“FIGHT FOR DIXIE! Fight for Dixie!”

A crowd of a hundred people — some students, mostly older community members — march through the campus of Dixie State University, chanting and yelling as they go. It’s the second Monday in January, and though it’s only 50 degrees, most adorn matching short-sleeved t-shirts, the word “DIXIE” emblazoned across the front in white. Others carry flags with the same pattern — red background, and five big, white letters.

Though the school’s basketball team is in its first year of Division I competition, this is no pep rally. Basketball is the last thing on these protesters’ minds. They instead cheer for a word. The university’s board of trustees voted unanimously to strip the word “Dixie” from its name weeks earlier, and they don’t like it.

To them, it’s not just a word. It’s their heritage. And they’re here to protect it.

The protesters pass the Holland Centennial Commons Building, their flags obscuring a large statue of “Brooks the Bison,” the school’s new mascot — adopted after the “Rebels” moniker, and a statue of two Confederate soldiers, was scrapped. The new “Trailblazers” nickname — while well-intentioned — just doesn’t fit. “We ought to keep our heritage,” one man says. “Dixie is our heritage.”

As they continue their march through campus, different chants arise. “Stand for Dixie,” some yell. “We love Dixie,” a woman with a megaphone shouts.

As they arrive at the clock tower, an 80-foot structure at the center of campus, a man emerges with a megaphone. It’s Dan McArthur, former St. George Mayor, who has a red “KEEP DIXIE” t-shirt pulled over a jacket. He leads the group in singing the “Dixie” fight song.

“We’re not going to change our name,” he tells the group, after they stop singing. “There’s a lot of things that happened here that isn’t right in our history. But we don’t change it. We become better.”

He lifts his hand to his heart. “That’s my opinion, anyway.” The crowd erupts into cheering and clapping. “Right on!” one man yells.

They keep cheering and keep marching. Treats and drinks are distributed, and more of the red t-shirts are given to any onlookers who wanted one.

Within an hour, though, the plaza clears, occupied only by an occasional student walking to class. Alone stands the statue of Brooks the Bison, a symbol of continual change on this campus.

And that change is just beginning.

I. 

Change has been the hallmark of Dixie State president Richard “Biff” Williams’ tenure. He took office in fall of 2014, one year after the state legislature granted university status to then-Dixie State College. In the six subsequent years, and despite growing pains, the university has reached all-time highs in degree offerings and student enrollment. 

Within months of taking office, Williams and the university began exploring branding changes. The current nickname — “Red Storm” — never found cachet with students or the community. The mascot, too, had been changed so frequently in recent years that it never caught on. 

Even after selecting Brooks the Bison as the new mascot and “Trailblazers” as the nickname in 2016, along with a slew of new logos and branding adjustments, conversations continued. Attention turned to the name. “These questions were already being considered when I joined the board of trustees years ago,” Julie Beck, a board member, told me. “We have felt the need to help the university move forward with a strong identity for a long time.”

To residents of southern Utah, the name “Dixie” draws little ire. Early Latter-day Saint settlers — many from the southeastern U.S. — were sent to the area in the 1850s to grow cotton. The name “Dixie” stuck, as Dixie Junior College professor Andrew Karl Larson wrote in the 1960s: “The fact that the settlers at Washington (County) were bona fide Southerners who were steeped in the lore of cotton culture — many of them, at least — clinched the title. Dixie it became, and Dixie it remained. … It is a proud title.”

Parallels to the Civil War South did not end with cotton production or heritage, though. In 1916, the school — founded five years earlier as “St. George Stake Academy” — rebranded as “Dixie Normal College.” In subsequent decades, it adopted a Confederate soldier as its mascot and flew the Confederate flag on campus. The yearbook, titled “The Confederate,” prominently displayed white students wearing blackface. Mock slave auctions were held by students. 

President Williams and other administrators knew the history. But just as troubling was the name’s effects on current students and graduates. Reports started circling of wary employers, hesitant to hire graduates from a school with that name. Recruiters told the university that prospective students, too, were turned off by it. 

Last summer, the university decided to take definitive action. If the name could stay, so be it. But if it was a legitimate deterrent to students, faculty, or anyone involved with the university, serious action had to be taken. Cicero Group — a Salt Lake City-based consulting firm — was hired to conduct a thorough investigation into the name’s interpretations, reception, and implications. 

By November, the firm amassed data from over 100 one-on-one interviews and 3,000 surveys, plus a handful of in-depth focus groups. Respondents were university students, faculty, staff, alumni, community members, and Utahns, plus out-of-state residents in the university’s hand-picked recruitment regions.

