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Segregation Signs
Psychoanalysis (U of
Chicago P, 1989), the editor
of Writing and Sexual
Difference (U of Chicago P,
1982), and the co-editor of
Female Subjects in Black and
White: Race, Psychoanalysis,
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Feminism (U of California P,
1997). "American Graffiti" is
drawn from her forthcoming
(U of California P, 2009).
exhibit. The exhibition context may justify reproducing the fiction of racial sym-
metry, since who would be willing to stoop either literally (on the "Colored7'
side) or figuratively (on the "White" side) to walk through unequal doors? With
less dramatic effect and more conventional purpose, however, other institutions
of cultural memory have similarly relied on the symmetrical "White" and
"Colored" binary as efficient shorthand for segregation. Juxtaposed in textbooks
and political rhetoric as the sanitized and standardized terms of a safely settled
history, the formula obscures not only the variation within segregation's textual
of American racism's most explicit and under-read texts. Rather than a selfenclosed historical phenomenon securely locked in a formulaic past, these signs
serve as vehicles of new articulations in changing ideological contexts and contests. By tracking the social life of segregation signs as signs- that is, as dense
and cryptic nodes of meaning negotiated between producers and consumersI seek to uncover some of segregation's changing textual body at key junctures
across the twentieth century: the proliferation of signs in the century's early
decades, their dismantling in the 1960s and '70s, and their reproduction at the
close of the century, when these tools of domination acquire both regressive and
progressive functions vis--vis the racial politics of postmodernity.
Prioritizing the politics of representation always risks masking or evading
the brute realities of subjugation. Without wanting to minimize these, I hope to
call attention to a different dynamic that reorients the prevailing theoretical
framework in recent accounts of segregation from the Foucauldian model of disciplinarity to the alternative model of consumption elaborated by Michel de
Certeau, whose goal (in contradistinction to Foucault's) is "not to make clearer
how the violence of order is transmuted into a disciplinary technology, but
rather to bring to light the clandestine forms taken by the dispersed, tactical, and
makeshift creativity of groups or individuals already caught in the nets of 'discipline/ Pushed to their ideal limits, these procedures and ruses of consumers
compose the network of an antidiscipline" (xiv-xv). De Certeau's account of consumption as "another production" -devious, dispersed and often invisible
"because it does not manifest itself through its own products, but rather through
its ways of using the products" imposed by a dominant order- gives us a good
handle on the tactics of those who diverted segregation signs from their original
purposes (xii-xiii; original italics). Once diverted, however, the signs were at risk
of becoming simply diversions, as commercial producers, no less resourceful
than de Certeau's devious consumers. Inspired, perhaps, by some of the signs'
tricks, these consumers devised new and profitable uses for middle-class consumption. If the ruses of consumers can comprise a "way of making," those of
mass producers can enact and elicit ways of consuming that disturb de Certeau's
more cleanly divided turf. The complementary nets of discipline and antidiscipline are more intricately intertwined when the marketplace rescripts the social
text of segregation signs.
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Fig. 1. [L]
7 July 1945.
Courtesy
Chicago
Defender.
Flg.2.[R]
traces the ways that new commercial spaces in the growing towns and cities of
the turn-of-the-century South complicated and compromised the rigid structures
of segregation that were officially instantiated by Jim Crow signs. Through the
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American graffiti
beginning in the closing decades of the nineteenth century inside train cars
and outside station doors, segregation signs- "more numerous than magnolia trees," in Gloria Wade-Gayles's wry formulation- quickly spread to courthouses, whorehouses, cemeteries, orphanages, hospitals, libraries, lavatories,
eating places, theaters, elevators, laundries, parks, drinking fountains, windows,
and then (keeping pace with technology) to telephone booths, vending
machines, and airport waiting rooms not only across the South, but also more
sporadically up and down both coasts and across much of the midwest (WadeGayles 2). This social text was inscribed by many hands across a spectrum of
regional, class, and even racial positions. Through a variety of tonal and tangible
inflections, the signage sought not only to command, but also to persuade, solicit, ingratiate, and humiliate. Whether jotted in faltering penmanship on scraps of
paper tacked to private walls, carved in block capitals on the granite thresholds
of public buildings, blazoned in neon lights above the entries to movie theaters,
crafted in Tiffany glass on art deco hotel windows, or commercially printed on
framed paper, segregation signs gave race a graphic body that shaped the meaning of the written words.
