Though the tabling of the Javits Amendment on March 27th, 1962, seemingly cleared away the last major obstacle to the final approval of what would become the 24th Amendment by the Senate, it turned out that there was still one more senator who had something to add. One more legislator, that is, who had watched Spessard Holland and his supporters laboriously drag their anti-poll-tax proposal nearly across the finish line and still somehow came to the conclusion that this was the perfect moment to throw his own pet project into the mix. That senator’s name was Prescott Bush (1895-1972). And while the proposal he introduced was, on its own merits, eminently worthwhile, the man’s timing could not have been worse. At the very least – by his own admission – he was in favour of Holland’s amendment, and fully intended to vote for it when the opportunity to do so finally arose. But he was also interested in adding his own favoured reform to the resolution then under discussion. Specifically, he wished to propose another constitutional amendment, the effect of which would have been to grant the District of Columbia representation in Congress on the same terms as though it were a state. Evidently, Bush had submitted a similar amendment proposal to the Judiciary Committee in 1961, had met with a distinct lack of action, and wished to pursue the same remedy as Senator Holland. But while, from the perspective of Senator Bush and doubtless many of his fellow reformers, there seemed to be a natural affinity between their cause and Senator Holland’s – they both supported expanding access to the franchise, after all – Senator Holland himself was not so sanguine.
Granting representation in Congress
to the District of Columbia, Holland asserted, was far too radical an action to
take without first a great deal of very careful consideration. Functionally, it
would be the same thing as admitting a new state, with the attendant additions
to the membership of the House and the Senate. And without knowing what these
additions would do to the balance of power in Congress – or perhaps knowing
exactly what they would do and wishing to avoid just that – Holland found that
he was unable to offer the same unalloyed support that Bush had extended to his
own constitutional proposal. Bush was, unsurprisingly, nonplussed by this
response. “Frankly,” he said,
I do not see any reason why the
citizens of the District of Columbia should be deprived of representation in
the Congress merely because it is a district and not a State. There are more
than three-fourths of a million citizens in this city. They now can vote for
President and Vice President of the United States, thanks to the action of the
Congress, but they lack any way of expressing themselves in the halls of the
Congress. It seems to me that is a perfectly ridiculous situation.
It was at this
point that Spessard Holland made something of a shift in his tone. Previously,
when it was his reform proposal under discussion, he had maintained an
attitude of patient determination as one after another of his Southern
colleagues denounced his stated goals and called into question his intentions.
But now that it was a Northern Republican offering to expand access to the
franchise – and now that, incidentally, the beneficiaries of this expansion
were more likely to be black than white – his perspective, as expressed, became
far more traditionally patronizing.
It bears recalling, at this point,
just who Spessard Holland was. A reformer, to be sure, in the style of the New
Deal. And a populist of a sort, eager to render aid to the economically
disadvantaged. But also, decidedly, a Southern Democrat in the conventional
sense. While his efforts to eliminate the poll tax at both the state and
national levels were bound to render aid to some number of Black Americans, he
must also have known that enough extra-legal obstacles would have remained in
place – not the least of which being the threat of violence – so as to prevent
the Black community from gaining any significant advantage as a result. Indeed,
he more than likely counted on this being the case. With this essential fact in
mind – that, in spite of his determination to see this one species of electoral
reform achieved, the man was hardly what one might call a liberal – Holland’s
response to Senator Bush’s proposal would not seem to be all that surprising. “The
Commonwealth of Puerto Rico [,]” he went on to say,
Has more than 2 million citizens and
does not have representatives in the House or in the Senate. In addition, I
invite the Senator's attention to the fact that recently we extended the voting
privilege to the District of Columbia. The Senator from Florida was one who
voted for that measure. The States have approved the amendment. The citizens of
the District of Columbia, like citizens anywhere else, now can vote for
President and Vice President of the United States. I suggest that first there
should be a little trial run, to see how the citizens of the District of
Columbia, after such a long term of nonparticipation, show their attitude
toward the National Government.
There are a few
things about Holland’s reasoning here that would seem to warrant analysis. It
was true, of course, that the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico – circa 1962 – was
far more populous than the District of Columbia. It was also true that, in
spite of this fact – that Puerto Rico was larger, in terms of population, than
several states – said territory did not possess voting representation in
Congress. But rather than take this as a reason to support equal representation
in Congress for Puerto Rico ahead of D.C. – the democratic
deficit being far more severe in the former than in the latter – Holland seemed
to think that neither territory deserved to have their status changed.
