Pat Conroy Literary Center, Tribute to a Great American Author

Like Marcel Proust’s madeleine dipped in lime blossom tea, a chance visit to the Pat Conroy Literary Center this week elicited a flood of memories from my childhood. Unlike Conroy, I grew up in the north. My parents were diehard liberals, free thinkers that decried America’s involvement in Vietnam and marched in civil rights protests—a far cry from Conroy’s marine colonel father and fervently Catholic mother. But like Conroy, I spent much of the 60s and 70s grappling with the prevalent and persistent racist attitudes muddying my path of privilege.

What follows is a summary of my visit, reflections throughout the week, and photos taken not far from the Conroy center.

Discovering a Great American Author

Since becoming empty-nesters, my husband Andy and I have fallen in love with South Carolina’s Lowcountry. In this seductive and serene region, the ubiquity of tidal marshes elevates one’s awareness of long-beaked aquatic birds and the colossal sloshing of ocean water that governs our planet. In 2022, wanting a local author to accompany my saltmarsh immersion, I brought along Pat Conroy’s My Losing Season, reviewed here. I enjoyed the sport-centered memoir so much that last year, I pored over Conroy’s tragicomic novel, The Prince of Tides. Another slam dunk.

This year we’ve returned, retreating to the percolating marshes of Saint Helena Island and learning more about the area’s multi-faceted history. So, when I noticed that one of the local attractions is the Pat Conroy Literary Center, I had to drop by. Upon entering, I was greeted by two friendly docents who earnestly questioned me about my interests in the center and my rudimentary knowledge of Conroy’s writing. With characteristic southern hospitality, one pulled out a pink telephone memo pad and began jotting down the names of nearby wildlife refuges (I’d mentioned I liked taking walks) and purveyors of delectable local cuisine.

As our chit-chat dwindled, I turned toward a room anchored with heavy glass display cases and memorabilia covering the walls. “Would you like a tour?” “Sure,” I enthusiastically replied. “If you’re offering, I can’t possibly say no.” The memo pad keeper emerged from behind her desk and led me a few feet into the next room. She stopped, turned toward me, and said, “I should tell you that I’m Pat’s sister, Kathy.” Wow! I was pleasantly stunned.

I’d learned enough of Conroy’s personal history to know that the family dynamics of his 7-children household growing up were far from simple or serene. Even his works of fiction, like The Prince of Tides, contain characters and events directly tied to his often painful personal history. Here was a cheerful sister, evidently devoted to her brother’s legacy, who might provide a different perspective as she walked me through the small museum’s intimate collection. I was all in.

Impactful Teachers

My first exposure to Pat Conroy came in the 10th grade, when my English teacher arranged a field trip to see the movie Conrack at our small town’s strip mall movie theater. Conrack is based on Conroy’s memoir, The Water is Wide. The book lays bare one year of Conroy’s life working as a school teacher on Yamacraw Island, a remote enclave at the southern tip of South Carolina reachable only by boat. In 1969, the island was mainly populated by poor Black families. Generations of illiteracy and local polluters’ destruction of the once prosperous oyster industry had yielded disastrous consequences for Yamacraw’s children.

Conroy became the island’s 5th-8th grade teacher with hopes of imparting a passion for learning to his lively charges. The film and book exposed the toxicity of racist attitudes and practices in the area—from the casual use of the N-word, to hate-filled diatribes on Negro inferiority, to institutional double standards, to the hypocrisy of do-gooder whites that supported equal opportunity while maintaining their distance from the Black population.

Man, did I love that film. It’s a poignant story of social injustice, but also a story filled with love, humor, and a reminder that small acts of caring make a difference. However, my appreciation of the movie was also personal. I hoped that my classmates, many of whom I viewed as horribly racist, were paying attention—that some of them, might learn something, soften their speech, recognize their prejudices, and maybe even elevate their opinion of African Americans.

A Private Tour

As Kathy led me through the museum, I felt much as I did the day I leafed through portions of Diderot’s Encyclopedia. Her 30-minute tour was loosely analagous to studying a few dozen plates from Diderot’s 28-volume masterpiece, giving me a small, intimate peek of the man behind a myth. Both experiences opened a window into the life of a great author and humanitarian—the difference being that this time a living, breathing reference guide was doing the enlightening. What follows are a few insights from my visit.

For many years, Conroy had a thorny relationship with his alma mater, the Citadel, a military school known for rigorous academics, discipline, and extreme standards of personal conduct. Conroy exposed negative aspects of Citadel culture in several of his books, disparaging the Citadel’s brutal hazing system, institutional racism, and administrative corruption. The college reacted by banning his books and the bestselling author became persona non grata on campus. That’s putting it mildly. In an interview with the New York Times, Conroy claimed it would be dangerous for him to return to the school. The author-turned-pariah said he’d been threatened by fellow alumni who recognized him one day on the streets of Charleston and he no longer felt safe when visiting the area.

Fortunately, times and traditions often evolve for the better and in 2001, the Citadel welcomed perhaps their best-known and most successful alumnus back into the fold. Kathy pointed to a compelling letter that Conroy had written to prospective Citadel cadets. The eloquent, 2-page missive cautions the faint-of-heart and emboldens the courageous applicant. Don’t come to the Citadel if you’re satisfied being another face in the crowd it warns. But if you’re looking to add virtues such as honor, integrity, and commitment to your academic achievements, at the end of four years, you’ll be able to climb more mountains than you ever thought possible. What aspiring 18-year-old doesn’t like the sound of that?

