building, Old Main, which was completed in 1854. The identities of the enslaved builders remain anonymous, but it’s believed by many that the surviving builders may have settled in the area after emancipation. Asa Thompson, son of John and Mary, goes on to become a legendary figure in Spartanburg’s educational history for his 35-year career and instrumental work in bringing about the building of Cumming Street School, the first Black secondary school in Spartanburg, located just down the road from his childhood home.

 

Both the Hartwells and the Thompsons are inextricably linked to Wofford and to the neighborhood. Indeed, Tobe Hartwell helped to found Silver Hill United Methodist Church in 1869 – from which the neighborhood grew – and Asa Thompson was a life-long member and church elder. Mr. Thompson worked for D.A. DuPre at Wofford for nearly ten years, which aided his efforts toward persuading Spartanburg’s society to build a secondary school for Black students. It’s hard to imagine that the Hartwells, Thompsons, DuPres and Carlisles, all living within a block or two of one another, didn’t interact in meaningful ways. But it’s also the case that both Black families began their history in Spartanburg enslaved to Wofford in some way and, despite their proximity, residents and college people very rarely mixed in the 140-plus years they lived next to one another. 

 

Former resident Joan Frazier joined many in describing a “glass wall” that divided the neighborhood from Wofford’s campus along Evins Street. Norma Pitts, who attended Cumming Street School, mentioned the neighborhood was sometimes called “Back of the Wall” instead of “Back of the College” to emphasize the division between neighborhood and campus. Former residents talk about a largely, though not entirely, unspoken understanding that they were not welcome at Wofford and if their business brought them downtown, they should take the long way around to avoid risking confrontations on campus. Gwen Steen grew up on Twitty Street and knew that Wofford was “off-limits,” and Norma Greene, whose father built their house on Bell Street and ran a liquor store that was often patroned by Wofford students and faculty, was nevertheless “always told not to cut across Wofford,” even if she was just wanting to run to Krispy Kreme for a donut. Linda Dogan grew up “not loving Wofford” and college officials for their “condescension” toward neighborhood residents. These are experiences people had growing up in the neighborhood during the 1970s and 1980s – after the desegregation of schools and the lessening of social segregation. Life between residents and the college would have likely been more firmly divided through Reconstruction and Jim Crow.

 

It is the case, however, that some residents had positive experiences with students, faculty and staff at Wofford. Linda Dogan, who grew up not loving Wofford, changed her feelings toward it as she became a professional and city councilmember. Even though Joe Dominick would get in trouble when he cut across campus on the way home from shining shoes downtown, he knew many students who “caused him no problems.” Mr. Philip Fant grew up on Horseshoe Street and attended Wofford, earning a degree in Sociology. He cites Dr. Joe Lesesne’s extra effort to make him feel welcome and included as a student, saying that Dr. Lesesne would “tell jokes and make him comfortable in class,” which encouraged Mr. Fant to help to establish a chapter of Omega Psi Phi on campus. One of the most often cited examples of meaningful contact between town and gown occurred through a program called Happy Saturdays. Developed by Henry Freeman, a 1971 Wofford graduate, the program lasted for about one year and consisted of inviting neighborhood youth onto campus Saturday afternoons for games, campus tours and general fellowship. Former resident, Sherri Wiggleton, remembers being taken all over campus and treated well: “We went to the library, ate in the cafeteria…there wasn’t a brick wall. They were real nice.” 

 

It is also the case that Wofford’s decision to expand necessitated the acquisition and demolition of the neighborhood. The process by which Wofford acquired properties and replaced neighborhood houses with tennis courts, Gibbs Stadium, apartment-style housing for seniors and a new basketball and volleyball arena is its own deeply complicated history. Wofford’s preferred narrative is that the neighborhood was in decline by the 1970s and the college’s taking possession of it was the best result for all concerned. In a recent issue of Wofford’s alumni magazine, college officials – and some former residents – claim that young people were not staying and/or returning and older residents were stuck. Residents who owned their homes begged Wofford to buy them out and save them from the twin burdens of crime and declining property values. Wofford acquiesced and offered fair market value to home-owners, did their best to patrol the neighborhood with campus police, and generally behaved like a well-intentioned parent or guardian to a down-on-its-luck dependent.

 

But Wofford’s version is not the whole story. In an interview given in 2020, Joe Lesesne, Wofford’s 9th president and the person who oversaw Wofford’s acquisition and demolition of the bulk of the neighborhood, described the process by which Wofford began to buy property. It started just after WWII when local textile magnate and college benefactor, Roger Milliken, set up a fund for college officials to use to buy properties opportunistically as they became available. If a house sat on the property and was unoccupied, the structure would be razed; if someone rented the property, Wofford would allow them to remain for an agreed-upon period and serve as landlord. After the residents vacated, the structure would be razed. By the 1980s, when Wofford began serious internal discussion about expanding the college to increase its standing from a regional institution to one with a more prominent national status, the neighborhood was pock-marked with multiple open plots that were the result of Wofford’s opportunistic buying and razing process – a process that would have contributed to the neighborhood’s decline. 

 

The city and lending centers of Spartanburg added to it. Mitch Kennedy, Assistant Director of Spartanburg, points out that home improvement loans were generally not made available to Black home-owners during segregation, and the city’s programs designed to help white home-owners were not extended to Black residents. Black people who owned homes in the Back of the College neighborhood in the second half of the 20th Century would therefore have seen their property values decline as the neighborhood’s properties disappeared and would not have had access to loans to improve their houses. Young people saw the neighborhood decline and decided not to invest when they returned from college or began their working lives. 

 

Many residents were opposed to Wofford’s expansion. When Wofford began its more coordinated and aggressive acquisition of neighborhood property in the late 1980s and early 1990s – to build the new tennis court complex and, in 1992, Gibbs Stadium – residents protested. In an October 1991 Spartanburg Herald Journal article, Nellie Platt and Sylvania Level represented 12 other residents who took issue with Wofford’s failure to notify residents of its plans to build its new tennis complex. Wofford claimed current city law did not require notification and city council voted 3-2 to grant the college a “special exemption” to build the facility. Nellie Platt, who lived at 230 Evins Street, said that the new complex with its big walls made the neighborhood “look like a prison.” 

 

Other residents protested Wofford’s expansion in different ways. Ms. Hattie Bell Penland, a much-beloved figure in the neighborhood and someone who enjoyed significant relationships with Wofford officials, including college president Dr. Lesesne, simply refused to sell her house on Twitty Street. The college needed her property to build Gibbs Stadium and pursued Ms. Penland multiple times. In a 2020 interview, Lesesne acknowledged Wofford’s strategic need of her property and noted her refusal to sell. She eventually did – for six figures, which was about 10X the market rate. The remaining congregation at Cumming Street Baptist Church also held out against Wofford’s offers for years and eventually sold in the spring of 2019. The church building was one of the last structures to be demolished.