Did this have
anything to do with the fact that the vast majority of Puerto Rico’s population
would not have fit the mainstream American definition of “white?” Very likely.
This was definitely why he didn’t support granting representation in Congress
to D.C., the only major city in the United States at that time with a non-white
majority. It was also almost certainly why he spoke so condescendingly of the
voting rights that had just recently been extended to the residents of that
district. They had just been extended – by way of the 23rd Amendment
– the right to cast ballots in elections for President and Vice-President. Wasn’t
that enough, Holland asked, at least for the time being? “I suggest [,]” he
said, “that first there should be a little trial run, to see how the citizens
of the District of Columbia, after such a long term of nonparticipation, show
their attitude toward the National Government.” One wonders why the senior
senator from Florida felt that the “attitude” of the people of D.C. was in any
way significant. Did the people of Alaska have to “show their attitude” towards
the federal government before they were granted the right to send senators and
representatives to Congress? Of course not. Once Alaska was granted statehood
in 1959, it was automatically entitled to representation in Congress. The
District of Columbia had been a part of the United States – and its inhabitants
had been citizens thereof – for over sixty years longer than Alaska had even
been a US territory. So why was it that Holland felt they needed to prove
themselves in order to be extended representation in Congress? And what,
precisely, did he feel they needed to prove? Their patriotism? Their
intelligence? What do either of these things have to do with casting a ballot?
Clearly, in
spite of his apparent dedication to certain aspects of electoral reform,
Spessard Holland was, in many ways, typical of most conservative Southern
Democrats. That is, while he did seem to favour extending the electoral
franchise to larger swaths of the Southern white community than had previously
been the case – and in this sense seemed to agree at least partially with Paul
Douglas that the Southern white working class were deserving of a greater say
in public affairs – he nevertheless maintained that certain kinds of
people were simply not suited to self-government. Puerto Ricans, for example,
or the majority Black inhabitants of the District of Columbia. These people,
rather than have the franchise that was theirs by right restored to them,
needed to show their “attitude” towards the federal government before their
future inclusion in the national political process could even be considered.
Granted, in certain parts of the United States in 1962, there existed Black
people and Hispanic people who voted in elections at all levels of government
without fear of molestation. There were even a number of non-white congressmen
and at least one non-white senator then serving. And Holland would likely not
have argued that this was for the worse. But practically nowhere in the
contemporary United States where there existed a majority non-white population
was that population permitted to freely exercise its democratic rights. And the
fact that Spessard Holland – in spite of his apparent dedication to tearing down
the poll tax – seemed to want it to stay that way once more drives home both
how strange his participation in the anti-poll-tax crusade really was as well
as the extent to which “reform,” within a political context, can often be a
complex and often contradictory concept.
Holland was not
alone among his fellow senators, of course, in expressing somewhat inconsistent
feelings towards electoral reform and the expansion of the franchise. Estes
Kefauver, for example, who was then serving as the Chairman of the Senate
Subcommittee on the Constitution, argued that while DC ought to have some
manner of representation in Congress, “perhaps it ought to be first in the
House of Representatives, during a trial period, rather than the U.S. Senate
initially.” And Ohio Senator Stephen M. Young (1889-1984) gave voice to the
same tired old chestnut about D.C. not having a voice in Congress because it
“belonged to the nation.” Which was true enough, in a metaphorical sense.
Washington was – and remains – the nation’s capital, and ought to do everything
possible to make itself welcome to elected officials, their families, and
visitors from across the country. That being said, “the nation” doesn’t live in
Washington on anything like a permanent basis. Public servants come and go, but
the people who drive the buses, and wait the tables, and stock the shelves, and
teach the children in the District are the ones who pay most of the taxes and
have no other place to call home. It would accordingly seem to make sense that
they should have some say in how they are governed. But this, for
whatever reason, seemed not to be a particularly convincing argument in 1962.
While Senator Holland’s proposed amendment had more than enough support to pass
constitutional muster, Senator Bush’s decidedly did not. And while Bush
certainly could have taken steps to force the issue if he so desired – provided
he could attract enough support to stage a filibuster of his own – he was
fairly quickly talked into dropping his proposal by the aforementioned Senator
Kefauver. In his capacity as chair of the Senate committee responsible for
reviewing potential amendments to the Constitution, the Tennessean assured
Senator Bush that his proposal would be granted a hearing as soon as was
feasible. In response, Senator Bush then withdrew said proposal and Senator Holland’s
amendment was summarily agreed to and read a third time.
