Official Whitewashing? Park Service Guts Civil Rights History After Trump Directive

Paul Riverbank, 2/6/2026New rules erase racist history from Medgar Evers site, sparking alarm about whitewashed American memory.

It starts with the language. Gone are the sentences that identify Byron De La Beckwith, Medgar Evers’ killer, as a racist or a member of the White Citizens’ Council. Years ago, the pamphlet made no bones about it: Beckwith’s background and motivations were spelled out in cold, unambiguous terms. Now, the prose has been scrubbed, taking with it words that once named bigotry where it stood.

The official explanation is as dry as it is sweeping. Since March 2025, when President Donald Trump issued an executive order mandating “Restoring Truth and Sanity to American History,” officials at the Department of the Interior have worked quickly to reframe—or in some cases, erase—references to topics labeled “disparaging” or “unbalanced.” Interior Secretary Doug Burgum’s subsequent memo left little room for ambiguity. Anything deemed to inappropriately sully the reputation of Americans, present or past, would be excised from public displays, signs, and literature.

It’s a directive that’s had broad effect, if not universal acceptance. Inside the Park Service, workers grumble quietly, leery of retaliation. Ask around, and, unsurprisingly, most will not attach their names to criticism. But there is consensus: the policy has created a chilling effect, especially on narratives involving racism, civil rights, sexual orientation, and the history of Indigenous people.

For those who conduct civil rights tours through Mississippi, the edits feel surreal. Jeff Steinberg, who has led countless visitors through the Evers home, sounds almost incredulous. “You can’t call Beckwith a racist?” he asks, searching for language that hasn’t been sanitized by committee. “Look at his life. The White Citizens’ Council championed him because of what he stood for.”

That council, often described as the genteel cousin to the Ku Klux Klan, boasted about its commitment to “white Christian rule.” Beckwith didn’t just embrace those principles; he wore them as a badge. Twice, all-white, all-male juries declined to convict him in the 1960s. It wasn’t until three decades later that a new trial, and a different Mississippi, finally brought a conviction. In between, Beckwith plotted bombings, made national television appearances as a symbol of unrepentant racism, and blamed his legal troubles on “Jewish prosecutors” and Black women.

By any reasonable historical standard, Beckwith’s views are a matter of record—hardly open to reinterpretation. In a 1990 interview, years before his belated conviction, Beckwith extolled the White Citizens’ Council as “the first ray of light Dixie had seen since Reconstruction.” He sprinkled his conversation with slurs, Biblical references in service of white supremacy, and invective targeting Black and Jewish people alike.

Stephanie Rolph, a historian who specializes in the council’s history, doesn’t mince words. “To say they weren’t racist is to rewrite the dictionary,” she notes. “They believed in the natural superiority of the Aryan race. That’s racism, period.”

Of course, these changes in language are rarely just about semantics. For people like Reena Evers-Everette, Medgar and Myrlie Evers’ daughter, it’s personal. Details about her father’s assassination—once described in brochures as Medgar Evers “lying in a pool of his own blood”—have been softened beyond recognition. Her family is aware the language is “under review,” but they haven’t seen the latest version. That uncertainty, she says, leaves the wounds of history freshly raw.

Broader patterns are emerging. At other historic sites, new signs about slavery and segregation have been quietly tucked away. The Washington Post recently reported that even the U.S. Army’s online materials about Medgar Evers have shifted. Where he was once singled out, Evers is now folded into a catchall list of “Prominent Military Figures”—a flattening that feels suspiciously convenient.

Alan Spears, advocacy director at the National Parks Conservation Association, watches over these changes with alarm. “We’re whitewashing the past by omission,” he says. What happened to Medgar Evers, and what he fought against, cannot be told if all obstacles and malice are airbrushed out. “If you only talk about the triumphs but never what had to be overcome, history loses its meaning,” Spears says. “Especially as the nation looks ahead to its 250th birthday. We owe ourselves the truth.”

It is worth recalling just how long justice evaded Evers’ family. The man who murdered him walked free for more than thirty years, shielded by a system eager to defend its own prejudices. The state-funded Sovereignty Commission, ostensibly created to resist federal intervention, funneled support to Beckwith’s legal team. Only in 1994 was he finally convicted. He died behind bars seven years later.

The fact that, as recently as 2023, Medgar Evers received the Presidential Medal of Freedom underscores the contradiction at the core of this debate. The stories we choose to tell in public, the words we allow to carry the weight of our national memory, are seldom neutral. Jackson’s mayor, John Horhn, put it simply: “The question of whether Beckwith was a racist? Listen to his words.”

It’s not just the Evers family’s burden; it’s a question for anyone concerned with how the United States remembers its own past. Every park sign and every folded brochure is a small declaration about who we think we are. Memory is contested terrain, and phrases excised in the name of “sanity” and “truth” are often just history’s rough edges, sanded down so we don’t have to feel them.

As the sun sets on the little house in Jackson, the arguments about words and memory echo. The real stakes are clear: History, left unspoken, is all too easy to repeat.

