From An Amazing First
Ashburn, Georgia, a rural community of 4,400, 80 miles north of the Florida border, boasts one of the largest peanut-processing plants in the country. But on this Saturday in April, Ashburn is about to get noticed for something different. The city's Turner County High is holding its first school-sponsored integrated prom since America's courts ordered desegregation in educational institutions more than 50 years ago. On Hodge King Drive, in the small brick house he shares with his mother, 17-year-old James Hall is already dressed in his prom finery: white pants, white shoes, white shirt, snappy white tailcoat and a vest, all rented for $117 from Bhavani Hi Style Fashions in Tifton, 20 miles away. His hot-pink garter -- a satin and lace band worn over his sleeve -- matches his date's dress. James, the president of Turner County High's senior class and the moving force behind the prom, is nervous.The whole town, in fact, is percolating with anticipation and anxiety. Camera crews and journalists ("A Media Storm" reads a headline in the local weekly) have converged on Ashburn from as far away as New York City, unnerving residents.
Turner County High, like many schools in small Southern communities, actually stopped holding proms of any kind after desegregation; the last school-sponsored formal dance in Ashburn took place in 1969. Instead, black students and white students raised money from car washes and bake sales to underwrite separate parent-supported proms held each spring in hotels or other facilities away from school grounds. De facto segregation in the opinion of some; private parties in the view of others.
The Class of 2007 decided it was time to start a new tradition.
On the day before the prom, as James Hall struggled to hang a large paper moon on the gym stage, he looked back with a sense of satisfaction. "This has been my dream since freshman year," he said. "I think other people wanted to do this before, but no one was ready to get behind it and push forward." James was. Early in the school year, he and his fellow class officers (two whites and another black) approached the school principal, Chad Stone, and announced they wanted to hold a prom in the gym for everyone in the junior and senior classes.
Stone, a high-energy former coach, was all for it. "I've watched these kids grow up together and become great friends across the board," he says. He agreed to cover the costs of the disc jockey and the decorations. The committee chose a tropical island theme with palm trees and colored lights, and painted a huge banner that said "Breakaway." Says Stone, "We're breaking ground here, breaking away from old tradition and establishing a new one. School-sponsored is the point. We're trying not to make this a black-white thing." But, inevitably, it is.
A Divided History
Ashburn, which is 65 percent black and where the median income is $18,700, is geographically split by the railroad tracks -- whites living mostly on the more affluent side, blacks mostly on the other. Economic disparity in Turner County looms large. Black households, on average, bring in 53 percent less income than white households, and 45 percent of the black population live below the poverty line, versus 11 percent of the white population.The area has a long history of segregation. Gwendolyn Mathis, 49, associate pastor of a black church in Ashburn, still remembers being forced to sit upstairs in the balcony at the local movie theater in the 1970s, even after the schools were integrated. "When the theater burned down, it was never rebuilt because it would have to be black and white," she says. The waiting room at the medical clinic was also divided until the 1980s -- whites on one side, blacks on the other. Mathis remembers a nurse shuffling the patient cards so that whites who arrived later went in first. "If you were black," she says, "you'd better pack a lunch because it was going to take all day."
Though few Ashburn residents have graduated from college, among those who have, 14 percent are white and 2 percent black. It's no wonder the town's hopes and future are tied to the high school. One of the few activities to bring the community together was sports -- especially Turner County High's outstanding, black-dominated football and basketball teams. "White parents go to the games," says Mathis, "but otherwise, things are pretty separate." Now the kids who had gotten behind the idea for the prom were taking an even bigger step toward bridging the racial gap. "I think the young people commingle better than the adults," says Mathis. "The kids have been trying to bring this prom together for a long time. The parents are the ones who have interfered."
Michael Shelton, a white senior, is helping to decorate the gym. "A lot of kids might not come because their parents hold them back," he says. "Turner County is pretty cliquish." But, notes Josh Boney, senior class vice president, things have gotten better. "I have white friends, and we go to Tifton to hang out -- there's nothing to do here. There were times in the past when we didn't even think about talking to each other. We're still a work in progress, but we've come a long way."
Enrollment at Turner County High, which has about 500 students, is currently 55 percent black and 45 percent white. "Desegregation here was as smooth as desegregation anywhere," says Superintendent of Schools Ray Jordan, a lifelong Ashburn resident and graduate of the class of '77, as he watches students pump up balloons and try to hoist a canopy of streamers. "But this is America, and people socialize with the people they choose. For whatever reason, this school stopped having proms. Now this class has come forward, and it's so impressive and makes me feel good about the future of our community."
