Little Shirley Seale was in her room at the back of her wood frame house when she saw flames through her window. The Natchez girl, who was 5 in 1968, stared out at the green cow pasture that opened up beyond the window. She could see dozens, maybe a hundred people, wearing mostly whitebut some black and redchoir-like robes with pointy hoods covering their heads. A cross decorated the front of each robe.
The crowds of men were yelling something, and could probably be heard on Morgantown Road, only two-tenths of a mile south from where her family lived on Seale Road next to her grandparents' larger home. Several of the robed men were holding up torches, using them to set a towering cross on fire. It was easily 20, 25 feet high.
Excited, the little girl ran out of her room to get a closer look, and to try to hear what the men were yelling. Her mama and daddy were in the living room, watching TV.
"I want to go up there and see what's going on," she told them. Shirley was a precocious child, often slipping out to go to rooster fights held on her granddaddy Tullie Seale's vast property, to visit the rodeo pen on the place, to poke around the sawmill, the dairy barn or the sugarcane mill.
Her daddy, Shirod, told her they couldn't go over to the rally, as he would numerous times in the next two years, but they could go outside and watch what Klansmen referred to as the "lighting of the cross" from a distance. He got up, and the two of them walked out the front door and turned right to go around the side of the house. She could see masked Klansmen carrying rifles up and down Seale Road in front of her house, making sure nobody came down who wasn't supposed to. She later heard that they had turned away a carload of black people that night.
Shirley could hear some of the words being chanted in unison once they got outside: "Keep the white race pure!"
Around back, the little girl was riveted and still antsy to get closer. "Let's go! Let's go!" she begged.
"No, we're setting right here," her daddy answered. They then watched for what seemed like hours, as individual Klansmen made fiery speeches about preserving their race, while the cross kept on burning.
Little Shirley knew her grandfather was up in the group that night. It was no secret that he was a Klan leader; the little church that her grandfather had built in 1949, right at the corner of Seale Road and Morgantown, was a meeting place for the White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan and would later become a whites-only segregation academy. Klansmen, robed or not, were commonplace on their neighborhood roads in those daysan area of northeast Natchez feared by African Americans and known for being heavily imbedded with restless white bigots.
Shirley couldn't tell who was who, but she saw one red-robed Klansman, who was likely her grandfather. Tullie Seale was the Grand Wizard (also called the Grand Dragon), the highest-ranking leader of a local klavern. But she couldn't know for sure because she had never seen him with his robe to her knowledge.
The little girl did know one thing, though: She wanted desperately to be just like her grandfather, a larger-than-life, tough man she idolized. That desire intensified as she watched more Klan gatherings and learned how inferior black people wereno better than dogs, reallyfrom her grandpa and his friends. Her own parents didn't say those kinds of things, but like many white people back then, and now, they didn't speak up about it, either.
And thus, Shirley Seale grew up hating black people just like her grandfather did.
Of Love and Drinking
A life of hate can seem like fun at the time.
Shirley Seale Beach, now 42 and already a grandmother, grew up rowdy, loud and racist. Like her grandfather, she blamed "n*ggers" for the problems around her in Natchez; she believed black people were lazy and didn't do enough to help themselves; she didn't want her kids to spend much time with black peopleor heaven forbid, date one. She remembers cursing black students and even getting into fights with them when she was at South Natchez High School.
She even looked for love with race at the front of her mind. After failed relationships of the pastshe had her first child at age 16she met her current husband, Gary Beach, in 1989 at a bar named Dimples in Natchez. Then, she smoked and drank heavily and wasn't averse to a bit of honky-tonkin'.
When she and her future husband first caught each other's eye and started talking, they weren't focused on the usual size-'em-up chitchat. One of their first questions for each other before they hooked up was: "Have you ever slept with a black?"
Neither had; they were, therefore, free to fall in love and marry.
Beach had been taught to be an open racist by her extended family, especially her grandfather, even as she remembers her own mother and father subtly trying to instill different values. Her mother, Kathryn, liked to say that she knew how it felt to be a slave; her familysharecroppers ripped off by rich landownersmight as well have been "white slaves," she'd say.
But even with parents trying to quietly buck tradition, Shirley drank her family's traditional racist Koolaid.
Until she decided to stop drinking.
I first heard the name "Shirley Beach" uttered by a black woman in Roxie, about 20 miles east of Natchez in Franklin County, the home of many of the primary players in the James Ford Seale trialincluding Seale himself. The Beaches also live in Franklin County.