At this stage in
the debate – with Holland’s proposal on the cusp of being formally approved by
the Senate – a final, rather curious exchange took place between one of its
detractors and one of its supporters. The detractor, unsurprisingly, was
Georgia Senator Richard Russell, who had been attempting to hold up the
progress of Holland’s reform initiative for over two weeks. The supporter,
however, was not Holland himself. The senior senator from Florida having
seemingly lapsed back into his customary pose of quiet resolution, the role of
advocate was instead taken up by none other than Minority Leader Everett
Dirksen (1896-1969). Now, the Illinoisan, for his part, did not seem to want to
start anything. All that he did, at this noteworthy moment in the life of a
proposed amendment, was summarize its recent history for the benefit of the
Congressional Record. But whether he intended to or not, the Republican ended
up striking a nerve. Richard Russell, seething with resentment, requested and
received the floor. Then he proceeded to marvel at the damage he perceived had
just been done to the rules and procedures of the Senate. “Evidently,” he
began, in reference to Dirksen and his aforementioned postmortem,
His conscience was hurting him
somewhat about having the rules of the Senate ravished in the manner in which
they were ravished by the Senate. He therefore felt he must seek consolation,
by some kind of confessional route, by getting the approval of the Parliamentarian
of the Senate. Mr. President, we have seen a great many remarkable things
transpire in the Senate. Yet this is the first time in 173 years that the
Senate has found it necessary to use the method it has used, which at best is a
stretching of the rules of the Senate to an extreme to which they have never
before been stretched in 173 years.
Russel then went on
to express the hope that his colleagues would take stock of their actions and
remain sensitive of the fact that, though they had accomplished their
collective aim, they’d had to bend or even break the rules of the Senate to do
it.
Senator Dirksen’s response was
characteristically florid (and perhaps more than a little smug). The Illinoisan
was apparently,
Deeply distressed by the infelicity
and pain that I have caused my distinguished friend and brother in the faith
[…] I believe that today we see righteousness triumphant, and the doing of a
job that should have been done a long time ago. I know it brings pain. It is
not unlike the labor that produces a new child in the world. Perhaps if this
process is finally consummated, both in the House and in the Senate, the new
child in the form of a world without a poll tax will have been born. Obviously
that will be of some importance. So I am sure, Mr. President, that I have
violated no rule. I am sure that my summation of the situation has been quite
circumspect. I am equally sure that I detected some confusion earlier in the
afternoon. I hope that now the votes will be correct, and that we can send this
proposal off to the other branch of the Congress and wish it well. So I
apologize if I have offended my affectionate friend.
Evidently still
smarting, Russell answered by assuring the Minority Leader,
That I was not offended. I was
shocked, astonished, and surprised, but I felt no offense. I have been around
the Senate too long to take any offense whatever at any position which any
other Senator takes. I hope the other 99 Members of this body will be as kind
to me in not being offended at any position I may take.
Russell, it bears
noting, was not known among his fellow senators as a stickler for parliamentary
procedure. Indeed, if he was famous for anything at all, it was more than
likely his early-career support for the New Deal and his subsequent dedication
to fighting poverty, particularly in the rural South. It was significant,
therefore, that his lingering objection to Senator Holland’s anti-poll-tax
amendment seemed to be parliamentary in nature. And it was equally significant
that Dirksen seemed to pay this fact no heed.
Richard Brevard Russell, it may be
said with some certainty, was an ardent white supremacist. Granted, he was not
a fire-breathing race-baiter in the mold of James Eastland or John C. Stennis,
but his views on segregation and racial equality were well established by the spring
of 1962. In the late 1940s, for example, when President Truman declared his
support for Black civil rights – epitomized by his decision to desegregate the
United States Armed Forces in 1948 – Russell responded by publicly declaring that
Truman’s actions represented an “uncalled-for attack on our Southern
civilization.” And a dozen years later, upon the unveiling of the Democratic
Party’s official platform for the Election of 1960, Russell avowed that the
document represented a “complete surrender to the NAACP and the other extreme
radicals at Los Angeles.” He tended not to go much further than this, however,
in terms of the manner in which he expressed his displeasure at the shifting
focus of the Democratic Party over the course of his career in Congress. He was
a man very concerned with appearances, it might be said. The crudeness of a
James Eastland did not appeal to his sensibilities. Rather, he preferred to
maintain a façade of gentility; to be the “reasonable” segregationist Southerner
that Northerners were at least willing to deal with. And his final word on
Senator Holland’s anti-poll-tax amendment would seem to be a case-in-point. His
primary objection to dispensing with the poll tax at the level of federal
elections was undoubtably racially motivated. To put it simply, Russell would
have preferred it if fewer Black people could freely vote. But that was not the
substance of his attack on the proposed amendment. The issue, as far as he
would admit, was not that certain people were unfit to vote. Rather, it was
that the specific method by which Holland had chosen to pursue a widening of
the electoral franchise was fundamentally invalid. It was not the message that
bothered Russell, that is to say, but the medium.
