• Telling it like it is: elected as a firebrand, Patterson retires as a statesman

    This is an incredible article by Roddie Burris at The State.

    Telling it like it is: elected as a firebrand, Patterson retires as a statesman

    After 34 years in the S.C. Legislature - all but 10 as a state senator - Columbia’s Kay Patterson is retiring from an institution that, he says, no longer fits him.

    “It’s uncomfortable - for me,” said Patterson, who was swept into office in 1975.

    Patterson was one of 13 black lawmakers seated in the House of Representatives that year, a record-setting number for modern times.

    “When I started … working up here was very pleasant and you could get things done, and I enjoyed it,” said Patterson, who was among only the second class of black lawmakers since Reconstruction elected to the Legislature.

    But times have changed, Patterson says.

    “You have little boys coming up here now, don’t hardly know where the restroom or the outhouse is, (and they) chair a committee,” the outspoken lawmaker said with a degree of indignation. “Here I am a hundred years old.”

    Not quite, though Patterson is 77.

    Patterson, a Democrat, said the General Assembly - the House much more so than the Senate - has become too partisan.

    “Since (the Republicans) took over,” Patterson said, dignity, senatorial courtesy and respect in the General Assembly have given way to meanness, ill-tempered tones of voice and disrespect among members.

    “I said now, ‘I don’t have to put up with this. I’ve had enough of this.’”

    ‘FIREBRAND … EVOLVED INTO A STATESMAN’

    Patterson’s departure will leave an elocutionary void in the sausage-making drill that is S.C. politics, friends and colleagues say.

    Over the years, Patterson’s use of black dialect, often laced with well-placed invectives, has helped him to make his point and needle his opponents.

    “They would call that ebonics in this day and age,’ Patterson said. “But we didn’t have that terminology back in those days.”

    Those who know Patterson and agree with his politics - such as his seatmate of 34 years, state Sen. John Matthews, D-Orangeburg - say Patterson’s departure will leave “the little man” voiceless in what they say are the increasingly hostile halls of the General Assembly.

    “I think what Senator Patterson will probably be known for, as he departs the Senate, he’s clearly been the conscience and the voice of the unelected, the unsophisticated and those who did not have a voice,” said Matthews, who was elected alongside Patterson.

    “That has been his primary role, to make sure their concerns were taken into consideration as we debated education, economic development, health care or whatever the issue.”

    You won’t find a stack of legislation Patterson has sponsored over the decades. But “his impact on the legislative process was probably the greatest of any African-American I know,” Matthews said.

    That’s because Patterson was so keen on picking out and stopping legislation he thought could have a negative impact on African-Americans and the poor, Matthew said.

    Patterson and Matthews, the two most senior African-American lawmakers in the General Assembly, are the last of the so-called “Famous 13″ black state lawmakers elected in 1975.

    Not all of Patterson’s peers in the Legislature agree with his politics or his view of the General Assembly.

    “We’re both Marines. We’re both Episcopalians. That’s about where our similarities end,” said Republican state Sen. John Courson, who also represents Richland County.

    But Courson added, “We have developed a good relationship and friendship together over the years. I have tremendous respect for him, and I’ll miss him.”

    Courson says he sees a different Patterson nowadays.

    “Sen. Patterson came to the Legislature as sort of a firebrand and sort of evolved into a statesman. He doesn’t speak (on the Senate floor) that often, but when he does, people listen.”

    ‘I OUGHT TO BE PRESIDENT!’

    A former social studies teacher at W.A. Perry Middle School, Patterson came into the Legislature like a gangbuster.

    Thirteen of the General Assembly’s 170 lawmakers were African-American that year, all of them House members elected as the result of passage of the Voting Rights Act 10 years earlier. That historic piece of legislation led to single-member districts in the state for the first time since Reconstruction.

    “I never really thought of being in the Legislature,” Patterson said, recalling he taught eighth-grade social studies at Perry to Columbia attorney I.S. Leevy Johnson, elected to the Legislature in 1970.

