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Abstract

This essay describes a visionary philosophy of education at Morehouse College. The educational process at Morehouse, construed here as a form of pedagogical personalism, is personified in three luminaries of Morehouse College: Benjamin Elijah Mays, Howard Washington Thurman, and Martin Luther King. The educational process at Morehouse should be interpreted as an ambivalent response to segregation and discrimination in Jim Crow America. Like all black institutions in the South, Morehouse was subject to racist constraints; Morehouse was created and existed in large part due to just such constraints. I attempt to more accurately describe in order to more sensitively appreciate not only how historically black colleges and universities helped to shape the spiritual or intellectual blueprint of the civil rights movement but also how they served—and continue to serve—as ongoing experiments in democratic education. By way of conclusion, I suggest that the pedagogical personalism espoused and practiced at Morehouse College during what has been called her golden age, i.e., 1940–1967, constitutes a significant contribution to the history of higher education in America.

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Notes

  1. Mark Giles puts it this way: “HBCUs offered a different training ground for resistance to the racial hate and segregation that was commonplace across the country. The year Thurman enrolled into Morehouse is known as the ‘Red Summer’ of 1919 because of the approximately two dozen race riots. The earning of a college degree in 1923 placed Thurman in a small but growing group of Blacks earning college degrees in America and stood in critical contrast to what many other Southern Blacks experienced that year. For example, 1923 was also the year of the Rosewood, Florida massacre. The opportunity for Blacks to attend school and college and contribute to their communities during this time period should be understood within the context of Jim Crow America” (2006: 106).

  2. Almost twenty-five years ago, Cornel West dealt with the HBCU in broad and sweeping terms. In this, nonetheless, he opens a helpful window onto the discussion, and subsequent approaches to this question must start from his initiative. West adverts to “distinct traditions within the African American response to racism in America” (1982: 69). His revisionary topology views African Americans as “active subjects” rather than as “passive objects of history.” He deftly identifies a “black counter discourse to modern European racist discourse” (69), which becomes a story of a “gallantly persistent struggle” for dignity and self-determination. West is not content merely to recount the conventional story of exclusion and “severe discrimination reinforced by naked violence within a nascent industrial capitalist order.” The picture he paints is more complex. In Prophecy Deliverance! An Afro-American Revolutionary Christianity (1982), West describes or otherwise stipulates four distinct varieties of African American response to racism in America. These traditions he identifies as the assimilationist (78), marginalist (80), exceptionalist (82), and humanist (85).

    The first tradition or representative response described by West is that of the assimilationist. He writes that the assimilationist, “unlike the exceptionalist tradition, does not romanticize Afro-American culture; instead, it deprecates this culture.” West classifies E. Franklin Frazier as ultimately “the unchallenged theoretician of the weak assimilationist tradition in Afro-American history” (78). West views both exceptionalist and assimilationist stances as pathologies, configuring the second as an inversion of the first. Viewing it as a pathology, West infers that “Afro-American critical thought must hold the assimilationalist response to be unacceptable” (80). Both traditions constitute for West “a rash reaction against a hostile white society rather than a responsible response to particular challenges. Both traditions represent the peculiar predicament of the Afro-American middle class” (ibid.). West’s second tradition has to do with marginality: He cites Richard Wright as the marginal man par excellence. James Baldwin, too, is indicted as co-accused; old-style church leaders, those who rounded upon the inadequacies of their members, also stand in the dock. These religious leaders were notoriously critical of “their own church members and American society” (ibid.). These marginalists, though constantly revolting against American society, represented—suggests West—a “conscious embodiment and rejection of [Afro-American culture],” they “maintain a distance and express a denial of Afro-American culture,” they emphasize a “rejection and distrust of American society,” and they are all—perhaps Baldwin to a lesser degree than Wright—perennially “uprooted” and “vindictive.”