This, again, was patently false. If
Richard Russell ever showed any particular interest in Senate rules or
procedures, it was because those rules and procedures actively worked to his
benefit. The filibuster was the embodiment of this kind of fair-weather
attitude. So long as the supermajority threshold for cloture remained in place
– and as long as he and his fellow Southerners were the ones doing the
filibustering – Russell could be counted on to defend the rules and procedures
surrounding the filibuster as being essential to the continued integrity of the
upper chamber of Congress. But the moment that he and his colleagues found
themselves on the receiving end of a filibuster, Russell could likewise be
counted on to rail against the evils of undemocratic minority control. Just so,
in the event that Russell found himself eagerly pursuing the passage of a piece
of legislation particularly dear to his heart – something to do with
alleviating rural poverty, perhaps – one can be sure that he would use every
method at his disposal to secure its final passage, traditions and precedents
of the Senate be damned. If the result mattered to him very deeply, in short,
and as long as he wasn’t in danger of literally violating the Constitution, one
can be sure that Richard Russell would act in the same way that Spessard
Holland had done. His lamentation at the violence which he perceived had been
done to the integrity of the Senate could therefore be fairly described as
hypocritical at best. History had shown – in the form of repeated successful
filibuster attempts by Russell, his Southern colleagues, and their forebears –
that declarations of support for existing rules and regulations in the Senate were
often simply a mask behind which segregationists and white supremacists sought
to uphold an oppressive power structure from which they benefitted directly.
Everett McKinley Dirksen knew this
very well, of course. He had been serving in the Senate since 1951, and before
that, he’d served in the House beginning in 1933. So he knew when a fellow
legislator was saying one thing while meaning another. And he responded to
Russell’s lamentation with the appropriate degree of ironic indulgence. He was,
he said, “deeply distressed by the infelicity and pain that I have caused my
distinguished friend and brother in the faith.” He believed that, “today we see
righteousness triumphant, and the doing of a job that should have been done a
long time ago.” And while he knew that such a thing, “brings pain,” he was also
of the opinion that, “if this process is finally consummated, both in the House
and in the Senate, [a] new child in the form of a world without a poll tax will
have been born.” One can be sure that Dirksen was being fundamentally sincere,
of course. There is no reason to doubt that he truly believed the creation of
“a world without a poll tax” was worth a degree of pain and inconvenience in
the meantime. But he was also, most certainly, laying things on a little thick.
That was his
way, to be sure. Dirksen had a rich baritone voice, a sing-song cadence, and an
expansive vocabulary, and did seem to love holding forth upon whatever subject
he could get his hands on. He also seemed to take an understated sort of
pleasure in undermining the efforts of those of his colleagues who would deny
the basic equality of every member of the human race. He'd supported the Civil
Rights Acts of 1957 and 1960, would go on to support the Civil Rights Act of
1964, and was not afraid to use his position as Senate Minority Leader – an
office he occupied continuously from 1959 until his death a decade later – to
rally support for legislation intended to expand access to the franchise or
make unlawful various kinds of legal discrimination. Indeed, it would be fair
to say that he found himself in opposition to the efforts of Richard Russell
and his fellow Southern Democrats more often than not. But Dirksen was also,
regardless of personal or political differences of opinion, a man who took the
Senate tradition of collegiality very seriously. Hence, in this instance, his
gentle and heartfelt tone. Russell was not an enemy, a fool, or a windbag – he
was Dirksen’s, “distinguished friend and brother in the faith.” Dirksen did not
relish the discomfort which he and his allies had caused the chamber’s
contingent of Southern segregationists, but rather apologized and attempted to
justify the need for such an outcome. And ultimately, he concluded by
apologizing to his “affectionate friend,” even offering him an invitation to
his home in D.C. Was this all rather overdoing it? Had Dirksen arguably crossed
the line from consoling to needling? Quite possibly. Indeed, quite probably.
