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Prison education programs are primed to take off in Mississippi. Here’s what one class looks like.

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CORINTH — In the back of the Alcorn County Correctional Facility, a regional prison in the top-right corner of Mississippi, is an ice-cold trailer.

It's new. And it's where Bill Stone — a retired Northeast Mississippi Community College instructor who, for the past three years, has taught a public speaking class at this prison — was headed early Wednesday afternoon.

To get there, he must go through a pat-down. A guard inspects his materials — folders, notebooks and seven copies of the textbook “Practically Speaking.” Then Stone must walk through the prison's long, loud hallway, past his old classroom; past the canteen, the case managers' offices and the guard; and past the living pods. Some of his come to the glass or they shout hello, adding to the din. Finally, after a few steps on a sidewalk walled-off with a chain-link fence, Stone is inside the trailer.

Sometimes, Stone thinks it's not unlike walking the halls of a high school.

On Wednesday, he had Michelle Baragona, NEMCC's vice president of instruction, in tow. She'd driven 20 minutes from NEMCC's main campus in Booneville. Since fall 2017, she has overseen NEMCC's prison education programs, which are part of a growing movement in Mississippi and across the country. Boosted in part by research that has shown that prison education reduces recidivism, more colleges and universities are offering classes in prison. 

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Now, as the federal is preparing to make federal financial aid once again available to people starting July 1, these programs are primed to explode in partnership with the Mississippi Department of Corrections. Key stakeholders are on board: In interviews, Burl Cain, the MDOC commissioner, has correctly linked the availability of jobs for formerly incarcerated people, which prison education can help them get, to reduced recidivism.

In the quiet, -conditioned trailer, Stone was hoping his students could, just for an hour, find some reprieve from prison. Or at least, from their often sweltering hot living pods, which on Wednesday were burning up in the 84-degree heat. All 295 students at this facility can take classes, as long as they have a GED. 

“This is much better than the old room,” Stone said. “By a long, long shot.”

He started arranging the desks into three rows.

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Around 12:20 p.m., guards brought the students from each living zone until all the desks were filled. They waited quietly for class to start. Some were antsy, tapping their feet or twirling their pencils. One student from the work zone was running behind.

Five minutes later, class started. Stone introduced the assignment. Each student was to talk about three things that interested them. If they talked for more than one minute, they'd get an A.

“At the end, we all clap for them,” he told the class. “Even if they pass out.”

Stone was confident they wouldn't, but in his 28 years of teaching public speaking, it had happened to two students — it's always a possibility. So he'd tapped one student to start them off.

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“Terrence, I asked you to go first,” Stone said. “Are you ready?” 

“Ready as I'm gonna be,” he replied. 

Carlos White, left, watches as a fellow student gives his speech. Credit: Eric Shelton/

There used to be hundreds of college classes just like Stone's in prisons across the country. Up until the mid-1990s, these programs were considered a key part of doing time — an “opportunity for ‘reformation,'” according to Higher Education in Prison Research. But in 1994, the Crime Bill took away the primary source of , which was the Pell Grant, a federal financial aid program for low-income students, by barring incarcerated people from receiving it. 

The classes all but disappeared. Now, they're making a comeback. In Mississippi, colleges and universities across the are working with MDOC, sheriffs and wardens to set up what are, for many prisons, the first accredited college classes that have been offered in decades. NEMCC had been supporting its programs with private funding, but the Pell Grant will be a game-changer.

This will benefit the whole community, Baragona said. Not only does prison education reduce crime, she said, but families of incarcerated people often move to Alcorn County. They want their loved ones to be able to the family when they get out.

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“We're not teaching the people who are in there for life,” Baragona said. “These are people who are fixin' to rejoin society.” 

Since 2017, 77 students have taken NEMCC classes at Alcorn County Correctional. The participation rates reflect the institutions' demographics, Baragona said. Black students made up 57% of participants, and 43% were white — a ratio that was mirrored in Stone's class, where 7 students were Black and 4 were white.

More than half have taken three or more classes. Two students have taken five classes.

“I don't want anybody thinking that this is a patsy,” Stone said. “I want these students to write as well, to speak as well as any Northeast student who has come through my traditional classes.”

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He poised his finger over the iPad timer as Terrence Glover stepped up to the podium.

“Hello Terrence,” the students said in unison.

Glover talked about how he hates foreign languages (difficult to learn) and loves fishing. Then, 138 seconds later, his speech was over. It was time for the next student. Stone asked for a volunteer. No one moved.

