Season Of Change: Chapter 7

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Overburden. When used as a noun, the term refers to the material overlying a deposit of useful minerals or resources such as coal.76 Mining efforts in shallow seams usually

involve removing overburden from above with large earthmoving machines. In deeper seams like the No. 6, lying nearly an eighth of a mile beneath West Frankfort and surrounding communities, the thickness of the overburden makes tunneling into the earth via shafts a far more efficient means of accessing the target resource. Simply put, overburden is a mining term describing the relatively useless stuff separating a miner from the precious resource that he or she has been hired to extract.

Chapter 7: White Man’s Overburden

76 | Baseball, Coal Mining, and a Small Town’s Struggle to Beat the Odds

However, when used as a verb, to overburden means to unequally or excessively oppress. It is a mine term either way, because the life of a coal miner is a perilous one. Frequently, miners—especially the underground variety—are subjected to temperature extremes, potentially deadly mechanized equipment, suffocating dust, and the constant threat of methane gas contamination and even explosion. Meanwhile, absentee mine owners in Chicago, St. Louis, New York, or countless other places, while assuming tremendous financial risk, are never put in harm’s way as a result of their involvement in the venture. And as hard and dangerous as mining is, it was even more so for minority workers.

1948 West Frankfort was no different than most any other town in southern Illinois. It was segregated. To hear locals who were around at the time tell it, it wasn’t premeditated, intentionally ugly, or anything of that sort. It was just the way things were back then. While that sentiment might make things a bit easier to swallow in retrospect, it is in many ways likely an attempt to whitewash a stain whose residue persists to this day, penetrating the very fabric of life in West Frankfort. Thankfully, integration and desegregation would slowly make their way to town, but it would take decades. And meaningful change can take one of two directions: a fundamental shift in the hearts and minds of the townspeople or the simple passage of time in the hopes that future generations do not repeat the sins of their fathers. It is safe to say that sentiments today are most likely the result of a little of both.

Coal mines have long been equal opportunity employers. Pretty much anyone with the guts to do the work, regardless of race, color, creed, or ethnicity could find a job if the time was right. Mining booms at the turn of the century attracted workers from literally all over the world. Fueled by word of tremendous job growth

Chapter 7: White Man’s Overburden | 77

and ample opportunities to toil in the southern Illinois coal field, immigrants with significant experience in European coal mines came in droves with their families in tow, dramatically changing the cultural landscape of the region seemingly overnight. Joining the descendants of the western Kentuckians who had moved west between 1870 and 1910, bringing their southern dialects and values with them, Italians, Hungarians, Croatians, and Ukrainians all streamed into the area from around 1900 until the 1920’s. Most all came hungry for one thing: mine work. And, as so often was the case, one author in the 40’s pointed out that in addition to the ethnic diversity of the white settlers, there also existed a “separate Negro settlement of about 3,000 persons,” relegated to a role as little more than an asterisk in the discussion of southern Illinois demographics.18

Separate, indeed. Like most of America, southern Illinois was and is not so much a melting pot as a tapestry of diversity. And if someone wants to stick to their guns about the whole melting pot thing, then they need to recognize that what they seek in southern Illinois is a woefully under-heated mixture, its contents left lumpy and poorly mixed. Ethnic and racial groups tended to stay and live in relatively close-knit pockets of isolation, and vestiges to that effect are still readily apparent. Prior to the widespread use of the automobile, it was critically important that families live close to the worksite, and the echoes of those “company towns” still reverberate today.

Take, for instance, the small town of Carrier Mills, just some thirty-odd miles to the southeast of West Frankfort. While other similarly sized neighboring towns such as Crab Orchard, Galatia, and Goreville all cite current populations comprised of virtually no black residents, Carrier Mills’ current population of 1,832


is 14.2% black.77 More specifically, nearly one-fourth of Saline County’s 1085 black residents are concentrated within this one small community.78 Growing up in southern Illinois, it was never made a secret which towns were “rough” or should be avoided. Unfortunately for Carrier Mills, those discussions between parents and children almost always included their town—not so much because it was violent or dangerous, but simply because it was black.