The results were clear. Support for the name Dixie remained high, especially among university alumni and the southwestern Utah community. But the firm also discovered some serious issues. Over one-fifth of recent graduates had an out-of-state employer express concern with the name on their resume. Over half of recent out-of-state alumni feel the name is negative. A majority of those alumni feel uncomfortable wearing school apparel for that same reason.

The 84-page report explored potential outcomes from a name change or continuing with the “Dixie” moniker. Both sides were presented — including the troubling statistic that two-thirds of alumni would consider reducing support for the university should the name be changed. 

“Often the best decision is not the easiest, and that was definitely the case here,” President Williams told me later. “I wanted to convey that this is not about erasing history, cancel culture, or disrespecting our founders. Rather, this decision was made to better build on our founders’ hard work and provide the best possible future for our students.”

A joint decision — between the president and his cabinet, the board of trustees, the student executive council, and others — was made. The university would recommend a name change to the state board of higher education. President Williams prepared a video statement to share with the campus community — “some messages can’t be conveyed through words alone,” he said — and a letter explaining the decision was sent to all local households. Both emphasized the university’s desire to build rapport with the local community, and how this change is with the students’ best interest in mind.

Not all locals took the news well. One group, the Defending Southwestern Utah Heritage Coalition, was formed “to address some of the most extreme and egregious assaults on our nation and our communities that we have seen in our lifetimes.” Opponents stress the name’s long historical precedent and the support it receives from the community. 

“They don’t come talk to the community. They basically disparage the community,” local attorney and DSUHC member Troy Blanchard said of the university. “Even in the study, the community overwhelmingly, overwhelmingly, supports the Dixie name. And basically, they’re basically saying, ‘We don’t care. We need to change it. We’re going to do it anyway.’”

Julie Beck, who serves on the school’s board of trustees and graduated from Dixie College, disagrees. It’s an emotional issue, she admits, but the decision should be separate from emotion or brashness. “I have felt for a long time that we needed a name with more stature, more reflective of our mission, and representative of the state of Utah,” she said. “It’s a natural forward step.”

She’s been a board member for nine years now, and she remembers discussing the name even in her earliest meetings. But the fight over the school’s branding — and what that brand represents — long precede her.

The debate goes back decades.

II.

On campus in 1993, Robert Slack — known to his students as “Bob” — needed no introductions. Just the previous year, the charismatic professor completed two successful terms as a member of the Utah House of Representatives. Prior to that, he served as a councilmember and mayor of Washington City. He didn’t just teach political science and history — he lived it.

The staunch Republican was troubled by a longtime practice at the college, though. Since 1960, Confederate flags had been flown on campus and used in college marketing and memorabilia. Student activism had brought the issue to the forefront; in the summer of 1993, the Student Executive Council at Dixie College voted to scrap the flag as a symbol altogether.

The council — composed, as the name suggests, entirely of students — felt the flag was a “racist symbol” and a “throwback to the days of slavery.” That fall, though, conversations about permanently banning the flag caught speed. In early October, a pipe bomb was planted outside the dormitory of two Black football players, shattering the windows and sending shrapnel flying into the room. Luckily, both of the room’s residents were outside playing basketball at the time.

“I felt scared for my life,” Isaac Fields, one of two dorm residents, told the Deseret News three years later. “I called my mom (in Oregon) and told her to get me the next ticket out of town.” He left the school shortly thereafter.

Evidence surfaced later that the incident was racially motivated. “KKK” was scrawled on the surface of the L-shaped bomb. The assailant, Robert Allen Little, Jr., had left a note on another Black student’s door the same night, with racial epithets written on it, as well as drawings of swastikas and a man hanging from a tree. He was sentenced to 12 years in prison and fined $12,000.

With that incident freshly on the administration’s mind, the college moved to uphold the Student Executive Council’s decision. The school’s mascot — Rodney Rebel — stopped hoisting the Confederate flag at games. The faculty association soon followed suit, and the Dixie College Council (comprised of students, faculty, staff, alumni and administrators) voted 7-2 to lower the flag.

Alumni showed considerable resistance. The Alumni Association voted 14-1 to keep it, claiming it was not a reference to the Confederacy nor a sign of racism. “Personally, I am in favor of keeping the flag,” Association president Scott Lovell told the Associated Press that fall. “It doesn’t denote anything negative in Dixie. It’s part of Rodney, a fun-loving character.”

Professor Slack found himself in the middle of two parties — the students, who felt a change was necessary, and the alumni (including many former students), who were repulsed by the thought of change. Slack made his position clear.

