You can know something intellectually but not emotionally and, therefore, not know it at all.
That’s what I realized after viewing Lee Daniels’ The Butler. I’ve read Taylor Branch’s Pulitzer Prize-winning history of the civil-rights era and watched old news clips of the burning of the church in Birmingham. But seeing on film how brutally blacks were treated — as second-, if not third-class citizens — is to feel the humiliation and pain. That’s why I wish Chief Justice John Roberts and four of his Supreme Court colleagues would see it, too.
Maybe it will help them understand how wrong they got it when they recently decided that we are so far past Jim Crow that we can dispense with a central provision of the 1965 Voting Rights Act. I’ll buy the popcorn.
The justices need to focus on some of the movie’s vivid, and most stomach-turning, scenes. They will see respectable white citizens of my parents’ generation spitting at, pouring hot coffee on and beating up young blacks — and in particular the son of the butler of the title — as they try to do the simple things in life: have a Coke at a lunch counter, drink at a water fountain, go to school. Try to tell the children of those civil-rights pioneers that we’re so beyond discrimination that we no longer need the rules to ensure that states (mostly Southern ones) don’t put into effect latter-day versions of the literacy test.
We see President Lyndon Johnson making it essential for Congress to pass the Voting Rights Act on top of the Civil Rights Act. Whites were doing everything they could to deny blacks access to the basic tools of democracy — to go to the polls without being harassed by intimidating and hostile clerks. Literacy tests and poll taxes had replaced Bull Connor’s snarling dogs and fire hose.
Like the justices — and the butler of the title — we’d like to think things are getting so much better that we can just hope for the best. Not so. In 2013 alone, more than 80 measures to restrict voting rights — less blatantly racist than literacy tests but almost as pernicious — were introduced in 31 states. They are put forth as remedies, only no problem exists: The incidence of actual voter fraud hovers near zero. Kansas, where new rules are particularly harsh, has had more documented cases of UFO sightings than of voter fraud.
The movie is based on the life of Eugene Allen, a White House butler who served eight presidents. Some liberties are taken, but the spine of the story is true. Cecil Gaines (played by Forest Whitaker) is the son of a sharecropper who rises to a respectable job in the White House. He serves white people, but it’s the president and his family that he’s waiting on, not a brutal landowner. And he’s attired in formal wear, not overalls, and delivers coffee on a silver tray. He sees and hears much, but loyally tells nothing, which mightily irritates his loving but boozing wife played by Oprah Winfrey (played so well, in fact, that you forget her talk-show-host persona).
If Cecil/Whitaker is the heart of the movie, Louis, his eldest son, is its soul. He is stirred by the injustice of attending an inferior school with no white kids, going to an all-black college and watching his father perform a menial job on what he sees as a plantation of a different kind. He joins the nonviolent Freedom Riders. Much of the rest of the movie juxtaposes his brutal treatment by the Ku Klux Klan and Southern sheriffs with the shame his father feels as his son sits in jail instead of the classroom he worked so hard to get him into.