Under Attack: Virginia Military Instituteâs culture is forced to change â but how much?
Graduates of Virginia Military Institute (VMI) include some of the United Statesâ most illustrious leaders in government, business, education and professional sports â Nobel Prize laureates and Pulitzer Prize winners among them. Founded in 1839 as the nationâs first state military college, VMI even trained a young Mel Brooks during World War II.
But VMI graduated the infamous, too â leaders who fought during the Civil War to preserve slavery and destroy the U.S. â men like Edward Edmonds, Confederate colonel of the 38th Virginia Infantry; John McCausland, a brigadier general who served under the âunrepentant rebelâ Gen. Jubal Early; and Walter Taylor, aide-de-camp to Gen. Robert E. Lee and later a state senator and staunch defender of the Confederacy.
This deep-rooted connection to the Confederacy lives on in VMI culture. The collegeâs core identity has been inextricably and purposefully linked with the âLost Causeâ and one of its most revered and mythologized generals, . Â Both he and Lee, who commanded the Confederate army, are buried in Lexington, a and home to VMI.
In 2020, exposed a longstanding, entrenched atmosphere of racism and sexism at VMI â and an embedded reverence for the Confederacy so deep and pervasive that it spawned several traditions. For example, reenactments of the Battle of New Market, where VMI cadets fought for the Confederacy, lasted until 2020, when outside pressure brought them to an abrupt end.
The campus is, even today, littered with statues, memorials and other tributes to the Confederacy.
Even before the exposĂŠ, a group of alumni activists had begun publicly campaigning for the removal of Confederate iconography from the VMI campus as part of a wider change they say is necessary to replace an atmosphere that normalizes racism and sexism with one that is tolerant, inclusive and welcoming to all cadets.
Their movement ignited a fierce and ugly resistance to change. After some initial success, VMIâs governing board has determined that many of the remaining Confederate symbols will stay in place.
But the activists arenât giving up. Some of their voices can be heard on a new episode of the °Ä˛ĘżŞ˝ąâs podcast, released this week. Several of the activists appeared during a panel discussion this week at the °Ä˛ĘżŞ˝ąâs Civil Rights Memorial Center (CRMC), along with the podcast producers, to examine VMIâs attempt to reckon with its past. The podcast launch and CRMC event coincide with this weekendâs commemoration of , marking the emancipation of enslaved people at the end of the Civil War.
âWhen VMI allows Confederate memorials to remain in public space, they are continuing to condone and even celebrate those very same values,â said Kimberly Probolus, senior research analyst for the °Ä˛ĘżŞ˝ąâs Intelligence Project, who led the panel discussion.
âSymbolically, this undermines the schoolâs effort to promote more sweeping and systemic changes to promote racial justice. The fact that these symbols remain at VMI not only makes the campus unwelcoming to students but also affects their ability to learn and thrive. Iâd love to see them do more to remove Confederate symbols, which would send a powerful message that they are serious.â
Taunts and slurs
Keniya Lee, who graduated from VMI in 2019, is among the students and alumni of color who describe receiving or witnessing a litany of taunts, slurs and lynching threats during their time at the institute.
In a recent interview with the °Ä˛ĘżŞ˝ą, Lee described a faculty member reminiscing in class about the fun KKK âpartiesâ she attended as a child with her father, then a local Klan leader. The instructor went on to recount head âbobbingâ forays â hitting people of color walking about town or hitting them with a car â though she denied having taken part.
âShe ended the lecture saying that before college, she had never met nor spoken to any Black person. And when she went to college on a basketball scholarship, she said she never played because all the Black people were so athletically gifted at basketball,â Lee said. âShe said that before college, she didnât know what Blacks ate or if they had the ability to read, write, or to learn. She didnât know how we smelled, if we bathed, if we wore the same clothes, or if we had the ability to eat the same food. Then she said, âTimes have changed. People love each other. Itâs all great now.â â
Two days later, after confiding in a trusted professor, Lee reported the instructor to her department head. As her complaint proceeded through the chain of command, Lee was told she would have to remain in the class to graduate. Lee demanded an apology. Five months later, the teacher reluctantly apologized. âIâm only apologizing because of a complaint,â she told the class.