    “I said, ‘Damn, I taught I.S. If I.S. can get elected to the House of Representatives, I ought to be president of the United States!’

    “That’s what got me in the Legislature,” Patterson said, laughing.

    Patterson went on to be a member of the powerful House Ways and Means Committee, chairman of the Legislative Black Caucus and the first African-American on USC’s board of trustees.

    His House seat barely warm, Patterson introduced a measure in 1977 to remove the Confederate flag from several positions at the State House - outside, atop the dome; inside, in the front of the Senate and House chambers; and in the first-floor lobby.

    Along with fellow members of the Black Caucus, Patterson called on then-State House committee chairman Rep. Rembert Dennis, D-Berkeley, to take the flag down and took his argument to the House floor.

    “Your admiration for y’all’s flag is not shared by us descendants of that peculiar institution of slavery, which is the epitome of man’s inhumanity to man and all the evils appertaining thereto,” Patterson said in April 1977, according to a press report.

    Patterson kept up the drumbeat, introducing a bill to have the flags moved nearly every year afterward.

    They were, nearly a quarter of a century later, in 2000.

    Patterson is thought to be first lawmaker to take on the Confederate flag.

    “I don’t think (Patterson) gets the credit he deserves on that subject,” said U.S. Rep. James Clyburn, D-Columbia.

    Clyburn, then on the State Human Affairs Commission, said he joined Patterson in his call to remove the flag.

    “I got some real nasty letters. I got some real threats,” said Clyburn, who, in a book he is writing, ranks the fight over the Confederate flag as the third-most defining moment of his political career.

    Clyburn thinks it may have been worse for Patterson. The deaths threats against Patterson led to an arrest, Clyburn recalls.

    Ironically, Patterson and Clyburn were blackballed by the state NAACP in 2001 for criticizing a tourism boycott that group organized after the flag was moved to its current location on the State House grounds.

    “All of this was before the NAACP ever opened their mouths about the Confederate flag,” Clyburn said, “and … they ended up black-balling me and Kay, which is just crazy stuff. We were out there and not a peep from them. Then, all of a sudden, they became holier than anybody else.”

    RACISM IN BLACK AND WHITE

    Over his career, Patterson has been an equal opportunity offender and defender.

    He has been criticized by opponents as a racist and a poor role model for black children for his “plantation-style” of talk.

    In the late 1970s and early 1980s, Patterson penned a newspaper column in the local black press called “Spressin’ Myself.”

    Characterized by crude language and sensationalism for effect, Patterson routinely used the column to attack the white establishment and politicians - black and white - for positions on issues with which Patterson disagreed.

    Patterson won his way into the S.C. Senate by defeating Democrat-turned-Republican Frank Washington in a 1985 special election, brought on by the resignation of the late Rev. I. DeQuincey Newman, the first African-American elected to the S.C. Senate in the 20th century.

    Washington, who was president of the Columbia branch of the NAACP, accused Patterson of abusing whites in his newspaper column and of being unable to represent whites.

    For his part, Patterson called Washington “the Republican Party’s newfound pet Negro.”

    A year earlier, Patterson had taken political heat from the Columbia NAACP for supporting the re-election bid of a white Senate colleague over a black candidate in a newly drawn majority-black Senate district.

    Patterson said he supported the late Sen. Isadore Lourie’s 1984 re-election bid over former state Rep. Mary Miles because Lourie had been one of the few friends of African-Americans in the state Senate.

    In 1990, Patterson joined some white Democrats to endorse the U.S. Senate re-election bid of Republican Strom Thurmond. “It was the right thing to do,” he said at the time.

    When Thurmond died in 2002, his family asked Courson to ask Patterson to eulogize the iconic Thurmond during funeral services in Columbia.

    “He did an outstanding job,” Courson said.

    Patterson also was known to point out what he perceived as racism.

    Patterson pushed for a Senate rule in 1987 that barred the Senate from accepting official invitations to clubs or organizations that discriminated based on race.