This signage constituted a collective and flexible articulation whose dimensions were determined more by custom, taste, and convention than by statutory
regulation. To the extent that ordinances specified any of their features, they
which was expressed a range of corporate and private interests in the field of
segregation signs. At one pole was a template that spelled out the component
features of the standardized signs commissioned by transportation and entertainment companies, business and merchant organizations, and government
agencies. Here, the message stands on a tripod of authority: the name or logo of
the commissioning organization, the name of the company that manufactured
the sign, and the date or number of the relevant ordinance (see Fig. 2). The
image of social space constructed by these standardized signs achieved its ideal
form in the restroom and drinking fountain signs that- like the parallel doorways that reiterate them- have become enduring icons of Jim Crow. More carefully balanced than the L & N restroom sign, the Montgomery drinking fountain
sign, which was probably distributed to locations around the city, is designed to
maximize symmetry. Its idealized representation was almost certainly divorced
from the actual location and condition of the "fountain"- even the contraction of
two fountains into one betrays this fictionalization- since the "colored" fountain
was almost invariably inferior, smaller, lower, older, and as likely to be squeezed
into a corner as to be placed by the white fountain's side. The sign deploys the
materiality of language- the printing and placement of the words- to create an
imaginary space in which words supplant substance. Behind the state ordinance
it cites by date, the sign implicitly draws a higher mandate for its racial map
through a silent quotation of the separate but equal formula of the Plessy case.
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Collection.
Special
Collection
and Archives,
Georgia State
University Library.
Fig.4.[R]
Dorothy Sterling
Papers. The
Amistad Research
Center, Tulane
University, New
Orleans, LA.
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childish inscription -uncertain penmanship, uneven lines, smudged paint, misspelling, lack of foresight in spacing- seriously compromises its authority. This
poses the question of who- child or semi-literate or even prankster- could have
written it? Perhaps to circumvent that question, and to recuperate some lost
authority, the sign is uncharacteristically dignified with a signature of sorts, but
the name that is signed has the opposite effect: intentionally or not, the mode of
inscription tilts the sign from amateurism to absurdity, and possibly to parody.
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Fig. 5. Harry
Golden Papers,
University of
North Carolina
at Charlotte
Library.
given the constraints of space, unfortunately remain one. For the camera's intervention produced another, more complexly layered and comprehensive text, as
the blatant inscription of race across the southern landscape began in the 1930s
to draw the attention of northern photographers whose selection, juxtaposition,
and refraining of the signs translated a set of local practices into a national
debate.2 What concerns me here, however, is the tenuous- and repeatedly reinvented-legacy of the physical signs. Typically produced on perishable materials (paper and cardboard more often than metal, glass, or wood), most rapidly
deteriorated after they were finally taken down, as the radical southern writer
Stetson Kennedy poignantly describes: "I raced around to dumpsters collecting
discarded 'White' and 'Colored' signs, thinking they would be of some interest
to posterity in a Museum of Horrors. Alas, I stored them under my house, where
termites got them, which may be just as well" (Kennedy 234).
As a white southerner, Kennedy was unusual and perhaps unusually careless in his habits. Although his experience undoubtedly speaks for that of countless other ambivalent sign retrievers, in conjunction with that of the intentional
sign destroyers who, whether out of anger, bitterness, triumph, or shame,
worked to make these hateful reminders disappear, there were some determined
and deliberate collectors and preservers. We owe the preservation of the few
surviving original signs almost entirely to the courage and foresight of the generation of African Americans who came of age during the civil rights movement
and who realized, as an end to the Jim Crow era began to be imaginable, that the
signs would become important evidence. Acquiring these signs in the final years
of their reign was a form of activism: risking jail to lift them surreptitiously from
buses under cover of evening; pilfering them from those hotels or restaurants to
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smoke.3 Those with less audacity but equal foresight scoured flea markets and
yard sales for the signs that others had collected, stored in attics, and eventually
discarded. By retrieving the tools of their own domination, these activist collectors- de Certeau-style consumers- worked a reversal: by turning the artifacts
around to bear witness against their producers.
This reversal is well named by Whoopi Goldberg, who has mounted her collection of black memorabilia on what she calls her "Wall of Shame." In a calcu-
lated shift of contexts, she and other African American collectors reappropriate
segregation signs and other artifacts of discrimination as a burden of proof
against their producers. Repossessed, the signs now speak as symptoms; instead
of imprinting the bodies they address, they fingerprint the bodies they express.
In new hands, these artifacts become, in Julian Bond's words, "sentinels guarding the past, doorkeepers who prevent our ever returning to it
common past; silently, they face the future. They have lost the power to define
my world; they have taken on the power to create a new one" (Bond,
"Collecting" vii, ix).
