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In this shrinking Mississippi Delta county, getting a college degree means leaving home behind

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ISSAQUENA COUNTY — The kings and queens of the South Delta School District tossed candy and waved at their families as the mid-October parade wound through a small town several miles north of this rural county.

“There's no place like homecoming,” read a sign on a colorful “Wizard of Oz” themed float with a picture of Emerald City on the back.

Homecoming in Issaquena County, the least populated county in Mississippi — and one of the smallest in the country — is so popular that locals call it “South Delta University.”

But there is no college here, not for miles and miles; in fact, there is no public school of any kind. Students from Issaquena County attend school in neighboring counties — and it's a big reason why many of these kids will have no choice when they grow up but to move away.

There are virtually no jobs for college graduates in this rural county blanketed in farm fields of soybeans, cotton and corn. There are no factories and no hospitals in Issaquena County. There are no public schools – haven't been for decades. The median household income is roughly $24,000, a little more than half of the statewide average.

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A single statistic underscores all these factors. Here, out of the county's 1,111 residents, just an estimated 42 people aged 25 and older have a bachelor's degree — meaning Issaquena County's population has one of the lowest rates of educational attainment in America.

That's not because people from this county aren't going to college. Many of their families want them to get a degree — and then leave.

There's little appetite or means in Issaquena to change this reality, a product of generations of decisions that favored powerful, largely white land interests over education and jobs.

“All my grandkids, they're going to college,” said Norah Fuller, a Black farm manager, as he watched the football game that Friday night. “I'm going to make sure they're going to college. Do we want the kids to stay? No. What they gonna stay here for?”

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Farmland in the Mississippi Delta is pictured here on Wednesday, Nov. 29, 2023. Credit: Eric J. Shelton/Mississippi Today

Unless his grandchildren want to work on a farm, it's hard to say. Outside of local government and a prison, the primary source of jobs are the farms that have existed since before the Civil War. But these days, the white families who own much of the land in a county that's 63% Black are hiring less, and they have little incentive to make room for industries or jobs that could bring college-educated people back.

Fuller himself left the area, dropping out of school in the early 1960s. He didn't come back until he felt mentally ready to do the same kind of labor enslaved people in this area did.

“I had to get away,” he said. “I stayed away until I could handle it.”

So the cycle continues in Issaquena: Year after year, more and more people move away, leaving behind fewer reasons for anyone else to stay, for any change to happen, and more reasons for young, educated people to go.

“Around here, that's really the only way you're gonna make money,” said Amber Warren, a 29-year-old mom who has an associate's degree and has tried to get a job in Issaquena that will support her three kids. After years of applying, she finally landed one as a caseworker aid last year making $11-an-hour.

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Now she's searching for a better-paying job, up the hills and out of the Delta, away from all her family.

Issaquena County is flat, desolate and strikingly more rural than anywhere else in Mississippi. The famous “blues highway” largely skirts this southwestern corner of the Delta, where much of the traffic consists of pickups, tractors and trailers. Along the river looms a grassy levee that's rivaled in height only by large silver grain bins and silos.

The county has been in a of economic depression for decades. But that didn't happen overnight.

The story of this fertile land starts in 1820, when it was ceded by the Choctaw, whose words for “deer river” form “Issaquena.” Wealthy settlers — cotton farmers from the east — swooped in and set up plantations. By the eve of the Civil War, a vast majority of the nearly 100 farm operators in Issaquena owned enslaved people, who made up 93% of the county's population, the highest percentage in Mississippi.

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Reconstruction did little to change this imbalance of power. Agriculture continued to dominate the local economy. The “wild lands” were cheap, and Mayersville, the county seat, became something of a boom town, replete with hotels and saloons as the area grew to more than 10,000 people.

The tower is the only structure taller than the levee in Mayersville. Credit: Eric J. Shelton/Mississippi Today

Soon politicians, businessmen and planters all over the Delta were vying for a railroad to come through their town, eager for alternatives to the crumbling, unpaved roads.

