Mississippi Native: Archie Skiffer
"Because Mississippi is home, I have an obligation to remain and fight, to put in the work to ensure it is a place where all can feel welcome and equipped with the resources to thrive."
What does it mean to call Mississippi home? Why do people choose to leave or live in this weird, wonderful, and sometimes infuriating place? Today we hear from archivist, activist, and writer Archie Skiffer.
Where are you from?
I’m from D’Lo, Simpson County, Mississippi.
How long have you lived in Mississippi?
Practically all of my life, with exception to 2014-15, when I resided in Atlanta, GA, while pursuing my master’s. I returned to Mississippi in July, 2015.
What does “home” mean to you? How does Mississippi fit into that definition?
To me, home means a safe place and place of refuge from the outside world. In regards to Mississippi, it’s rather contradictory, though. When applying the definition to Mississippi, home is somewhere you want to escape from due to the pervasive poverty, class war, racism, homophobia, police terrorism, and so on. However, because it is home, I have an obligation to remain and fight, to put in the work to ensure it is a place where all can feel welcome and equipped with the resources to thrive.
How have you cultivated community in Mississippi? Who are the people who have made you feel rooted here?
I believe that cultivating community is applicable to my experiences as an activist-organizer. In this capacity, I’ve embraced this role by serving the families of victims of extrajudicial killings here in Mississippi. By being their voice, advocating for justice, and connecting them to other families whose loved ones have been assaulted, maimed and/or killed by members of law enforcement has resulted in the building of a support network of everyday people, who have become politicized as a result of these shared heinous experiences. Moreover, the spirit of community cultivation is revealed in my labor. Through both places of employment, I find that goals achieved through collaboration are the most rewarding.
Naturally, my ancestors and family have made me feel rooted here. My fourth great paternal grandfather, James Skiffer, was forcibly moved to Mississippi from Virginia at the start of the 19th century. I had mixed feelings when I came upon his 1870 census record noting that he was from Virginia. Dismayed by the fact that the majority of his formative years were spent enslaved, in a place not his home; never to return to his place of birth. Proud because despite the substantial lapse in time, he never forgot where he was from, while establishing roots here for generations to come.
I find inspiration and a sense of being rooted here through the sacrifice of my Ancestor, John Skiffer, who refused to turn in his neighbor and friend, James Brady, who was wanted for murdering a white planter over a money dispute. John’s lynching resulted in the 1910 Mendenhall Race Riot.
From farming to play, my upbringing was rooted in the notion of having strong family ties and pulling together in order to survive. Unfortunately, as elders have passed and others aged, the spirit of community has been lost in some ways. It’s easy not to feel rooted when there’s little evidence of us pulling together and working in unison to ensure our collective survival. The advancing of this hyper-individualized concept of success has eroded that spirit of community. Regardless, my Ancestors and family keep me rooted here.
What’s the weirdest question or assumption you’ve encountered about Mississippi (or about you as a Mississippian) by someone who’s never been here?
“Are you all still chased by the Klan?” Years ago, my defensive response would have been, “Hell, naw! That’s absurd.” Now that I’ve gained greater clarity into how systems and power work, and my relationship to both, I believe that such questions have merit. For instance, there’s still a very overt and active Klan presence throughout Mississippi. If I were to answer this question from a systemic perspective, I would say, “It’s nuanced.” While some have traded in their white robes and hoods for blue uniforms, badges, and black robes, the objective remains the same. Confine, exploit, intimidate, and police Black bodies, wherever found.
How has living in Mississippi affected your identity and your life’s path?
That’s a question that I’m still mentally unpacking to this day. I would say that living in Mississippi is a mixed bag. I have a deep appreciation for Mississippi’s profound artistic tradition, the compassionate “everyday” people, and its natural resources. Then there’s the reality of coping with one traumatic event after another. For instance, my aunt, Faye Williams was brutally shot-gunned to death by a jealous ex-boyfriend at Wingfield High School, Jackson, MS, in November, 1984. Being one of my principal caretakers and protectors as a child, her tragic death had a detrimental impact on my family.
I can recall the lynching of Andre Jones in 1992 in my hometown, wherein he was stopped for speeding, arrested and found hanged in the Simpson County Jail the following day. That was my first memory of the fiery lawyer, Chokwe Lumumba, who represented the Jones family and led a march in my hometown that was met by a violent racist white mob that chased the protestors out of town.