Carrier Mills can attribute its uncharacteristic diversity directly to the unincorporated community of Lakeview. Initially established by African American freedmen in the 1820’s, Lakeview once had its own grocery store, school, churches, and a throng of houses—all owned and operated almost exclusively by blacks. Lakeview cemetery is a state historical landmark, as the oldest predominantly African American cemetery in the entire state.79 However, with the closing of the Lakeview School in 1950, many of the settlement’s residents opted to relocate to nearby Carrier Mills.

As peculiar as the story of Carrier Mills might be, it is unquestionably, Cairo, Illinois that holds the distinction of the saddest tale of dreams unfulfilled and total economic collapse in the face of bigotry and hate. Located on a low peninsula at the confluence of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, Cairo is the southernmost town in the state and was once considered a critically important shipping port for a nation that depended heavily on transportation by river. Founded by the Cairo City & Canal Company in 1837 and eventually incorporated in 1858, hopes were high that the strategic value of the land upon which Cairo stood would lead it to prosperity, and it did—for a time. Peaking at a population of over 15,000 in 1920, Cairo’s lofty aspirations were eventually dashed by a simmering and toxic racial divide that finally erupted in the late sixties, leaving the town, now just a tick over 3,000 in number, irreparably scarred.80


The signs were plentiful that Cairo held a caustic nugget of radioactive hate like a lit firecracker in a tightly clenched fist, ready to explode and destroy at any moment. Consider the lynching of James “Froggy” Will in November, 1909. Will had been accused of murdering a white girl, Anna Pelley, and was being held in the county jail. As word of an angry, bloodthirsty mob began to circulate through town, a concerned Sheriff Frank Davis tried to secretly ship Will out of town and out of harm’s way to nearby Murphysboro by rail. However, townsfolk got wind of his plan and intercepted the train near Anna. After eluding the locals for several hours, Davis and Will were eventually captured and despite the sheriff’s best efforts to protect him, the prisoner was forcibly taken away. The angry mob, now over 1000 strong and lathering toward a frenzied climax, mercilessly beat Will all the way back to Cairo where the throng was greeted by some 9000 more locals hell-bent on extracting their revenge. A badly disfigured Will, who had maintained his innocence up to that point, confessed to the crime in what could be interpreted as either an admission of guilt from a remorseful criminal or a last ditch plea for mercy from a man framed for a crime he did not commit. Regardless, Will was then strung up in the most prominent square in the city. A description of the events which appeared in the New York Times the next day, stated that Will was hoisted up on an arch in the town square by women relatives of the victim and around 500 other women before the rope suddenly snapped.81

By the time Will had hit the ground, men in the mob had already riddled his body with nearly 500 bullets. Amid dancing and jubilant celebration, Will’s bloody body was then dragged through the city streets over one mile, leaving a crimson trail to


lead the mob back to the scene of the crime where a large fire had already been raging. An unnamed woman applied the torch and burned what was left of Will’s body, as thousands of onlookers cheered for joy.

No trial. No conviction. But a portion of Will’s severed and scorched head was placed on a stake for all to see, a vivid picture of what happened when blacks messed with whites in town.81 Crazed and thirsty for more, the mob then unsuccessfully tried to find other blacks to string up before finally breaking in to the county jail to nab Henry Salzner, a white photographer accused of killing his wife, and lynching him, as well.81

Far from apologetic for their actions, prominent whites in town defended their actions and painted themselves as patient and giving to “Cairo’s negroes” until finally pushed to their tipping point.82 W.L. Clanahan, former editor of the Cairo Citizen, wrote a scathing letter to the editor at the New York Times, who had published the story regarding the event, decrying the “menace” of the town’s blacks, who in his opinion had benefitted from years of “coddling” and “special favor.” In Clanahan’s opinion, likely shared by many other locals, “Altogether it is not surprising that a lynching took place in Cairo. The only wonder is that one did not take place long ago.”82

Tensions remained high between Cairo’s residents for decades as the scars of racial divide hardened, but the embers of that hatred continued to smolder their toxic fumes all the while. The town somehow managed to stay out of national headlines until those hot ashes were again fanned into flame in 1969.80 A coalition of black organizations formed the United Front of Cairo in order to pressure local businesses to integrate and hire local blacks. For decades, Cairo’s white business owners had preferentially hired whites from town or from across the rivers from Kentucky or Missouri rather than local blacks. After a three-year boycott bolstered by


the support of prominent activists including Jesse Jackson and Ida B. Wells Barnett, referred to as “outside agitators” by most local whites, much of the previously thriving white-owned businesses had closed up and moved out rather than bow to the wishes of the town’s black leadership.80