“Anybody that just wants to get it over with right now?” Stone asked.

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Carlos White rocked out of his chair. Though he had seemed shy at his desk, he was at ease at the podium. The first thing he was interested in, White said, was TikTok, because it offered access to “a multitude of people from a single device” — that is, to the outside world. He also liked cooking, because it reminded him of his grandmother's collard greens. His final interest was mentoring. That's what he wants to do when he gets out.

“So much of the youth go down the wrong road like I did,” he said.

White spoke for 139 seconds, Stone noted. A new record.

The students seemed less anxious and more comfortable sharing. For many, the topic of prison was unavoidable. Another, Vincent Breazeale, talked about the value of education, working and family — three interests, he said, that would “probably be different outside these walls.”

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What everyone was really talking about were their dreams, and what they hoped to do when they finally left. One said he'd like to get a dog. Another couldn't wait to work on cars again. A third student said wanted to start a business manufacturing cologne.

One of the last students to go, Antonio Harris, said that after 19 years of incarceration, he was looking forward to being an entrepreneur when he's finally released (he'll become eligible next year).

“I want to be able to work and still kind of like, enjoy life at the same time,” Harris said. “It generates great revenue also.”

By the end, the temperature in the class felt warmer. Stone congratulated the students. This was the first class he's ever had, he said, where every student talked for more than a minute. He wanted to know how it felt.

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“Like riding a bike,” Glover said.

A student named Bruce Parker passed out root-beer-float-flavored candies. He'd used $1.16 of his $20-a-week allowance to pay for a bag. 

After a lecture from Stone, it was time for the students to talk to the “navigator.” That is Tina Wilburn. It's her third day. She's NEMCC's eyes and ears in the prison, and it's her job to advocate for the students. Gripping a prison-issued walkie talkie and a notebook, she wanted to know how they were going to do their homework. 

“Are you able to study in the pod where you're at?” she asked. She'd heard the library was too small.

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All the students shook their heads. Dozens of incarcerated people live in each pod and sleep bunk-to-bunk. There's a lot of distractions. 

NEMCC has offered college prison classes at ACCF since fall 2017. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi

“It's extremely difficult,” White said.

Despite everyone's excitement that day, these students are up against tough odds. They're unlikely to finish. Last semester, 10 students enrolled, and only two graduated. According to data from NEMCC, the completion rates were higher before COVID, when more career-readiness classes were offered.

Some of the reasons for this have to do with the very nature of prisons, said Ruth Delaney, a program director at the Vera Institute of Justice, a national organization that has been helping prisons set up college classes. For instance, it's common for incarcerated people to be suddenly transferred for reasons that supersede the class, like a sentencing order that prohibits them from staying in the same prison as a co-defendant.

“A prison is a total institution,” Delaney said. “The minute you cross that threshold, all of your relationships start to feel different.”

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If a fight broke out in a students' living pod, they could be transferred, even if they weren't participating, she added. That's more likely to happen during the summer months, when violence in prison rises with the temperature outside.  And while some research has shown prisons that have classes become safer over time, the students at Alcorn County Correctional said they had yet to see that happen. 

But other reasons can be managed. A huge issue Stone has noticed is dental hygiene. When his incarcerated students' have cavities, they're sent to the Mississippi State Prison in Parchman to get teeth pulled. For weeks after, their mouths are too swollen for them to talk in class.

Then there are some students who get demoralized if they do poorly, even on a quiz that doesn't matter for their final grade.

“It'll just knock them for a loop, and I'm not used to that,” Stone said. “That's a definite prison-type thing. A regular college student would go, ‘well, crap.' They'd just keep on going. For a prison student to make a 40 or a 50, their whole self esteem is locked up in that.”

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What makes the difference, Stone added, is support.

All of the students told Wilburn they would be able to finish their homework. Some of them offered tips: The best time to study is around 3 a.m. That's when the prison is quietest.

The door to the trailer opened. It was a guard. He walked into the middle of the room with his hands on his hips. Everybody turned to look at him.

“I believe they said class is over now,” he said.

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So it was. 

A student goes back into the prison after class. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today

NEMCC has big dreams for the program. Baragona wants to offer more career-technical programs — classes that are more likely to directly lead to jobs when students are no longer incarcerated. But she's worried about the logistics of bringing equipment into the prison. 

