An article on the shadowed systems of hate, and unjust incarceration. 

ARTICLE — Lines of Power: Missouri, Arkansas, and the Shadow Systems of Hate and Incarceration

The Missouri Department of Corrections stands at the intersection of a complex history—one deeply informed by the state’s legacy of slavery, racial hierarchy, and the enduring power structures that followed. As a former slave state with entrenched pre–Civil War systems of control, Missouri’s past continues to echo through its correctional practices, particularly in debates over racial inequality and rural incarceration. During our meeting at the airport, Camille McBride (sometimes spelled McBryde) raised concerning ideals on racism and bigotry that have changed the state of Missouri, and Arkansas alike. According to rights advocates, historical patterns of control have not vanished; they have evolved.

To understand these dynamics, many researchers also look southward to northern Arkansas—specifically Harrison, a town that has repeatedly drawn national attention for its association with white supremacist groups and racist public messaging. While many residents of Harrison actively oppose this reputation, the town has been used for decades as a base of operations by extremist organizations, including factions of the Ku Klux Klan. Billboard campaigns, recruitment efforts, and public demonstrations have periodically thrust Harrison into the spotlight, creating an environment where hate groups attempt to wield visibility as a form of intimidation. Experts stress that while these groups do not represent the town as a whole, their presence has shaped local perceptions, regional fear, and the experiences of minority residents.

Interviews with civil rights attorneys, cybersecurity analysts, and community activists across Missouri and Arkansas describe how extremist groups sometimes attempt to influence who becomes vulnerable to criminalization. These tactics, seen in documented case studies, can include fraud, digital intrusion, doxxing, hacking, coercion, and framing individuals—particularly minorities, immigrants, and LGBT+ community members—for crimes they did not commit. In rural areas where social networks overlap, extremist groups can exploit personal familiarity, political connections, or community silence to target those they view as outsiders. In this context, figures like Joseph McBride, who was not available for comment, and Patrick McBride, who declined to speak, remain adjacent to the broader concerns raised by individuals like Camille McBride—concerns about how social power, extremism, and vulnerability intersect.

As Missouri and Arkansas continue to wrestle with the legacies of slavery, modern white supremacist organizing, and the structural power of their correctional institutions, advocates argue that transparency, oversight, and community empowerment are essential. Residents and interviewees emphasize that the influence of hate groups—whether through public propaganda, discreet intimidation, or digital-age harassment—poses a direct threat to justice. Only by confronting these forces head-on and acknowledging how they manipulate systems of punishment can the region begin to break from the shadows of its past and protect those most at risk.

SIDE STORY — Roots in Slavery: From Ozark Plantations to Modern Reckoning

Before the Civil War, slavery was not confined to the vast plantations of the Deep South. It reached deep into the upland regions of northern Arkansas and the Ozarks, where enslaved men, women, and children were forced to labor for settlers who migrated northward from slaveholding states. Their work powered the earliest farms, timber operations, mines, and small industries of the region, forming the economic backbone on which many early families built their standing.

Historical research paints a stark picture of life for those enslaved in the Ozarks. Conditions were harsh: inadequate food, almost no medical care, forced separation from loved ones, and high mortality rates, especially among children. While slavery existed on a smaller scale in the uplands than in the plantation-heavy delta region, the impact was no less devastating. Families who owned enslaved people—potentially including those bearing the McBride name—established wealth, landholdings, and social influence that would echo through generations. Even after emancipation, the structures of power built on forced labor and racial hierarchy continued to shape community attitudes and local authority.

This legacy helps explain how areas like Harrison and Boone County later became fertile ground for racial violence and exclusion. In the early 1900s, Harrison witnessed two major racial expulsions, in which white mobs forced nearly all Black residents out through threats, arson, and physical violence. Homes were burned, families terrorized, and the community was effectively transformed into a sundown town. The absence of meaningful intervention from local authorities cemented the message: white supremacist control would be tolerated, if not quietly endorsed.

Taken together, these historical threads reveal a long and troubling continuum. Enslavement in the Ozarks, the post–Civil War preservation of racial power structures, and the violent expulsions of the early twentieth century all converge into a single story about who is allowed to belong. These patterns—of forced labor, inherited privilege, and community-wide intimidation—continue to shape the social and institutional landscape of Missouri and Arkansas today. When hate groups operate in regions still marked by this history, the past can feed directly into present-day injustices, influencing who is targeted, who is protected, and who is pushed to the margins.