“We should be sensitive to our students, and if it does offend people, it is our obligation to discontinue use of the flag,” Slack told the Deseret News. “I think, overwhelmingly, my students, both Caucasian and black, indicated they felt it’s time to forget the flag.”

Later that fall, an Associated Press story brought national attention to the issue. Headlined “Abolition Movement May Rid Dixie of Flag,” the 300-word article hit three main points: students want change, alumni show resistance, and administrators are impossibly trying to please both. The college president, “a newcomer to the area,” left the decision up to the board of trustees.

Three weeks later, the board made its decision: the Confederate flag would no longer be associated with the school. 

The Rebel mascot — and the name “Dixie” — lived on.

III.

Now nearly three decades since the Confederate flag was retired, this decision to erase “Dixie” from the university’s name has not been brash nor impulsive. To those in favor of a name change, it was a process of slowly chipping away layers of unintentional racism and prejudice — illustrated by a flag, then a mascot, then a name.

But to many who think a change is wrong, the decision comes across as foolish.

“It’s ridiculous,” Jerry Anderson told me. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

Anderson is a southern Utah sculptor and artist. In the 1980s, he created a maquette inspired by the song “Two Little Boys,” a story of two young friends who reunite in war as soldiers. He was later commissioned to create a life-sized version, which he sold to the college for $35,000.

The soldiers portrayed in the sculpture leave little room for interpretation. Flying prominently above them both is a Confederate battle flag. But for a school that ardently flew the Stars and Bars, called its athletic teams “The Rebels,” and used a confederate soldier as its mascot, the sculpture drew little controversy. It remained on campus, prominently displayed outside the basketball arena, for 25 years.

In 2005, the college abandoned Rodney the Rebel, its Confederate soldier mascot. In 2009, it introduced Red Storm as its new nickname, while the mascot — first a hawk, then a bull — continued to rotate. In 2013, the school was given university status by the state legislature, but after hotly contested debates about the name, “Dixie State” was kept.

A year later, university administrators approached Anderson. The school was undergoing another branding change — this time to find a mascot and a nickname that resonated with students, alumni, and the community alike — and reckoning with Confederate symbols again surfaced. They asked Anderson if the Confederate flag could be removed from the sculpture. “They wanted to change the flag to ‘the other people,’” Anderson recounted. He paused. “You know, the North,” he clarified.

He immediately opposed the idea. Anderson, not one to overlook details, had done extensive research, and the flag was far from the only distinctively Confederate symbol in the statue. The uniforms were typical of Southern soldiers, as were the stirrups. Even the bit in the horse’s mouth was of Confederate style. Changing a bronze statue to that extent was impossible.

Unable to reach an agreement, the university removed the statue altogether. Anderson was furious. “It’s a bunch of crap. The people who did that should be in jail,” he said. “That should be against the law.”

The university first put the statue in storage, then later returned it to Anderson, who displayed it prominently in front of his Leeds home before giving it to a friend. Shortly thereafter, the “Red Storm” nickname was replaced with “Trailblazers.” The university viewed this as its final move to rid itself of controversy. “What it means is that we can officially put the Confederate identity behind us,” university spokesman Steve Johnson told the Salt Lake Tribune shortly after the statue was retired in 2015. “Now the university can move forward.”

His declaration aged poorly. Debate over the fate of the school’s name continued. In 2020, it reached a boiling point, and the university acted. 

But to some, the name is only part of the school’s resemblance to the Confederacy. The other part is the racism that accompanies it.

IV.

Less than one percent of Dixie’s student community is Black. In a fairly ethnically homogenous community, people who look differently stick out — “like a sore thumb,” Frank Staine added. 

Frank is a sophomore at the university. He’s a member of the school’s basketball team, and he’s Black. In a season-opening win against North Dakota last November, he led the team in scoring with 19 points. It was Dixie’s first Division I win in school history.

The Los Angeles native has enjoyed this historic season — and expressed gratitude to even be playing during a pandemic — but his pride in his career is complicated. He knows what the name on the front of his jersey means to locals. But he struggles to reconcile that perspective with the reality he’s lived.

“It’s hard to look at it and feel like you’re representing the right thing,” he said. “Having that across my chest every day is conflicting with my goals, with my dreams. It’s like, I’m battling myself and what I come from every day.”

It’s more than just a name, though. Staine recounted experiences where he’d walk into local restaurants and everyone would go silent and stare. It’s noticeably worse when he’s in groups with other Black athletes, he says — when trying to cash a check at a bank recently, a teammate had a hold placed on his account for “suspicious activity.” He was with two other Black teammates.