Issaquena's landowners resisted, believing their land could get a higher price from the railroad companies. That wasn't the case. The county was circumvented, and Issaquena, as one newspaper in 1902 put it, had “repented” ever since. A few logging rails through the county today.

Thus began Issaquena's first major population decline. Mayersville was soon considered the last undeveloped place in the Delta. By the 1930s, the county's population had shrunk to less than 6,000. Nearly all of the farms were operated by sharecroppers.

Around this time, Stan Delaney's grandfather crossed the river from Arkansas to Mayersville and, with money he'd saved from managing a farm, bought land. Delaney grew up on it. He learned to drive a tractor when he was 7, and he dropped out of the newly formed, private Sharkey-Issaquena Academy in his senior year to farm, working alongside a Black family, the Wallaces, that his dad employed.

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The Wallaces have since moved away, Delaney said. Today, Delaney's wife and son help him work the family's roughly 1,150 acres, which are worth about $1 million. One of the county's 189 farm producers who are white, Delaney rents the land from his mother.

His daughter, Whitney Delaney, went to college because she didn't now want to farm. Now she figures she makes less working in a local community college's student services than her brother does in farming.

Stan Delaney and his daughter, Whitney, talk about their family's connection to the land in Issaquena County, Miss. Credit: Eric J. Shelton/Mississippi Today

Delaney wants to see more young people in Issaquena — especially so his 28-year-old son can meet someone. He knows industry could bring that. But he'd never dream of selling the land to make way for something different. If his kids didn't feel the same, he'd set up a trust so it could never be sold. 

“My dad worked so hard, and my grandfather worked so hard and sacrificed,” he said. “That's your tradition, that's just your Southern tradition.”

Like everything else here, the brick building four minutes from Mayersville on Highway 1 is surrounded by fields. Bales of cotton bound in bright yellow plastic greet visitors driving down the gravel road to the Head Start. The school, which opened in 1964, is Issaquena's sole educational institution.

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LaSonya Coleman logs attendance on her sherbert-green office's desktop computer around 10 a.m. As the center manager, she oversees the development of 41 students. Just seven, she said, are from Issaquena.

The only educational institution in Issaquena County, Miss., the Head Start serves 41 children from the surrounding area, but only seven are from Issaquena. Credit: Eric J. Shelton/Mississippi Today

Today, many residents, Black and white, aren't troubled by Issaquena's lack of public schools because the population is so small. In rural school districts across the country, consolidation is a common cost-saving measure.

But the reason why there are no public schools in Issaquena has nothing to do with population.

In 1952, the U.S. Supreme Court took up five cases that signaled it was going to rule on school segregation. Fearing the end of separate-but-equal, white lawmakers in Mississippi scrambled. In a special , they passed a plan to finally “equalize” the white and Black schools, believing the ruling could be stopped if the state proved it actually funded separate-but-equal facilities equally.

It was a futile attempt. Instead, the plan threw into relief how unequal school funding really was: Black students received just 13% of education funding around that time, despite making up 57% of the school-age population.

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In Issaquena, which had no white schools, the plan resulted in the shuttering of the school district, making it the first county in the state to not have one of its own. There was little on the local fallout, but according to a 1988 article, Isssaquena's 13 public schools closed too.

Yet Issaquena County has continued to pay taxes to support public schools that, aside from educating its residents, provide scant economic benefit to the county itself. South Delta is based in Sharkey County; the Western Line School District is in Washington County. Mississippi Delta Community College is 60 miles away in Moorhead.

Last year, Issaquena paid more than $937,000 in taxes to support all three institutions, the bulk going to South Delta, according to the county auditor.

“Having a school district does require college-educated people earning not great salaries, but still college-educated salaries, which helps in terms of property taxes, income taxes, all of the above,” said Toren Ballard, an analyst at Mississippi First, an education policy nonprofit.

