A Swing in Demopolis
The first thing Arthur George Gaston ever sold was a ride on a swing. He was a small boy in Demopolis, Alabama, in the 1890s, living with his grandparents in a log cabin, and the swing in their yard was the only one in the neighborhood. The other children wanted to use it, so he charged admission. They paid in buttons and pins, which were the only currency they had. Decades later, when he was the richest Black man in Birmingham and one of the wealthiest Black Americans of his century, Gaston would still tell the story of the swing, because it contained the whole of his method in miniature: find the thing people want, notice that you are the one who has it, and ask for something in return.
He was born on July 4, 1892, to Tom and Rosa Gaston. His grandparents, Joe and Idella Gaston, had been enslaved. His father, a railroad worker, died when Arthur was an infant, and his mother went to work as a cook for A. B. Loveman, a Jewish merchant in Greensboro, about twenty-five miles away. The boy stayed behind in Demopolis with his grandparents. It was a childhood in the Black Belt of Alabama a generation after Reconstruction had collapsed, when the realistic prospects for a Black boy were the cotton field, the mine, or domestic service, and when stepping off the sidewalk for a white pedestrian was an expectation enforced by violence.
What makes Gaston worth studying is not simply that he escaped those prospects. Many talented people did, usually by leaving the South. Gaston stayed. He built his fortune inside the segregated economy of Birmingham, serving customers that white-owned firms refused or exploited, and he kept building it for more than seventy years. By the time he died in 1996, at 103, he had founded or acquired a burial society, an insurance company, a chain of funeral homes, cemeteries, a business college, a savings and loan, a motel, a real estate company, radio stations and a construction firm. His biographers, his niece Carol Jenkins and her daughter Elizabeth Gardner Hines, estimated his fortune at well over $130 million. He had also, along the way, become one of the most important and most criticized figures in the Birmingham civil rights campaign of 1963.
This is the story of a man who asked one question over and over, for most of a century, and kept finding new answers to it: what do the people around me need that nobody is selling them?
By the Numbers
The Gaston Enterprises
103Gaston's age when he died in Birmingham in January 1996
25¢Weekly dues for a household head in his first burial society (1923)
33,000Alabamians insured by the Booker T. Washington Insurance Company by 1941
13Branches of Smith and Gaston funeral homes across Alabama at the business's peak
$34MAssets of the insurance company when he sold it to employees in 1987
$3.5MPrice the employees paid for it
Birmingham and the Tuggle Institute
In 1905 the Lovemans moved to Birmingham, where the family would build the largest department store in Alabama, and Rosa Gaston went with them. Arthur, about thirteen, joined her. Birmingham was then barely three decades old, a city conjured out of the ground by the iron ore, coal and limestone that lay together in the surrounding ridges. It was loud, fast-growing and brutally stratified. Black workers did much of the heaviest and most dangerous labor in its furnaces and mines, and some of that labor was performed by convicts leased out by the state.
Rosa put education first. She enrolled her son in the Tuggle Institute, a charitable school for Black children run by Carrie Tuggle, who had adopted the industrial-education philosophy associated with Booker T. Washington. Washington visited the school and spoke to its students, and the effect on Gaston was permanent. He admired Washington's insistence on self-reliance, thrift and building economic strength where you stood rather than waiting for permission. He read Up From Slavery repeatedly, and when he named his first company, he named it after Washington.
Growing up in the Loveman household also gave him a close view of how a successful merchant family operated. Encyclopedia of Alabama's biographer notes that Loveman, a shrewd investor as well as a retailer, likely made an impression on the boy. Gaston would spend his adult life maintaining working relationships with Birmingham's white business elite, and those relationships began in a kitchen.
He left school after completing the tenth grade, the highest level Tuggle offered. For several years he picked up whatever work he could find, including selling subscriptions for the Birmingham Reporter, a Black-owned newspaper, and working as a bellman at a hotel in Mobile. None of it led anywhere in particular, and in 1913 he enlisted in the U.S. Army.