It’s ironic that less than a decade later, in 1999, I would join the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement that he helped co-found.
In the summer of 1992, I was one of two Blacks who played travel baseball. I recall my father purchasing me a white with gold long sleeves Ragland baseball shirt and white Nike cleats for the season. The very first day I wore the outfit, a white teammate approached me, as though he was going to dap me up, which was usually followed with a customary hug. We were standing next to a light pole. The street parallel to the baseball field had been freshly paved. The road roller usually displaced the excess tar up against the light poles (not sure why that was done, but—hey, it’s Mississippi). At any rate, right as we were about to disengage, he pushed me up against the light pole. I instantly knew that my new shirt and shoes had been tarred. Not to mention it being all in my hair, down to the nape of my neck and legs.
Devastated is an understatement. I stood there and cried out of sheer humiliation and being so pissed knowing that I wasn’t in a position to fight a team full of whites. As they rolled around in the grass, crying in laughter, the teammate responsible for shoving me against the pole blurted out, “Now your clothes match your skin!”
I walked slowly away to the bathroom, thinking I could clean myself off before my father arrived to pick me up. But it was impossible to remove the tar. The team begged me not to tell. Knowing that we would all do punishment laps. I didn’t say a word, even during the ride home. I refused to answer my father, who demanded to know who was responsible. I knew nothing would come of it, so why tell?
Once home, he took me to his shed where he kept excess gas along with his farm tools. He got the canister and using an old rag, methodically poured the gas onto it. First, applying it to my legs, then my neck, and lastly massaging it through my hair.
As I think long and hard about this question, one way to describe my identity is the constant feeling of being shell-shocked. It’s hard to fathom the loss of numerous friends in car accidents, at least two (Victor Dampeer and Boris Mikell) whose cars I should have been in, but decided not to go party at the last minute. I reflect on the countless loss of friends to the failed war on drugs either due to mass incarceration or violence associated with the lifestyle. Consequences I was able to avoid by sheer luck, thankfully.
Despite these tragic experiences, my parents, and family in general, did the best that they could to give me some semblance of a healthy childhood. During my elementary years, my mother and her good friend, Lena Davis, would host Honor Roll parties to celebrate those of us who received the distinction every nine weeks. During this period, summers usually involved my parents loading everyone up on my father’s blue Ford pickup and taking the boys to see the Jackson Mets (now Mississippi Braves). I was jealous that the girls went to Biloxi Beach though. We would visit the Smith Robertson Museum, where my mother attended as a child. We regularly attended the Farish Street Festival among others.
I mention these experiences because it helps me tease out and try to grasp the impact of those who have helped shaped my identity, for good or bad. From the sacrifices that my family and community made in attempting to shield and insulate me from the abuse and chaos of the world and my surroundings, to being teased by members of my community for being the son of educators, while navigating predominant white spaces became a balancing act. Like Paul Lawrence Dunbar, I too had to “wear the mask,” which inevitably became a survival skill.
In short, when I think about Mississippi and how it has shaped my identity, I’m reminded of an old Chris Rock joke critiquing America. I believe it accurately captures my experiences living here that it’s, “like the uncle who paid for you to go to college, but molested you.” I try to reconcile living with a paralyzing sense of social anxiety, due to past trauma; while accepting my obligation to immerse myself in the work impacting underserved communities. Being involved in the work has become therapeutic.
What is something that you’ve learned about Mississippi only by living here? In what ways has Mississippi lived up to your expectations?
Since the “Lost Cause” narrative was the predominant framing of the period of Reconstruction growing up, I’m thankful my parents supplemented my education outside of the classroom.
I grew up learning about Mississippi’s Black Reconstructionist government and its accomplishments, such as laying the groundwork for ensuring compulsory education for all, and protecting the civil rights of formerly enslaved people of African descent. I would argue that it was Mississippi’s first and only concrete expression of Black empowerment. Unfortunately, within a decade, these gains were rolled back due to outright reactionary white violence.
I recall challenging my 6th grade Social Studies teacher with this perspective. Coincidentally, I was dismissed from his class and forced to spend the remainder of it in the principal’s office.
White Mississippians must come to terms with the past atrocities that have enabled them to remain in positions of power. As such, Mississippi is obligated to undergo a second radical Reconstruction.