    After the late Gov. Carroll Campbell had been in office for only eight months, Patterson took him on for his appointments to state boards and commissions. Patterson accused the Republican governor of removing African-Americans from meaningful boards “with all deliberate speed.”

    “Black Republicans appointed thus far, without exception, have been appointed to those commissions and boards that can be categorized as ‘nothing burgers’ — e.g. no salary, only per diem (expenses) if that, and all the coffee you can drink, with ‘Honorable’ in front of your name!” Patterson said.

    “Only in America! I just wonder when the black Republicans will wake the hell up and smell the coffee!”

    ‘THERE’S A DEPTH’

    Once he exits politics, Patterson - who says his health is good after a battle with cancer five years ago - plans to spend time traveling Interstate 95 to visit his children and grandchildren up north.

    Matthews said he doubts Patterson can be replaced.

    Clyburn wonders if Patterson’s detractors ever have stopped long enough to take his true measure.

    “There’s a depth to Kay Patterson that a lot of people miss,” said Clyburn, a longtime Patterson political friend, fraternity brother and neighbor. “They get hung up on the rhetoric.

    “They never get to the reasoning.”

     

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  • South Carolina Children Need Your Help! Please Support The Constitutional Amendment For “High Quality” Education.

    South Carolinians have an opportunity to help improve our state’s public school system by signing a petition to replace SC’s current standard of “minimally adequate education.” This petition supports an amendment inserting “a high quality education, allowing each student to reach his highest potential” into our state constitution.

    Legislation to change the state constitution must be passed by a 2/3rds vote of the Senate and House of Representatives in order to put the amendment on the general election ballot for public vote in November, 2010. Please sign up today and let everyone know we value South Carolina public schools!

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  • Jaime Harrison:A Long Way From Orangeburg

    Here’s a really inspirational story from the Politico.

    For anyone doubting that opportunity still exists in America, there is the story of Jaime Harrison.

    Harrison is a top aide to House Majority Whip Jim Clyburn, a job that ranks among the most influential in Congress. He has an office at the dead center of the Capitol building — a place senators would envy — offering a perfectly aligned view of the Washington Monument. On the walls hang photos of him schmoozing with celebrities, politicians and celebrity politicians, from Dave Chappelle and Bono to Bill Richardson and Barack Obama. Most days, he works on the floor of the House of Representatives, directing Clyburn’s floor staff and conferring with members of Congress to make sure Democrats have enough votes to pass key legislation.

    Consider that life experience, filled with the luminaries of politics and entertainment, and then contemplate the one into which Harrison was born in Orangeburg, S.C., a poor, majority-African-American town of 13,000. Orangeburg is the place where, in 1968, three civil rights protesters were killed and 27 were wounded when police fired into a crowd gathered at South Carolina State University in what became known as the Orangeburg massacre.

    Harrison, now 32, was born almost exactly eight years after the massacre to a 15-year-old mother and her high school boyfriend. It was an inauspicious start, both in geography and circumstances, and no harbinger of what was to come.

    Growing up, Harrison worked as a bingo hall caller, operating the ball machine and yelling the numbers out over the bowed heads of the players, the air smoky with the smell of hot dog grease.

    “The boss always wanted me to go faster so he could get more games in,” he said. “I would speed it up, and then someone would say, ‘Boy, slow your ass down!’”

    With his father gone and his mother often in Atlanta, Harrison was raised by his grandparents. His grandmother, who was 38 when he was born, had unfulfilled dreams of being a nurse. She had an eighth-grade education. His grandfather had finished the fourth grade and then worked in construction, building up Hilton Head Island. The family moved several times when he was young, from a house to a trailer home, then, after a foreclosure, to his great aunt’s house, and finally to a rental home.

    When the foreclosure happened — he said it was the result of fraud — Harrison made a promise to himself that if he ever made any money, he would buy his grandparents a house. He never wanted them to relive the embarrassment of the foreclosure.