Soldier and Saver
The Army was segregated, and Gaston was assigned to the all-Black 92nd Infantry Division, which shipped out to France in 1917 during the First World War. The detail of his service that his biographers return to is financial rather than martial. Out of roughly $20 a month in pay, he sent home about $15 toward a mortgage on a lot he had bought in Birmingham. He was a young enlisted man overseas in wartime, and he was paying off real estate.
That habit, more than any single insight, is the foundation of everything that followed. Gaston came to believe that some part of whatever you earned belonged to you to keep, and he kept it with a discipline that bordered on the severe. He did not spend on dating, drinking or display. When his peers spent their pay, he saved his. The Army years also gave him a glimpse of France, where Black soldiers were treated with a degree of respect they did not receive at home, and he later described being tempted to stay. He came back to Alabama instead, persuaded, as Washington had taught, that the work had to be done at home.
Home had not changed. The Black veterans who returned to the South in 1919 found lynching unabated and a revived Ku Klux Klan growing rapidly. Gaston took a job driving a delivery truck for a dry-cleaning company, then went to work for the Tennessee Coal, Iron and Railroad Company, the dominant industrial employer in the Birmingham district, at its operations in Fairfield and Westfield.
Lunches, Loans and the Company Town
The mine paid better than most jobs open to a Black man in Birmingham, but the company took rent for its houses and charges from the company store out of each paycheck, and not much was left. Gaston hated the work. He also noticed, almost immediately, that the men around him had needs that he could meet.
His mother was an excellent cook, and the lunches she packed for him drew envious attention from other miners. So he began selling lunches. On paydays he sold peanuts and popcorn. Then he noticed a bigger need: men routinely ran out of money before the next payday. Gaston began lending to them, at 25 percent interest for the two weeks between paydays. It was expensive credit, and his biographers do not pretend otherwise; they describe him and his later partner as tough, even ruthless, men in hard times. But the miners had nowhere else to borrow. Lending became his most profitable line, and he saved around two-thirds of what he took in.
The mine also showed him the need that would make his fortune. When a miner or a family member died, the bereaved would come around on payday, and to local churches, collecting donations to pay for a funeral. The miners gave out of sympathy and out of the knowledge that they might be next. Gaston saw two problems in this ritual. It was unreliable for the families who genuinely needed it, and it was easy for hustlers to exploit. He later recalled wondering whether people would give a few dimes into a burial society to bury their dead, in a regular and organized way, instead of passing the hat after the fact.
The Burial Society
In 1923 he founded the Booker T. Washington Burial Society, reportedly with about $500. The model was simple and old. Members paid a small weekly fee, twenty-five cents for the head of a household and a smaller amount for other family members, and in return were entitled to a decent burial. Gaston went door to door collecting the money himself.
The venture almost ended at once. Within weeks, one of his first members died. The historian Suzanne E. Smith, author of To Serve the Living, a history of African American funeral directors, told NPR that Gaston had collected only around ten dollars in premiums when he suddenly faced a bill of about a hundred dollars for a funeral. He had no reserve. It was the classic failure mode of any insurance scheme that has not yet accumulated enough premiums to cover its early claims.
His solution set the pattern for his career. He negotiated with a Birmingham undertaker to pay for the funeral in installments at a reduced price. And he went to the local minister and admitted what had happened. According to Smith, the minister turned the crisis into an endorsement: at the funeral, he told the congregation that everyone in the community ought to join the society, because Gaston had a vision. What might have been a public failure became a public demonstration that the society would honor its promise even when it was not yet able to afford to.
The ministers became his distribution network. The Encyclopedia of Alabama credits the society's growth to Gaston's coalition with Black clergy, who steered their congregations toward it. He added promotion that fit the community: he sponsored gospel singers and backed what the Encyclopedia describes as Alabama's first radio program aimed at Black listeners. The product was not complicated. What Gaston built was
trust, delivered through the institutions his customers already trusted.
The same year, 1923, he married Creola Smith, whom he had known since childhood in Demopolis; she had been one of the children who paid buttons to ride his swing. To win the approval of her father, A. L. Smith, a prosperous blacksmith, Gaston offered to share his business with him. The partnership became Smith and Gaston.