But no one could say that the man wasn’t unfailingly courteous in his speech and
form of address. Likewise, there could be no denying that he played the game of
parliamentary politics beautifully. He was a skilled strategist, a talented
orator, a thoughtful legislator, and a compassionate human being. And as the
1960s wore on and Congress considered yet more legislation intended to promote
and protect the civil rights of otherwise disadvantaged Americans, the Senate
would come to see fewer and fewer of his like.
In any case, as
Dirksen concluded his exchange with Richard Russell, Spessard Holland moved to
close the book on his proposed constitutional amendment. Specifically, he asked
that the yeas and nays be called so as to determine whether his amendment would
be passed or rejected. Having been called, the yeas and nays were then
accordingly counted. Holland’s anti-poll-tax amendment was approved by a margin
of 77-16. The breakdown of votes was telling, if also predictable. Almost all
of the senators who voted in the negative were Southern Democrats. The
exceptions were John Hickey (1911-1970), a Wyoming Democrat, and John Tower
(1925-1991), a Texas Republican. Among the supporters, meanwhile, could be
found the vast majority of the chamber’s Republicans, two-thirds of its
Democrats, and a few notable standouts. Arizona Republican Barry Goldwater
(1909-1998), well known for his dedication to the principles of small
government conservatism, voted in favour. This, in spite of the fact that he
had previously declared himself opposed to federal government efforts to force
the racial integration of Southern schools on the grounds that education was
strictly a matter of state concern. Likewise, one might be surprised to
discover West Virginia Democrat Robert Byrd (1917-2010) among those who voted
in the affirmative. Notwithstanding his youthful membership in the KKK – an act
he later described as “the greatest mistake I ever made” – Byrd was an avid
supporter of states’ rights who voted against the Civil Rights Act of 1957 and
who would go on to participate – for no less than fourteen hours – in the
filibuster against the Civil Rights Act of 1964. In this instance, however –
perhaps in a presage of his late-career liberal turn – Byrd chose to support a
measure that would necessitate federal intervention in the laws and practices
of the states.
The total itself
was also rather telling. As presented to the Senate some two weeks earlier, Holland’s
amendment proposal had a little over sixty cosponsors. That is to say, over
sixty senators declared their support for Holland’s initiative before any
debate on the matter had occurred. This was more than enough to secure cloture,
if need be, and would arguably seem to account for Holland and his allies’
rather indulgent approach when it came to their opposition. As there was
seemingly no reason to believe that the measure could successfully be
filibustered by its detractors, Senator Holland and Majority Leader Mansfield
appeared content to allow the upper chamber’s Southern segregationists to speak
their piece without interruption. And while it was certainly possible – perhaps
even likely – that some of the Floridian’s cosponsors might have been swayed by
one or another of the arguments deployed by the aforementioned Southern
segregationists – be they philosophical or parliamentary in nature – the degree
of support that Holland had managed to accrue ensured that a few defections
here and there would make little difference to the end result. What ultimately
ended up happening, of course, was that Holland’s proposal actually gained support
over the course of the debate. Whereas, at last count, the anti-poll-tax
amendment proposal had the declared support of a bipartisan group of
sixty-seven senators, it was finally approved by the Senate by a similarly
bipartisan group of seventy-seven senators.
Whether or not
one can fairly call this a portent of things to come, it was arguably a
sign of the wanning power of the segregationist South. Whereas, between the end
of Reconstruction and the middle of the 1950s, Southern Democrats had been able
to use their influence in Congress – chiefly by way of the filibuster – to
prevent the passage of a whole host of civil rights and anti-lynching bills,
the years that followed the announcement of the Brown v. Board decision
in 1954 had shown a slow but persistent erosion of this self-same bloc’s
political agency. Granted, they had managed to ensure that the Civil
Rights Act of 1957 contained a number of loopholes intended to allow
segregationists to continue to deny Black Americans the exercise of certain
fundamental rights. But they had failed to prevent the passage of the
Civil Rights Act of 1960, the explicit purpose of which was to close these
loopholes and ensure the continued integration of American public schools. And
they had also failed to prevent the approval and ratification of the 23rd
Amendment, the direct result of which was the partial political empowerment of
Washington D.C, the only major city in the whole of the contemporary United
States with a majority Black population. The passage of Holland’s anti-poll-tax
amendment was very much in keeping with this trend.