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LaSonya Coleman is the center manager of the Head Start, the only educational institution in Issaquena County. Credit: Courtesy of LaSonya Coleman

Coleman, the Head Start director, had grown up just south of Issaquena in a tenant house her father designed and built on a plantation farm. A “country kid,” Coleman and her 14 siblings would play in a nearby creek while her dad worked the land and her mom, a housekeeper, cared for the farm owners' kids.

In 1991, Coleman, wanting to explore after she got her associate's degree at Hinds Community College, moved to Chicago. She worked at her sister's daycare center. Four years later, she came back to the area after her dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He could no longer work on the farm, so he had to move out of the house.

By 2016, Coleman returned for good to find the area's population even smaller than when she'd left. She said she would always tell her sister that local politicians should be working to bring more to the county, like a , something that isn't seasonal like farming or school.

“I mostly stay to myself, but I do a lot of observing of what goes on in the community,” she said. “And I feel that they should bring the jobs in.”

If anyone wanted to bring more jobs to Issaquena County, it'd be tough to do it without talking to George Mahalitc first.

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George Mahalitc, the largest landowner and one of the major employers in Issaquena County, Miss., said he doesn't want a “big population” in the area. Credit: Eric J. Shelton/Mississippi Today

With more than 9,200 acres, Mahalitc is one of the largest private landowners in the county. His properties flank Mayersville to the north and south. In a classic tale of American success, his family moved to the area from Texas in 1961. Now, he may be the only farmer in Issaquena rich enough to grow cotton, an expensive crop. If a field is marked by bales of cotton wrapped in yellow, some locals say that probably means it's Mahalitc's land.

Mahalitc is also one of the county's major employers. He hires tractor drivers and mechanics and workers for the cotton gin he owns with his brothers just over the county line in Washington County.

All told, Mahalitc employs about 30 people — something, he said, that's getting harder to do.

Workers get ready to pack processed cotton to be shipped on Nov. 1, 2023 from Mahalitc's Issaquena-South Washington Gin Inc. in Glen Allan, Miss. Credit: Eric J. Shelton/Mississippi Today

He believes that Issaquena has no jobs for college graduates, and few jobs for anyone else, because its people don't want to work. His point of view is not uncommon among farmers and landowners.

“What needs to happen is people need to get off their lazy tails and wanna go to work,” Mahalitc said. “Our government is subsidizing paying these people to sit at home. That's the problem.”

But it doesn't take long for Mahalitc to admit that farmers, by and large, want Issaquena to stay this way.

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“Us farmers, we like it like that,” he said. “We don't want the big population.”

As farmers have historically provided most of the jobs in Issaquena, they've also resisted efforts to develop the land that could bring other industries to the county, even as mechanization means they're hiring less. And because just 26 farm producers in Issaquena are Black, most of the people protesting development in Issaquena are white.

Some farmers want more development. For Mahalitc, it depends on the project; he was interested in selling his land to a solar panel company that recently approached him but, he said, the company backed out.

Waye Windham, another white farmer and the county's sheriff, said a decade ago, he would hire seven to eight workers for his farm of soybeans and corn. Now he hires two.

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“We can't stop looking for industry to come here,” he said. “If we do, we won't ever find anybody.”

Harvested cotton is seen at George Mahalitc's Issaquena-South Washington Gin Inc. in Glen Allan, Miss., on Nov. 1, 2023. Credit: Eric J. Shelton/Mississippi Today

Yet in 1990, farmers across the tri-county area foiled the county board of supervisors' efforts to get a $75 million hazardous waste incinerator. It would have created 79 permanent jobs and increased local tax revenues by an estimated $2.5 million at a time when cities and towns across the southern United States were competing to process each other's trash.

And it was a rare : Issaquena is prone to backwater flooding that can destroy roads, homes and farmland, another factor that has limited the county's economic opportunities.

Fearing the damage the waste could cause to local crops, a pair of farmers fiercely opposed it, writing op-eds and sending mailers to every registered voter in the county, which ultimately voted 413-315 against the plant.

Mahalitc was one of the 413. The plant would have been across his property line, and he was worried about his crops. Plus, he didn't think anyone in Issaquena would be qualified to work at the plant.

