<description> &lt;p&gt;In the final episode of What Happened In Alabama, Lee considers the man his father became, despite the obstacles in his way. Later, Lee goes back to Alabama and reflects with his cousins on how far they’ve come as a family. Now that we know what happened, Lee pieces together what it all means and looks forward to the future. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;hr&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Over the last nine episodes, you’ve listened to me outline the impact of Jim Crow apartheid on my family, my ancestors and me. I’ve shared what I’ve learned through conversations with experts, creating connections to how the effects of Jim Crow manifested in my own family.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;In the process of this work I lost my father. But without him, this work couldn’t have been accomplished.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;My name is Lee Hawkins and this is What Happened In Alabama: The Epilogue &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Rev. James Thomas: &lt;/strong&gt;You may be seated.&lt;em&gt; &lt;/em&gt;We come with humble hearts. We come, dear Jesus, with sorrow in our hearts. But dear Jesus, we know that whatever you do,dear God,it is for your will and purpose. And it is always good. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;We buried my father on March 9, 2019. His funeral was held at the church I grew up in. Mount Olivet Baptist Church in St. Paul Minnesota.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Rev. James Thomas:&lt;/strong&gt; Dear God, I pray that you would be with this family. Like you have been with so many that have lost loved ones and even one day we all know we are going to sleep one day.Thank you for preparing a better place for us.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Mount Olivet’s pastor, Rev. James Thomas, knew my parents well, especially since my father was part of the music ministry there for 30 years. It was a snowy day, but people came from all over Minnesota and from as far away as Prague to pay their last respects. I looked at the packed parking lot and all the cars lined up and down the street, and I felt a sense of gratitude in knowing that my dad had played such a strong role in so many people’s lives, not just the lives of his own children and family.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Rev. James Thomas:&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;em&gt; &lt;/em&gt;Brother Leroy is probably playing the guitar over there. We can hear him with that squeak voice “yeeeee.” &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Jalen Morrison:&lt;/strong&gt; We could talk about Prince, we could talk about gospel music. He was even up on the hip hop music, too, which kind of shook me up. But I was like, okay, Grandpa &lt;em&gt;[laughter] &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Naima Ferrar Bolden:&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;em&gt; &lt;/em&gt;He really just had me seeing far beyond where I could see. He had me seeing far past my circumstances. He really changed my perspective, and that was just life altering for me ever since I was a little girl.&lt;em&gt; &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Herman Jones: &lt;/strong&gt;He just had the heavy, heavy accent. He still had that booooy.&lt;em&gt; But&lt;/em&gt; you know,he was always smiling, always happy all the time. You know, just full of life&lt;em&gt;.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;As I sat and listened to all the speeches that came before my eulogy of my dad, I couldn’t help but recognize both the beauty of their words and the extent to which my father had gone to shield so many of the people he loved from the hardest parts of his life—especially Alabama. It was as if he didn’t want to burden them, or, for most of our lives, his children, with that complexity. Most people remembered and honored him as that big, smiling, gregarious man with the smooth, first tenor voice, who lit up any space he was in and lit up when his wife, children, grandchildren, family, or friends walked into a room. He loved deeply; and people loved him deeply in return. And though he was victimized under Jim Crow, he was never a victim. In fact, after he sat for those four years of interviews with me for this show, opening up the opportunity for so many secrets to be revealed, he emerged as even more of a victor.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;In our last conversation, he told me he wasn’t feeling well and that he had been to the doctor three times that week, but was never tested for anything. And Dad,  after that third visit, he just accepted it. I do wonder if there was ever a time in those moments that he had a flashback to his mother being sent home in a similar way - 58 years prior - but from a segregated Jim Crow Alabama hospital. I don’t know. I’ll never know.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Tony Ware: &lt;/strong&gt;Yeah. Mine. You know, I would always ask my mom, you know, about Alabama. You know, she was one of the five that came up here. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;That’s my cousin Tony Ware. His mom was my Aunt Betty. The “five” that he’s talking about were my Dad’s siblings who migrated to Minnesota from Alabama -  my aunts Helen, Toopie, Dorothy, Betty, and my Dad. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Tony Ware: &lt;/strong&gt;They kind of hung around together and they would always have sit downs where they would talk. Get a moon pie, a soda. Hmm. Some sardines.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Lee Hawkins: &lt;/strong&gt;Cigarettes. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Tony Ware: &lt;/strong&gt;Cigarettes, sardines. And they would start talking. And some white bread. And they would sit there and talk and we would hear some of it. I sat in my mom&amp;#39;s lap, and you know, they&amp;#39;re talking about this, and it&amp;#39;s like they just went into a different world. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;When I was a kid in Minnesota, I loved when my dad’s sisters and their kids would come over. Us cousins would play hide-and-seek and listen to our music while our parents sat around the dining room table, talking and laughing, and listening to their own music. Our soundtrack was always great – Prince, Michael Jackson, New Edition, Cameo – but theirs was, too, with Curtis Mayfield, Aretha Franklin, Jerry Butler, Johnny Taylor, and Bobby Womack. The food was even better. They’d talk over one another, smoke clouding the air under the chandelier, and my allergy-sensitive nose could detect that smell from three rooms away. Sometimes, I’d sneak a quick sip from an unattended can of beer in the kitchen. Despite the bitter taste, getting away with it always gave me a thrill. But then, someone would mention the word “Alabama,” and that festive energy would suddenly vanish.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Tony Ware: &lt;/strong&gt;But I heard Alabama. I heard this. I heard names that I never, you know, heard, you know, because all I knew was my aunt Dorothy, Lee Roy, you know, all I knew was. But then I heard certain names, uncles such and such. And I&amp;#39;m like, Who? Who, what, what? &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;To us as kids, &amp;quot;Alabama&amp;quot; was more than a place—it was a provocative word that brought a suffocating heaviness to our lives. My cousin Gina remembers, even as a child, that mysterious word and the weariness it triggered in her mother. It left her feeling utterly helpless.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Gina Hunter:&lt;/strong&gt; And I would just sit there and listen to them talk about home and all the things that bothered them. Oh, my God. And yeah, it would hurt my feelings because I would see my mom just break out and cry for nothing. They would be talking and a song would be playing and Betty would just kind of get, she&amp;#39;d well up. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Lee Hawkins:&lt;/strong&gt; Yeah. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Gina Hunter: &lt;/strong&gt;And I&amp;#39;m like, Why are they so sad? Why are they so depressed? They they&amp;#39;re together. They&amp;#39;ve got their kids. We&amp;#39;re visiting, we&amp;#39;re having fun. But it wasn&amp;#39;t fun for them.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;That veil of secrecy our parents kept around Alabama, prevented us from seeing it as anything other than ground zero for, in our family, dreadful despair. Even when they talked about the happy memories— the church revivals that they called “big meeting,”  and picking fresh strawberries right off the vine – it seemed like a thread of fear just wove through almost every story. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Tony Ware:&lt;/strong&gt;I knew something was going on more than what I knew here, you know, at a young age. So. I was always interested in finding out. But through my mom, you know, she she would talk about how nice it was down there, how beautiful it was down there. But she never wanted to go back there.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;And as Gina remembers– and I agreed– it  colored every facet of how they raised us. As she spoke, I just sat there, marveling at the fact that she could have replaced her mom’s name with my dad’s name, or any one of those siblings, and her observations would still be spot on. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Gina Hunter:&lt;/strong&gt;My mom was and Aunt Helen, they were super, super close. And there was always just a deep seeded paranoia of people in general, just like everything. And I would think, why are these people why are they so scared and nervous and afraid of life and people and experiencing things? It seemed like it led them to live a super sheltered life.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;The central question of this podcast is, &amp;quot;What happened in Alabama?&amp;quot;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;What happened was Jim Crow apartheid—a crime against humanity committed by the American government against five generations of Black families like mine. This apartheid lasted for nearly hundred years, officially ending in 1964, and created generations of people who perished and millions who survived. I refer to these individuals as Jim Crow apartheid survivors. However, America has yet to acknowledge that Jim Crow was apartheid, that it was a crime against humanity, and that the millions of people who lived through it should be formally recognized as survivors.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;In the prologue, I explained that so-called Jim Crow segregation was not merely about separate water fountains and back-of-the-bus seating. Through the accounts of family trauma I’ve shared, we now understand it was a caste system of domestic terrorism and apartheid, enforced by a government that imposed discrimination in every aspect of life through laws and practices designed to maintain white supremacy. The myth of &amp;quot;separate but equal&amp;quot; masked a reality far more sinister and pervasive than what most of us were taught in school.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;We often think of white supremacy as fringe hate groups, but we’ve overlooked its traditional and far more damaging form—a government-imposed system that oppressed Black people for a century after emancipation. This isn&amp;#39;t a distant academic concept or an opinion or a loaded political statement; it’s a fact. This is recent American history, and it deeply impacted our families, controlling every aspect of our lives physically, mentally, and emotionally for five generations after slavery.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Since 1837, every generation of my family in America has had a member murdered, often with no consequences for the white perpetrator. The fear, caution, and grief were passed down by those who stood around the caskets, including my father. The daily indignities only compounded this grief, leading to accelerated aging and chronic stress that I believe ultimately killed my father. Yes, Jim Crow apartheid killed my father.