Indeed, the
success of said measure arguably demonstrated that the power of the Senate’s
traditional Southern bloc was in the process of weakening further still. The 23rd
Amendment had been approved by the Senate in 1961 by an impressive vote of
70-18. But a scant year later – and in relation to a subject much closer to the
hearts of the chamber’s segregationist cohort – the soon-to-be 24th
Amendment was approved by an even more commanding margin of 77-16. In spite of
the dedication of the Southern bloc to the principles of states’ rights, the
lengthy orations delivered by the likes of Richard Russell, J. Lister Hill, and
James Eastland, and a threatened parliamentary point of order that might have
derailed the whole project, the amendment proposed by Spessard Holland for the
purpose of eliminating poll taxes at the national level actively gained support
over the course of its opponents’ attempt to smother it in its crib. And while
it was true that this would soon enough become something of a new normal in
regard to civil rights legislation in Congress, it was, at the time, a fairly
noteworthy turn of events. In the meantime, of course, there were still the
House to contend with, and the states after that. The lower chamber, for its
part, took quite a lot longer to come to a decision, with a final vote (295–86)
not arriving until late in the summer of 1962. And the states took longer
still, with the first ratification – that of Illinois – occurring only in November
of that same year.
Indeed, the
ratification process of the 24th Amendment was a rather drawn-out
affair, stretching over the entire length of 1963 and bleeding into 1964. That
said, the pace was a fairly steady one, with at least one state producing a
ratification in every month between January and June. February and March were
the most productive, with twelve and thirteen ratifications, while January,
May, and June were the least, with only two each. As was the case with the
previous two amendments, ratifications dried up completely in the summer, only
to resume once more in January of 1964. The 38th and final state –
whose affirmative vote would secure the inclusion of the 24th
Amendment in the text of the Constitution – turned out to be South Dakota,
whose state legislature rendered its decision on January 23rd. Of
the resulting cohort of thirty-eight states, only six could safely be
considered as belonging to the “South.” Of these, five – West Virginia,
Maryland, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Missouri – were located in the Upper South
and were politically and culturally somewhat distant from their Deep South
brethren. Take the contemporary Senate representation as a case in point. While
the people of West Virginia had elected the aforementioned Robert Byrd to the
Senate only a few years earlier in 1959, they’d also chosen noted progressive
Jennings Randolph (1902-1998) for the same office a year prior in 1958.
Maryland and Kentucky, meanwhile, were both represented solely by Republicans
in the Senate. Tennessee was represented by Albert Gore Sr. and Estes Kefauver,
both liberal reformers, and the people of Missouri had just recently elected
Edward V. Long (1908-1972), noted ally of pro-civil-rights Governor James T.
Blair (1902-1962), and Stuart Symington (1901-1988), a Massachusetts-born,
Yale-educated bureaucrat who had famously and publicly opposed the red-baiting
tactics of Wisconsin Republican Joseph McCarthy (1908-1957) in the middle of
the previous decade. Bearing all of this in mind – the relatively liberal
leanings, that is to say, of the aforementioned states – these five were
inarguably the most likely states among the larger Southern cohort to vote in
favour of ratifying an anti-poll-tax amendment.
The most likely,
of course, besides Spessard Holland’s native Florida. Granted, it would
certainly have been possible for the legislature of Holland’s home state to
reject his coveted anti-poll-tax amendment. Florida remained a stronghold of
the Democratic Party’s conservative, segregationist wing. And doubtless many of
the Sunshine State’s elected lawmakers were as suspicious of federal authority
as Holland was apt to be himself. But Holland had also been pursuing a federal
ban on the poll tax for fourteen years as of 1962. And if the people of Florida
had had a problem with this – if they disagreed with his stated objective of
eliminating the poll tax at the federal level – they could have voted him out
of office in 1952 or 1958. The fact that they chose not to do this would seem
to indicate that they substantially endorsed his position and were prepared to
ratify any draft amendment that Congress might send their way. In the end, of
course, Florida was not the first state to vote in favour of the 24th
Amendment. That honour, as aforementioned, went to Illinois. Nor was it even
among the first dozen. But in April of 1963, Florida did add its name to the
list of ratifying states, making it the only former Confederate state besides
Tennessee to do so.