As one of the early and most eloquent activist collectors, Bond has become
the foremost spokesman for the value of repossessing Jim Crow memorabilia as
a resistant and revisionist practice of consuming. This position runs counter to
that of cultural critics such as Gerald Early and Lynn Casmier-Paz, who decry
what they consider a "bourgeois investment pastime" that mimics the habits of
the white middle class; they question the extent to which racist objects can be
successfully wrenched from their original contexts (Early 161; Casmier-Paz 4361; Bond, "Julian Bond"). The distinction hinges both on the signs and on the
conditions of their display. The originals that activists salvaged have become
extremely rare and their value is enhanced by the transgressive acts embedded
in their ownership. So what kinds of political statement are available to those
who purchase rattier than pilfer the signs, who engage in the traditional consumer practices whose potential to transform consumption into production may
be, as Susan Stewart argues about middle-class collecting generally, more wishful thinking than reality (158-60)?
The issue is complicated by the fact that the scarcity of the originals has
inflated their cost- as high as $2000 when their provenance is known, which is
more than most slave documents- compounding unavailability with unaf fordability for all but the wealthiest collectors, a market increasingly dominated by
celebrities (not only Whoopi Goldberg, but also Bill and Camille Cosby, Cicely
Tyson, Oprah Winfrey, Alan Page, Anita Baker, Sammy Davis, Jr., Spike Lee,
Anita Pointer, and Juanita Jordan).4 Since these collections are not open to the
public, we have to turn to more modest and accessible exhibits to assess the acts
of juxtaposition and refraining that might elevate consuming into a "poiesis"
(De Certeau xii).
For a frame of reference, we could start with ground zero of consumerism:
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Photograph by
author.
form of candles, candy dishes, and Christmas tree ornaments. This plantation
fantasy is sufficiently expansive to include a badge of membership in the Ku
Klux Klan and a pricey statue of a wizard (his arm detachable to facilitate transportation).
Against this backdrop of domestication, we can see the organizing principles
of a wall of shame across town from Whoopi Goldberg's: the personal collection
of Bryan Brey, which he calls the "Museum in Black." On Brey's wall, as on
the catalogue page, segregation signs are spliced with advertisements for household products, but in a way that draws attention to the power relations that
frame the production of domestic iconography (see Fig. 6). By foregrounding a
rod contrived to hold a grinning hobo dangling in the air, the arrangement
alludes to a lynching that transforms the grin of the happy servants- splashed
across the wall in virtually every ad- into a grimace. Coercion becomes more
explicit in the APEX (African American Panoramic Experience) museum, dedicated to the history of black Atlanta, which places the signs in the framework of
terror: sole items in an expressionistic setting whose painted patterns and shades
of black, white, and gray evoke blood-dripping walls for which the signs, hung
beneath gun-like metal rods, appear responsible.
Museum walls and consumer catalogues share some common ground, however: both rely on reproductions. Whereas activists from the sixties and celebrities from the nineties could gain access to the scarce originals, albeit through
divergent channels of consumption, the great majority of collectors and collections, including such august institutions as the Birmingham Civil Rights
Institute, must resort to copies.6 Sometimes meticulously derived from archival
photographs, these copies are more often drawn from a supply of inexpensive
reproductions that typically sell for 15 to 25 dollars apiece and are produced by a
new industry that has emerged to meet recent consumer interest. Although concerns about legislative and social pressure against the dissemination of racist
materials have shrouded this industry in secrecy, its products are readily avail-
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or academic articles such as this one, whose opening examples were scans of
reproductions.7
With ready access to inexpensive reproductions, we enter slippery political
terrain. On the one hand, we must acknowledge that the historical record is
being attenuated and, in the worst cases, fabricated by mass produced and often
careless reproductions that tend to recirculate the standardized formulas that are
easiest to replicate, and that sometimes sport misspellings and fictional datesor none.8 On the other hand, the purchasing power of consumers who are segregation's victims or their descendents has helped to shape this record to express
their own concerns. Against the most predictable formulas, they have used the
power of the purse to assert a preference for signs that are so extreme they are
easy to reappropriate. Hence, it is not the black-owned Lenox Theater's politically courageous but rhetorically tame "FOR COLORED ONLY NO WHITES
ALLOWED" sign that is in most demand, but the Lonestar Restaurant
in Dallas because, in his view, "these things send a message, and the more repulsive, the louder the message."9
The Lonestar Restaurant Association sign crystallizes the question posed by
the shift from the heroic age of collecting in the 1960s and '70s to an era of post-
good site to begin to track these negotiations is one of the most successful, controversial, and well-documented of the new memorabilia stores:
Martha's Crib, an Afrocentric art, crafts, and memorabilia store that opened in
1994 in Matteson, Illinois, a predominantly African American community south
of Chicago, and subsequently moved to Country Club Hills, where it remained
until 2005. Initially uncertain whether segregation signs would be too painful to
include in her inventory, its owner Marchel'le Renise Barber polled her regular
clientele. Almost everyone urged her to make the signs available and asked to be
placed on a waiting list to insure that they would be among the first to purchase
them. Since not only the originals but also copies of the signs were in short sup-
ply, Barber expanded her merchandise by designing her own line: the Martha's
Crib Jim Crow Sign Series.
