Strom Thurmond: 1902-2003
by Luciano D'Orazio

Strom Thurmond was one of the toughest men in Washington.

The moment you met the long-serving South Carolina senator, you got a whiff of his power. It was in Thurmond's vice-like handshake, known as "The Grip." Part velvet conciliator, part trash compactor, "the Grip" was his ace in the hole, his surefire dealmaker. This bone-crushing shake helped ol' Strom survive and thrive during more than 70 years of public service, wherein almost 20 percent of South Carolinians settled matters through his office.

"The Grip" symbolized his essence — and his longevity. Thurmond, the consummate constituent politician, understood that all the rhetoric in the world won't get that new hospital wing built; it won't get that new education grant; it won't build a mile of new highway. In navigating the political waters to fish the needed catch for his state, Thurmond served as the political bellwether of the South in the 20th century. He also became a hero and saint to all of South Carolina.

Of course, most liberals would prefer a more pointed opinion of the man. To many, Strom Thurmond was Satan incarnate. At least, that's what the New York Times thought in its below-the-fold headline announcing the former senator's death on Friday:

"Strom Thurmond, Foe of Integration, Dies at 100."

Yes, he was a foe of integration. His 1948 "Dixiecrat" presidential run railed against the sweeping tide of civil rights legislation that would define the postwar Democratic agenda. He filibustered the 1957 Civil Rights Act for 24 hours and 18 minutes, a Senate record. He was a leader of the 1956 "Southern Manifesto," which pit Southern lawmakers against the Supreme Court's Brown ruling on school desegregation. And his switch to the Republican Party in 1964 led a wave of white Southerners to join the GOP, transforming Southern politics.

But that doesn't tell the whole story. As governor in the late 1940s, Thurmond abolished South Carolina's poll tax and pushed for higher education subsidies. In 1970 Thurmond was the first Southern lawmaker to hire a black staffer and the first to support the appointment of black judges. In 1983 he was honored for his service by the South Carolina Conference of Black Mayors. In his recent election campaigns, he received more black votes than any other Republican in the South, garnering 20 percent of the black vote when other Dixie GOPers would be happy with five.

His public battles against civil rights, against desegregation and against increasing federal authority belie Thurmond's real claim to fame: his steadfast — almost maniacal — devotion to constituent service.

Thurmond understood the political winds blowing in the late 1960s and 1970s. As the white Southern establishment slowly abandoned its Democratic roots for the Republican Party, blacks were asserting their newfound clout in the voting booth. There are approximately 1.2 million blacks in South Carolina, 30 percent of the state's population. With the passage of the 1965 Voting Rights Act, that 30 percent expressed itself like never before.

Strom knew this, and he tempered his rhetoric, opened his coffers and began to tap an untouched resource. Though Thurmond's move to conciliate with blacks looked like a mere political ploy — his performance among blacks bears this out — his deeds sound a different tone. He is renowned for his lavish funding of historically black colleges and universities. He also pushed hard to make Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday a national holiday. His work to build infrastructure and educational facilities to benefit all South Carolinians, black and white.

Tens of thousands of letters to constituents sit at the Strom Thurmond Institute at Clemson University. Requests for help began immediately since he took office in the Senate in 1956, and they didn't stop until he left office. Amazingly, Thurmond undertook the lion's share of these concerns himself, working long hours and urging his staff to do likewise. When an aide would reproach the senator for concentrating more effort for a local hospital in Spartanburg than for larger national issues, he had a ready answer: "The fact that your mail doesn't come on time or you've got a pothole in front of your house, that may not seem important to you. But if that person takes the time to write about it, that's the most important thing in their life right now. That's more important than the Cold War."

The results read part like the work of a Tammany sachem, part miracles of Jesus. Some stories are too amazing to be believed. For example, there's the story recalled by US District Judge Dennis Shedd, who worked as Thurmond's top aide. A woman got permission for a long-awaited cancer surgery at Duke University, but only if Duke received her medical records immediately from the National Institutes of Health. It was a weekend, and the NIH insisted the records were within a vault in St. Louis and inaccessible until Monday. The senator personally called the custodian at the St. Louis records center to find the desperate woman's file. He asked the custodian to FedEx the file at Thurmond's expense. Not only did the custodian do it, but he also swallowed the postage cost. He was impressed at getting a call from a senator.

Stories like this go on and on and on. For all the rhetoric of his opposition to civil rights and federal intervention, no significant obstructive legislation bears his name. In fact, few bills in the Senate bear his name. Thurmond never cared much about name recognition. The power base he built, the powerful friendships in government and industry, were all created for one purpose: the betterment of South Carolinians, no matter how great or how small.

Thurmond's legacy will undoubted vary. Many liberal leaders and black activists will still rail about the intransigent Dixiecrat who fought progress and democracy. The right will hail the man as the conservative visionary who's shrewd political machinations of the late 1960s created the modern Republican Party.

Neither of these fully describes the man. Thurmond was a politician, possibly the greatest politician a state could ever have. He may not have been right ideologically — at least not all the time — but he understood how his bread was buttered. He served every citizen of his state — every citizen — as if he or she were a member of his own family. He did so through political savvy, through power politics, through the personal touch.

No senator — let alone congressman — can claim this level of service. And it's a damn shame.

E-mail Luciano D'Orazio at loudogs1@aol.com.