Beyond The Pulpit

"It's a cliche that whenever candidates want to speak to the black community, they go to a church," says John Simpkins, an African-American associate director of the Richard Riley Institute at Furman University in Greenville, S.C. "But the people they really need to reach aren't in the church." Over the past 25 years, the black middle class has grown exponentially in the South — which is another reason black voters no longer need ministers to put up stained-glass voting instructions. Black churches have also turned down their political megaphones since they saw that the Christian Coalition lost its tax-exempt status in 1999 as a result of its political activities. In any case, younger African Americans are less likely to be in church — and less likely to automatically vote Democratic. "Older voters view it as a sacred responsibility to vote. They're closer to the civil-rights movement," says Democratic Louisiana state senator Cleo Fields. "Younger voters, you have to inspire them."

If stereotypes ran elections, Clark would be the dream candidate of Southern blacks. Another Rhodes scholar from Arkansas, he's trying to come across as Bill Clinton with a military pedigree. Last week he dutifully turned up in Columbia for Martin Luther King Day, marching at a rally against the Confederate battle flag and clapping his hands at a service at Zion Baptist church. "The military's full of African Americans, and a number of them are dying in Iraq," notes Buffalo Soldier Blair Talmadge, 41, of Philadelphia. But like all voters, African Americans want to know what the candidates will do about health care and education, which is why Clark often glides through a quick section on foreign affairs to get to his domestic promises (a higher minimum wage, universal preschool). As Darby puts it, "Sure, we'll be happy if they bring the Confederate flag down. But we know the schools will still be crappy."

If Iowans saw the gleam of electability in Kerry, Southerners might see it in John Edwards, who has been a frequent presence in South Carolina. He exudes the closest thing to Clintonian charisma on the Democratic roster and was born in the state. He grew up in a poor North Carolina mill town, so he can speak with authenticity when he goes to places like Orangeburg, where unemployment is 15%. Like Dean, he says blacks have the same interests as all other voters — only he says it with a Southern accent. "Race, equality and civil rights," says Edwards. "This is not an African-American issue, a Hispanic-American issue, an Asian-American issue — it's an American issue."

Compared with Edwards, Kerry looks like a tourist in South Carolina and still has minimal staff on the ground. His military pedigree may appeal to black voters, but his more remote style may be a liability. Not surprisingly, Al Sharpton has had one of the strongest presences in South Carolina, handing out Thanksgiving dinner to homeless people in Charleston and bringing congregations to their feet across the state. But as the black vote becomes less uniform, a boutique black candidate suffers. "A lot of blacks in South Carolina want the same thing as people in Iowa," says David Bositis, a scholar at the Washington Joint Center for Political and Economic Studies. "They want somebody who can beat Bush."