The death of Sen. Lindsey Graham at 71 closes one of South Carolina’s longest political careers, prompting a polished autopsy of his legacy. But twenty-four hours after his passing, a sharp divide has opened between Washington’s polite obituaries and the reality on the ground. Across the nation, and especially in his home state, Graham’s complex, often transactional relationship with Black America is being forced into the light.
The national media and politicians are pointing to his decorum. Even civil rights icon Rev. Al Sharpton offered a warm, humanizing nod. But if you are from South Carolina, you know the view from the ground looks entirely different. To regular Black folks in the Palmetto State, Graham wasn’t a bridge-builder; he was a politician who couldn’t be trusted. While the D.C. press corps praised his “bipartisan instincts,” Black communities watched his actions. It’s not a stretch to say he worked to unravel our rights, eliminate our opportunities and dismantle our history.
As the week wears on, his legacy will likely face a harsh reckoning. But the polite Washington eulogies are already colliding with a much sharper question: How should Black Americans remember a politician whose words whispered inclusion, but whose actions spoke a language of systematic exclusion
Unlike Republicans who built their careers on overt racial grievance, Graham was not known for racial rhetoric, according to the Associated Press. He urged Republicans to compete for Black voters instead of writing them off, praised fellow South Carolinian Tim Scott’s rise in the GOP, defended former President Barack Obama against Republican dogpiling and worked in the Senate across party lines on immigration reform and criminal justice issues.
On the surface, he projected the image of a pragmatic conservative willing to compromise… But mere words were only part of his story.
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Graham’s relationship with Black America changed dramatically after President Donald Trump’s election in 2016, according to PBS. During the Republican primary, Graham famously called Trump a “race-baiting, xenophobic, religious bigot.” Yet once Trump entered the White House, Graham became one of his most loyal defenders, standing by him through controversies over race, voting rights, the Charlottesville rally, police brutality protests and both impeachment trials.
“While he wasn’t a strong supporter of Black issues before Trump, we could count on him to be a pragmatic leader. After all, he voted to reauthorize the Voting Rights Act,” Democratic strategist Antjuan Seawright told The Root.
He noted a shift in Graham once Trump was elected. “He actively worked to dismantle our rights, eliminate our opportunities, whitewash our history and legitimize the same kind of blatant bigotry he used to stand up against,” Seawright added. “Sen. Graham gutted healthcare and championed the Big Ugly Bill that cut to Medicaid and SNAP funding by more than ever before in American history. Unfortunately, for most folks, I think that’s how he will be remembered.”
Even before his death, Black voters made up their minds about Graham.
During his 2020 reelection campaign, Graham declared that Black folks could “go anywhere” in South Carolina if they were conservative, the Guardian reported. Supporters called it an invitation to join his party. For critics, Graham’s words were a threat.
For Black conservatives, Graham’s legacy stands strong. Many, including Dr. Linda Lee Tarver, a Project 21 ambassador, praised the late Republican.
“Throughout his years of public service, he demonstrated steadfast loyalty to those he served alongside and remained committed to the principles he believed in,” she said.
Graham’s record mattered far more than his rhetoric, however. He was a fierce advocate of Trump’s SAVE Act, supported Supreme Court nominees whose later rulings ended affirmative action in college admissions and consistently opposed many policing reforms sought by Black organizations after George Floyd’s murder– despite the Republican calling the 2020 killing a “stain on law enforcement.”
It’s contradictions like that which already defined Graham’s legacy before he died. “Black folks didn’t elect Graham — not in this red state,” Elder James Johnson III, the founder of the National Racial Justice Network in South Carolina, told the New York Times. “He just wasn’t a household name in the Black community.”
History is unlikely to render a simple verdict. But within Black America, his legacy will largely be measured by the widening gap between his inclusive rhetoric and the political choices that came to define his final decade in office.