Framed beneath the masterful recruitment tool was a thank you letter from the Citadel to Conroy, praising him for his sincerity and eloquence and expressing their gratitude for his “generous financial support for cadet scholarships”.

Another wound that seems to have healed over the years was Conroy’s contentious relationship with his father. Colonel Donald Conroy’s temper-induced fits of violence animate many of Conroy’s father-figure characters. Conroy’s first novel, The Great Santini, is said to be nearly autobiographical. The title character embodies Conroy’s autocratic and volatile father, while his wife and children stand in for Conroy’s mother Frances, Conroy, and his siblings. Only the names are changed.

Kathy led me to an astounding letter that Donald Conroy addressed to his seven children after reading this book—a book which some might view as a scathing indictment of Donald’s ethos. Reading between the lines, one finds a proud man’s poignant admission of guilt sheathed in unshakeable love and devotion to family. Rarely are family dynamics so honestly and openly exposed. I had to admire the man’s integrity and courage.

My Introduction to Racism

I spent my early years growing up in Detroit, but when I was 8, my parents traded in our 2-bedroom ranch on a small city lot for my dad’s mid-century modern design on 10 acres in rural Southeast Michigan. Overnight, the world I loved disappeared. Gone were spontaneous games with neighborhood kids, bike rides to Cunningham’s drugstore, daily walks to and from school, lunchtime with mom at our kitchen table, bus rides downtown, 5-minute drives to visit grandparents, sidewalks for jump rope or bouncing balls, an abundance of lawns sprinklers to run through on hot summer days, and dozens of other pleasures that marked my early life.

Instead, my playmates were dolls and pets, my path to school a solitary walk down a 1/4-mile driveway and up a dirt road to the closest school bus stop, hot lunch trays and a crowded cafeteria rather than my mother’s cooking and encouragement, grandparents no longer dropping by, impossible bike rides over loose gravel and potholes, tall weeds and insects supplanting velvety beds of mown grass.

I wasn’t happy about my new circumstances but slowly came to accept and even embrace certain elements of our new countrified lifestyle. One thing, however, that shook me to my core was the unexpected racist attitudes of my schoolmates. When my family left Detroit, all of my close friends, namely the girls that lived on my street, were Black. There was only one other white kid in my 2nd grade class. All the other students were African American as were my teachers and for me, this was a normal state of affairs.

At my new school everyone in the building, except for one courageous Black woman, was white. At first, this was just another unsettling feature of my new reality, something different from what I was used to. Gradually, I came to realize, however, that many of the kids didn’t like Black people. When a fight broke out, or someone was bullied, the N-word was used to insult and attack. Kids routinely made comments about Negroes being stupid, or dishonest, or dangerous to be around. These were circumstances I could not and would not accept.

I struggled at school. Not with the work or the demands of my teachers, but with the mean-spirited ignorance that was all too prevalent. Befriending these kids would be a betrayal of my friends in Detroit and in my mind, a hypocritical acquiescence to wrongness. I recall my 3rd and 4th grade self as lonely, and sad, and unwilling to compromise my deep-seated loyalty to Detroit and those of its residents who happened to have darker skin.

Walking a Fine Line

The Pat Conroy Literary Center houses a mindfully curated collection of letters, photographs, magazine articles, movie posters, testimonials, awards, artwork, handwritten manuscripts, even portions of Conroy’s personal library. As I followed Kathy along her prescribed route, it was clear that she’d carefully selected the highlights and anecdotes she felt were most important to understanding her brother’s character and legacy. Her tour emphasized reconciliation, healing, loyalty, acceptance, and love.

In the short time we were together, I saw her as someone who might believe that the way to live a good life is to focus on people’s best qualities rather than their worst. Not that she was turning a blind eye to personal flaws or wrongdoing, she just wasn’t going to dwell on the negative.

I suspect that Conroy was far more conflicted than his sister about how to deal with people who’s views made his blood boil. He wasn’t one to walk away from injustice and let bygones be bygones. Instead, he was bound and determined to use his pen to call out wickedness wherever he’d crossed its path. What’s remarkable was Conroy’s ability to do so with humor and humility.

Before leaving the center, I asked Kathy which of Conroy’s books were her favorites and if memory serves, she chose The Water is Wide (one of his first) and The Death of Santini (one of his last). I left with the former and began reading the next day.

Revisiting the story of Yamacraw Island inadvertently revived memories of my early struggles with racism. I did eventually make friends at my new school but it took years. By the time I graduated from high school, I probably appeared confident, and comfortable, and as if I belonged to the white throngs that filled the hallways between classes. In many ways I did. But there still lingers in me a sense of loss, of helplessness to change people’s minds, of complicity, and ultimately capitulation.

Perhaps one of the reasons why Conroy’s writing touches me so deeply is that he manages to walk the infinitesimally fine and jagged line between acceptance and condemnation, never falling to one side or the other. One of his characters can express hate-filled, racist rhetoric that makes your stomach turn, and a page or two later, she’s sincerely welcoming a Black stranger into her living room for cake.

There are no easy answers in Pat Conroy’s books, just as there are no easy answers in life. Time and again, he brings us face to face with our ugliest and evilest impulses, all the while finding a path forward lit with comic relief and compassion. Had he not become an author, Conroy said he would have stuck with teaching. His words on the profession, “The great teachers fill you up with hope and shower you with a thousand reasons to embrace all aspects of life.” Somehow, Conroy’s body of work, exposing many of mankind’s warts and wrinkles, does exactly that.