In regards, to how Mississippi has lived up to my expectations, it remains remarkably dismissive, violent, and hostile to progress. It remains a state in which the interests of the wealthy are protected. Unfortunately, the social safety net meant to afford some semblance of relief to poor and working class people is persistently eroded. I’m anxious to see the day where Mississippi defies that expectation by committing itself to protecting the least of us.
Do you ever consider moving away someday? Does a sense of duty keep you rooted here? Do you have a “tipping point”?
Yes! When I retire, the goal is to immigrate to the Caribbean. I’m leaning towards Cuba, Jamaica, or the Dominican Republic. In the meantime, I want to be in a position to care for my parents as they age. I reached my tipping point several years ago. I don’t see Mississippi, or the U.S. for that matter, as having any redeeming qualities or the political courage to right its past and present wrongs.
What do you wish the rest of the country understood about Mississippi?
The rest of the country should understand that Mississippi is just a microcosm of the U.S. It is just as contradictory, complex, and hypocritical as the rest of the nation.
Subsequently, Mississippi has given rise to some of the most resilient and talented people in spite of. Gifts that have influenced activism, education, music, art, literature, sports, and our culinary traditions; making us second to none. Defying all odds in the process, while living the creed “making a way out of no way,” is what the rest of the country could learn from Mississippi. Moreover, Mississippi’s magnanimous natural beauty does make one believe that this is truly god’s country.
Do you have a favorite Mississippi writer, artist, or musician who you think everyone needs to know about?
I’m going break the rules here and acknowledge two writers who had an impact on my development. They are: C. Liegh McInnis and, while she’s from Louisiana, Jolivette Anderson-Douoning, who spent several years here in Mississippi advancing the state’s literary tradition. My J-State experience was incredibly shaped by their writings, spoken word performances, and class lectures on writing and race in Mississippi.
If you had one billion dollars to invest in Mississippi, how would you spend your money?
25% of the funds would go towards addressing infrastructure enhancement projects throughout Jackson. Another 25% would be spent on a massive cleanup of Mississippi’s waterways. I’d allocate 15% to the construction of hospitals throughout the Mississippi Delta. 10% would go towards a statewide apprenticeship program for individuals between the ages of 17-25, from underserved communities, to obtain a trade. 10% would be directed towards Black farmers and organizations engaged in addressing food inequality in Mississippi. 5% would address mental health needs throughout the state. Another 5% would be distributed among groups with a track record of serving marginalized groups. 3% would assist with addressing the lack of housing. 1% would go towards a week long, kickass music and arts festival as my final farewell. 1% to a mutual fund to sustain my life in early retirement in Jarabacoa, Dominican Republic, never to be seen or heard from again.
What or who do you want to shamelessly promote? (It can absolutely be a project you’re working on, or something you are involved in.)
I would like to recognize the families of Damien Cameron, Rasheem Carter, and Michael Jenkins. It’s my hope that Mississippians continue to support and rally behind them as they pursue justice.
Secondly, I have to recognize all of those who are doing the work to make this a more just and humane Mississippi, especially the Mississippi Center for Justice, MacArthur Justice Center, Mississippi Alliance for Public Safety, Mississippi Rising, Black Lives Matter – Mississippi, the Simpson County Chapter of the NAACP, Mississippi Federation of Democratic Women, and the Pine Belt Rural Development Association.
A special shout-out to the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement and N’COBRA, wherein I learned the principles of organizing.
Moreover, I give a special thanks to Doctors Carol Merritt (retired) and Karcheik Sims-Alvarado for providing me with an introduction to historic preservation by allowing me to serve as museum associate with the Herndon Home Museum, Atlanta, GA. I’d like to give a special thanks to Lorretta Parham and Ms. Karen Jefferson (retired), who allowed me to serve as reference coordinator with the Atlanta University Center Robert W. Woodruff Archives Research Center from 2006-2015. I’d like to thank the Mississippi Department of Archives and History, especially Julia Young (retired) and Laura Heller, for allowing me to serve as an archivist. Lastly, I want to thank Millsaps College, Professor Liz Egan and the consultants, who provide peer support through the Centers for Writing and Academic Success at Millsaps College.
I’m inspired by each of you, and remain grateful for the opportunities I’ve been afforded. If I missed anyone or any group, charge it to my mind, not my heart.
Thank you for sharing this great interview. I'm a Mississippi native, and you expressed exactly how I feel as well.