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“Where would they have qualified people to help run something like that?” Mahalitc said. “They're not here.”

Those who wanted to develop Issaquena didn't pin their whole hope for the future on the incinerator. The county also voted to legalize gambling (but the riverboat casino went to Vicksburg). Then came along the prison.

When the Issaquena County Regional Correctional Facility opened in the late 1990s, it promised to bring $1 million in revenue to the county tax rolls, but some locals are skeptical the prison has kept its word. Credit: Eric J. Shelton/Mississippi Today

When the 376-bed Issaquena County Correctional Facility opened in 1997, it brought $1 million to the county tax rolls. Today it is the largest employer in the county — more than 50 people work there, but many are not from Issaquena — and it sits across Highway 1 from Mayersville. It, too, borders Mahalitc's land.

Stallard Williams, a board supervisor who represents Mayersville, is skeptical the prison has kept its promise to Issaquena County. So is Willie Peterson, an alderman who has worked in local government for decades.

“We ain't got no benefit from it, make sure you put that down,” Peterson said.

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The prison recently has been at risk of shuttering. In 2019, the board of supervisors voted to do just that, believing the prison had lost more than $760,000 that year. But Williams thought there was more to the story. He'd been getting calls from people concerned the prison would be privatized, so he audited the numbers and determined the shortfall had simply been a mathematical error.

“I feel like, if something is not right, if it's something that especially an interest group or anybody else have over the people, over the community, then I speak up,” Williams said.

With what money the county does have, Williams would much rather be spending his time on ambitious projects to finally develop Issaquena. In his nearly eight years as a supervisor, he has led the board to build a park and secured funding for a walking trail outside the county courthouse, right next to the street that could one day be Mayersville's center of business activity.

Issaquena County Supervisor Stallard Williams , center, received an award in June 2023 from the institute for Excellence in County Government. With him are his brother Robert, right, and fellow Supervisor Eddie Holcomb. Credit: Courtesy of Stallard Williams

But Williams wants to do more. He has a long list. To attract , he wants to preserve the home of former Mayersville Mayor Unita Blackwell, the first Black woman to be elected mayor in the United States.

The Mississippi River, he says, is Mayersville's “golden opportunity for economic development,” but the town doesn't even have a port. He'd like to raise salaries at the prison, which pays just a few dollars above minimum wage. Issaquena, with its quiet swathes of land, attracts hundreds of recreational hunters and fishers — but there's no place for them to buy gas locally.

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The county's future, Williams said, should be about “give and take” between landowners and workers.

“I benefit from the farmers,” said Williams, who started with his dad a local lawn business mowing farmers' yards. “But as far as the people that just want a job here, they're more likely gonna have to work on a farm or go 50 or 60 miles to get a job.”

Yet so many of his ideas require land to generate taxes and to build on. In recent years, some of the county's land was bought by the state to create hunting grounds named after former governor Phil Bryant.

Change also requires political will. Some supervisors, like Eddie Hatcher, who runs a trucking company and privately owned hunting grounds, believe jobs are available in Issaquena if people want to work.

Barges on the Mississippi River sit on the other side of the levee from Mayersville, Miss., which lacks a port despite locals' desire to develop one. Credit: Eric J. Shelton/Mississippi Today

“When the government is giving able-bodies money for nothing,” he said, “why would you go to work?”

And sometimes even small improvements can be hard to do in an under-resourced place like Issaquena.

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In late October, the Mayersville board of aldermen met at the town's multipurpose complex. The mayor, Linda Williams Short, led the meeting. She has been mayor since she unseated Blackwell by 11 votes in 2001. Like most people in Issaquena, Williams Short doesn't have a college degree.

Just two community members attended the meeting. The Yazoo City-bound Warren, whose mom is an alderman, and a man who Warren said always for “moral support.”

A heated discussion concerned some of the aging in Mayersville, and the local construction company that was struggling to keep up. A few pipes were leaking across town. The water tower needed a new pump, and its gate, which had just been fixed, was falling down.