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Still, I’m encouraged because I have the platform to tell this aspect of the story. Sharing this story has been extremely difficult, but I’ve been lifted not just by my faith and ancestors but also by my family, their support, optimism, and determination. With this new information, we live with the awareness of the effects of slavery and Jim Crow, striving to break their negative cycles and be empowered by the accomplishments of our families who found ways to thrive despite the oppression caused by those crimes. Telling this story has fortified my resolve, reminding me that our past is not just a story of struggle, but of relentless triumph and dignity. For generations, we have managed to thrive together as a family. By infusing even more consciousness and evolution into our families with each generation, we can continue to thrive.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;That’s why I’m grateful for my cousins, including my first cousin, David Stanley, the son of my dad’s sister, Aunt Weenie, who articulated this sentiment powerfully during an interview with my cousins, my father&amp;#39;s sisters&amp;#39; children.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;David Stanley: &lt;/strong&gt;I think it’s a new form of freedom, OK. And even though they faced the backwardness of Jim Crow and all those things that our ancestors went through, they still had their dreams and dignity. And no matter what happened, it&amp;#39;s not about the environment around you, it’s the environment inside of you. ‘You&amp;#39;re not going to stop us. We&amp;#39;re going to continue to grow. So by doing that, they said, ‘Okay, you know what? We are going to plant the seed, our offspring, okay?’ You can do this in our generation during this time, but guess what? There&amp;#39;s another generation coming up.’ And that triggers all the way to us today. And then you got your nieces and your nephew, and then you got grandkids, et cetera. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Lee: &lt;/strong&gt;Yeah.&lt;strong&gt; &lt;/strong&gt;And your kids have all master&amp;#39;s degree and PhDs. And then your wife is a superintendent of a school district. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;David: &lt;/strong&gt;That&amp;#39;s right. Yep. So they left their seed, they left their vision. And my point is that I believe that they are all up in heaven smiling down on us and really proud of us.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;David: &lt;/strong&gt;I have to go and take that trip to Alabama and bring my children with me and my grandkids with me, because it&amp;#39;s vital. Because you put that out there, I really appreciate that. That’s something that’s definitely going to be done ,and I think that’s something that we all need to do, to rekindle and reconnect and do those things. The past can’t hurt you, but my point is that by being in the present right now, now we can solidify our future, you know what unapologetically. And do the things they were always yearning to do, in their lives. And they couldn’t do them. But they can do them through us.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Lee Hawkins:&lt;/strong&gt; A lot of it is facing your parents&amp;#39; fears,that’s what it id. for them as well. My dad really loved Alabama. He did. And my dad would talk about that in a very nostalgic way, but also the fear was still there. And so when I started going to Alabama, I was going for him as well. Not to mention, I have had a couple of people in the family say, ‘Oh be careful down there.’ And Aunt Toopie even said, ‘You went in that field? You went to that cemetery?’ That fear was on me when I first went to Alabama. The last trip that we went to, I did it with family.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Walking through the cemeteries and the landscapes of Alabama alongside my family who live there transformed my mission, helping me to finally lay my father’s fear to rest. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Lee Hawkins: &lt;/strong&gt;Mary Ruth’s Southern Food for Southern People Made with Love. I love that. That slogan. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Marvin Smith:&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;em&gt; &lt;/em&gt;Welcome to Mary Ruth&amp;#39;s. Thank you for coming. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Lee Hawkins: &lt;/strong&gt;You got some grits on the griddle huh. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Marvin Smith&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;: &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;Oh I got it all. Got me some grits, cheese grits, patty sausage, salmon croquettes, link sausage, bacon. Whatever you ask for we&amp;#39;ll cook it. Pancakes, whatever. Hey, we aint Burger King but you can sure get it your way though. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Group: &lt;/strong&gt;[Laughter] &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;There’s so much energy in the cafe. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I feel the family. My family. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;We spend a couple hours eating together. Mapping family connections. People come into the cafe, some grab their food and take a seat, some join us. A woman walks in the door and she recognizes me…. not because she knows who I am, but because of my resemblance to her husband, he’s also a Pugh. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Erica Page: &lt;/strong&gt;Y&amp;#39;all got a line that will not just go away. It&amp;#39;s strong genes. You&amp;#39;ll have strong and strong. Yes, cause I have a daughter and a grandson. Oh, God. Looks just like him&lt;em&gt; &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Her name is Erica Page. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Lee Hawkins: &lt;/strong&gt;You know, Uncle Ike Pugh? &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Erica Page: &lt;/strong&gt;We went to the house several times.