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Fig. 7. [L]
Three versions
of Lonestar
Restaurant
Association sign.
Fig. 8. [R]
Martha's Crib
series
Although initially Barber, whose goal was to keep alive the pain of the past
for a generation that has "no sense of history and no sense of hurt," had planned
to reproduce only one or two of the "less offensive" signs, her plan changed
when one of her African American customers insisted that he wanted to buy a
"WHITE ONLY" sign in order "to hang it in his house outside his bathroom so
his teenage son might be able to relate to the experience of needing to go to the
bathroom- but not having anyplace he could go." That forged Barber's determination to "go all the way": not only to include the sign in her Jim Crow Sign
Series, but also to hang it over the bathroom of her own condominium (Jenkins
43; Lenoir 5). In this historical reinscription, the dominant culture's imprinting of
the "Colored" sign on the African American body is now administered by a
"White" sign in tike hands of African American consumers seeking to impress an
endangered dimension of their racial heritage on the nerves and flesh of a
younger generation.
This weighty, verging on sado-masochistic, method of transcribing history is
at odds with its instrument, however, for the "WHITE ONLY" sign that Barber
designed to meet the demand of her customers is, like the rest of her series,
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from the social body, and the sign that was produced to keep alive an experience
of the body takes the disembodied form of a commodity. A "retailer of revolution" is Barber's chosen moniker. Bringing the burden of the past to bear on the
vision of the future is, she explains, a way of "affecting change" (Jenkins 43).
keting reproductions.
If the text of segregation is only being lightly traced on the body of future
generations in spite of the best intentions and collaborative efforts of African
American producers and consumers, a more serious problem exists in the mass
marketplace that also attempts to engage and shape consumer desire by placing
new versions of segregation signs into general circulation. Whereas Barber has
tried to monitor the uses of her own products by refusing to take phone or email
orders to ground the traffic in signs in face-to-face encounters, other reproductions
travel outside of any determinate political frame and are as readily available for
purchase in redneck stores as in the African American marketplace. The "WHITE
ONLY" sign demanded by Barber's customers is as avidly sought after by white
racists to display over their bathrooms, swimming pools, and recreation rooms to
keep the memory of entitlement alive. Inexpensive copies are for sale not only in
such high-profile stores as the Redneck Shop of the Ku Klux Klan Museum, but
also in the garden-variety country stores that are a feature of backwoods communities such as Skullbone, Tennessee, where inhabitants can undoubtedly find
them alongside the "Equal Rights for Whites" T-shirts, Confederate flags, and
Ku Klux Klan crosses that are so popular there (Strauss 19).
The industry in simulacra serves opposing camps in opposing ways, but at
least the political intentions of these opposing camps are clear. In the open marketplace, however, where profit attaches to invention, and production and consumption are politically unconstrained, segregation's charged and concise formulas have become a catalyst and frame for other forms of signifying play. The
more extreme the invention, the more it lends itself to reappropriation- which
also runs in both directions, as the display of racial entitlement is parodically
inverted, and then inverted back again. No sooner did a sign declaring:
PARKING FOR
AFRICAN
AMERICANS
ONLY
ALL OTHERS
WILL BE TOWED
appear on the market, complete with a fictional ordinance number that mimics
the conventions of segregation signs, than copies of the copy sprang up to vaunt
the rights of other minority, but hardly parallel, groups. Alamo Flags Company
produced variations on the template for (among many others) Greeks, Norwegians,
from racial to national groups that, however small their numbers in this country,
could hardly be construed as oppressed. Indeed, the list has been constructed to
occlude culturally sensitive racial/ethnic categories. There is a "PARKING FOR
MEXICANS ONLY," but none for Chicanos; a "PARKING FOR CHINESE ONLY,"
but none for Asian Americans; a "PARKING FOR PERUVIANS ONLY," but
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Fig. 9. Students
against 209.