A drive through Cairo today is a tragic journey through a town once so full of hope and promise, now left for dead and crumbling into oblivion. A once thriving business district on Commercial Avenue today stands eerily silent, each vacant and boarded building a painful but lingering testimony to someone’s broken dreams. Typically, no car other than that of an occasional curious traveler is parked on the weed-infested and cracked asphalt. Some structures have now given way to years of neglect and weather, spilling their once proud interiors and ornate brick façades like disemboweled carcasses onto the crumbling gray of the city sidewalks below. Just yards away from the town’s once fabled Millionaire Row of extravagant Victorian homes, other vacant and rotting houses slowly continue on their journey toward collapse.

Piles of rubble dot the landscape everywhere, oddly reminiscent of media images of some war torn third world country. But the onlooker must be reminded—this is America. Property owners have long abandoned their worthless stakes and a cash-strapped city government hasn’t the money nor the man power to do anything about it. Much like West Frankfort, Cairo has lost her hospital, many of her churches, and most of her businesses and industry. But it’s worse. In 2009, banks repossessed five of the town’s seven police cruisers as the city, over $500,000 in the red, was unable to keep up with payments. Long linked to a history of violence and racial divide, the town’s police force, once 29 strong,


has been slashed to a skeleton staff of just five, never entirely certain that their paychecks will clear the bank. However, the poverty and neglect that has now descended upon the Alexander county seat is somehow uglier and more hurtful than the variety experienced in other southern Illinois towns, with its roots in unfounded anger and hatred making it that much harder to endure.

About an hour’s drive up Interstate 57 from Cairo, the tiny town of Colp struggles simultaneously to live on and come to terms with its jaded past, too. As of 2000, this tiny spot in the road consisted of just 224 residents, with 21.43% self-identifying as black.78 Modern day Colp includes the unincorporated village of Number 9, so named for the Madison No. 9 mine acquired by the Madison Coal Corporation in 1906.83 Number 9 was initially settled by black miners around the turn of the century, and while similar to other typical company towns of the time in many ways, it was still obviously different. The familiar “shotgun houses” were even more hastily thrown together and nearly uninhabitable by today’s standards. And the “wide open” brand of relative lawlessness was allowed to escalate to levels not permitted elsewhere. Citing racial fears and unwillingness to incite violence, law enforcement officials were reluctant to intervene. Ironically, much of the illegal activities of the time, including prostitution, gambling, and alcohol bootlegging, were either carried out by whites, purchased by whites, or both in the relative safety of a law enforcement free zone inhabited mostly by black residents. Despite the ravages of over a century of time, decaying remnants of those shoddily built houses yet remain, some of which are even still occupied.

The village of Number 9 provided residents and visitors alike with a number of “recreational” choices not allowed in such excesses elsewhere. Taverns, gambling clubs, and brothels were the typical local attractions.84 As one author put it, such establishments ranged from “barely legal to flagrantly illegal.”84


Number 9’s most famous establishment, Johanna “Ma” Hatchett’s place, was officially referred to as a “boarding house,” but locals and non-locals alike knew differently. Ma’s place was a hopping brothel made famous throughout the region by its reputation for employing beautiful black women, meeting the needs of a the steady stream of all-white clientele who frequented it.84, 85 Ma’s place remained in operation until the mid-60’s, and although the business eventually burned down, the small house in which Hatchett lived remains standing today.

“Recreational value” aside, Colp was also an important community for WFBAC, too. Mondino and Jacobs wished to use Memorial Stadium as often as possible to host events of local and regional appeal to generate interest in their team and also help defray operations expenses. One approach was to stage exhibition baseball games with various travelling barnstormer teams, which were comprised of major leaguers looking to boost their meager salaries in the off season. Additionally, Negro League teams were booked to play in various matchups throughout the year. While players involved with the former had no problems in 1948 West Frankfort, community law at the time prohibited blacks from being in town from an hour before sunset until sunrise.