One alderman suggested getting “the whole system redone.” Williams Short insisted there was nothing she could do to speed up the work.

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“We all know it's been too long,” she said. “And all we can do is ask.”

This reporting is part of a collaboration with the Institute for Nonprofit NewsRural News Network, and the Cardinal News, KOSU, Mississippi Today, Shasta Scout and The Texas Tribune. Support from Ascendium made the project possible.

This article first appeared on Mississippi Today and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.

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Mississippi Today

At an uneasy town hall, Delta State’s president unveils ‘dramatic, upsetting’ restructuring 

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mississippitoday.org – Molly Minta – 2024-05-14 15:12:53

CLEVELAND — Last summer, record-sized hail caused millions of dollars in roof damage across Delta State University's aging campus. 

Had school been in session, the regional college in the Mississippi Delta would not have had enough cash to recover and stay open, Daniel Ennis, the president, told a packed room of students, faculty, staff and community members on Monday. 

“That's frightening,” he said. “That's like running a and having no money if you blow out a tire, no money if your car breaks down.” 

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The stark anecdote underscored the reason for the gathering: 49 vacant positions will be left unfilled, 17 staff have been laid off and an unknown number of faculty will be next as Delta State has proposed cutting 21 of its 61 programs — majors like history, English, chemistry and accountancy— as part of a drastic restructuring. The program closures will be presented to the university's governing board, the Institutions of Higher Learning Board of Trustees. 

“It's dramatic, upsetting, and I get this is shocking to many,” said Ennis, who added that there are only 238 students in those 21 programs. “So you can do the math.” 

The College of Arts and Sciences will be eliminated; its remaining programs will be doled out among the still-surviving colleges. Other changes are underway: Library Services has been restructured, the Career Services, Housing and Student offices consolidated, and the Hamilton-White Child Development Center will be shuttered unless a committee can write a financially sustainable plan for it this summer. 

The goal is not just to save money but to direct the university's funds into self-sustaining initiatives, an approach Ennis outlined in a memo that many were still digesting by the time the information-packed town hall began. 

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Delta State University's new president Dr. Daniel J. Ennis, speaks with students and staff at E.R. Jobe Hall on Delta State's campus, where he was introduced to students and faculty, Thursday, April 6, 2023.

“If we fail to do these things, we're just running hand to mouth, year after year, crisis after crisis,” Ennis said. “It ends today.”  

There was one piece of good : State appropriations for the university have increased by about $1.4 million, Ennis told the room, though he isn't sure yet if the funds are flexible or must be spent on salaries. 

After the meeting, the university's chief marketing officer and vice president for university relations told a Mississippi Today reporter they could provide answers to questions such as from which low-enrolled departments instructors were laid off. On Tuesday, they said it would be a personnel matter and directed Mississippi Today to submit a request instead.

In an interview, Ennis said he envisioned renaming the two remaining colleges, potentially one could be called the “College of Humanities.” But, he acknowledged, a majority of the programs on the chopping block are traditional liberal arts degrees — the result, he said, of students voting with their feet. 

“The productivity standards that I need to meet through IHL were far more important than statements made about workforce development,” Ennis said. “But I do think indirectly, in the big picture — I've been in the humanities my whole career — a generation of students have been told to go to college and get a job, and that makes things like art and music and English and history a harder sell to parents. I regret that.” 

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In lieu of the 21 programs, Ennis is proposing four new interdisciplinary degrees: Visual and performing arts, humanities and social science, digital media and secondary education. The university will encourage students with less than 60 credit hours in a degree that will be cut to enroll in one of these four programs, Ennis said. 

Students with more than 60 credit hours will still be able to graduate with their degree, even if it is going to be cut. 

That is why Ennis can't yet say the number of faculty who will be terminated. Some will be needed for “teach-outs” — the plans for the students with more than 60 credit hours. Others will stay on to teach general education. And, Ennis said, the budget for the four new degree programs, which will be created over the summer, hasn't been set. He hopes to have the programs up and running by the fall. 