Another issue is giving students computers, which is crucial for learning how to do research. This isn't possible because they're not allowed use of the internet. Stone makes up for that by bringing print-outs of research to class.

Baragona also wants there to be more instructors. Right now, Stone is one of two. Even though society is slowly leaving the tough-on-crime era behind, she still has to “sweet talk” instructors into participating in the program. She was able to convince Stone because, in the early 1980s, he used to minister to a congregant in prison.

And Baragona still hasn't figured out an efficient way of providing accommodations for students who have disabilities like dyslexia. When the Pell Grant becomes available, she'll need to set up a system for them to talk to NEMCC's financial aid office. She's hoping Wilburn can help with that.

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Before class, Baragona asked Stone to tell her if he needed more equipment. A white board would be nice, he mused. Then he thought of something even better.

“A bigger TV would be glorious,” he said. “If someone had an extra 69-inch TV that would be just glorious.”

But right now, the new trailer is enough.

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

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Mississippi Today

Legislature, flush with cash, passes budget, completing work for 2024 session

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mississippitoday.org – Bobby Harrison – 2024-05-03 16:56:24

The Mississippi Legislature completed its work for the 2024 session on Friday with the passage of a $7 billion budget – 5.8% larger than the budget it passed last year.

The $7 billion reflects the amount spent on recurring expenses. The budget last year, including one-time funds, federal relief funds and other one-time money for specific projects, actually was more than the budget passed this year.

The completion of the budget late Friday ended the bulk of lawmakers' work for the 2024 session, but legislators will return briefly Saturday to take care of procedural issues. Plus, the Legislature might reconvene on May 14 to deal with any veto from Gov. Tate Reeves.

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One of the final actions on Friday was approving a massive bill that provides state money for projects throughout the state. The legislation funds projects, work on local governmental office buildings and other projects for individual legislators.

Th total amount of the projects was $227.4 million.

In the past, projects were often funded by borrowing. But in recent years, thanks in large part to an infusion of federal COVID-19 funds and other federal funds, Mississippi, like most other states, has been flush with cash, allowing those projects to be funded with cash instead of long-term debt.

Senate Finance Chair Josh Harkins, R-Flowood, told senators paying for the projects with cash will not continue in future years. State revenue has begun to slow.

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Harkins told senators there were more than $1 billion in requests on the local level for projects.

Sen. Angela Turner Ford, D- Point, asked Harkins how it was decided which projects to fund.

Harkins said the focus was on projects and other projects where it was viewed the greatest need was.

 In addition to the pet projects for lawmakers, other capital spending included:

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  • $110 million for projects.
  • $45 million for community college projects.
  • $160 million for work on improving state Highway 7 in Lafayette County.
  • $90 million for work on U.S. I-55 in DeSoto County.
  • $50 million for work on state office buildings throughout the state.

In total, $820 million was committed in surplus funds for building projects throughout the state. Plus, $110 million in surplus funds was pumped into the Public Employees Retirement System to help shore up the pension plan.

In terms of the budget to operate agencies, House Appropriations Chair John Read, R-Gautier, said state agencies are receiving an average 5% year-over-year increase in .

That increase includes money to pay for increases in the premiums for the state employee plan and to pay for a .5% increase for each state agency in the contribution to the state retirement plan.

Lt. Gov. Delbert Hosemann said before the session began that dealing with financial issues facing PERS was one of the top priorities.

“We tackled the PERS issue,” Hosemann said, though, some argued that the legislative solution did not resolve all the financial issues facing the system.

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Senate Appropriations Chair Briggs Hopson, R-Vicksburg, said the state budget provides funds to allow state agencies to deal with .

“The budget is reflective of the times,” Hopson said. “State agencies are not immune to inflation. In order to provide services at the same level, we have to spend additional funds.”

The budget includes an additional $240 million in funding for K-12 schools.

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

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On this day in 1850

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May 3, 1850

Shadrach Minkins, right, worked at the Cornhill Coffee House and Tavern, believed to have been located in the highlighted area. Credit: Courtesy of National Park Service

Shadrach Minkins, already separated from his , escaped from the Norfolk, Virginia, home, where he was enslaved. He made his way to Boston, where he did odd jobs until he began working as a waiter at Taft's Cornhill Coffee House.

Months later, passed the Fugitive Slave Act, which gave authorities the power to go into states and arrest Black Americans who had escaped .

