community? When President Harry Truman fired General Douglas MacArthur for insubordination in Korea, I did not question the decision either way but joined throngs of spectators as MacArthur made his way from Chicago through our town in what appeared to be a triumphal procession defying the presidents action. It wasnt until I reached Yale that my worldview expanded. Only weeks after I arrived in New Haven, I broke my leg during soccer practice, gave up sports, and changed course to seek a position with the Yale Daily News. This new vantage led to an eye- and conscience-opening immersion in the most compelling social and educational issues of the day. Thanks to the News, I came to know extraordinary classmates like Joe Lieberman and top members of the Yale administration, including university chaplain William Sloane Coffin Jr. and presidents A. Whitney Griswold and Kingman Brewster Jr.
The summer after I graduated, I readily volunteered to serve as a tutor in the universitys first summer high school, established to prepare promising minority youth for college. The work naturally extended from earlier summers, when I had worked as a counselor at a summer camp in New Hampshire serving inner-city children from the Boston area. I might well have maintained further continuity by following my father into the navy, a choice a number of my classmates were making through officer training before the Vietnam War heated up. Instead, when the opportunity arrived to pursue American Studies in graduate school, I seized it, ultimately maintaining a military deferment that kept me from the draft.
Everything on university campuses was changing in the mid-1960s. To the stable of old-line Yale faculty were added new figures, among them C. Vann Woodward, whose landmark book on Jim Crow segregation had helped revolutionize southern history, and Staughton Lynd, a veteran of Freedom Summer himself, who helped spark opposition on campus to the Vietnam War. As a member of Lynds course on the radical origins of the American Revolution, I happened to be included in a 1966 Associated Press photograph greeting him as he returned to campus from a highly controversial trip to Hanoi. By that time, the imperative to become politically active was as pervasive as starring in classroom discussion once had been. While many students turned sharply left, my own foray into politics was more traditional, grounded in my familys Republicanism, even as it was informed by the mounting challenges to traditional practices so pervasive among my peers.