Owning the Whole Chain
The burial society depended on an outside undertaker, and when that arrangement fell apart, Gaston and his father-in-law bought a funeral home. It was the first step in what the business historian Gary Hoover, summarizing Jenkins and Hines, calls the vertical integration of the death industry. Over the following decades Gaston added nearly every link in the chain: burial insurance, undertaking, caskets, and eventually plots in cemeteries he owned. A family that insured with Gaston would be buried by Gaston, in a casket supplied by Gaston, on land owned by Gaston.
In 1932, in the depths of the Depression, the burial society was reorganized as the Booker T. Washington Insurance Company, offering life, health and accident coverage. Birmingham was among the cities hit hardest by the Depression, with severe unemployment and widespread mortgage defaults. But an insurance company collecting small weekly premiums had a structural advantage: it held its customers' money before it paid out claims. That pool of premiums, the
float, gave Gaston capital to deploy at a time when almost no one in Black Birmingham had access to capital at all.
In 1938 Gaston and Smith bought a mansion on the edge of Kelly Ingram Park in downtown Birmingham and renovated it as the new Smith and Gaston Funeral Home. It was a statement of arrival in the heart of the city's Black business district. The same year brought devastating losses. A. L. Smith died, and so did Creola, just before the new building was due to open. Gaston, by his biographers' account, responded by throwing himself deeper into work.
That same year he also tried something outside his expertise. A soft-drink bottling venture, which marketed a soda called Joe Louis Punch, never caught on. The Encyclopedia of Alabama describes it as the only one of his many ventures that failed. He eventually shut it down and, according to Hoover's account of the biography, covered the losses himself rather than leave his fellow investors holding them.
Building the Workforce He Could Not Hire
By the late 1930s Gaston's businesses had a bottleneck that money alone could not solve. He needed clerks, typists and bookkeepers, and in segregated Birmingham there were not enough Black workers with those skills. White business schools would not train them. So in 1939 he founded the Booker T. Washington Business College. He recruited Minnie Gardner, a friend of Creola's, to help run it; the two married in 1943, and she built the college into a major Birmingham institution. The school trained workers for Gaston's own companies and for the wider economy, and it added an employment agency to place its graduates. Gaston, by several accounts, kept the best graduates for himself.
The insurance business kept growing. By 1941, according to the Jenkins and Hines biography as summarized by Hoover, the company insured about 33,000 Black Alabamians, and its agents still went door to door each week collecting nickels, dimes and quarters. It had become the largest Black-owned employer of Black workers in Birmingham. By the mid-1940s it operated branches across the state. The funeral business grew with it; Smith told NPR that Smith and Gaston eventually had thirteen branches in Alabama.
In 1943 there was a final complication from the past. Creola's mother held a large minority stake in the Smith and Gaston businesses, and when Gaston married Minnie rather than the relative she had hoped he would marry, she demanded to be bought out. Gaston emptied his savings to do it. The price was high, but the result was that he controlled his enterprises outright, which would matter a great deal in the decades of expansion ahead.
In the late 1940s and 1950s he turned increasingly to real estate. He bought two cemeteries, New Grace Hill and Mason City, rounding out the burial business, and formed the Vulcan Realty and Investment Company to manage property. Real estate became a growing share of his wealth, as it does in most durable fortunes. It also gave him a physical footprint in the neighborhood around Kelly Ingram Park, which would put him at the center of events in 1963.
A Motel and a Bank
Gaston's next two ventures each answered a specific, visible gap.
The first was lodging. Black travelers in the segregated South had few decent places to stay, and Birmingham had essentially no first-class hotel that would accept them. When Gaston learned that a large Black church convention was scheduled for the city in 1954, he built one. The A. G. Gaston Motel opened on July 1, 1954, on a site adjoining Kelly Ingram Park, with air-conditioned rooms and a restaurant. It quickly became the social center of Black Birmingham and the place where visiting musicians, dignitaries and civil rights leaders stayed. The Martin Luther King, Jr. Research and Education Institute at Stanford describes it as the city's only first-class accommodation that accepted Black guests.
The second was credit. Black residents of Birmingham had great difficulty getting loans from white-owned banks, and the city had had no Black-owned financial institution since the Alabama Penny Savings Bank closed some four decades earlier. Gaston organized the Citizens Federal Savings and Loan Association, which was chartered in 1956 and opened in 1957. It made home loans to families the white banks turned away, and it became a major lender to Black churches.
