The Southern Case for School Segregation

by James Jackson Kilpatrick

Article V. The brief provision dealing with amendment of the Constitution is of paramount importance in any understanding of the South’s protest against the school decision. John Taylor of Caroline once defined sovereignty as “the will to enact, the power to execute.” John Marshall spoke in the Cohens case of the “supreme and irresistible power to make and unmake.” Article V defines and locates this supreme power—not in “the whole body of the people,” as Marshall carelessly remarked, but in “three-fourths of the several States.”

The scheme for amendment of the Constitution goes to the very essence of what makes the American Union great and unique among the powers of the earth: We do not accept the supremacy of “majority rule.” If there is one ancient parliamentary principle to which the Constitution does not subscribe, it is the principle of majority rule. In every major question touched upon in the Constitution—for the impeachment of officers, the overriding of a veto, the ratification of a treaty, the proposing and adopting of amendments to the Constitution—in all of these, mere majorities are not enough. Some margin of more than a majority is required. And when it comes to changing the Constitution itself, the explicit provision is that no change can be made without the expressed and tacit approval of at least three-fourths of the States. The laws, customs, desires, preferences of a minority of the States are not to be blindly overthrown by any 51 per cent of the people; and until the Brown case came along, it was not imagined in the South that Article V could be suspended, and the Constitution effectively amended, by the will of nine judges.

The substance of Article VI has been quoted earlier, and the concluding Article VII is notable chiefly for the light it sheds upon the relationship of the States to one another within the Federal Union: “The ratification of the conventions of nine States,” it says, “shall be sufficient for the establishment of this Constitution between the States so ratifying the same.” The language plainly justifies what sometimes is referred to disparagingly as “the compact theory,” as if a concept of the Constitution as a compact “between the States so ratifying the same” were no more than a gauzy illusion of Calhounian metaphysicians. The Constitution is in fact, as even Mr. Justice Douglas has described it, a “compact between sovereigns” (New York v. United States, 362 U. S. 572). The United States of America, as a corporate being, came into existence with New Hampshire’s ratification as the ninth State on June 21, 1788. If Virginia, New York, North Carolina, and Rhode Island thereafter had failed to ratify (the vote was 89 to 79 in Virginia, 30 to 27 in New York, and 34 to 32 nearly two full years later in Rhode Island), they might be to this day sovereign and independent States, small nations, republics in their own regard. It was by their own voluntary actions that the States accepted the Constitution and agreed to be bound by it. As partners in a joint venture they entered into compact; and the Constitution was, and is, the written instrument by which their mutual understanding is set down, not to be altered without the consent of three-fourths of them.

The ratifying conventions, especially those in the key States of Virginia and New York, provide abundant documentation of the prophetic vision with which the Founding Fathers sought to protect their infant Republic from the predictable excesses of “big government.” Our nation was created in an abiding sense of distrust; most of The Federalist papers are devoted toward soothing and allaying the fears of those who apprehended that one day the central government would get out of hand. “Suspicion is a virtue,” cried Patrick Henry in the Virginia convention, “as long as its object is the preservation of the public good, and as long as it stays within proper bounds.... Guard with jealous attention the public liberty! Suspect everyone who approaches that jewel!... I shall be told I am continually afraid; but, Sir, I have strong cause of apprehension. In some parts of the plan before you, the great rights of freemen are endangered, in other parts absolutely taken away.... But we are told that we need not fear, because those in power, being our representatives, will not abuse the powers we put in their hands. I am not well versed in history, but I will submit to your recollection, whether liberty has been destroyed most often by the licentiousness of the people, or by the tyranny of rulers?”

To put at rest these widespread fears of excessive centralism, the ratifying States demanded a series of explicit amendments to the Constitution, intended to place further express prohibitions upon the Congress. These amendments became, of course, the Bill of Rights; and important as the first eight amendments are, the forgotten Ninth and Tenth speak with telling eloquence of the nature of our political institutions. The Ninth asserts that “the enumeration in the Constitution of certain rights shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.” And the Tenth, once insisted upon by New York as positively as by Virginia, declares in words too clear possibly to be misunderstood that “the powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.”

There in the Tenth Amendment is the key that should unlock all mysteries of construction, wherever the State and Federal relationship is at issue. It does not treat of “rights.” Rights belong to people, and are retained by them in the Ninth. The Tenth deals with powers, and its careful wording spells out the essence of our Union. The Congress has no powers whatever, save those the States have delegated to it “by the Constitution.” If authority for some congressional act cannot be found in the Constitution, the authority does not exist, for the Congress has no implied or inherent powers; its powers begin and end with the powers enumerated in the written instrument itself—including, to be sure, the power to adopt “necessary and proper” laws to put the powers to work. All other powers, not prohibited to the States by the Constitution, are expressly reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.

There is great meaning here for the issue that prompts this brief. What the South has said, repeatedly, earnestly, unavailingly, is that the power to operate public schools plainly is a power reserved to the States respectively by the Constitution. The power is not delegated to the United States; it is not prohibited to the States by the Constitution; therefore it remains with them. The power to operate public schools necessarily embraces the power to decide what kind of public schools will be operated; and so long as the States do not violate any prohibition laid upon them by the Constitution, they are free to operate whatever schools they please. Their contention is that nothing in the original Constitution of 1788, nothing in the pre-War amendments, nothing in the Reconstruction amendments, and nothing added to the Constitution in this century was intended to prohibit to the States the power to operate racially separate public schools. On the contrary, the South contends that this power plainly was recognized, acknowledged, and judicially sanctioned in States North and South for eighty years after the Fourteenth Amendment became operative; and we deny that a construction so long placed upon the Constitution, in an area of public affairs so vitally and intimately affecting the daily lives of so many millions of persons, validly may be wiped out by a stroke of judicial pens.

III

The four cases that were to coalesce as Brown v. Board of Education had their beginnings in four widely separated proceedings. In the first of the suits, Harry Briggs, Jr., and forty-five other Negro children of Clarendon County, S. C., brought an action on December 22, 1950, against R. W. Elliott and other members of the county’s School District 22. The following March, in Kansas, Oliver Brown and other colored children filed suit against Topeka’s board of education. In May 1951, Dorothy E. Davis and other Negro plaintiffs in Prince Edward County, Va., launched their proceeding against county officials. Nine months later, in the early spring of 1952, Ethel Louise Belton and others sued for nondiscriminatory admission to the public schools of Hockessin and Wilmington, Del.

Each of the suits was carefully coordinated with the others by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, and each had the same object—overthrow of the “separate but equal” rule that had governed the operation of racially separate schools since Reconstruction days. Counsel’s plan was to show, first, that school facilities for white and Negro children were not equal as a matter of fact, but this was not so important; beyond this—and it was by far the more significant aim—the object was to prove, as Thurgood Marshall said in South Carolina, that “the segregation of pupils in and of itself is a form of inequality,” and hence a violation of the Fourteenth Amendment’s requirement of equal protection of the law.