“I’m not sure they’re proud of it now, but West Frankfort wouldn’t let the black players be in town after dark,” recalled Hall of Fame manager and ‘48 West Frankfort MVP Earl Weaver.86 In fact, legendary teams like the Birmingham Black Barons and the New York Cubans came to town from time to time, often drawing larger crowds than the hometown Cardinals. For Mondino and Jacobs, the challenge was starting the games late enough to attract fans after work but early enough to get the black players on the road to Colp in time to comply with local ordinances. As Jacobs’ daughter Carol Lugge would later recount, on more than one occasion, games were preempted when black teams were forced


to hit the road for their “approved quarters,” a sweltering and miserable 30 minute bus ride to Colp some 15 miles as the crow flies to the southwest.35

Segregation of the time had other impacts, as well. Longtime coal miner James Rouse was born in 1941 in the country outside of Carrier Mills. His mother was not allowed inside the local hospital for his birth.84 At the time, blacks were not allowed in the area’s all-white hospitals. In 1962, in an attempt to sidestep federal desegregation efforts, Cairo’s city swimming pool became a “private club,” requiring a membership card for entry. Predictably, “membership” was restricted exclusively to whites. Activists, incensed by the move, congregated in protest until a white supremacist drove his pickup truck into the crowd, severely injury a young black girl.87 Countless other examples of segregation and racial injustice remain, some discussed, some not, in an ugly corner of the past that most southern Illinoisans would just as soon forget. However, as fellow longtime miner and Lakeview resident Sam “Spoon” Witherspoon put it, the mine industry had a way of unifying people, at least to a certain extent. “Most of the guys I knew, they were my comrades, my friends, white or black. The problem was never down there, but outside the mines.”84

Unfortunately, those problems “outside the mines” persist even today. Like the first tiny blades of grass popping through the hard barren earth of a scorched desert, though, West Frankfort has shown some small signs of progress. However, perhaps due in part to the steadily declining population, or simply the natural tendency of folks to “stick to their own,” desegregation in the town has come at a painfully slow pace. In 2000, of the 8,196 residents living within West Frankfort’s city limits, only 0.20% self-identified as black, with an overwhelming majority, 98.40%, identifying as white.89 That 0.20% represented a total of just 11 residents who self-identified as Black or African American.


Among several other victories, the American civil rights movement of the 60’s led to the reform necessary to abolish the cruel and prejudicial practice of segregating schools on the basis of race. However, it would be a full 31 years later before Frankfort Community High School’s first black student, Fernie Fuchs, would break the color barrier there. And over the past two decades, a handful of minority students have come and gone without incident, but enrollment rates for minority students at FCHS remain far below state averages. In 2009, demographic data indicated that 14.9% of all Illinoisans and 12.9% of all U.S. citizens were black.88 Meanwhile, just 31 of all those in the West Frankfort zip code, a total of 12,262 respondents, self-identified as black, up a total of 20 residents in 10 years.89

West Frankfort’s first-ever black quarterback, Kendrick Simelton.


Although few and far between, the signs of a shift in the prevailing sentiment regarding race are beginning to surface. Evidence of just such marked philosophical change took place in late August, 2007. High school junior Kendrick Simelton, whose mother Nadia had relocated the family to West Frankfort from Cairo in 2005 to avoid the negative influences there, took the field as the first black quarterback ever to start for the FCHS Redbirds in the season opener on the road at Anna Jonesboro. Simelton’s older brother Isaiah had been a star on the FCHS basketball team and was an accomplished jumper on the track team just a few years prior, ultimately earning a college scholarship to play forward for the nearby John A. Logan College Volunteers basketball team. Kendrick was eventually moved to tailback and wide receiver later in the season, and following his graduation in 2009 he earned a spot playing wideout for the Harper College Hawks in Palatine, Illinois. However, his unique place in Frankfort history remains.

Although change has come slowly, it is encouraging to know that young people who would not even be allowed into town at certain times of day decades prior are now given the same opportunities to succeed as their white counterparts. Such students have found successes both in the classroom and on the playing fields and courts. In a credit to the younger generation, racial divides of the past are largely seen for what they are: superficial and antiquated mentalities rooted in bigotry and hate. Unfortunately, such was not always the case, and a cursory glance at West Frankfort history reveals this fact.

A telling sign of the times, not one black player ever wore a West Frankfort Cardinals baseball uniform.

Season Of Change: Chapter 7

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