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;At one point, someone pulls out a family reunion book. It’s a laminated, spiral bound scrapbook. Someone put a lot of work into making it. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;We’re flipping through the pages together….&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Lee Hawkins:&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;em&gt; &lt;/em&gt;My grandma was Opie Pugh.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Erica Page: &lt;/strong&gt;I know the name. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Lee Hawkins:&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;em&gt; &lt;/em&gt;She was. Well, she was Ike&amp;#39;s sister. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Erica Page: &lt;/strong&gt;I know. I know the name.I means she&amp;#39;s in the book.&lt;em&gt; &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;We find pictures of our Pugh ancestors, Uncle Ike and my dad’s mom, Grandma Opie. I’ve seen these photos before through my research into the family tree.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;But suddenly, Alabama feels different from the times I visited before for research. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I am not surprised that the shift in my relationship with Alabama was guided by my family members who chose to stay rather than migrate north. They stayed and evolved Alabama to the point where both Montgomery and Birmingham now have African American mayors. They, and the millions of Black people who stayed, led a movement that benefits all Americans today. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;In discussing the hardships my family endured there, it is important to recognize that the progress of our people and our nation is largely attributable to the activism of the courageous Black Americans who stayed and fought. These same Black Americans welcomed me back to Alabama with open arms and support, encouraging me to move forward with this project. They reminded me not to be resentful or afraid to come home, to give Alabama a chance, and to offer it the same benefit of the doubt and acknowledgment of complexity that I give my country.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Understanding that it was our families, the Black descendants of American slavery, who led the movement that resulted in the Civil Rights Act of 1964, ending Jim Crow apartheid and bringing America closer to liberty and justice for all, reinforces the reality that, despite significant trauma, we have remained a solutions-oriented people, some of the most effective activists this nation has ever known.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Their legacy and courage have shaped Alabama and America and their spirit of irrepressibility continues to inspire me.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;In my forthcoming book, &amp;quot;I Am Nobody’s Slave: How Uncovering My Family History Set Me Free,&amp;quot; published by HarperCollins, I will strive to capture not just the stories of trauma but how we can continue to conquer it as a family, a Black American community, and a nation. Inspired by the spirit of my ancestors and my father, who transcended the limitations Alabama tried to impose on him, I will continue my journalism on several issues discussed in this series.  &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;These include exposing and addressing the long-term effects of corporal punishment in homes and schools, the impact of childhood trauma on the health and well-being of children, encouraging school districts to implement policies of mandatory consequences for hate speech and harassment, and highlighting economic and health inequities along racial lines. I will also focus on the plight and power of Jim Crow apartheid survivors as they strive to quell the ripple effect of historical atrocities on their families.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;The question now is, what can we all do as a nation to recognize Jim Crow as a crime against humanity and to support the millions of Americans over 60 who lived in the South during this unfortunate period? How can we make our homes, schools, and society safer for the generations of children and grandchildren coming behind them?&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Together, we can acknowledge our past, honor the strength of those who came before us, and build a future filled with hope, determination, and joy. Let us rise with the resilience of our ancestors and create a world where every child can dream freely and every family can thrive. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Lee Roy&lt;/strong&gt;: You&amp;#39;ve run the game and you know the Lord and you&amp;#39;re doing your thing, man. And that&amp;#39;s the best you can do as far as I&amp;#39;m concerned. You have to keep your heart and your head up. I don&amp;#39;t know this thing about being proud. I know the Lord and I know the Lord loves me. So if I&amp;#39;m proud, man, please forgive me and if I shouldn&amp;#39;t be, but it is a poor dog that don&amp;#39;t wag his own tail, son, when you&amp;#39;re trying to reach your goals, I&amp;#39;ll put it like that, you know. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Lee Jr.&lt;/strong&gt;: Right on. Well, okay buddy, I&amp;#39;m going to hit it, but I&amp;#39;ll be in touch, okay? &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Lee Roy:&lt;/strong&gt; Yeah, keep going, man, I&amp;#39;m loving it. I&amp;#39;m loving what we&amp;#39;re doing, Lee. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Lee Jr.: &lt;/strong&gt;Okay, love you, Dad. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Lee Roy: &lt;/strong&gt;Okay man. Love you. Bye.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br/&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;CREDITS&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br&gt;&lt;/p&gt; </description>

What Happened In Alabama?

American Public Media

EP 10: Epilogue

JUL 17, 202426 MIN
What Happened In Alabama?