    West’s third tradition, the “exceptionalist response to the challenges of self-image and self-determination, is this: a romanticization of Afro-American culture that conceals the social mobility of an emerging opportunistic Afro-American petite bourgeoisie… It generates cathartic and amorphous feelings of Afro-American pride, self-congratulation, and heroism that contain little substance” (70–78; cited in Pollard 1992: 155–156). West considers King to be a “weak exceptionalist” (74) for rather interesting reasons, reasons that take us some distance in the direction of understanding the conceptual context of “an emerging Black theology, whether Islamic or Christian” (78). West’s final category is that of the humanist: the Afro-American humanist tradition is best captured, claims West, “in [Afro-American] music” (85), but it is represented also in such authors as Jean Toomer and Ralph Ellison and in such political activists or philosophers as “the later DuBois” and “post-Mecca Malcolm X” (89). These four categories or ideal types are not altogether satisfactory nor perfectly pellucid: one might well object to them on the grounds that they are both falsely bounded and exceptionally porous, or one could quibble with West’s criteria for inclusion and exclusion or with the integrity of this supposed tradition or that one or even with the proper placement of figures under one head or another. Nonetheless, West’s working “theoretical reconstruction” or revisionist topology of “the black counter discourse” (69) has its uses and is recalled here as a possibly instructive grid against which to document and survey resistance to oppression within HBCUs.

  3. Following Snyder, Woodson’s “caustic and uncompromising litany [of inconsistencies, shortcomings, and abject failures of ‘Negro education’] seemed to go on forever” (2015: 273): “Negro education, Woodson charged, clung to a defunct ‘machine-method’ based on the misguided assumption that ‘education is merely a process of imparting information.’ It failed to inspire black students and did not ‘bring their minds into harmony with life as they must face it.’… And the more education blacks received, the more ‘estranged from the masses’ they became” (ibid.).

  4. Ronald K. Goodenow suggested long ago that “historians of progressivism have totally ignored… black progressives” (1978); Snyder, who suggests that the same could be said forty years later (2015), also suggests that “progressive education has been effectively coded as a white movement (2015: 276; also see Alridge 2007; Chennault 2013).

  5. At about the same time, circa 1925, Alain Locke quipped that African Americans were less in need of a missionary education ‘for the Negro,’ what Woodson would later call an ‘education under outside control,’ than an education ‘by the Negro’ (qtd. in Snyder 2015: 277). Du Bois had been arguing along similar lines that “the function of the university is not simply to teach bread winning, or to furnish teachers for public schools or to be a center of polite society. It is, above all, to be the organ of that fine adjustment between real life and the growing knowledge of life, an adjustment which forms the secret of civilization” (1903: 60).

  6. As for West, the exceptionalist response is “undesirable” because it fosters “a romanticization of Afro-American culture that conceals the social mobility of an emerging opportunistic Afro-American petite bourgeoisie” and also because it “generates cathartic and amorphous feelings of Afro-American pride, self-congratulation, and heroism that contain little substance” (1982: 75–76).

  7. Peter Anthony Bertocci defines a person as “a unique, telic, indivisible, but complex self-identifying unity of activity-potentials best characterized in consciousness as sensing, feeling, desiring, remembering, imagining, thinking, willing, oughting, allotting, anticipating, and appreciating, and the activities we distinguish as aesthetic and religious, that is, able to develop reason and values” (1988: 9). Stated differently, Bertocci defines personality as something that is “learned as a person interacts with other persons; more exactly, a person’s personality is his more or less systematic mode of response to himself, to others, and to his total environment in the light of what he believes them to be, and what they actually are” (1970: 95). Carter, who studied with Bertocci, says that “[f]or King, the person’s structure is shaped, at least in part, by the value conferred upon him or her. Thus, there is no separation between the structure, or how a person is defined, and the value, or how the person might be viewed in light of that definition” (1998: 219ff.). In Brightman, Nature and Values, the condensed definition reads: “A person is a unity of complex conscious changes [i.e., a unitas multiplex], including all its experiences—its memories, its purposes, its values, its powers, its activities, and its experienced interactions with its environment” (1945: 56). Muelder puts it most concisely: “Personality is the most concrete category of existence and value. This means that the richest synoptic grasp of existential wholes and the highest value in axiological hierarchy are both apprehended in personality” ([1943] 1983: 85).

  8. “We were admonished,” claimed Tobin, who taught philosophy, “to maintain the dialectic between the community of faith and the community of learning. Dr. Mays knew how easily teachers and professors became ‘prisoners of procedures; victims of arteriosclerosis.’ Nothing is worse [for Mays] than the ‘hardening of the categories’” (Tobin 1967: 37–38, as quoted in Carter 1998: 27).