I was visiting Valerie Doris Norman after a chain of reporting discoveries had parked me on her doorstep. After my original story appeared detailing Thomas Moore's journey for justice for his brother and Henry Dee in July 2005, I got a call from John Briggs, who shared his father's journal saying that the Klan had searched his church in Roxie the day they killed the two young men. I spent months following leads that Briggs and others in the area provided, finally ending up sipping tea in Mrs. Norman's living room in March of this year.
I was there for colorful stories about Rev. Clyde Briggs, the defiant black preacher who took on the Klan in the '60s. He had first encouraged Norman to get an education and have the nerve to be in the church choir, telling her she could do anything she wanted.
The sprightly woman, who acts far younger than her 70 years, had mesmerized me for nearly two hours with her tales, past and present, about the complicated race relations of her community, how the Klan had tried to scare Roxie blacks, how blacks had armed themselves in response.
We were finishing when she remarked that not only is she a pastor in a Natchez church, thanks to Rev. Briggs' influence, but she ministers there alongside James Ford Seale's cousin.
"What?" I responded.
"Yes," she responded, giggling a bit at how she had set her trap and lured me in.
"Is she white?"
"Yes." Her blue eyes were doing the jitterbug above her mischievous smile.
"She's a pastor at your church?"
"Yes."
That's how I ended up sitting behind Shirley Beach, Seale's second cousin once removed, on the second pew of the New Hope Missionary Baptist Church in Natchez the Sunday before the Seale trial started in Jackson.
Pastor Shirley Beach
After hearing about Shirley Beach, she became a bit of a personal obsession. I didn't know what to expect. But I had to meet her.
But she wasn't calling me back. I'm not sure I would have, either. The Seale trial was about to start, and reporters would be trolling for a quick story, especially involving the Klan. Or maybe she'd think I was just trying to bleed her for information on her family.
Why would she talk to me?
So the weekend before the trial started, I was on about my umpteenth trip to the area since 2005, and I dropped in on Mrs. Norman. Then I popped the question, standing next to her baby-blue Cadillac: "Could I come to your church tomorrow morning?" It was my turn to play the Cheshire cat.
She was thrilled and, I was to learn, just as determined as I was that this 40-something white woman meet that 40-something white woman. You could call Mrs. Norman a "connector." A delightful, conniving one.
I arrived at the church for the 11 a.m. service, and a young woman met me at the door (posted there by Pastor Norman, I assumed). She led me through the huge sanctuary across deep purple carpet with music blaring from the speakers and people standing up waving purple, silver and white flags.
The young woman showed me to my seat in the left row of pews, right behind the only white woman I saw at that point. She had shoulder-length permed brown hair and a delicate silk red suit and pumps, and perfect makeup. She was standing and swaying to the music, clapping her hands, alone on her pew. Her only ring was a gold wedding band.
The sole white man I saw was in the next row to our right, nestled comfortably among a group of black male worshipers in dapper suits.
Soon after Bishop Stanley B. Searcy Sr. started talking, he told everyone to hug our neighbor. The white woman turned and embraced me as if she had no idea that I was stalking her. Then the next time we stood to sing, I looked down at her big black Bible on her pew: "Pastor Shirley Beach" was written in gold script. I glanced to the front pew of the middle section and Mrs. Norman, dressed in a dusty-blue dress suit with a white priest's collar, shot me a little wave and grin.
Continuing his 2007 "empowerment" theme, Searcy told worshipers to "manifest" their power to do good. The 47-year-old preacherwho could be played by Cuba Gooding Jr. in the moviecalled for the overwhelmingly black congregation to build a diverse church, and pointed to the people who marched during the Civil Rights Movement: "They had to put their lives on the line. There was something in them that told them something was unfair, unjust, and they stood against the system." He implored worshipers, young and older, to ask themselves: "What has God designed me to do?" To decide: "I'm going to make a difference in society." To reconsider violence: "Before you pull the trigger, give God a chance."
He pointed to the quickness of the leopard in Revelation 13 when he declared to grateful "Amens": "We have come a mighty long way in this nation.
If you can't stand for something, you'll fall down."
Sitting inches in front of me, Shirley Beach rose to her feet, her hands in the air. I could see tiny embroidered roses on the sheer red sleeves of her suit jacket.
