Black Out

Short of mocking the New Testament or Milton Friedman, Randall could not have impeded her husband's social future more than by poking fun at this staple of Southern literature.

But others note that if the club held a prospect's wife against him, the golf course would be a lot less crowded on Sundays. Here's where a far simpler explanation rises for why Ewing's candidacy has stalled: The secret inner sanctum of the club doesn't want to see black faces at the golf course, on the tennis courts, or in swimming pool.

"They understand they can't use the N-word anymore and can't make any more outrageous statements," says one downtown attorney, who prefers not to be named when castigating his client base. "But I think some of my Republican friends who are members of the club—they're well-educated and broad-minded in many respects—but they're still racist."

Ewing declined to comment for this story. In fact, he gently tried to dissuade Scene from writing about his predicament, noting that Nashville confronts far greater issues.

But when pressed, he issued a short statement endearing for its appreciation of Southern hospitality:

"I was encouraged to apply to Belle Meade by my friends and sponsors. What happens to my application is up to the membership of the club and its leadership. Alice and I have been to many functions at the club, from the Hunt Ball to just social dinners and luncheons with friends, and we were always warmly greeted and treated with respect. And we always see a lot of friends while we're there."

Ewing is not the only black candidate up for membership—even if he's the one most people to talk about. Darrell Freeman, the former chair of the Chamber of Commerce and a successful tech entrepreneur, is also a prospect. But though he too has a notable supporter—HCA Chairman Jack Bovender—Freeman may face even longer odds than Ewing.

A 2006 Nashville Post story named Freeman as being involved in a "shakedown probe." The story was bereft of detail and almost impossible to follow. More important, nothing ever came of the supposed probe. Yet such whispering isn't the kind of lubricant that slips you into Nashville's elite clubhouse.

And Freeman may have more elemental problems: A lot of people simply don't like the guy. Even progressive whites, who realize the implications of calling a black man "arrogant," nonetheless call him just that.

If Freeman and Ewing are passed up, we'll never really know why. The club's 52-page manual, which includes rules about what carts can be driven on the course, doesn't even hint at how members are selected. Few people seem to have a clue, making it one of Nashville's most cloaked traditions.

Gil Merritt, a senior judge on the U.S. 6th Circuit Court of Appeals who inherited his father's Belle Meade membership in the 1950s, says that while many of the club's decisions are kept secret, he doesn't think anyone is hostile toward blacks. In fact, the Democratic jurist believes Belle Meade did recruit religious publisher T.B. Boyd and other African Americans to apply, but they politely declined.

"I don't think there is an exclusionary policy," says Merritt, "but they do have a secret membership committee who looks at the people up for membership and decides who gets in and who doesn't. My understanding is that they have more people who want to get in than they can accept."

Some say that the club's secret membership committee favors executives at major corporations and partners in the elite law firms. Others contend selection is tethered to family ties. In Belle Meade, few things matter more than legacy.

It all adds up to a rather mystical process, with the club's secret committee serving as a WASPy College of Cardinals. They don't have to explain who gets into the club and why, even to fellow members, though their reasoning is the stuff of legend. Talk to enough people, and you'll hear stories of men being rejected because they stole a member's girlfriend at Harpeth Hall 25 years ago.

Secrecy and pettiness make a volatile combination. So it's hardly a surprise that Ewing's candidacy is stalled. But he should take heart.

Liberal warhorse lawyer George Barrett dines at Belle Meade, though he's probably sued or antagonized half its members. He says that for all its trappings, the place has a rather ordinary appeal.

"It's like any other club. People of like interests flock together and don't want anyone to rock the boat," he says with a chuckle. "What's wrong with that?"