The following story first appeared in the Summer 2000 Glenmary Challenge.
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Chipping Away the Walls of Separation
One Glenmary Brother’s Ministry of Presence in Hancock County, Ga.
by Father John S. Rausch

Creating in the Midst of Pain. Brother Curt Kedley (above left) and the Rev. Frank McLin, a Human Relations Council member and Pentecostal minister, talk around the table in Brother Curt's modest home. Brother Curt ministers as a multicultural worker. He describes a multicultural worker as "a person who listens to the pain of the people, tries to articulate it and respond to it." His efforts make him a bridge between the white and black communities in Hancock County. Living in a simple frame house with three rooms in the heart of town, he opens his windows in the spring to the wafting fragrance of azalea, wisteria and dogwood. He sees the beauty and prophetically remarks, "God continues to create in the midst of the pain." Photo by Father John S. Rausch

When Brother Curt Kedley takes his daily exercise in the history-steeped town of Sparta, Ga., he walks past antebellum mansions and modest houses. He passes the newly renovated courthouse of Hancock County and a string of homes in need of repair. If Broad Street marks his route, he encounters a closed fast-food restaurant at one end of town and then occasional empty storefronts dotting the two blocks of the central business district.

Along that row of businesses, he recognizes a sprinkling of black-owned shops amidst the white establishments that dominate the economy. The static dimensions of race and economics, like stratified geological sediment, contrast with the fire that Brother Curt and other members of the local human relations council feel for integration.

Begun in February 1997 with Brother Curt’s encouragement, the Hancock County Human Relations Council tries to bring people together, address racial issues and build bridges between races and all people feeling discrimination. “Prejudice is a taught behavior; you’re not born with it,” insists Regina Justice, a council member. She and other members recognize the need for whites and blacks to sit around a table and honestly deal with the past. Council members believe that fear among races diminishes when people share their personal histories.

“Conversion happens in the telling of personal stories,” says the Rev. Frank Lester, retired pastor of a local Missionary Baptist Church. Sitting around a table in the local library with Brother Curt and two other council members, he continues, “We’re dealing with a consciousness that’s 100 years old—times when we couldn’t sit around a table like this. It’ll take time. There’s still a lack of trust.”

Some of that mistrust stems from the history etched in the culture and society of this Southern area. Historians describe Hancock County of the 19th century as paternalistic but relaxed in race relations. One scholarly paper concludes that while white supremacists gathered in surrounding counties, no evidence exists of a typical lynch mob in Hancock County. Another work refers to Hancock as a “lynchproof” county.

Possibly some of this history comes from the progressive economy of the region. Located in the central cotton belt of the Old South, Hancock County in 1840 produced nearly twice as much cotton as its nearest competitor in Georgia, Morgan County. Antebellum farmers from all over the region came to Hancock County to learn progressive methods of farming.

A model farmer, David Dickson (1809-1885) pioneered a scientific system of crop rotation using grasses, cover crops, livestock and commercial fertilizers. Dickson lived openly with his slave, Amanda, then willed his vast estate to her at his death—something legally contested by his surviving white relatives. Also notable, from 1928 till the 1950s, educated descendants of Hancock County slaves returned to found an experimental commune of black farmers in the Springfield area, known familiarly as the Log Cabin Community.

While King Cotton brought prosperity to Hancock County through World War I, the boll weevil soon thereafter ate through the economic base, introducing hard times to the area. Although Hancock County had a racial mix of 80 percent African-American and 20 percent white, the richer and more educated whites continued to own the businesses and control the county court house.

By the mid 1960s Hancock County experienced a few attempts at integration. A community worker, originally from South Carolina, organized the black residents economically and politically. With outside grants he started a small catfish farm for employment and organized boycotts of the most blatantly racist businesses. Within a few years Hancock County became the first county since Reconstruction to elect a slate of black officials to county government.

As economic development money dried up, however, black officials still controlled the courthouse, but the white establishment retained the economic power. In an era of suspicion and fear, the white residents built a segregated academy for their children in the mid 1970s and a chilly wind of separateness blew across the county.

Today, rural Hancock County ranks as the second poorest county in Georgia.

The poverty rate hovers around 30 percent, with 36 percent of the county’s personal income deriving from government transfer payments like Social Security and welfare. The economy beats to the predictable rhythm of the checks that arrive monthly at the post office.

The Hancock County Human Relations Council faces the daunting task of bringing harmony to these stratified levels of race and economics. As secretary, Brother Curt meets monthly with the board to foster mutual support and plan small efforts. Approximately 15 people (including four whites) currently belong to the council, although over the years more than twice that number joined. Some residents wanted the group to move more quickly, get involved more deeply. Some lost interest and moved on. In the last year the human relations council changed from a formal organization to an informal one.

“The human relations council is trying to bring people together, but the Holy Spirit has got to clean up the inside of people,” professes the Rev. Frank McLin, a Pentecostal minister. Brother Curt adds simply, “The council is about relationships, not projects.”

But sometimes the council sets the stage. This past February the council sponsored a cake bake-off called “A Slice of Hancock County.” To encourage interracial attendance, they sweetened the participation by offering cash prizes. The result: 32 contestants—seven white and 25 black—sat chatting one afternoon sipping punch and sampling each other’s cake. Such goodwill ventures add an effervescence to racial interaction.

Personal efforts also chip away at the stratified rock of separateness. Regina Justice, one of two African-American employees at the local bank, plans to buy a ticket this year to the John Hancock Academy fund raiser. Each year students sell tickets to her coworkers for the dinner to support the private all-white school. She will be the only black to attend the event. Asked how she will respond to any racist slight, she hesitantly says, “I’ll have to be prayed up not to allow those bad spirits to get to me.” Then she adds adamantly, “There’s got to be a change.”

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