EP 10: Epilogue

JUL 17, 202426 MIN

Description

<p>In the final episode of What Happened In Alabama, Lee considers the man his father became, despite the obstacles in his way. Later, Lee goes back to Alabama and reflects with his cousins on how far they’ve come as a family. Now that we know what happened, Lee pieces together what it all means and looks forward to the future. </p><br/><hr><br/><p><strong>Over the last nine episodes, you’ve listened to me outline the impact of Jim Crow apartheid on my family, my ancestors and me. I’ve shared what I’ve learned through conversations with experts, creating connections to how the effects of Jim Crow manifested in my own family.</strong></p><br/><p></p><br/><p><strong>In the process of this work I lost my father. But without him, this work couldn’t have been accomplished.</strong></p><br/><p></p><br/><p><strong>My name is Lee Hawkins and this is What Happened In Alabama: The Epilogue </strong></p><br/><p></p><br/><p><strong>Rev. James Thomas: </strong>You may be seated.<em> </em>We come with humble hearts. We come, dear Jesus, with sorrow in our hearts. But dear Jesus, we know that whatever you do,dear God,it is for your will and purpose. And it is always good. </p><br/><p><strong>We buried my father on March 9, 2019. His funeral was held at the church I grew up in. Mount Olivet Baptist Church in St. Paul Minnesota.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>Rev. James Thomas:</strong> Dear God, I pray that you would be with this family. Like you have been with so many that have lost loved ones and even one day we all know we are going to sleep one day.Thank you for preparing a better place for us.</p><br/><p><strong>Mount Olivet’s pastor, Rev. James Thomas, knew my parents well, especially since my father was part of the music ministry there for 30 years. It was a snowy day, but people came from all over Minnesota and from as far away as Prague to pay their last respects. I looked at the packed parking lot and all the cars lined up and down the street, and I felt a sense of gratitude in knowing that my dad had played such a strong role in so many people’s lives, not just the lives of his own children and family.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>Rev. James Thomas:</strong><em> </em>Brother Leroy is probably playing the guitar over there. We can hear him with that squeak voice “yeeeee.” </p><br/><p><strong>Jalen Morrison:</strong> We could talk about Prince, we could talk about gospel music. He was even up on the hip hop music, too, which kind of shook me up. But I was like, okay, Grandpa <em>[laughter] </em></p><br/><p><strong>Naima Ferrar Bolden:</strong><em> </em>He really just had me seeing far beyond where I could see. He had me seeing far past my circumstances. He really changed my perspective, and that was just life altering for me ever since I was a little girl.<em> </em></p><br/><p><strong>Herman Jones: </strong>He just had the heavy, heavy accent. He still had that booooy.<em> But</em> you know,he was always smiling, always happy all the time. You know, just full of life<em>.</em></p><br/><p><strong>As I sat and listened to all the speeches that came before my eulogy of my dad, I couldn’t help but recognize both the beauty of their words and the extent to which my father had gone to shield so many of the people he loved from the hardest parts of his life—especially Alabama. It was as if he didn’t want to burden them, or, for most of our lives, his children, with that complexity. Most people remembered and honored him as that big, smiling, gregarious man with the smooth, first tenor voice, who lit up any space he was in and lit up when his wife, children, grandchildren, family, or friends walked into a room. He loved deeply; and people loved him deeply in return. And though he was victimized under Jim Crow, he was never a victim. In fact, after he sat for those four years of interviews with me for this show, opening up the opportunity for so many secrets to be revealed, he emerged as even more of a victor.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>In our last conversation, he told me he wasn’t feeling well and that he had been to the doctor three times that week, but was never tested for anything. And Dad,  after that third visit, he just accepted it. I do wonder if there was ever a time in those moments that he had a flashback to his mother being sent home in a similar way - 58 years prior - but from a segregated Jim Crow Alabama hospital. I don’t know. I’ll never know.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>Tony Ware: </strong>Yeah. Mine. You know, I would always ask my mom, you know, about Alabama. You know, she was one of the five that came up here. </p><br/><p><strong>That’s my cousin Tony Ware. His mom was my Aunt Betty. The “five” that he’s talking about were my Dad’s siblings who migrated to Minnesota from Alabama -  my aunts Helen, Toopie, Dorothy, Betty, and my Dad. </strong></p><br/><p><strong>Tony Ware: </strong>They kind of hung around together and they would always have sit downs where they would talk. Get a moon pie, a soda. Hmm. Some sardines.