But, Ennis still needs to find $750,000 to cut in fiscal years 2026 and 2027 — an indication, he said, of the number of faculty that may need to go. 

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A room divided

The meeting Monday was the culmination of nearly a year of work, Ennis told the room. In September, he announced that Delta State must cut $11 million from its budget, a glut that resulted from years of deficit spending as the college's enrollment steadily dwindled

When Ennis got to Cleveland, he said, Delta State had depleted its cash reserves to just 24 days. 

“Just like a household that has a savings account, and one year you have a loss of income and you start spending out of your savings accounts, the I faced was when I arrived here, there was no more savings account,” Ennis said. 

For fiscal year 2024, the university is projected to have clawed its way to 29 days cash-on-hand, according to a powerpoint Ennis presented. But it has a long way to go before it finds the $12 million needed to achieve the minimum 90 days required by IHL — a task made all the more difficult by the financial headwinds facing higher education. 

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“You feel like you're on a treadmill,” Ennis said. “You save $1 million, but two years later the actual (amount) is $750,000” because of inflation.

At times, the town hall was tense and divided. When it came time for questions, some speakers commended Ennis, while others were more critical. 

Jamie Dahman Credit: Courtesy of Delta State University

After Jamie Dahman, a music professor, protested Ennis' proposed changes to the marching band, a police officer walked over to Dahman, leading Ennis to tell the officer “we don't need that.” Earlier, Dahman had asked why the university and the foundation had paid hundreds of thousands for a search firm to help with replacing the dean of the arts and sciences college when, it turns out, that college is just going to be eliminated. 

Christy Riddle, Delta State's chief marketing officer, said she could not answer by press time how many university funds were used for the search. 

That decision had only happened a few days ago, Ennis replied. The search to replace Ellen Green, who was the subject of a faculty senate no-confidence vote last year, was canceled earlier this month.

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“It was a late call, because this process was ongoing until, frankly, 10 p.m. last night,” Ennis said. 

A recent graduate, Anna Schmitz, read a letter to Ennis, describing what she called unacceptable conduct by his administration, such as an instructor who learned they were out of a job earlier this year with a letter “silently and unexpectedly slid under the door of their office.” Four other instructors across multiple departments also did not have their contracts renewed. 

“As of late, it seems that students have no choice but to blindly take out thousands of dollars in loans not knowing if their major will even exist next semester, and faculty members are constantly unable to confirm if they will even hold a position for the next school year,” Schmitz read. 

Ennis's initial response was short. 

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“It pains me that I have disappointed you and your fellow students,” he said, adding her statement was courageous before concluding, “we don't agree on many things, and I will take your comments to heart.” 

“What's the answer?” Someone demanded from the left side of the room, as others hesitantly clapped in . “No response to the student?”

“Well, okay, first response,” Ennis said. “Every effort was made to personally tell individuals about their job change. … I can't speak to that individual faculty status. … I wish that we could've done this gradually, but point of fact, when you talk about people's , you shouldn't do it piecemeal. I chose to give all the information today, so everybody got the maximum information as simultaneously as possible. Any other method would've disadvantaged someone.” 

When he finished, the middle section of the room broke into applause. 

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‘None of us we're prepared for this'

Toward the end of the town hall, someone asked Ennis about the elephant in the room: What was the IHL's role in all this? 

Ennis answered that IHL had charged him with fixing the university's budget when he was hired, but that wasn't the whole picture. 

“I appreciate you letting me put that out there as if IHL is the ‘big bad,'” he said. “I'm owning this.” 

But, Ennis also noted repeatedly throughout the town hall that he had help. An ad hoc committee of faculty, staff and administration has been meeting since last fall. It made several recommendations, spanning broad ideas such as “restructuring the Academy” to specific suggestions, like cutting $750,000 from executive and administrative salaries over two years, and adjusting the athletic department's budget by $350,000. 

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Ennis said he took all of the committee's recommendations into account. 