"Outside of these walls, you're called," Searcy boomed. "This is your destiny."
"Amen!" This time, Beach yelled out, too.
As the service ended near 2 p.m., Beach turned around to me and shook my hand. "I hope you come visit us again," she said, her eyes penetrating mine. Then she turned and walked away, as Norman approached and bear-hugged me (as people in this church do constantly, whether they know you or not).
"Should I go try to talk to Mrs. Beach now?" I asked her.
Pastor Norman shook her head, and pointed toward the bishop and his beautiful co-pastor/wife, Brenda Searcy. "No, go talk to Bishop first."
'I Didn't Go Down That Road'
Bishopas everyone calls himwasted no time sharing his vision for Natchez, a city that he believes sits under a cloud from the past, a cloud put there by racism and the vast economic divides of a city of such vast wealth that so many slaves helped create, even as they couldn't share in it.
"Some of the oldest money is here. Millions," he said. "But we're 50 years behind time." He paused and added, "We're headed somewhere now."
The cycles of low self-esteem for the descendents of slaves are still holding people back, said the man born in St. Louis, but who grew up in Natchez. "They're beat down so bad." Until some recent legal decisions, he said, it was hard for blacks in the Natchez area to get loans for anything other than cars. So "their cars cost more than their homes."
This bigotry of low-expectations and self-esteem is a more subtle racism than that Bishop had encountered as a young man. He remembers seeing a red Camaro at a local dealership. He had saved up the money to buy a carbut the dealership simply would not sell it to him. They did not believe a young black man deserved that car, he says.
Bishop left Natchez, not expecting to return. He was called to the ministry in 1982 thanks to Bishop Philip Coleman of Greater Bethlehem Temple in Jackson. But it wasn't until 1993 that he decided to take his mission back home.
He was living in Mobile with his wife Brendathey had married in 1991, the same year she was called to ministrywhen God sent him a message, he says. Go home and help heal divides. So he moved back to Natchez, surprising no one more than himself, and started to do Bible studies in different churches. He had little money, but then in 1997 he had a dream in which he saw a little white church he was supposed to lead.
Shortly afterward, he turned onto Morgantown Road and saw a dilapidated wood frame building with a small sign with "For Rent" in red letters. The church was at the corner of Seale Road, which jarred him a bit. "
"As a boy, I didn't go down that road," he said.
When he dialed the number, Shirley Beach's mother was on the other end, looking to rent the old Church of God building that her husband's family had owned for so long. She was a woman of few words, and would not tell him until later that she had prayed for someone positive to come take over the building, even though she likely wasn't expecting her prayer to be answered by a black minister.
When Bishop went to look at the building, he was greeted by "KKK" spray-painted on the porch in front of the door. Kathryn Seale then told him that the building was the old Klan headquarters in a former life. It had also been the first location of what is now called the Adams County Christian Centerthen the Thomas Jefferson Schoolwhich was officially started by a Natchez-based Klan front group called the Americans for the Preservation of the White Race, a name more acceptable than Ku Klux Klan back in the day, even though its members, and goals, overlapped. It was a school where little Shirley Seale and her siblings could walk across Seale Road to attend classes there when she was in the first and second grades.
Mrs. Seale rented him the building, and told him to put whatever supplies he needed from the lumber company on her bill.
More than 300 people attended the first service on Feb. 9, 1997. Of those, a decent number were whitefulfilling a major mission Bishop believes God has assigned him, and one that he says has angered both whites and blacks in the community who don't see the need for 11 a.m. on Sunday to be integrated.
Later, the Seale family gave the Searcys the church and the land outright. Today it stands as the children's church, with a large, modern church next door. The church claims more than 1,700 members, with several dozen whitealthough they do not attend nearly as often as Bishop would like.
"Is our work finished? No," Bishop said defiantly.
He Ain't Heavy
Bishop's journey with the Seale family was not just about property, however. One day later in 1997, a large white man with graying curly hair, in his 40s, walked up to the reverend after church services and "fell on my neck." He then began to cry.
"My brother," the white man called Bishop as he hugged him.
"Yes," Bishop replied like he would to any parishioner. "You are my brother."
"No, you don't understand. You're my brother. This day, I adopt you into my family," the man responded. "My granddaddy was Grand Dragon of the Klan. A generation of curses has been over my family. I apologize for what my family has done."
