West Ashley lost one of its most iconic, if not iconoclastic, sons when John Graham Altman III died last week at age 79.
Graham had reportedly been in declining health for the past few years. Until then, he had been many things: a liberal, a conservative, a lawyer, a father, an oft-quoted politician, a Sunday School teacher, a firebrand school board chair, and a husband, several times over.
It could be said that there are three kinds of people who knew Altman – those who loved him, those who hated his positions, and those who hated his positions but loved his company.
Known universally for his quick wit, sharp tongue and blunt manner, Graham gained fans and enemies throughout Charleston, the state, and even the nation. News of his passing was carried in more than a handful of papers far outside of South Carolina this past week.
A self-proclaimed McGovern liberal when he first entered politics, being a spokesman for then U.S. Sen. Fritz Hollings (D-S.C.), Altman eventually morphed into one of the region’s most conservative voices.
A politician out of time in 2005 when he drew national ire for comments he made about abused women who returned to their mates, Altman’s exit from public office the following year was in part aided by the computer age, as internet-connected social media and news sites helped stir up the whirlwind of criticism.
Ironically, he would have been at-home in the current Tea Party-infused political landscape currently holding sway in his home state, according to Gibbs Knotts, the chair of the political science department at the College of Charleston.
Gibbs, a graduate and former employee of the North Carolina university system, said Altman was this state’s Jesse Helms – a conservative character equally adept at enraging his opposition as he was at engaging his party’s base.
Altman had been called worse.
One colleague famously, or infamously, referred to him as a “racist bastard” during a firefight on the floor of the House of Representatives.
“You always know where I stand,” Altman would say, and then just as readily laugh when he was chided, “just like Mussolini.”
Two Democratic men who ran for Altman’s House seat at different times and with different5 results, gay activist Charlie Smith and current Rep. Leon Stavrinakis, had somewhat different views of the garrulous late politician.
Smith, not a fan still, half-praised Altman, saying that the two of them shared a passion for public service. Smith, a realtor who serves on the county planning commission, then compared him to Coleman Blease, a former governor and congressman who mixed race, religion and prejudices into a successful populist stew.
While Altman may have displayed creative pink flamingo scenes in his Folly Road front yard, Smith still holds that Altman’s actions and inactions “did a lot of harm to a lot of people.”
Some on the community point the finger at blame for the terrible condition many of the public schools’ facilities eroded into during Altman’s 20 years on the board, which included his four years as chair.
Local attorney Stavrinakis attended some of those schools, but preferred to remember Altman for the genuine affection many in the Statehouse still hold for him.
Stavrinakis won the seat after powerful members of the local delegation came to Altman and talked him into not running, according to waggin’ tongues in the Statehouse, following the spousal abuse comments brouhaha.
It didn’t bother Stavrinakis when Altman continued to sport House license plates on his car for the better part of a year after leaving office. Stavrinakis had gotten his own.
Former reporter and current CofC professor Jack Bass knew Altman since college at USC, when both were involved in the school’s debate team. Altman, by contrast, was later elected to the teams Hall of Fame.
Chuckling, Bass remembered the time when he invited his old college buddy to speak to one of his classes. Altman had been publicly mulling a defamation suit against the NAACP, but told the class that the sign of a good lawyer was being able to see both sides of a case.
“John Graham was asked by one of the students what he would do, then, if he were representing the NAACP,” said Bass, who once owned and ran a paper that covered West Ashley. “He said, ‘Political speech in this nation is the highest protected form of speech.’ Pretty soon, the planned lawsuit disappeared.”
No one, it seems, could disagree that Altman wasn’t funny. His gift with a line or a quote was legend among local reporters, whom he courted and pushed away with the same smile.
But Altman’s bluntness was a gift, too, especially when it came to his family. Confronted about how one of his children was selling marijuana-smoking devices at a Folly Road head shop, Altman didn’t pause. “That’s my son, and while I don’t agree with this action, I love him all the same and respect his decisions as a man as to what he wants to do with his life.”
Years ago, I was working for another weekly paper in town and was in a pinch for a story. I had a few minutes before deadline, and called Altman hoping the quote machine would be on and humming.
“What do you want me to say, Bill,” Altman asked. Told what was needed, Altman said, “Fine, Bill. Here you go: ‘We are all doomed.’” And with that, the story had its cherry on top.
In the end, John Graham Altman III’s brightness has returned to ground, from where jewels are found.
Fitting.

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