    Despite the frequent moves, Harrison described a near-idyllic childhood filled with loving relatives, good food and comic books.

    “People tell me, ‘Man, Jaime, you were dirt poor,’” he said. “Yeah, but I loved it.”

    He ate his grandmother’s sumptuous food, savoring a favorite dish of lima beans and ham hocks. He honed his reading skills, diving into Spider-Man, X-Men and his grandparents’ bills. He scored well on standardized tests, impressing teachers who had already given him good grades.

    As he got older, college brochures began to arrive. Although he hadn’t heard of the Ivy League, he did know that places like Harvard and Yale were prestigious. So when Yale held an admissions session in nearby Columbia, he borrowed his grandfather’s 1978 Ford LTD and headed off. An admissions video and an a cappella performance later, he was ready to apply.

    The following spring was a time of high anxiety. Each day, Harrison walked expectantly down the dirt path from his grandparents’ rented duplex to the mailbox to look for the proverbial thick envelope.

    He remembers the date even today, sitting in his Capitol office in a chair he had reupholstered to his liking. “April 2, 1994,” the day he fished out a meaty envelope and tore it open, his eyes flying over the page. Accepted. With a full scholarship.

    “I got in! I got in!” he hollered, leaping into the air at the curb.

    His grandmother rushed out to the porch. “Boy, why you screaming?”

    “I got into Yale!” He ran back up the path and described to her what the letter said.

    “She knew it was something that was really important to me,” he recalled. “I don’t know if she grasped how big it was.”

    He phoned his mother, Patricia Stewart, to tell her the news.

    “When he called me, it was like he just won the lottery,” Stewart said. “We all [were] excited.”

    Harrison isn’t the only one in Washington with an Orangeburg connection. Nearly a decade before the massacre, Harrison’s boss, Clyburn, was a leader in the burgeoning civil rights movement at South Carolina State, organizing the first sit-ins in the state.

    By the time Harrison applied to Yale in the ’90s, many of the battles Clyburn’s generation had waged against the indignities of discrimination had been won. Clyburn and his contemporaries had unlocked the doors that Harrison, 30 years later, would burst through.

    “That’s as it should be,” Clyburn said. “His success is what we were sacrificing for. … Jaime Harrison may be standing on my shoulders. I’m standing on someone’s shoulders, too. He’ll provide some shoulders for other people to stand on.”

    Harrison’s opening weeks at Yale were rocky, filled with doubts about whether he could compete with kids from the best high schools in the country.

    His freshman-year roommate, a Catholic kid from Long Island who was the son of a lawyer and a nurse, asked Harrison to read over an essay he had written.

    “I read it and thought, ‘This reads like a textbook.’ It was so good. I went back and read mine and thought, ‘Oh, God, I don’t think I should be here.’” Harrison went from getting straight A’s in high school to B’s and even a C+ his first semester in college. “It shook me hard.”

    He sought help from the school’s writing coaches, worked diligently and slowly watched his grades pick up. On the social front, he excelled, transcending boundaries of race and background to cultivate friends in all areas of the university. He was elected treasurer of the Yale senior class.

    “He’s something very unique,” said Harvey Goldblatt, who led Harrison’s residential college at Yale. “There’s an essential decency about him — very warm, very loyal, easily able to pick up on someone’s worth as a human being. … He’s one of my great stories.”

    Harrison calls Goldblatt, a Jewish professor of Medieval Slavic literature originally from Canada, his “Yale dad,” one of several men who have served as stand-ins for an absent father.

    When Harrison graduated, Goldblatt presented him with an award for the student whose story was most emblematic of the Yale experience. It was pouring rain and Goldblatt took to the podium to announce the winner.

    “‘Gee, I wonder who this is going to be,’” he recalled joking to the crowd. “I’ve never said that before.” Harrison was the obvious winner.

    After college, Harrison returned to Orangeburg to teach at his old high school for a year, where he lavished special attention on promising young black men grasping for role models. He then moved to Washington to work with a nonprofit educ