It would be easy—and perhaps tempting—to call the changes at the Medgar & Myrlie Evers Home National Monument an administrative footnote. A few words edited here, some sentences trimmed there. Visitors picking up a new Park Service brochure at the historic Jackson home might not immediately notice what’s missing. But for anyone who cares to look closely, the absences shout.It starts with the language. Gone are the sentences that identify Byron De La Beckwith, Medgar Evers’ killer, as a racist or a member of the White Citizens’ Council. Years ago, the pamphlet made no bones about it: Beckwith’s background and motivations were spelled out in cold, unambiguous terms. Now, the prose has been scrubbed, taking with it words that once named bigotry where it stood.The official explanation is as dry as it is sweeping. Since March 2025, when President Donald Trump issued an executive order mandating “Restoring Truth and Sanity to American History,” officials at the Department of the Interior have worked quickly to reframe—or in some cases, erase—references to topics labeled “disparaging” or “unbalanced.” Interior Secretary Doug Burgum’s subsequent memo left little room for ambiguity. Anything deemed to inappropriately sully the reputation of Americans, present or past, would be excised from public displays, signs, and literature.It’s a directive that’s had broad effect, if not universal acceptance. Inside the Park Service, workers grumble quietly, leery of retaliation. Ask around, and, unsurprisingly, most will not attach their names to criticism. But there is consensus: the policy has created a chilling effect, especially on narratives involving racism, civil rights, sexual orientation, and the history of Indigenous people.For those who conduct civil rights tours through Mississippi, the edits feel surreal. Jeff Steinberg, who has led countless visitors through the Evers home, sounds almost incredulous. “You can’t call Beckwith a racist?” he asks, searching for language that hasn’t been sanitized by committee. “Look at his life. The White Citizens’ Council championed him because of what he stood for.”That council, often described as the genteel cousin to the Ku Klux Klan, boasted about its commitment to “white Christian rule.” Beckwith didn’t just embrace those principles; he wore them as a badge. Twice, all-white, all-male juries declined to convict him in the 1960s. It wasn’t until three decades later that a new trial, and a different Mississippi, finally brought a conviction. In between, Beckwith plotted bombings, made national television appearances as a symbol of unrepentant racism, and blamed his legal troubles on “Jewish prosecutors” and Black women.By any reasonable historical standard, Beckwith’s views are a matter of record—hardly open to reinterpretation. In a 1990 interview, years before his belated conviction, Beckwith extolled the White Citizens’ Council as “the first ray of light Dixie had seen since Reconstruction.” He sprinkled his conversation with slurs, Biblical references in service of white supremacy, and invective targeting Black and Jewish people alike.Stephanie Rolph, a historian who specializes in the council’s history, doesn’t mince words. “To say they weren’t racist is to rewrite the dictionary,” she notes. “They believed in the natural superiority of the Aryan race. That’s racism, period.”Of course, these changes in language are rarely just about semantics. For people like Reena Evers-Everette, Medgar and Myrlie Evers’ daughter, it’s personal. Details about her father’s assassination—once described in brochures as Medgar Evers “lying in a pool of his own blood”—have been softened beyond recognition. Her family is aware the language is “under review,” but they haven’t seen the latest version. That uncertainty, she says, leaves the wounds of history freshly raw.Broader patterns are emerging. At other historic sites, new signs about slavery and segregation have been quietly tucked away. The Washington Post recently reported that even the U.S. Army’s online materials about Medgar Evers have shifted. Where he was once singled out, Evers is now folded into a catchall list of “Prominent Military Figures”—a flattening that feels suspiciously convenient.Alan Spears, advocacy director at the National Parks Conservation Association, watches over these changes with alarm. “We’re whitewashing the past by omission,” he says. What happened to Medgar Evers, and what he fought against, cannot be told if all obstacles and malice are airbrushed out. “If you only talk about the triumphs but never what had to be overcome, history loses its meaning,” Spears says. “Especially as the nation looks ahead to its 250th birthday. We owe ourselves the truth.”It is worth recalling just how long justice evaded Evers’ family. The man who murdered him walked free for more than thirty years, shielded by a system eager to defend its own prejudices. The state-funded Sovereignty Commission, ostensibly created to resist federal intervention, funneled support to Beckwith’s legal team. Only in 1994 was he finally convicted. He died behind bars seven years later.The fact that, as recently as 2023, Medgar Evers received the Presidential Medal of Freedom underscores the contradiction at the core of this debate. The stories we choose to tell in public, the words we allow to carry the weight of our national memory, are seldom neutral. Jackson’s mayor, John Horhn, put it simply: “The question of whether Beckwith was a racist? Listen to his words.”It’s not just the Evers family’s burden; it’s a question for anyone concerned with how the United States remembers its own past. Every park sign and every folded brochure is a small declaration about who we think we are. Memory is contested terrain, and phrases excised in the name of “sanity” and “truth” are often just history’s rough edges, sanded down so we don’t have to feel them.As the sun sets on the little house in Jackson, the arguments about words and memory echo. The real stakes are clear: History, left unspoken, is all too easy to repeat.