âI had had enough. I had heard [racist comments] from students and alumni to my face like, â[N-word], we will find a way to get you out.â âYou donât belong. Youâre a female and youâre just here as an athlete.â But when it came from faculty, I thought, here I pay tuition and you didnât even think Blacks could learn.â
Shah Rahman, now 48, was born in Bangladesh. He grew up in North Africa and the Middle East before arriving in the U.S. at the age of 16 and attending VMI.
âI faced racism throughout all the years I was at VMI, hearing the constant use of the N-word,â Rahman told the °Ä˛ĘżŞ˝ą.
Even though itâs been more than two decades since then, he wonât talk about the âworst racist things that happened to me, because it cuts so deep.â
âGrowing up I was inspired by Jackson and Patton,â Rahman said. âI didnât realize that I was reading a sanitized version of the Civil War and that the heroic battles were mythology. When I got to VMI ⌠I knew things were not OK, but I wasnât going to challenge an upperclassman. I kept my head down. ⌠You take it one day at a time and just want to graduate.â
Rahmanâs eyes opened after 9/11 when and police harassment against American Muslims surged. After Donald Trump was elected president in 2016 amid a campaign appealing to white grievance, the deadly Unite the Right rally the following year was Rahmanâs lightbulb moment.
âI began to connect the Civil War and Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee when I saw the skinheads marching in Charlottesville and saw the [Lee] statue as a symbol of hate. I began to link [its] worship with what the crazies were doing.â
âLost Causeâ tradition
On the VMI campus today, Confederate symbols large and small loom. Among them: buildings and rooms named for Confederate military leaders; tributes to Francis Smith, VMIâs first superintendent and a Confederate colonel; Stonewall Jacksonâs stuffed horse inside the ; and Memorial Hallâs chapel tribute to the New Market cadets.
âYouâre supposed to be worshiping God [in the chapel], but you look right at Confederate soldiers. If thatâs not mythology, I donât know what is,â said alumnus activist Mike Purdy, who joined Lee and Rahman at the °Ä˛ĘżŞ˝ą event this week. All three appear on the âSounds Like Hateâ podcast.
Alumni remember cadets hiding Confederate flags and propaganda before inspection of their rooms and a prohibition on hanging Black History Month pictures. Cadets were effectively banned from participating in nearby Washington & Lee Universityâs Martin Luther King parade, prohibited from wearing either their VMI uniform or civilian clothes.
The only recognition on campus of a Black person honors the white VMI alum and civil rights activist . Students are taught that he sacrificed his life for a Black woman.
The hall named for him is adjacent to the VMI laundry, which, as Lee noted, is not a prominent location.
Even amid the countryâs racial reckoning since the police murder of George Floyd in 2020, VMI clings fast to its traditions.
In the months following Floydâs death, the U.S. Department of Defense (DOD) ordered ââ to be removed from military installations. Congress then ordered the removal or renaming of more than 750 DOD-owned âassetsâ honoring Confederate heroes by 2024 .
As a state military college, however, VMI is under no such order. And, unlike the U.S. military, in which 17% of active-duty servicemembers in 2021 were Black, VMIâs Black cadets made up of the 1,652 at the school in 2021.
But the college has traditionally been slow to change its ways.
It was the in 1968 â and only under threat of losing federal funding. (Until 1973, when Black students campaigned to end the practices, they were expected to salute a Confederate flag and listen to âDixieâ played by the regimental band.)
VMI was also the last military college â and one of the last two public all-male colleges â in the U.S. to accept women in 1997. Even after the U.S. Supreme Court ruled against VMI in , in a majority opinion written by Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, VMI defied the order for three months until its board narrowly against taking the school private to evade the ruling. predicted women would degrade the schoolâs uniqueness â just as conservative alumni now claim that the implementation of a Diversity, Equity and Inclusion (DEI) program will bring âordinaryâ to VMI â contrary to its oft-invoked motto: âDonât do ordinary.â
Progress, then backlash
The movement for change found initial success.