Bishop says now that he could see his landlady over the man's shoulder, with a slight smile on her face, as he hugged her weeping son, Billy Seale.
From that day forward, Bishop and Co-Pastor have been accepted members of Tullie Seale's large family, gathering every year with dozens of Seale family members for Thanksgiving and then to exchange gifts at Christmas time. Their home is now on Seale Road, down past Tullie Seale's old house, where his son Shirod's family now lives.
Bishop remembers his new stepmom announcing to the family: "Y'all have a new brother now."
At first, many of the Seale family members were "stand-offish" at holiday gatherings, Bishop recalls.
Shirley Beach was not happy about her new brother at all. Despite astounding moves by her mother and brother, she was still an avowed racist.
It would take another year before God pulled a fast one on the woman who still idolized her grandfather and his ways, even though he had died 20 years before. Her husband, Gary Beach, even started going to New Hope M.B. without herhis brother and sister-in-law were going and loved itand became a deacon. Billy was an active member. Shirley scoffed.
"I was ready to divorce him," she said, sitting in Ruby Tuesday next to her husband June 2, days after the James Seale trial started in Jackson. "I said, 'Alright, this is why we got together in the first place because you didn't like black people, and I don't like black people. Which I didn't say black people. I said the N-word."
"I threw a fit. I cursed like a sailor."
Finally, though, she agreed to go with him to New Hope "to shut him up." She had been drinking the night before, and he was pushing her to go to church with him.
"I loved it. Right away," she said, especially the raucous worship style that she missed from her childhood days at Natchez Church of God, back before white church services became "boring," as she puts it.
She quit smoking and drinking nearly overnight, but couldn't quite commit to joining the church. She started leaving her white service, which lasted only an hour, and then popping into the New Hope service to enjoy the last two hours, learning to giggle every time Searcy promised he was almost done.
One Sunday, she remembers, God told her to step up and take her place at New Hope. She got up and walked toward Bishop.
"Shirley, you need something?" he asked.
"Yeah, I'm going to join the church," she answered, grabbing him.
She dropped her arms, and then started hugging him again, as if she couldn't help herself. She was ready to take Billy's place, she told him, as he was leaving to pastor his own church in Tennessee.
"I had never hugged a black person in my life," she told Bishop as she officially joined what she calls the church with the "most huggingest people I've ever seen."
"She was still a renegade; then she gets saved," says Bishop of his adopted sister, who now calls him "little brother," although he is five years older.
Shirley laughs at the memory. "Honey, the people started shouting, and it was just unreal," she said June 2. Armed with her new gift from God, Shirley immediately experienced happiness for the first time in her lifeand realized that it had a whole lot to do with the absence of hate.
Soon, she began preachingincluding occasionally for New Hope services broadcast to all of Natchez on Sunday morning cable channel 4and she took on another important role. She redirected the toughness she inherited from her grandfather, the bravura that she used to put into bar brawls, into providing security for two of the most important people in her new life: Bishop and Co-Pastor.
That is why she sits on the front left pew every Sunday morning: Like many Seales who have come before her, she is there to guard a way of life she believes in.
Educating Shirley
Shirley Beach's education was just beginning when she suddenly realized one day that she had been told lies all her life. Teachers and textbooks alike had taught her revised history that justified slavery and segregation. Like many white Mississippians, she was told that slave owners didn't treat their property poorly, that the slaves would run away if they did. The old Shirley had no reason to question those "facts," and the new Shirley hadn't needed to know the whole story in order to start loving black people, too.
But one day in 2003, she was at the Mount Locust Plantation, which was built in 1784 off the Natchez Trace about 13 miles north of Natchez, with a group of kids from church. They were walking on the gravel path behind the old house through fields toward a cemetery for 43 slaveswith names like Turner, Chamberlain, Tyler, Allen, Jacksonthat lay ahead behind a clump of tall oaks and little poplar trees. The kids had run on ahead.
Suddenly, Beach saw an image so powerful that it took her breath away. In front of her was a black man picking cotton and a white man beating him with a whip.
Walking that gravel path with me as the sun set under clouds ready to burst with rain last Sunday, just after she'd returned from the Seale family reunion, Shirley relived the day she saw the beating. "It was really happening, and I just felt so sorrowful, my heart was just hurting. Stop, stop, stop, why are you beating this man? I couldn't understand it. It really upset me. I wanted to grab the whip and whip him with it," she said, her harness boots crunching gravel as she walked toward the slave graves.