A slave catcher named John Caphart arrived in Boston, with papers for Minkins. While serving breakfast at the coffee house, federal authorities Minkins.

Several local lawyers, Robert Morris, volunteered to represent him. Three days later, a group of abolitionists, led by African-American abolitionist Lewis Hayden, broke into the Boston courthouse and rescued a surprised Minkins.

“The rescuers headed north along Court Street, 200 or more like the tail of a comet,” author Gary Collison wrote. They guided him across the Charles to the Cambridge home of the Rev. Joseph C. Lovejoy, whose brother, Elijah, had been lynched by a pro-slavery mob in Illinois in 1837.

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Another Black leader, John J. Smith, helped Minkins get a wagon with horses, and from Cambridge, Hayden, Smith and Minkins traveled to Concord, where Minkins stayed with the Bigelow family, which guided him to the Underground Railroad, making his way to Montreal, spending the rest of his in Canada as a free man.

Abolitionists cheered his escape, and President Millard Fillmore fumed. Morris, Hayden and others were charged, but sympathetic juries acquitted them. Meanwhile in Montreal, Minkins met fellow fugitives, married, had four and continued to work as a waiter before operating his own restaurants.

He ended his career running a barbershop before dying in 1875. A play performed in Boston in 2016 told the dramatic story of his escape.

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

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Mississippi Today

Medgar Evers will receive Presidential Medal of Freedom

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At her husband's funeral in 1963, Myrlie Evers heard NAACP Executive Director Roy Wilkins declare, “Medgar Evers believed in his country. It remains to be seen if his country believes in him.”

Later today, his country will declare its belief in him when the family of the slain Mississippi NAACP leader receives the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian honor.

But Medgar Evers was more than a civilian. He fought the Nazis in World War II, only to return home and fight racism, this time in the form of Jim Crow, which barred Black Mississippians from the ballot box.

On his 21st birthday, he and other Black veterans of the war went to vote at the courthouse in Decatur, where they were met by white with guns.

Afterward, he vowed he would never be defeated again and that he would keep fighting by joining others dedicated to the cause of the civil rights movement.

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“The movement for equality was always on his mind, and whites' denial of his right to vote in his hometown served as one cog of many in the overall wheel of injustice, a wheel of which he was bound and determined to break,” said Michael Vinson Williams, author of “Medgar Evers: Mississippi Martyr.”

Myrlie Beasley met Medgar Evers on the first day of her freshman year at Alcorn A&M College in fall 1950. As she leaned against a light pole, she said he told her to be careful, “you might get shocked.”

And shocked she was when she fell in love and married him a year later. He was one of those military veterans that her family had warned her about. And he was involved in the movement that her family had avoided.

She joined him in the fight, and they moved to Mississippi's only all-Black town, Mound Bayou, where he helped Dr. T.R.M. Howard a boycott. They distributed thousands of fluorescent bumper stickers that read, “Don't Buy Gas Where You Can't Use the Restroom.”

In January 1954, the of Mississippi School of turned Medgar Evers away because of the color of his skin. NAACP considered taking his case to court, but they were so impressed with him they hired him instead as the first field secretary for the Mississippi NAACP.

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Myrlie Evers worked as his secretary. She said he insisted they call each other “Mr. Evers” and “Mrs. Evers” in the office.

He spent much of his time on the road, putting 40,000 miles a year on his car, recruiting new members, reviving branches and inspiring young people to participate in the movement, Joyce Ladner, who invited him to speak to the NAACP Youth Council in Hattiesburg.

“He had a quiet courage,” she recalled. “I was always amazed that he drove up and down Mississippi's two-lane highways alone at night. He was a marked man, but he kept on going.”

Joan Mulholland is seen holding a photo of her booking shot taken when sge and othger Freedom Riders were arrested in Mississippi un 1961. Credit: Courtesy of the Mulholland family

In 1961, Joan Trumpaeur Mulholland was one of more than 400 Freedom Riders, half of them white, who challenged segregation laws in the South. She and other Riders were arrested and sent to serve their time at the Penitentiary at Parchman.

When she and other Riders needed a lawyer, Medgar Evers “was the one who took care of it,” she said.

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He became a model for her and others in character and courage, talking often to Tougaloo College students, she recalled. “He wasn't intimidated.”

In 1962, Evers installed Leslie McLemore as president of the Rust College chapter of the Mississippi NAACP. “Medgar Evers was really a brilliant man,” he said. “He had an incisive mind and personality that drew people to him. In another era, he could have been a U.S. senator from Mississippi or maybe even President.”