  9. Mays argued that a compensatory idea of God encouraged “a shallow pragmatism,” by which a “belief or idea may be accredited as true if it satisfies our desire, if it uplifts and consoles; or if it makes us happier to believe it even though the belief or idea does not fit observed fact” (Mays 1968: 14; see Jelks 2012: 96ff.).

  10. Commenting on Du Bois’ provocative claim that the “university, if it is to be firm, must hark back to the original idea of the [West African] bush school” (2001: 117), Andrew Douglas suggests that, “especially in his later work, Du Bois conceives of the Black college as a kind of counsel of universality, an institution uniquely attendant to the struggle for a more sustainable and publicly oriented society distinctly situated to expose the particularity of the White world” (2015: 34).

  11. Barbara Lewinson put it this way: “Mays believed that the formerly all-black schools cannot be justified just because they fill a special need. They must be willing to strive for academic excellence while at the same time remaining aware of the disabilities peculiar to deprived students. They must prepare their graduates to compete successfully in every area of life at the same time that they are developing a larger role. These black colleges are changing and, according to Mays, will very definitely survive but in a different form. The form of these schools will change as will the former primarily white university” (1998: 229).

  12. In “Howard Thurman,” in Ebony, Lerone Bennett quotes Otis Moss who said that while Thurman “did not March from Selma to Montgomery, or many of the other marches, [he] participated at the level that shapes the philosophy that creates the March—and without that people don’t know what to do before the March, while they March or after they March” (1978: 78).

  13. In his autobiography, Head and Heart, Thurman writes that E. Franklin Frazier and Benjamin Mays, among other younger and older faculty at Morehouse, “placed over our heads a crown that for the rest of our lives we would be trying to grown tall enough to wear. This was a gift far greater than the imparting of information and facts” (1975: 41). With respect to the study of philosophy, Thurman goes on to say that in 1921 “Morehouse offered [and Mays taught] a course in logic and a course in ethics, neither of which was strictly in the field, and no courses whatever in formal philosophy. I do not think this was accidental. In the missionary colleges of the South, few (if any) courses were offered in the formal study of philosophy. I believe that the shapers of our minds, with clear but limited insight into the nature of our struggle for survival and development in American life, particularly in the South, recognize the real possibility that to be disciplined in the origins and development of ideas would ultimately bring under critical judgment the society and our predicament in it. This, in turn, would contribute to our unease and restlessness, which would be disastrous, they felt, for us and for our people” (1975: 42–43). Philosophy was strategically discouraged, suggests Thurman, by the shapers of minds, because it was potentially subversive—i.e., it posed a worrisome threat to the prevailing system of exploitation. As a sophomore at Morehouse, Thurman resolved to take every course in philosophy that he could find; indeed, he went so far as to pinch his pennies in order to attend summer courses in philosophy at Columbia on Dewey and pragmatism. When Thurman taught philosophy and religion at Morehouse, he used Dewey’s How Do We Think? (1927). The reasons provided by those ‘shapers of our minds’ for why the men at Morehouse should not make a formal study of philosophy, understood as an investigation into the “origins and development of ideas,” provide us—as they provided Thurman—with an excellent reason for why we should certainly study philosophy: because it constitutes a real possibility for critiquing as if to positively transform “society and our predicament in it.” During his years in training as well as his subsequent years as a faculty member in philosophy, Thurman was to formulate an elaborate social philosophy of non-violent but active resistance and a robust philosophy of religion if not also a philosophy of intra-personal meditation and interpersonal ethics. The influence of Thurman on King was significant, but there’s more to Thurman than his influence on King; that said, the reciprocating influence, was significant to the Freedom Movement. The philosophical legacy at Morehouse, as well as Spelman and Clark Atlanta, including luminaries from W. E. B. Du Bois to Lucius Miles Tobin and Samuel Williams, though largely forgotten or otherwise ignored, even by the men at Morehouse, is nothing short of inspiring.