Photograph by
Jesse Ehrman.
signs changed accordingly: as segregation ordinances became parking authorizations, their numbers evolved from
the plausible 1082 on the African
American sign to a fanciful 0007 on the
Italian sign, a seeming allusion to
James Bond, a superhero powerful
enough to commandeer that most
prized urban possession: a personal
parking space. In the transition from
the heroic collecting practices of the
generation of Julian Bond to the magi-
diluted into national origin and the struggle over social space devolves to the
parking lot, the only bodies that matter are the mobile mechanical ones stationed
under the sign of nationality- and only when it offers an advantage. Lost in the
translation to postmodernity is any recollection that segregation signs were
designed to secure racial difference by attaching it to referents in the physical
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regressive signs are put to the progressive use of puncturing the fiction that
Notes
1 . Agency was, of course, displayed in numerous ways by those who pushed back, overtly and
covertly, against the Jim Crow regime. For an analysis of these resistant practices, see Kelley. For
some first-hand accounts, see Chafe, Gavins, and Korstad.
2. For a discussion of the photographs, see Abel.
3. My understanding of African American collecting draws from my conversations with the following
collectors, to whom I am very grateful: James Allen, MarcheNe Renise Barber, Brian Brey, Thomas
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C. Bridge, LaCheryl B. Cillie, Janette Falkner, Rose Fontaneila, Mildred Franklin, Sallie Hurt, Virgil J.
Mayberry, Chuck McDew, Phillip Merrill, David Pilgrim, and Dan Williams.
4. Out of the thousands of artifacts Phillip Merrill has collected over many years, only one is a Jim
Crow sign (conversation, 23 June 1997). James Allen, whose persistence and skill in uncovering
relics of the racist past captured national attention through his display of lynching postcards, owns
only two Jim Crow signs despite years of searching (conversation, 4 June 1998). Skip Mason, director of Digging It Up, an African American Research and Consulting Firm in Atlanta, has no Jim Crow
signs, which he describes as "extremely hard to come by" and prohibitively expensive (conversation,
9 Dec. 1997). Dusty Rose, who advertises "All Types of Collectible Black Americana For Sale" in her
Brooklyn shop, confirms that no original signs have been on the market for a long time (conversation,
12 June 1998). Slave papers are rarely more than $1 ,000 in the Black Americana Price Guide and
often considerably less.
5. These catalogues reflect the traditional dominance of white collectors in the field of black memorabilia. In the past two decades, however, the balance has shifted dramatically. According to Jeanette
Carson, founder of the Black Memorabilia Collectors Association, 50 to 70 percent of the collectors of
black memorabilia are now African Americans, as opposed to 30 percent a decade ago (Hernandez;
telephone conversation with Mrs. Mildred Franklin, current president of the Black Memorabilia
Collectors Association, 16 Dec. 1997).
6. Florence Davis-Wilson, Director of Public Relations at the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute (conversation, 17 July 1997). The Black Memorabilia Collectors Association, reluctant to lend its rare originals out for display, commissions copies for its educational exhibits, according to Mildred Franklin
probably located abroad, as are the production centers of other kinds of black memorabilia, many of
which are based in Japan, Germany, China, England, France, Australia, and parts of Africa, according to Gibbs.
Abel, Elizabeth. Signs of the Times: The Visual Politics of Jim Crow (forthcoming). U of California P.
Bond, Julian. "Collecting Black Americana." Black Americana Price Guide. Ed. Kyle Husfloen.
Dubuque, IA: Antique Trader, 1996. vi-ix.
Works
Cited
Forman, James. The Making of Black Revolutionaries. Washington, DC: Open Hand, 1985.
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Gibbs, P. J. Black Collectibles Sold in America. Paducah, KY: Collector Books, 1987.
Hale, Grace Elizabeth. Making Whiteness: The Culture of Segregation in the South, 1890-1940. New
York: Pantheon, 1998.
Henkin, David M. City Reading: Written Words and Public Spaces in Antebellum New York. New
York: Columbia UP, 1998.
Hernandez, Carol. "Black Memorabilia Finds Big Demand." The Wall Street Journal 10 Aug. 1992: B1.
Jackson, John L, Jr. "A Little Black Magic." Racial Americana. Ed. John L. Jackson, Jr. Spec, issue
of South Atlantic Quarterly 104.3 (Summer 2005): 393-402.
Jenkins, Maureen. "Crafting a Positive Image: Store Owner Offers Lessons in History." Chicago Sun
Times 19 Dec. 1997: 43.
Jensen, Richard. " 'No Irish Need Apply': A Myth of Victimization." Journal of Social History 32.2
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