The school removed or renamed three of its 34 Confederate memorials, namely the signature monument to Stonewall Jackson, who had taught at VMI before he took up arms against the United States. Three additional memorials were removed sometime before and after 2020, according to the °Ä˛ĘżŞ˝ąâs Whose Heritage? database, which tracks Confederate symbols in public spaces nationwide.
After the growing calls for a change in the schoolâs culture, then-Gov. Ralph Northam, a VMI alum, threatened to pull the schoolâs approximately $21 million 2020 funding, and the schoolâs longtime resigned. A searing, commissioned by Northam and released in June 2020 confirmed the toxic culture and recommended institutional change. To that end, Northam appointed an Indigenous woman, three Black men and one Latinx man to the Board of Visitors (BOV), the schoolâs 16-member governing body.
In December 2020, VMI finally removed the Stonewall Jackson due to intense political pressure and negative local and national media coverage. It had been only a few years before that the obligatory tradition of saluting the Jackson statue ended.
In another sign of progress, VMIâs first Black superintendent, retired , has issued DEI ; spearheaded under the schoolâs first chief diversity officer, ; established a DEI Committee; and reformed its disciplinary system, which disproportionately punished cadets.
In response to the changes, white , students and parents have waged a threatening â even â campaign on social media networks, including the anonymous student chat app and on private and VMI Facebook groups.
They vented on websites such as The Cadet newspaper and , claiming that VMI is being âruined,â its illustrious history erased by âwokeâ alumni activists. Some alumni â who annually contribute about 25% of VMIâs overall budget ($27.5 million in upcoming 2023) â even formed the political action committee Spirit of VMI to help elect Gov. Glenn Youngkin, an outspoken critic of in public schools.
Purdy and his fellow activists have received vicious threats since they began to push for change two years ago.
âI was still [last month] receiving physical threats online and in email, one guy saying he hoped we could meet up because it will end very badly for me,â Purdy said.
Amid this backlash, VMI has decided to hold onto its Confederate iconography.
On April 30, its governing board to âretain all the remaining statues and building names. Additionally, the vast majority of the other commemorative items, artwork and memorials that had been the subject of the [Commemorations and Memorials Naming and Review] committeeâs scrutiny because of the itemsâ association, however indirectly, with the Civil War, slavery, and the Confederacy will remain.â
The committee report noted that items that venerated slavery or the Confederacy were removed, and ânew and updated contextualizing informationâ will be added to those that remain in their current location.
A new day?
Keniya Lee can still recall in minute detail that day in 2019 when, as the sole Black person and woman in class, she couldnât leave without possibly jeopardizing graduation: how she struggled to hold back tears so no one would call her weak or emotional or âacting like a Black womanâ; where she sat in relation to the other students (alone in the front row); how many steps she walked from the class to her barracks (120), where she sat on her bed and sobbed.
But these days, Lee is optimistic about her alma mater. She has become a member of the alumni associationâs DEI Committee. She has joined the VMI chapter of the group and helped it secure regular VMI funding. At VMIâs invitation, she spoke last fall at a on civil engagement and leadership.
âI used to think that [speaking out] was the worst decision I ever made, but now I believe everything I went through was worth it,â said Lee. âThese things have to happen for change to happen.â
As for Purdy, Rahman and their fellow activists, they are pleased with the schoolâs new direction. Still, they are monitoring progress to ensure that VMI lives up to its diversity and inclusion goals. They have established an alumni fund (the pot holds about $50,000 already) to further the schoolâs DEI efforts. And they support tributes the school is considering, such as a memorial to the schoolâs enslaved workers.
But they recognize that many connected to VMI wish to turn back time.
âWe are still working to change hearts and minds,â said Purdy, noting that some alumni are still talking about bringing back the Stonewall Jackson statue.
âI think five to 10 years from now if we have another racial reckoning like the summer of George Floydâs death, people will ask, âWhy havenât you taken [the symbols] down?â â
Top picture: The Virginia Military Institute was founded in 1839 as the nationâs first state military college. (Credit: iStockphoto)