The committee also proposed a retirement incentive program, which IHL approved, to save as much on salaries as possible without layoffs. Just 16 of 53 people who were eligible took the offer — less than Ennis had hoped, he said. 

With all these cuts, one attendee asked how will Delta State ensure the quality of its remaining course offerings? 

“That's a great question,” Ennis responded. “This is what I want to get to. We have not been able to resource the that are healthy in enrollment because we've been minimally resourcing all areas. We're freeing up resources that we can put toward places where they're going to be the most good.” 

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During a campus town hall meeting Monday, May 13, 2024, Delta State University President Daniel Ennis displays the 21 degree programs he proposed cutting from the Cleveland university's offeings. Credit: Molly Monta/Mississippi Today

To determine which programs would likely survive, the university conducted an academic program . A spreadsheet ranks all departments — the ones with the lowest score were asked to submit a report justifying their existence. Music, art and English were the lowest scoring, while the highest were nursing, alternate-route teaching and business administration. 

Some faculty, after seeing the list of programs that could be eliminated, felt like their report wasn't taken into account. 

“We were never involved in the conversation other than writing the reports,” said Cetin Oguz, the chair of the art department who spoke to Mississippi Today in his personal capacity and not on behalf of the university. He had joined dozens of other stunned faculty members to commiserate at a bar a few blocks from campus called Hey Joe's. 

Over pints, some were realizing what IHL had hired Ennis to do. Their focus was shifting from the financial mess that Ennis wasn't responsible for to the problems they felt he was creating: Decisions they believed could have been made sooner, or with more input, and more transparency.

Specifically, multiple faculty said they didn't believe the hoc meetings were open to attendees, and they were frustrated by the sparseness of the meeting minutes. Ennis told Mississippi Today the meetings were open. 

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Oguz, who was involved in an employment lawsuit the university settled last year, said many of Ennis' changes have been good. Oguz said he can't remember the last time Delta State asked him to review his department's productivity, and he's taught at the university for 21 years. 

But it's been far from easy. 

“I just recruited students,” Oguz said. “They said, I just refused a scholarship from the University of Southern Miss to come to Delta State. What do you want me to do?' I don't have any answers for them. None of us were prepared for this.”

This article first appeared on Mississippi Today and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.

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EPA highlights issues within MSDH, Jackson in water system audit

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mississippitoday.org – Alex Rozier – 2024-05-14 13:48:02

About a week after the Environmental Protection Agency determined that two Mississippi agencies didn't discriminate against Jackson in providing funds, the EPA released another examining issues in state and local governance ahead of the capital 's 2022 drinking water crisis.

The EPA's Office of Inspector General launched an audit in November 2022, a months after the water crisis that led to a federal takeover of the system. The agency, which released the report on Tuesday, found that the Mississippi State Department of Health failed to provide flexible loan options to disadvantaged communities like Jackson. After interviewing city employees, the audit also listed several issues with Jackson water plant staff and internal communications.

For one, a former at the O.B. Curtis treatment plant didn't “effectively conduct routine maintenance, delayed routine maintenance, and did not retain new hires, hampering the day-to-day operations of the entire treatment plant,” the audit said, adding more work to an already understaffed team of water operators.

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Interviews also showed that operators, whose salaries were below market rates, often worked seven days a week and more than 12 hours a day, and yet the plant still did not always have a certified operator on site, as required by state law.

On top of staffing problems was ineffective communication within the city, the audit said, prolonging issues such as hiring staff for the treatment plant. The report also found that water operators didn't feel comfortable reporting issues “outside of their chain of command at the water treatment plant,” leading to a “reactive approach” by city leadership to address the plant's issues.

A Health Department spokesperson told the agency is reviewing the report. The city of Jackson did not reply to a request for comment by publish time.

Health Department lacked flexibility in loans to Jackson

In last week's report by the EPA's Office of External Compliance, the agency found no evidence of discrimination in how the Health Department and the Mississippi Department of Environmental Quality awarded loans to Jackson under the federal revolving loan program. In Mississippi, loans under that program for drinking water funding go through Health Department.

