RECONSTRUCTING RACE

Elliott West

During what might be called the Greater Reconstruction, 1846–1877, territorial acquisitions as well as southern slavery forced a new racial dialogue between West and South, unsettled racial relations and presumptions, and finally led to a new racial order encompassing western as well as southern people of color.

I live in a town that doesn't know where it is. Fayetteville is in northwestern Arkansas—that’s clear enough—but when somebody asks us locals to explain just where in this wide republic that is, things get dicey. The architecture and the lovely fall colors suggest the Midwest. The pace of life, the accents, and the studied eccentricities all speak of the South. Some put us elsewhere. At a party soon after I arrived, I told a colleague’s wife my field of study. “Oh, the West is a wonderful place to live!”she said in her soft Carolinian rhythm. I asked when she had lived there. She looked at me, as if at a slow nephew, and answered: “Why, now.”	1
Living and working along the seams of national regions is a fine encouragement to wonder about the differences and continuities among them—in appearance, in habits and points of view, and beneath all that, in their histories. Two things I know for sure. The South thinks it is different from the rest of the country, and it is race that southerners use most often to explain their separateness. The tortured relations of black and white, slavery and its rage and guilt, the war that ended slavery and the tormented generations that followed, the centuries-long embrace, intimate and awful on so many levels—all that, we’re told, has set southerners apart and has made the South the central stage of America’s racial drama.	2
Yet from my office on the cusp of regions, I have questions. I have no doubt that the South and southerners are peculiar, and I am sure that race helps explain how and why. My problem lies in how we have allowed the South to dominate the story of race in America. From my perch, three hundred miles west of Memphis and one hundred and twenty-five east of Jim Ronda, it looks as if the South, with a Jeb Stuart audacity, has surrounded and confined how we think, talk, and write about this essential part of our history. And with a few recent exceptions, we have mostly gone along with it. 1	. . .