Evers investigated countless cases of intimidation and violence against Black Americans, including the 1955 murder of Emmett Till. Evers often dressed as a sharecropper in those investigations.

No matter where he went, threats of violence followed. He bought an Oldsmobile 88 with a V-8 engine so powerful it would leave most cars behind. On some dark nights across the Mississippi Delta, he floored it to escape those hell-bent on harming him.

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His name appeared on Ku Klux Klan “death lists,” and his home telephone rang at all hours with threats to him and his family.

When his daughter, Reena, answered the phone one time, she heard a man saying he planned to torture and kill her father.

In spite of these threats, he stayed. He told Ebony magazine, “The state is beautiful, it is home, I love it here. A man's state is like his house. If it has defects, he tries to remedy them. That's what my job is here.”

On May 20, 1963, Evers talked on television about the mistreatment of Black Mississippians. “If I die, it will be a good cause,” he told The New York Times. “I'm fighting for America just as much as the soldiers in Vietnam.”

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Weeks later, President Kennedy delivered his first and only civil rights speech, telling the millions watching on television, “If an American, because his skin is dark, cannot eat lunch in a restaurant open to the public, if he cannot send his children to the best public school available, if he cannot vote for the public officials who will represent him, if, in short, he cannot enjoy the full and free life which all of us want, then who among us would be content to have the color of his skin changed and stand in his place?”

Evers smiled. He and other Black leaders had urged Kennedy to push for a civil rights bill, and now that seemed certain to happen.

Hours later, returning home from a late civil rights meeting, Evers was shot in the back in the driveway of his Jackson home.

Myrlie Evers and their three children dashed outside, saw the blood and screamed. “Daddy!” Reena yelled. “Please get up, Daddy.”

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He never did.

“He had the courage to hold an impossible job at a crucial turning point in American history,” said Taylor Branch, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of a trilogy on the civil rights movement.

For the first time, members of the mainstream press didn't call such a killing “a lynching,” he said. “They called it an assassination.”

In his book, “Parting the Waters,” he wrote, “White people who had never heard of Medgar Evers spoke his name over and over, as though the words themselves had the ring of legend. It seemed fitting that the casket was placed on a slow train through the South, bound for Washington so that the body could lie in state.”

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After the casket arrived, Medgar Evers was buried with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery.

“The tragedy of his martyrdom is eloquent testimony to the courage and dedication of a leader who — in his lifetime — deserved the respect and of the powerful people who later publicly identified with this man and his cause,” said John Dittmer, author of “Local People: The Struggle for Civil Rights in Mississippi.” “Though long overdue, this award is a fitting tribute to Medgar Evers and his family.”

A year after Evers' assassination, Congress passed the Civil Rights Act on his birthday, and President Lyndon B. Johnson signed the bill into law hours later.

“Medgar Wiley Evers boldly stood against injustice, against oppression, against this country's determination to keep Black people as second-class citizens,” Williams said, “and he was murdered because of his commitment to truth, justice and the struggle for civil and human rights.”

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Before leaving office as governor in 1984, William Winter hosted Myrlie Evers and her family at the mansion, where he remarked that Medgar Evers did more than just free Black Mississippians, he freed white Mississippians as well from the bonds of racial segregation, oppression and hate, he said. “We were all prisoners of that system.”

It took three decades before Evers' killer was finally brought to justice in 1994, and that verdict helped to inspire the reopenings of other cases. There have been 24 convictions in civil rights cold cases.

Myrlie Evers' courage to press for justice in her husband's case started all of this, said Leslie McLemore, who helped found the Fannie Lou Hamer National Institute on Citizenship and Democracy. “It would not have happened without her persistence.”

When she learned last about the Presidential Medal of Freedom honoring her late husband, she exclaimed to her daughter, Reena Evers-Everette, “Oh, my God!”

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Then Myrlie Evers grew silent.

“I'm just utterly speechless,” she said, “and frozen with gratitude.”

Evers-Everette still misses the man she knows as “Daddy,” but she perseveres as the executive director for the Medgar and Myrlie Evers Institute, because his spirit inspires her.

“I feel him around me all the time,” she said. “I marvel at his courage, stamina, vision, and commitment for equality and justice for his people and all of humanity. I pray for his love and wisdom as I pursue this work, because I don't want him to have died in vain.”

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

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