(I wrote the following article last year, after hearing that Robert Keglar died. Robert was a true hero of the modern civil rights movement, as was his mother, Birdia Keglar. Both were from the small town of Charleston, Miss., also home to the actor, Morgan Freeman. Robert never lived to see the social justice he deserved over his mother's murder; we will probably never learn the truth of what happened to her and to Adlena Hamlett who both gave their lives to the cause. But he did live to see so much change in his life, and he was one of those quiet, unknown people who helped bring about such dramatic social change in this country. Bless him. This article is repeated in Robert's honor for Black History Month. SK)
Just last week, an older man who was part of the (real) modern civil rights movement died in Georgia. I saw his photograph online and posted a short story about him on this blog, because there was mention of Emmett Till.
Readers learned this man was a beloved civil rights activist nearly all of his life, someone simply trying to bring about change that mattered.
What caught my eye in his photograph was that he sported a colorfully striped African hat, and as I looked into this picture, his kind eyes transported me back to Mississippi eight years ago, to remember an old friend, Robert Keglar.
Robert died at this same time last year. He was a junior high and history teacher in Charleston, a small town nestled in the hills overlooking the expansive farming lands of the Delta, and home to the actor, Morgan Freeman.
Robert was also a retired Scout leader, and once shared with me a fascinating story about the murder of Emmett Till; Robert had chaperoned a group of boys on a scouting trip at a campground just outside of Charleston. A frightened man, who apparently knew something about Till’s torture and murder, taking place in the early hours of this summer day, found his way into the Scout camp, where he told a frightening story as the camping fire burned down – before disappearing into the early morning hours as the sun came up.
When the FBI opened the closed case of young Till, they interviewed Keglar, after reading this story from my book, Where Rebels Roost; Mississippi Civil Rights Revisited.
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What truly defined Robert’s life from his mid-years on, was that his mother, Elizabeth, was killed in a suspicious car crash Jan. 12, 1966 in a small town outside of Greenwood with her friend, Adlena Hamlett, while returning home from a meeting in Jackson. The women had been honored for civil rights accomplishments.
One week before the trip, a figure representing Hamlett was hanged in effigy at the county courthouse. The timing of this "car accident" accompanied the opening of federal hearings in Washington, D.C. on Mississippi's Ku Klux Klan activities. As hearings opened around the country, the Klan initiated acts of violence in each state under question.
There was another Mississippi incident on that same day, a fire bombing and murder that received major attention by the press. The murder took place closer to the city of Jackson and outside of the Delta. Reporters rarely traveled into the Delta to investigate crimes; it simply was too dangerous to go there.
“Birdia” as she was called, was the first black person to vote in Tallahatchie County after Reconstruction ended, an action that deeply angered local and state officials. She was working diligently to start the county's first NAACP (with the organization’s ridiculous requirement of 50 members in a rural area) when she died.
Her son, James, came home from the military three months after his mother's death, and spent remaining months of his short life trying to get the FBI and Justice Department to investigate his suspicions.
Within three months, James died in a house fire; his death leaves many questions. There should be records of his meetings with the FBI, but where are they?
The FBI states there is not enough information to open a cold case file on Elizabeth Keglar's or Adlena Hamlett's deaths, never mentioning James’s death.
But I am not convinced.
Using a young snippy, white girl (with little or no interviewing experience and no knowledge of civil rights history) to interview key witnesses, in my perspective, is a stupid way to investigate possible murders. I have said this to the FBI, but no one listens. The "interviewer" once confided she was “doing this for practice, anyway."
I came to know Robert several months after moving to the Mississippi Delta in 2003, when a relative who worked with my husband learned I was interested in the region's history. The relative told Robert about this, and Robert said wanted to talk to me about the deaths of his mother and brother.
When we spoke, even though it was almost 40 years after the fact, Robert could remember a surprising amount of details surrounding the night of the crash, and was helpful in trying to recall any information that could have opened an investigation.
This brave survivor of the modern civil rights movement once handed me lists of African Americans who had “disappeared” under suspicious circumstances over the years – lists collected by himself and by a number of families, all hoping that new facts could somehow be gleaned, helping them learn what happened to their relatives and friends.
Robert remained active in the NAACP, and in county and state politics, always doing whatever he could to assist other African Americans running for office. He attended the dedication of part of a state highway in his mother's name, and was very proud of this event. I believe this helped bring some closure to his mother's death.
I have written extensively about Birdia Keglar in Where Rebels Roost; Mississippi Civil Rights Revisited. There were so many twists and turns surrounding her death, and I am sorry I could not help Robert in his quest to learn more.
Now looking back on my two years spent in the Mississippi Delta, I hold several particularly warm memories of Robert. One time with my son Barry, a new lawyer fresh out of law school, Robert and I traveled to Greenwood to speak with some tough old birds from the sheriff’s department (the same town where The Help was filmed).
The deputies literally surrounded us as Barry quietly asked for permission to look through boxes of records in the courthouse.He was holding a fresh Freedom of Information Act form, or FOIA, as he spoke to the officers, and even handed this to them when he could not get anywhere else.
We thought we might be able to put our hands on some reports from the state Highway Patrol who investigated Birdia's car accident. There were later reports showing that many of those patrolmen were also members of the Klan.
So here is Robert standing in the circle, wearing his African hat, and that had to be a great moment for him.
Greenwood was one of the single most vile small towns in the Mississippi Delta, most notably the hometown of Byron de la Beckwith, the assassin of Medgar Evers, a beloved civil rights leader.
Had Robert worn that hat, say 10 years earlier, he would have been beaten and probably killed. (It could still happen there, today, I believe.)
Another fine moment occurred when Robert and I lunched at a popular Greenwood restaurant, once known as the place where local Klansmen ate breakfast, and an official meeting place for the white Citizens Councils, a statewide organization (still in existence) responsible for keeping Mississippi segregated, at all costs, while trying to “show the world that our unique system works just fine,” its founder, Robert Patterson, earlier told me.
While waiting for our food to arrive, I purposely spoke above a normal conversational tone about the history of this restaurant. Robert just smiled at me – even when it became obvious I was offending the white couple sitting at the next table.
I was hoping in a strange way, I admit, to give Robert something, since there would probably never be resolution over his mother's death. (Even if it was only from a few minutes of insulting white people who probably didn’t know or even care to know this restaurant’s racist history.)
Robert developed diabetes in later years, and was on dialysis. I was first worried for him, but the treatment seemed to extend his life, making him more comfortable, and he died at home in Charleston, where his granddaughter and other relatives still live.
I shut my eyes and see this fine, gentleman who actually saw significant social change come during the last years of his life. Robert’s major questions were never answered, but I know he experienced some peace and dignity at the end of his life – a feat that many of Mississippi’s African Americans never achieved.
Don’t let Hollywood’s version of life in Greenwood, Miss. fool you. The Help is not what life was like. Life was too often mean, horrible, rotten and lethal throughout all of Mississippi for African Americans who lived in those time.
You were very lucky if you were black and survived.
You certainly would not have shown up anywhere sporting a color-banded African hat, if you wanted to live.
Robert was born on October 30, 1925 and passed away on Sunday, September 12, 2010.
I have to believe that Robert got some answers to his questions.
Life has to have some meaning, doesn't it?
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