Citizens Federal also allowed Gaston to use finance as a quiet instrument of civil rights. When Black residents of Tuskegee were pushed out of the city's electorate by a gerrymander and white-owned banks responded to their protest by calling in their mortgages, Gaston's institution offered to refinance them. And in the 1950s, Smith told NPR, Gaston went to the First National Bank of Birmingham and told it that he would withdraw his deposits unless it removed the segregated water fountains from its lobby. The fountains came down. He had not marched or filed suit. He had simply made the cost of segregation visible on a balance sheet the bank cared about.
He supported the movement in other ways that attracted little attention at the time. In 1956 he gave Autherine Lucy a job that helped support her as she pursued her admission to the University of Alabama. When Fred Shuttlesworth founded the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights in 1956, after the state outlawed the NAACP, its first meeting was held at the Smith and Gaston offices. Gaston was, by temperament and by interest, a moderate who preferred negotiation to confrontation. But he was not neutral.
Birmingham, 1963
The collision between Gaston's methods and the movement's came in 1963.
In 1962, students at Miles College, where Gaston was a trustee, began a boycott of downtown stores to demand desegregation and the hiring of Black clerks. Gaston used his position to persuade them to suspend it while he negotiated, and he served on a biracial group of businessmen who sought gradual desegregation through private agreements. Those talks produced some token changes. Merchants painted over some "whites only" signs, and Commissioner of Public Safety Eugene "Bull" Connor had the city pressure them into restoring the segregation the ordinances required.
When Shuttlesworth and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, led by Martin Luther King Jr., prepared a mass campaign of demonstrations for the spring of 1963, Gaston opposed it. He wanted to give the city's newly elected mayor, Albert Boutwell, a chance to deliver the changes he had promised, and he feared that public confrontation would bring violence. Yet he provided King and Ralph Abernathy with rooms at his motel at a discount and meeting space in his offices nearby. The campaign's headquarters was, in effect, his building.
The contradictions surfaced quickly. After King made clear that he would press ahead, Gaston issued a statement that obliquely criticized the campaign for bypassing local leadership. Hosea Williams, one of King's lieutenants, called him a "super Uncle Tom" to the press. Movement leaders moved quickly to paper over the rift, and King appointed a committee of local leaders, including Gaston, to review each day's plans. When King was arrested on Good Friday, April 12, Gaston posted his bail, over King's own preference to stay in jail. Smith told NPR that Gaston later responded to the insult by saying, in effect, that if wanting to spare children and save lives made him an Uncle Tom, he would accept the label.
The sharpest disagreement came over the children. In early May the campaign began sending schoolchildren into the streets to march. Gaston objected directly to King. The exchange has been recorded by several historians of the campaign: Gaston told King to let the children stay in school because they did not know anything, and King replied that the children should go into the streets, where they would learn something. The marches continued. Connor answered them with fire hoses and police dogs, and the images, broadcast nationally, turned Birmingham into a symbol of Southern brutality and helped move the Kennedy administration toward the civil rights bill.
Gaston paid for his involvement. On the night of May 11, 1963, shortly after a settlement was announced, a bomb exploded at the Gaston Motel near the room where King had been staying, and another damaged the home of King's brother, A. D. King. The bombings set off rioting across a large section of the city. In September, firebombs were thrown at Gaston's own house. The Encyclopedia of Alabama reports that the damage was minimal and no one was hurt. After the bombing of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church killed four girls on September 15, Gaston joined King in a meeting with President John F. Kennedy to press for a federal response, which led to the appointment of federal mediators in Birmingham.
I never went into anything with the idea of making money. I thought of doing something, and it would come up and make money. I never thought of trying to get rich.
— A.G. Gaston, quoted in Black Enterprise, 1997
The historian's verdict on Gaston's 1963 role remains mixed, and fairly so. He tried to slow a campaign that, by most accounts, succeeded because it would not be slowed. He also supplied the rooms, the bail money and the meeting space that kept it running, and he absorbed bombs for it. Smith's assessment is that his approach involved careful maneuvering with the city's white power structure, and that he understood Black economic empowerment as something that had to be negotiated rather than seized. Both the criticism and the defense are part of the record.