Shirley believes God was telling her to stop believing lies, to face the truth about how badly white people had treated black people over the years. "God gave me a vision to see that, yeah, it really did happen," she said.
The vision had inspired her to read more about Natchez's history, all the way back to the white man's brutal treatment of Indians. She also began talking to the older black people whom she cares for in her elderly caretaker job, listening to their stories of how their parents and grandparents were abused because of their skin color.
Embracing real history has shown her why many problems exist in the black community today. It started with white people dividing black families by selling children away from their parents, she knows now.
"They grew up without fathers for a long time. There's never really been a family unit there; it goes back hundreds of years. White people looked at them as big stout bucks. ... I'm sure they treated their dogs better than they did slaves. They didn't want slaves to read, be educated, because they'd figure out what was going on wasn't supposed to be happening," she said as we approached the master's graveyard filled with ornate gravestones that looked like mini Washington monuments, a carved angel, even a Confederate flag.
"It's really sad. I just thank God I wasn't born back in them times," she said.
As we got back into her long green Lincoln Towncar, Shirley asked, "Do you want to go see where my grandfather is buried?"
"I'd love that," I responded.
"Alright, let's go." She headed south toward Natchez, as her hot-pink cell phone jiggled in the ashtray and an ornate gold cross swung from the rearview mirror.
'Right with the Lord'
On the way to Morgantown Road, Shirley wanted to know more about Edwards, and why he should get off even as Seale goes to jail. I could tell that her query wasn't so much about the fate of the man she calls her "distant cousin"; she was wrestling with why Edwardswho admitted his role in the brutal crimeshould go free. I told her about his apology to the families and said that, as unfair as it can seem, sometimes immunity is the only way to get any justice in a case like this.
I then told her what Edwards had testified that he had said to Charles Moore as he beat him with a long stick under the watchful sawed-off shotgun of her distant cousin. "Are you right with the Lord?" Edwards asked the young man that he knew was unlikely to be alive the next morning.
The irony of that question posed by a man in the process of a murder slammed us both like a brick to the head as she drove us toward Natchez. I was watching her tear-filled eyes as my own welled uptwo white daughters of Mississippi pondering how religious faith could be so contorted to justify the depths of hate we'd both known.
"The Klan used Christianity, which is not Christianity at all. It is nothing but a lie," she exploded. "How can you say you are a Christian and you love God, and yet you can turn around and kill and hate somebody? It don't make a bit of sense. Christianity has been used for so many things that are wrong. It's nothing but the devil allowing that to happen, and making people think they're doing right when they're doing wrong. And using God in the midst of it all."
"It was widespread among white people," I said.
"I know. It's still that way. Go on the Internet: KKK. Oh. My. Word."
"I know. I've been there," I said.
"I thought all this had been done away with. They don't go like they used to and burn crosses, or light crosses, whatever you want to call it, and go and openly do the things they used to do, openly kill people and stuff. To be perfectly honest, the blacks aren't going to allow that to be done that way, and I don't blame them. And there are a lot of white people who aren't going to allow that to be done, either. Look at me. I wouldn't allow anybody to come into our church and disrupt it with guns or threaten to kill Bishop or Co-Pastor. I would stand between them, and I would take a bullet in a heartbeat for them.
"It's not Christianity," Shirley continued. "It's white supremacy is what it is. And you know I thought that's what I wanted to beyou know, tough like thatbecause I saw strength in my grandfather."
More sun was breaking through the clouds by the time we located Mac Tullie Seale's grave among the neat rows of graves with those sophisticated flattened stones. The granddaughter was quiet as I read the Seale inscription into my tape recorder.
"M. Tullie, born Aug. 30, 1909; Died Jan. 20, 1980. Johnnie Poole, Oct. 11, 1907; Died March 23, 1999."
"How do you feel about him now?" I asked Shirley quietly.
"Well, at the end, he gave his life to the Lord and was saved," she answered. "He was real different in his last year or two of his life."
Did he ever express any regrets? "No, he wouldn't have talked about it," she said.
As we walked back to the Towncar, she told me she will be buried in the New Hope M.B. cemetary, not in the Beach family plot.
"I'll be the first white there," she said.
______________________________
Also see Guarding White Christians
Correction appended: Billy Seale did not become a co-pastor at New Hope, but was an active member.
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