</p><br/><p><strong>Lee Hawkins: </strong>Cigarettes. </p><br/><p><strong>Tony Ware: </strong>Cigarettes, sardines. And they would start talking. And some white bread. And they would sit there and talk and we would hear some of it. I sat in my mom&#39;s lap, and you know, they&#39;re talking about this, and it&#39;s like they just went into a different world. </p><br/><p><strong>When I was a kid in Minnesota, I loved when my dad’s sisters and their kids would come over. Us cousins would play hide-and-seek and listen to our music while our parents sat around the dining room table, talking and laughing, and listening to their own music. Our soundtrack was always great – Prince, Michael Jackson, New Edition, Cameo – but theirs was, too, with Curtis Mayfield, Aretha Franklin, Jerry Butler, Johnny Taylor, and Bobby Womack. The food was even better. They’d talk over one another, smoke clouding the air under the chandelier, and my allergy-sensitive nose could detect that smell from three rooms away. Sometimes, I’d sneak a quick sip from an unattended can of beer in the kitchen. Despite the bitter taste, getting away with it always gave me a thrill. But then, someone would mention the word “Alabama,” and that festive energy would suddenly vanish.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>Tony Ware: </strong>But I heard Alabama. I heard this. I heard names that I never, you know, heard, you know, because all I knew was my aunt Dorothy, Lee Roy, you know, all I knew was. But then I heard certain names, uncles such and such. And I&#39;m like, Who? Who, what, what? </p><br/><p><strong>To us as kids, &quot;Alabama&quot; was more than a place—it was a provocative word that brought a suffocating heaviness to our lives. My cousin Gina remembers, even as a child, that mysterious word and the weariness it triggered in her mother. It left her feeling utterly helpless.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>Gina Hunter:</strong> And I would just sit there and listen to them talk about home and all the things that bothered them. Oh, my God. And yeah, it would hurt my feelings because I would see my mom just break out and cry for nothing. They would be talking and a song would be playing and Betty would just kind of get, she&#39;d well up. </p><br/><p><strong>Lee Hawkins:</strong> Yeah. </p><br/><p><strong>Gina Hunter: </strong>And I&#39;m like, Why are they so sad? Why are they so depressed? They they&#39;re together. They&#39;ve got their kids. We&#39;re visiting, we&#39;re having fun. But it wasn&#39;t fun for them.</p><br/><p><strong>That veil of secrecy our parents kept around Alabama, prevented us from seeing it as anything other than ground zero for, in our family, dreadful despair. Even when they talked about the happy memories— the church revivals that they called “big meeting,”  and picking fresh strawberries right off the vine – it seemed like a thread of fear just wove through almost every story. </strong></p><br/><p><strong>Tony Ware:</strong>I knew something was going on more than what I knew here, you know, at a young age. So. I was always interested in finding out. But through my mom, you know, she she would talk about how nice it was down there, how beautiful it was down there. But she never wanted to go back there.</p><br/><p><strong>And as Gina remembers– and I agreed– it  colored every facet of how they raised us. As she spoke, I just sat there, marveling at the fact that she could have replaced her mom’s name with my dad’s name, or any one of those siblings, and her observations would still be spot on. </strong></p><br/><p><strong>Gina Hunter:</strong>My mom was and Aunt Helen, they were super, super close. And there was always just a deep seeded paranoia of people in general, just like everything. And I would think, why are these people why are they so scared and nervous and afraid of life and people and experiencing things? It seemed like it led them to live a super sheltered life.</p><br/><p><strong>The central question of this podcast is, &quot;What happened in Alabama?&quot;</strong></p><br/><p><strong>What happened was Jim Crow apartheid—a crime against humanity committed by the American government against five generations of Black families like mine. This apartheid lasted for nearly hundred years, officially ending in 1964, and created generations of people who perished and millions who survived. I refer to these individuals as Jim Crow apartheid survivors. However, America has yet to acknowledge that Jim Crow was apartheid, that it was a crime against humanity, and that the millions of people who lived through it should be formally recognized as survivors.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>In the prologue, I explained that so-called Jim Crow segregation was not merely about separate water fountains and back-of-the-bus seating. Through the accounts of family trauma I’ve shared, we now understand it was a caste system of domestic terrorism and apartheid, enforced by a government that imposed discrimination in every aspect of life through laws and practices designed to maintain white supremacy. The myth of &quot;separate but equal&quot; masked a reality far more sinister and pervasive than what most of us were taught in school.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>We often think of white supremacy as fringe hate groups, but we’ve overlooked its traditional and far more damaging form—a government-imposed system that oppressed Black people for a century after emancipation. This isn&#39;t a distant academic concept or an opinion or a loaded political statement; it’s a fact. This is recent American history, and it deeply impacted our families, controlling every aspect of our lives physically, mentally, and emotionally for five generations after slavery.