More Than Breaking Tradition
Frances Office, a member of the Board of Education since 2003, was the first black woman to be elected to anything in Turner County. "We wanted a black homecoming queen," she remembers, "but the queen was always white. So we led a walkout. We just walked right out of class -- and stayed out until they gave us what we asked for." From then on, two homecoming queens -- one black, one white -- were elected each autumn. The practice ended last fall after three decades when a letter from the Department of Justice, which continues to monitor the desegregation process, expressed concern about the two queens. Shortly thereafter, Aniesha Gipson, a popular and accomplished cheerleader who is biracial, was elected to reign alone over the homecoming festivities and to ride on a float in the annual Christmas parade."It was time to have one queen," says Office, "as it's time now to have one prom. These kids go to school together every day and are going to live in the same world." She knows that not everyone supports the event. "We've got good people in Ashburn, but we've also still got people who live in la-la land. But the prom will stay."
This is not, technically, Turner County's first integrated prom. Eight years ago, Roy and Lisa Sears, along with parents of both races, organized a private event at a local Holiday Inn after their daughter, a class officer, pushed for an integrated dance at school and was told not to rock the boat. The kids who attended had a good time, but white support was minimal -- and there was no effort made to hold the event again.
James Hall and his fellow officers believed their class was different. Mandy Alberson, a white senior, agrees. "It seems like our class is closer than others," she says. "We've known each other for 18 years, not just in school but playing kickball in summer programs, going on band trips and all that stuff. Why divide us for the prom? I never understood that."
Hall and his team worked tirelessly to promote Breakaway. They hung fliers all over the school. A poster in the cafeteria proclaimed "The First Ever! Got Your Haircut?" Excitement was building, and 100 tickets at $25 each were sold.
There was a setback. A week before the prom, about 40 white students, some of whom had already graduated, held their own dance at a marina on Lake Blackshear in Cordele, 20 miles north. They claimed it was a private party, not a prom. But, as in other years, the kids hired limos and a bus, rented tuxes and had souvenir portraits taken by a professional photographer. Fewer than half of the 91 white students in the junior and senior classes attended. Still, it hurt.
"It was just wrong," said Sakiya Terrell, James Hall's date. "It made it look like they don't want to have a prom with us."
Josh Boney was equally disappointed. "They said they were doing it because it's always been that way and they didn't want to break tradition. Well, I think there was more to it than just not wanting to break tradition."
Mandy Alberson did not go to the white-only affair. Neither did Sarah Baggett. Both are getting coiffed at His & Hers Hairstyles on Posey Lane on Saturday afternoon. Alberson watches intently as ringlets are carefully arranged atop her head by hairdresser Luana. "I didn't go because of all the drinking," says Baggett. "There are a lot of kids who don't like the school prom because they want to drink and go wild. But you know what? I'd rather go have fun with black people and remember my prom."
"We Did It!"
When a glittery tiara is artfully positioned in Alberson's light-brown hair, she is visibly moved. "Awesome," she exclaims softly. She has a French manicure and is wearing a gorgeous red strapless gown, which replaced her first selection after a problem with the alterations left her in tears in the dressing room.By late Saturday afternoon, the mood is exuberant in front of Mt. Olive Baptist Church, where black couples have assembled to await two super-stretch limousines accommodating nine couples each. Girls in peach, yellow, red and turquoise satin and chiffon parade in the hot sun, showing off their formal gowns to parents and neighbors. Boys, decked out in tuxes or tails, watch admiringly. Several kids throw their arms around each other, shouting, "We did it!"
The school parking lot begins to fill up around 7 p.m. as townspeople line the gym entrance to watch the couples arrive. Calvin Caton, a senior who attended the white prom the previous week, downplays its significance. "It wasn't racist. It was more just tradition. This is about school, and the school getting together to have a party."
His date, Cheryl Nichols, acknowledges that some of her white friends won't be attending tonight because their parents don't want them partying with blacks. "I think that's crazy," she says, "but they have to abide by their parents' rules."
Noriega McKellar, a black senior, couldn't care less. "This is history, baby," he shouts as he bounds toward the entrance. "Somebody had to do it. Why shouldn't it be us? I'm gonna dance with white girls and I'm gonna dance with black girls."
And that, in the end, is what happened. As hip-hop and country music blasted through the night air, everybody danced with everybody. "It was just awesome!" says Mandy Alberson, looking exhilarated as she emerges late that evening, her hairdo still intact. "Cliques were broken up. It was better than anyone expected."
James Hall is nearly delirious. "We sold about 150 tickets, and we were pleased with the turnout," he says. Some 60 percent of those who attended were black; 31 white students stayed away. Still, Hall was happy. "Everybody had a great time," he says. "Whites were dancing with blacks, teachers were dancing with kids, and Mr. Stone was even dancing with his one-year-old baby. It was more than I could have asked for."
Superintendent Jordan is beaming. "With all you hear about young people today, to see a group of students who want to do something positive like this, well, I celebrate them and what they have done."