Kylin Hill fought to change the Mississippi flag. Next up: The NFL.
If Kylin Hill has a regret about last year, it’s that he wasn’t able to run into Davis Wade Stadium carrying Mississippi’s new state flag, waving it for all to behold.
Hill was the one who put himself out there in June, declaring in a 98-character tweet that he wouldn’t play another game for Mississippi State unless his home state changed its flag. He was the one who had to see those hate-filled replies on social media, who had to fear for his mother and grandmother when the racist backlash spilled into their homes in Columbus, Miss. He was the one who risked his college football career, and maybe his NFL draft prospects, by taking a stand.
But on Nov. 3, the same day voters in Mississippi voted to change the flag, Hill had announced he was opting out of his senior season to prepare for the draft. So four days later, when the new flag — with those menacing stars and bars replaced by a magnolia blossom — made its public debut at a Mississippi State home game, it was linebacker Kobe Jones who raised it high.
“That should’ve been my baby,” says Hill’s mother, Karenda.
Her baby enjoys running the football more than his mouth, but he usually means what he says. That’s what lent so much weight to the tweet he had sent in response to a decision by Mississippi Gov. Tate Reeves (R) to reject a proposal to create a second, alternative flag for the state.
“Either change the flag or I won’t be representing this State anymore 💯 & I meant that … I’m tired.”
Hill thought so little of what he had done that he rolled over in bed and took a nap. Over the ensuing months, though, Mississippi would finally recognize that a flag that represented racism, oppression and brutality to so many could no longer represent the state with the country’s highest proportion of Black residents.
The new flag now waves high above the Mississippi Capitol in Jackson. While Hill can’t, and won’t, take all of the credit, his tweet helped punch it into the end zone from the 1-yard line. And even if a supposed showcase final season in Starkville never came to be — even with everything his family faced after the tweet — he knows nothing will carry a more lasting legacy.
“The flag won’t end racism off the bat,” Hill says. “But it’s a start, you know?”
Kylin Hill went back to his hometown of Columbus, Miss., to be honored for his efforts to help change the state flag. (Mississippi State Athletics)
They gave him a key to the city. “When they told me that, I was like, ‘Get out of here.’ I ain’t nothing but 21 years old,” Hill says. (Mississippi State Athletics)
LEFT: Kylin Hill went back to his hometown of Columbus, Miss., to be honored for his efforts to help change the state flag. (Mississippi State Athletics) RIGHT: They gave him a key to the city. “When they told me that, I was like, ‘Get out of here.’ I ain’t nothing but 21 years old,” Hill says. (Mississippi State Athletics)
A son of Sandfield
Hill, 22, hails from Sandfield, one of the neglected relics of Columbus’s segregated past. His mother wouldn’t let him walk to the store there by himself because of the frequency of shootings between rival gangs in the area. Not many make it out, so there’s pride when someone does: A mural in town features Hill running with a football in his Columbus High uniform and reads “Friendly City Hero” on one side and “Sandfield Made” on the other.
Hill famously never lost a fumble in 519 career touches at Mississippi State, but he nearly mishandled his opportunity to get there. His sophomore year in high school, he quit football. The team wasn’t very good, and his new coach, Randal Montgomery, rode him every day in practice. Hill was skipping classes and practices, rolling with what he called “the wrong crowd.” The appeal of the streets was taking hold.
“A lot of kids get caught up in that, and once they get caught up, it’s fun,” says Reggie Willis, a family friend, youth league coach and longtime mentor to Hill. “But when the hard times come in and you start getting in trouble with the law and all that, now it sucks. If you know like I know, it’s easy to get in trouble, but it’s hard to get out of trouble.”
After returning, Hill’s immaturity threatened to undermine his talents. Montgomery recalled one practice when Hill appeared lethargic and disengaged. As players headed to the field house afterward, Montgomery told Hill to leave his phone in his locker and take a ride with him. Montgomery pulled over, turned off the car and told Hill that he was going to throw away a promising future if he didn’t get his act together. College coaches were taking note of his actions, on and off the field.