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>Since 1837, every generation of my family in America has had a member murdered, often with no consequences for the white perpetrator. The fear, caution, and grief were passed down by those who stood around the caskets, including my father. The daily indignities only compounded this grief, leading to accelerated aging and chronic stress that I believe ultimately killed my father. Yes, Jim Crow apartheid killed my father.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>Still, I’m encouraged because I have the platform to tell this aspect of the story. Sharing this story has been extremely difficult, but I’ve been lifted not just by my faith and ancestors but also by my family, their support, optimism, and determination. With this new information, we live with the awareness of the effects of slavery and Jim Crow, striving to break their negative cycles and be empowered by the accomplishments of our families who found ways to thrive despite the oppression caused by those crimes. Telling this story has fortified my resolve, reminding me that our past is not just a story of struggle, but of relentless triumph and dignity. For generations, we have managed to thrive together as a family. By infusing even more consciousness and evolution into our families with each generation, we can continue to thrive.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>That’s why I’m grateful for my cousins, including my first cousin, David Stanley, the son of my dad’s sister, Aunt Weenie, who articulated this sentiment powerfully during an interview with my cousins, my father&#39;s sisters&#39; children.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>David Stanley: </strong>I think it’s a new form of freedom, OK. And even though they faced the backwardness of Jim Crow and all those things that our ancestors went through, they still had their dreams and dignity. And no matter what happened, it&#39;s not about the environment around you, it’s the environment inside of you. ‘You&#39;re not going to stop us. We&#39;re going to continue to grow. So by doing that, they said, ‘Okay, you know what? We are going to plant the seed, our offspring, okay?’ You can do this in our generation during this time, but guess what? There&#39;s another generation coming up.’ And that triggers all the way to us today. And then you got your nieces and your nephew, and then you got grandkids, et cetera. </p><br/><p><strong>Lee: </strong>Yeah.<strong> </strong>And your kids have all master&#39;s degree and PhDs. And then your wife is a superintendent of a school district. </p><br/><p><strong>David: </strong>That&#39;s right. Yep. So they left their seed, they left their vision. And my point is that I believe that they are all up in heaven smiling down on us and really proud of us.</p><br/><p><strong>David: </strong>I have to go and take that trip to Alabama and bring my children with me and my grandkids with me, because it&#39;s vital. Because you put that out there, I really appreciate that. That’s something that’s definitely going to be done ,and I think that’s something that we all need to do, to rekindle and reconnect and do those things. The past can’t hurt you, but my point is that by being in the present right now, now we can solidify our future, you know what unapologetically. And do the things they were always yearning to do, in their lives. And they couldn’t do them. But they can do them through us.</p><br/><p><strong>Lee Hawkins:</strong> A lot of it is facing your parents&#39; fears,that’s what it id. for them as well. My dad really loved Alabama. He did. And my dad would talk about that in a very nostalgic way, but also the fear was still there. And so when I started going to Alabama, I was going for him as well. Not to mention, I have had a couple of people in the family say, ‘Oh be careful down there.’ And Aunt Toopie even said, ‘You went in that field? You went to that cemetery?’ That fear was on me when I first went to Alabama. The last trip that we went to, I did it with family.</p><br/><p><strong>Walking through the cemeteries and the landscapes of Alabama alongside my family who live there transformed my mission, helping me to finally lay my father’s fear to rest. </strong></p><br/><p><strong>Lee Hawkins: </strong>Mary Ruth’s Southern Food for Southern People Made with Love. I love that. That slogan. </p><br/><p><strong>Marvin Smith:</strong><em> </em>Welcome to Mary Ruth&#39;s. Thank you for coming. </p><br/><p><strong>Lee Hawkins: </strong>You got some grits on the griddle huh. </p><br/><p><strong>Marvin Smith</strong><strong><em>: </em></strong>Oh I got it all. Got me some grits, cheese grits, patty sausage, salmon croquettes, link sausage, bacon. Whatever you ask for we&#39;ll cook it. Pancakes, whatever. Hey, we aint Burger King but you can sure get it your way though. </p><br/><p><strong>Group: </strong>[Laughter] </p><br/><p><strong>There’s so much energy in the cafe. </strong></p><br/><p><strong>I feel the family. My family. </strong></p><br/><p><strong>We spend a couple hours eating together. Mapping family connections. People come into the cafe, some grab their food and take a seat, some join us. A woman walks in the door and she recognizes me…. not because she knows who I am, but because of my resemblance to her husband, he’s also a Pugh. </strong></p><br/><p><strong>Erica Page: </strong>Y&#39;all got a line that will not just go away. It&#39;s strong genes. You&#39;ll have strong and strong. Yes, cause I have a daughter and a grandson. Oh, God. Looks just like him<em> </em></p><br/><p><strong>Her name is Erica Page. </strong></p><br/><p><strong>Lee Hawkins: </strong>You know, Uncle Ike Pugh? </p><br/><p><strong>Erica Page: </strong>We went to the house several times.