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Tuesday's report, though, found that the state agency didn't make loan repayments — both as far as interest rates as well as the loan term lengths — as flexible as it could have for economically disadvantaged places like Jackson.

“(The Safe Drinking Water Act) provided different funding options for states to help disadvantaged communities better afford (funds from state revolving loans), increased loan subsidies, extended loan terms, and reduced interest rates,” the audit says. “However, the MSDH did not make these flexible loan and subsidy options available to disadvantaged communities, including Jackson, until after June 2021.”

Between 2016 and 2021, the Health Department awarded three loans to the city totaling about $52 million. The audit notes Jackson leadership's past statements that the limited loan options discouraged the city from applying for more funds through the program, and that the city unsuccessfully tried to procure money elsewhere, such as through the state Legislature.

“Had the MSDH provided flexible loan options for disadvantaged communities in a timelier manner, Jackson may have decided earlier to request and use them to lower its financing costs to improve its water system,” the report reads. “Additionally, these funding options could help other disadvantaged communities in Mississippi better afford investing in their drinking water .”

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To improve the state's loaning practices, the EPA says it will train the Health Department in offering assistance to disadvantage communities by June 30.

This article first appeared on Mississippi Today and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.

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Mississippi Today

Mississippi judicial candidates receive almost $400k in donations for November election 

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mississippitoday.org – Taylor Vance – 2024-05-14 13:44:28

The 10 candidates competing in contested judicial elections this year have collectively raised nearly $400,000 in donations since January, and some have injected a substantial amount of their own money into the race, setting the stage for a competitive November election.  

Amy St. Pe, a -based attorney running for a seat on the Court of Appeals, accepted $107,300 in donations since January, making her the candidate who amassed the most in campaign donations. She only spent $942 of that money, leaving her with over $106,000 in cash on hand. 

Her other two competitors for the appellate seat, Ian Baker and Jennifer Schloegel, have also amassed a large amount of campaign cash, making the race for the open seat likely to become extremely expensive. 

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Baker, an assistant district attorney on the Coast, raised over $40,000 and loaned his campaign $25,000, giving him at least $65,000 to spend on the race. Schloegel, a chancellor for Harrison, Hancock and Stone counties, raised over $97,000. 

Perhaps the most surprising revelation in the first campaign finance is the massive amount of money candidates loaned to their campaign accounts. 

Republican Sen. Jenifer Branning of Philadelphia loaned her campaign account $250,000, as amount more often seen in a statewide or congressional campaign. Branning's loan and around $68,000 in donations give her around $318,000 to spend. 

Branning is challenging longtime incumbent Jim Kitchens, the second-most senior justice on the court who would become chief justice if current Chief Justice Mike Randolph were to his post. 

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Kitchens, who occupies one of the seats in the Central District, has been on the court since 2009. He reported raising over $42,000 and spending nearly $20,000, leaving him with around $22,000 in cash on hand. 

The other candidates in the race, Aby Gale Robinson, Ceola James and Byron Carter, did not raise nearly as much as Branning and Kitchens. Robinson reported $0 in donations, James reported $584, and Carter reported nearly $5,000 in donations, supplemented by a $8,000 loan from himself. 

The other contested Supreme Court race between incumbent Dawn Beam and challenger David Sullivan for a seat in the Southern District is also shaping up to be competitive on the fundraising front. 

Beam reported raising over $17,000 since January, while Sullivan, the only challenger, raised $15,000 during that same timeframe. 

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Judicial offices are nonpartisan, so candidates do not participate in party primaries. All candidates will appear on the Nov. 5, 2024, general election ballot. If a candidate does not a majority of the votes cast, the two candidates who received the most votes will advance to a runoff election on Nov. 26.

Judges on Mississippi's two highest courts do not at large. Instead, voters from their respective districts elect them.

The nine members of the Supreme Court are elected from three districts: northern, central and southern. The 10 members of the Court of Appeals are each elected from five districts across the state.

This article first appeared on Mississippi Today and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.

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