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“We had a heart-to-heart,” Montgomery says. “I told him, ‘This ain’t coach to player; this a man-to-young-man conversation.’ … I said: ‘You have so much potential that you don’t even see. If you would just change your ways and be a team person and just change your attitude, the sky is the limit for you.’ I think that conversation really catapulted him where he’s grown into the man he is today.”
Hill visited his father, Javarus Minor, in Marietta, Ga., every summer, but they weren’t close. He saw Montgomery as a father figure because he combined tough love with a caring hand. So he listened. He started to realize his potential during his junior year, when he squared off against future Los Angeles Rams running back Cam Akers in the 2015 state playoffs. Akers was considered the top prospect in the state, but Hill was determined to show out in their only duel, running for 382 yards and five touchdowns. Akers threw for 355 yards, rushed for 150 yards and had five touchdowns — and his team won, 56-42. But Hill proved he belonged.
“I think I can take it all the way there,” Hill told himself after that game. “I can make it in the league.”
After Hill’s tweet, voters approved a new flag, with a magnolia replacing the stars and bars of the previous version. (Allison V. Smith/For The Washington Post) ‘I’m tired’
Hill stayed a 30-minute drive from home for college, spurning offers from Texas, Missouri, Nebraska, Tennessee and Mississippi. He represents where he’s from with pride. But he’s not oblivious to its shortcomings, especially when it comes to race. His tweet about the flag was an impromptu, emotional reaction, but the last two words — “I’m tired” — told of a Black man who has seen and heard some things in his two-plus decades. Hill has had the n-word hurled at him and says a cop once pulled him over for no reason, and he knows that the systems he was asked to overcome to reach college stardom — broken public schools, an oppressive economy — were built on discrimination.
“You can ask anybody from Mississippi: They might not say it publicly, but we all experienced racism,” Hill said. “I try to be the bigger person. With me being an athlete now, I’m not trying to put myself in that situation, because if I hit the guy or say something, anything wrong to the guy, I’m going to be the guy put on blast instead of him.”
That Hill spoke up about the flag was a surprise, given that he’s mostly shy. That Twitter was his forum of choice was not. He has long felt most comfortable voicing his frustrations and flaunting his successes by typing them into his phone and pressing send.
Charles Huff, now the head coach at Marshall, was one of four running backs coaches Hill had at Mississippi State. Huff would often call and ask Hill, then a sophomore, to tone it down. Or he would jokingly call him out in team meetings. “He’d be like: ‘Kylin had a big game. He let the world know,’ ” Hill recalled with a laugh.
Hill’s Twitter bio is simply the letters BLM, for Black Lives Matter, with a raised fist emoji. He has more than 28,000 followers, and he knows his words have reach. But he wasn’t looking to be an activist. He was venting, as so many were during the summer. And it went viral.
The incessant buzzing on his phone eventually woke him from his nap, alerting to just how much his tweet had shaken things up. At work, Karenda Hill’s colleagues rushed to her desk to tell her they had her son’s back. She immediately called Kylin and asked, “What’d you do?”
“It threw me for a loop, because this might ruin everything,” she says. “He was like, ‘Mom, this is more important to me than football right now.’ ”
Still, that flag had been allowed to exist for 126 years. So even Hill doubted that he could have it taken down by a tweet — and he admits he probably would have played even if nothing had been done.
“I’m being completely honest. I didn’t think they was going to change this flag,” Hill says. “I was like, ‘I don’t think I did enough.’ ”
What he had done, though, had come at just the right time. The previous flag was unveiled in 1894, nearly three decades after the Civil War, and was in direct retaliation for Reconstruction — for the federal military occupation, for the progress made by formerly enslaved people, for the election of Black U.S. Sens. Hiram Rhodes Revels and Blanche K. Bruce and Rep. John R. Lynch.
Mississippi and Georgia were the only states to incorporate the Confederate battle emblem — a blue cross with 13 white stars over a red background — this century. When Georgia removed all images of that symbol in 2003, after 47 years and two flags, Mississippi became the only state to continue honoring the inglorious history of slavery and the Lost Cause.