Green Power
In 1968 Gaston published a memoir, Green Power: The Successful Way of A. G. Gaston. The title was a deliberate counterpoint to the Black Power slogans of the era. The Encyclopedia of Alabama notes that he wrote it partly to promote Black entrepreneurship and partly to recover standing in a community where his role in 1963 had cost him some respect. The book set out his gospel of work, education, thrift and self-reliance, and it earned him an appearance on NBC's Today.
He also put money into institutions for young people. He gave $50,000 to establish the A. G. Gaston Boys Club, later the A. G. Gaston Boys and Girls Club, and served as its president. He sponsored a statewide spelling bee and served on the boards of Tuskegee University and other institutions. He founded a construction company. He owned two radio stations, WENN-FM and WAGG-AM, the second named with his own initials.
In January 1976, when he was eighty-three, an intruder broke into the Gaston home, beat Minnie, struck Gaston with a hammer, and drove off with him in his own car. Police found him hours later. The Encyclopedia of Alabama reports that the attack was thought to be motivated by his wealth rather than his race. He went back to the office.
His list of honors grew: an honorary doctorate from Pepperdine in 1975, service on many civic boards, and in 1992 recognition from Black Enterprise magazine as its entrepreneur of the century. The same year, he suffered a stroke. He kept running Citizens Federal and the funeral home anyway.
Giving It Away
The most revealing decision of Gaston's career came in 1987, when he was ninety-five. The Booker T. Washington Insurance Company, the direct descendant of the burial society he had started in 1923, held about $34 million in assets. Gaston could have sold it to an outside buyer. Instead he created an employee stock ownership plan and sold it to roughly 350 of his long-time employees for $3.5 million, a small fraction of its value. Some of his relatives were not pleased.
I could have sold it for a lot more. But I couldn't see throwing them out of jobs. They helped me build this thing.
— A.G. Gaston, interview with Money magazine
The logic was consistent with everything he had done. The company had been built on the premise that Black Birmingham should own the institutions that served it. Selling it to outsiders would have converted that ownership into cash for his estate. Selling it to the employees kept it in the community that built it, at the cost of most of the sale price.
A. G. Gaston died on January 19, 1996, at the Medical Center East in Birmingham, of complications from a stroke. He was 103. The New York Times obituary described a multimillionaire who used his money and influence for civil rights and shrugged off accusations that he was an Uncle Tom. His nephew told the paper that Gaston had never really retired and had been following plans for a new building for one of his businesses when he fell ill.
What Survived
Most of the empire did not outlast him by long. The motel had already closed in 1982. The business college closed in 1988. Citizens Federal became part of CFS Bancshares and was acquired in 2003 by Citizens Trust Bank of Atlanta; announcing the deal, one of its executives said that Gaston would have approved because the deal followed his rule: find a need and fill it. The insurance company was eventually liquidated. Smith told NPR in 2010 that only the funeral business was still operating, and she tied the decline partly to integration itself, which opened white-owned businesses to Black customers and eroded the loyalty that Gaston had counted on.
That is the uncomfortable irony at the center of his story. Gaston built his businesses in the space segregation created, serving customers others would not serve. He spent money and took risks to dismantle segregation. When it fell, much of the protected market that had sustained his enterprises went with it. He did not regard this as a reason to regret the outcome, and there is no evidence he did. But it is a reminder that a business built on an excluded market must eventually compete in an open one.
The physical legacy has fared better. In January 2017 President Barack Obama designated the Birmingham Civil Rights National Monument, with the A. G. Gaston Motel at its center. The city completed a major restoration of the motel complex and opened it to the public in 2023. The boys and girls club he founded still operates.
The publisher of his biography compared the scale of his achievement to that of
Andrew Carnegie and
J. P. Morgan, and the comparison is less extravagant than it first sounds. Carnegie and Morgan built in an economy that welcomed their ambitions. Gaston built in one designed to exclude him, and he did it without leaving, without outside capital, and without a single business model beyond a question he asked for seventy years. The buttons and pins on the swing in Demopolis were the first answer. The employee-owned insurance company was the last.