“When we’re wearing our (Dixie State) basketball gear, people will be cordial, start conversations, stuff like that,” he said. “But there’s just been occasions — three, four times a week, when I go places — I feel like I’m being watched for no reason.”

Though the school has a Black Student Union, Staine and his teammates — along with a number of Black football players — feel like the de facto spokespeople for Black students on campus. Their role as athletes makes them visible. But representing a name that makes them feel uncomfortable proves to be a difficult challenge.

It’s an association that’s arduous to reconcile, and even those with relatively few ties to the university feel its repercussions. Robert Slack — the outspoken professor who advocated for removing Confederate flags in the ‘90s — has one granddaughter who’s followed in her grandpa’s steps. Desiree Mitchell, a former BYU cheerleader and current University of Chicago law student, penned a recent Deseret News op-ed comparing a name change to the Biblical parable of the Good Samaritan. “Ultimately, the question of whether Dixie State’s name should be changed isn’t really a question at all,” she wrote.

Mitchell’s grandfather was white. Mitchell is half-white, half-Black — and understands the uniqueness of growing up as a person of color in a predominantly white area. Her proximity to the university as a child in St. George, along with her grandpa’s thirty-year tenure as a professor, made the school’s name recognizable. Her race made it personal.

It wasn’t until fairly recently that she began to seriously question the name. Most of her family members are white, and though her grandpa became a well-known on-campus ally in the ‘90s, conversations about race or racism weren’t common in her household growing up. As a potential name change at Dixie stole headlines last fall, though, she began her research. “It doesn’t feel like this should be a big issue in Utah, given that we were never part of the Confederacy,” she said. “But it is. It’s a big deal. … It would help ease a lot of racial tension in the state of Utah if Black people in the state knew their leaders were hearing their concerns.”

As discussions surrounding the name change continue, her grandfather won’t be voting as a state legislator or advocating on campus as a professor. Bob Slack passed away nearly a decade ago. But if he were here today, what stance would he take?

“My family is pretty split on this issue,” Desiree said, speaking carefully. 

She took a deep breath. “But as I read his past quotes about the Confederate flag, I thought, You know what? He would be saying the exact same thing. I think even word for word.

“He would listen with open ears and he would say, ‘If this is hurting people, it’s not worth it.’”

V.

University administrators knew full well that their decision would not please everyone. The hundred-plus protesters who crowded Dixie State’s campus on Monday are only a fraction of like-minded locals who resist the change.

In southwestern Utah, support for the name outweighs opposition by a significant margin. Some donors, Cicero revealed, will stop supporting the university if “Dixie” is dropped from the institutional title.

“The reality that we might lose support from community and alumni is by far the most difficult part of this decision,” President Williams said. “We are hopeful that the campus community, who has loved and supported our institution for so many years, will ultimately see that we can both preserve and honor our history while eliminating obstacles to our students’ success.”

Others are less optimistic. The term “Dixie,” to much of the community, is unifying. Hundreds of local businesses bear its name. It is intertwined with the “Dixie Spirit,” they say, the sense of community that brings the region together.

“Frankly, it makes me feel bad (that people are offended), because that’s not the spirit of Dixie,” Troy Blanchard said. “I think if you were able to sell the spirit of Dixie better, they would understand what it really means here.”

Market it as you may, Dixie Spirit isn’t selling — figuratively or literally. One national retailer recently refused to carry university apparel because of the name’s connotations. For a university that has aspirations to reach beyond its region, how it is perceived — by more than just its direct community — matters.

The tug-of-war between heritage and acceptance has gone on for decades now, and this final chapter has frayed relations. But, pending final approval from the Legislature, this could be the final chapter. The university spokesperson’s statement after removing the Rebels statue in 2015 — that the school could “officially put the Confederate identity behind us” and “move forward” — proved premature. But changing the name could be that final step.

In a statement earlier this summer, the state board of higher education said that education is “the greatest tool for dismantling the racism, oppression, and marginalization that plagues our country today.” If a university is perceived to be a vehicle for oppression, whether or not it is, it’s a problem. “The actual name of a school should not have a negative impact at all,” President Williams emphasized. “A school’s reputation might, but not the name itself.”

But the greatest impact will be upon students themselves. Frank Staine said he and his teammates felt “a weight” off their shoulders when they heard the name could be changed. “I was relieved,” he said. “Now I feel like I don’t have to fight as hard for my people. Now I can focus way more on basketball.”

In their first season of Division I play, Staine and his teammates are already making history. You could call them leaders or activists, too. But Staine likes a different word — one that shows pride in his new school, while simultaneously recognizing the impact they’re having.

They’re Trailblazers. And that’s a name they can wear without shame.