  14. Some scholars suggest that Mays’s philosophy of education strikes a balance or finds a middle ground between Booker T. Washington and W. E. B. Du Bois (see Jelks, Carter, Pollard, and Fluker). Following Orville Vernon Burton, who wrote the foreword to Mays’s Born to Rebel, “Mays’s life provides insight into the transitional years from Booker T. Washington’s accommodationist philosophy to the Black Power radicalism of the late 1960s and early 1970s” (1987: xiii). For more on the influence of Dewey on Mays, during the years that they overlapped at the University of Chicago (1936–1940), see Jelks (2012: 158 ff.).

  15. In August 1963, in his “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” King argues that “[a]n unjust law is a code that is out of harmony with the moral law. To put it in the terms of St. Thomas Aquinas, an unjust law is a human law that is not rooted in eternal and natural law. Any law that uplifts human personality is just. Any law that degrades human personality is unjust. All segregation statutes are unjust because segregation distorts the soul and damages the personality. It gives the segregator a false sense of superiority and the segregated a false sense of inferiority. To use the words of Martin Buber, the great Jewish philosopher, segregation substitutes an ‘I—it’ relationship for the ‘I—thou’ relationship and ends up relegating persons to the status of things. So segregation is not only politically, economically, and sociologically unsound, but it is morally wrong and sinful. Paul Tillich has said that sin is separation. Isn’t segregation an existential expression of man’s tragic separation, an expression of his awful estrangement, his terrible sinfulness? So I can urge men to obey the 1954 decision of the Supreme Court because it is morally right, and I can urge them to disobey segregation ordinances because they are morally wrong” ([1963] 1986: 292). To grasp the basic point of pedagogical personalism, substitute “education” for “law” in the famous personalist passage in the “Letter from Birmingham Jail”: thus, “any [education or institution] that uplifts human personality is just” and that “any [education] that degrades human personality is unjust,” i.e., that injustice within an educational arrangement resides in whatever “distorts the soul and damages the personality.”

  16. In light of the most recent scholarship on King’s personalism, whether Rufus Burrow and Lewis Baldwin or Lawrence Carter, himself a fourth-generation Boston personalist, there is something valuable to be gained by rediscovering the origins and reassessing the significance of King’s philosophical personalism. Beyond the secondary literature examining the points of contact between the Boston school of personalists (see Ansbro 2000), which routinely suggests that King beautifully appropriated the central tenants of Boston personalism but that he also advanced the school in demonstrating the active application of personalism to social transformation, it is sometimes suggested that King’s exposure to personalism predates his arrival in Boston (see Burrow and Kirby 1999: 77ff.). Already in his youth, and as a matter of course for those who grew up in the black church at the time, King was an African American personalist who, suggests Baldwin, gained in Boston “the conceptual vocabulary by which to formally articulate or profess his social personalism.” Burrow suggests that King was most probably exposed to personalism, construed in distinctively philosophical terms, through Samuel Williams, during his years at Morehouse.

  17. Pedagogical personalists also believe that individuality is strengthened by a genuine encounter with one’s own past. In the case of African Americans, Du Bois’ concern with cultural sustainability constitutes an auxiliary argument in defense of HBCUs. As early as the 1930s, claims Carley M. Shinault, Du Bois “began to note the benefits of remaining in segregated institutions” (2015: 4); and “[i]n his 1940 work, Dusk of Dawn, Du Bois reminded the educated elite that race forever tied their fate to that of the Black masses, and that no degree of economic, social or political success could alter that” (ibid.). Even after Brown v. Board of Education in 1954, Du Bois was convinced—again Shinault—that “racial integration without cultural integration in the schools would deprive Blacks of the tools necessary for true racial uplift” (ibid.). Although Du Bois believed that discrimination within the educational system would be reduced, that there would be increased opportunities for African Americans to study at historically white colleges and universities, he warned–as late as 1960, in “Whither Now and Why?”–that “[t]he deficiency in knowledge of Negro history and culture, however, will remain and this danger must be met or else American Negroes will disappear” (1973: 152).

  18. See Where Do We Go from Here: Community or Chaos ([1968] 2010), especially the final chapter titled “The World House,” pp. 234–289.

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Jensen, K.E. Pedagogical Personalism at Morehouse College. Stud Philos Educ 36, 147–165 (2017). https://doi.org/10.1007/s11217-016-9510-y

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