</p><br/><p><strong>At one point, someone pulls out a family reunion book. It’s a laminated, spiral bound scrapbook. Someone put a lot of work into making it. </strong></p><br/><p><strong>We’re flipping through the pages together….</strong></p><br/><p><strong>Lee Hawkins:</strong><em> </em>My grandma was Opie Pugh.</p><br/><p><strong>Erica Page: </strong>I know the name. </p><br/><p><strong>Lee Hawkins:</strong><em> </em>She was. Well, she was Ike&#39;s sister. </p><br/><p><strong>Erica Page: </strong>I know. I know the name.I means she&#39;s in the book.<em> </em></p><br/><p><strong>We find pictures of our Pugh ancestors, Uncle Ike and my dad’s mom, Grandma Opie. I’ve seen these photos before through my research into the family tree.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>But suddenly, Alabama feels different from the times I visited before for research. </strong></p><br/><p><strong>I am not surprised that the shift in my relationship with Alabama was guided by my family members who chose to stay rather than migrate north. They stayed and evolved Alabama to the point where both Montgomery and Birmingham now have African American mayors. They, and the millions of Black people who stayed, led a movement that benefits all Americans today. </strong></p><br/><p><strong>In discussing the hardships my family endured there, it is important to recognize that the progress of our people and our nation is largely attributable to the activism of the courageous Black Americans who stayed and fought. These same Black Americans welcomed me back to Alabama with open arms and support, encouraging me to move forward with this project. They reminded me not to be resentful or afraid to come home, to give Alabama a chance, and to offer it the same benefit of the doubt and acknowledgment of complexity that I give my country.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>Understanding that it was our families, the Black descendants of American slavery, who led the movement that resulted in the Civil Rights Act of 1964, ending Jim Crow apartheid and bringing America closer to liberty and justice for all, reinforces the reality that, despite significant trauma, we have remained a solutions-oriented people, some of the most effective activists this nation has ever known.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>Their legacy and courage have shaped Alabama and America and their spirit of irrepressibility continues to inspire me.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>In my forthcoming book, &quot;I Am Nobody’s Slave: How Uncovering My Family History Set Me Free,&quot; published by HarperCollins, I will strive to capture not just the stories of trauma but how we can continue to conquer it as a family, a Black American community, and a nation. Inspired by the spirit of my ancestors and my father, who transcended the limitations Alabama tried to impose on him, I will continue my journalism on several issues discussed in this series.  </strong></p><br/><p><strong>These include exposing and addressing the long-term effects of corporal punishment in homes and schools, the impact of childhood trauma on the health and well-being of children, encouraging school districts to implement policies of mandatory consequences for hate speech and harassment, and highlighting economic and health inequities along racial lines. I will also focus on the plight and power of Jim Crow apartheid survivors as they strive to quell the ripple effect of historical atrocities on their families.</strong></p><br/><p><strong>The question now is, what can we all do as a nation to recognize Jim Crow as a crime against humanity and to support the millions of Americans over 60 who lived in the South during this unfortunate period? How can we make our homes, schools, and society safer for the generations of children and grandchildren coming behind them?</strong></p><br/><p><strong>Together, we can acknowledge our past, honor the strength of those who came before us, and build a future filled with hope, determination, and joy. Let us rise with the resilience of our ancestors and create a world where every child can dream freely and every family can thrive. </strong></p><br/><p><strong>Lee Roy</strong>: You&#39;ve run the game and you know the Lord and you&#39;re doing your thing, man. And that&#39;s the best you can do as far as I&#39;m concerned. You have to keep your heart and your head up. I don&#39;t know this thing about being proud. I know the Lord and I know the Lord loves me. So if I&#39;m proud, man, please forgive me and if I shouldn&#39;t be, but it is a poor dog that don&#39;t wag his own tail, son, when you&#39;re trying to reach your goals, I&#39;ll put it like that, you know. </p><br/><p><strong>Lee Jr.</strong>: Right on. Well, okay buddy, I&#39;m going to hit it, but I&#39;ll be in touch, okay? </p><br/><p><strong>Lee Roy:</strong> Yeah, keep going, man, I&#39;m loving it. I&#39;m loving what we&#39;re doing, Lee. </p><br/><p><strong>Lee Jr.: </strong>Okay, love you, Dad. </p><br/><p><strong>Lee Roy: </strong>Okay man. Love you. Bye.</p><br/><p><strong>CREDITS</strong><br></p>