“I’m 40 years old and been in Mississippi my entire life,” Montgomery says. “That flag, and that symbol, never ever represented anything positive. It never symbolized anything positive for anybody in this state.”
In 2001, a bill in the state legislature to change the flag failed. For years, the NAACP held prayer vigils outside the governor’s mansion. The flag kept flying.
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Mississippi House Speaker Philip Gunn, a Republican from Hattiesburg, had made changing the state flag his mission in 2015, not long after white supremacist Dylann Roof massacred nine Black worshipers at Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, S.C. But even with his powerful and influential position, Gunn couldn’t get enough support from his constituents to make it happen.
George Floyd’s death, and the subsequent protests and reckonings across the country, reignited the conversation. Nearly two weeks before Hill’s tweet, Rep. Chris Bell, a Democrat from Jackson, called for a closed-door, bipartisan meeting of lawmakers to discuss a resolution to change the flag. NASCAR had just banned the Confederate flag at its races, and the Navy and Marines also banned the flag from public display. The state’s public universities had ceased flying the flag.
Pressure was building. On June 18, the SEC announced it would reconsider hosting any conference championship events in Mississippi unless the flag was changed. The NCAA quickly followed, banning all championship events in the state. Walmart and the Mississippi Baptist Convention got behind the movement, too.
Four days later, Hill fired off his tweet, adding another message that read, “Unlike [the] rest I was born in this state 💯 and I [know] what the flag mean.”
Within a week, the tide turned. Lt. Gov. Delbert Hosemann (R) announced his support for a new flag. A constituency of coaches and administrators — Mississippi State Athletic Director John Cohen, Bulldogs Coach Mike Leach and Mississippi Coach Lane Kiffin — descended on the Capitol to demand change. And the legislature passed House Bill 1796, which removed the state flag from public buildings and established a commission to design a new flag to be put before to voters in the November election. On June 30, Reeves signed into law that the flag would change.
“I was more than enthused to see that tweet from Kylin Hill,” says Bell, the state representative. “He made the cause that much more stronger by tweeting that.”
Rep. Omeria Scott, a Democrat from Laurel, attempted to have the House bill named in Hill’s honor, but the measure was voted down. Columbus Mayor Robert Smith presented Hill with the key to the city in July. “You know how you be joking, ‘It’d be cool as hell to get the key to the city?’ ” Hill says. “So when they told me that, I was like, ‘Get out of here.’ I ain’t nothing but 21 years old.”
In a summer of athlete activism, the pros got most of the attention: The NBA and WNBA formed social justice bubbles, staged protests and implored fans to vote. MLB players opted out over coronavirus fears. Sports leagues across the globe made supportive statements — some tangible, others figurative — on behalf of Black lives.
But college athletes, often shielded or shamed into silence, also found their voices against an institutional machine that profits off their labor. They marched and encouraged their coaches to join them. Lacking unions, they were still able to push back to receive protections from the pandemic. And before taking advantage of a rare opportunity to walk away from performing on Saturdays without losing his scholarship, Hill leaned on the expressive freedom provided by social media to call out an entire state.
“I think what we saw with the culmination of protests across the country, the continued murdering of Black and Brown people at the hands of the police, it was a moment,” says Corey Wiggins, executive director of the Mississippi State Conference NAACP. “I’m sure there were some folks who were probably thinking, ‘You should be happy you’re on scholarship to play ball.’ But I think as we dig into this, we all have seen in athletes and programs across this country, I may show up and play ball … but I can’t remove self from me showing up.”
The previous state flag was raised for a flag retirement ceremony at the Mississippi Capitol in Jackson on July 1. (Rory Doyle/AFP/Getty Images) Pain and payback
Hill understood that a backlash would come, and it did, first in the form of hateful comments on social media. People told him to transfer or leave Mississippi altogether: “Bye, Felicia.” One, Hill said, told him, simply, “Die.” He muted comments, many of which have been deleted. But he felt helpless when the negative reaction made it to his grandmother’s doorstep and his mother’s home phone.
Hill’s grandmother, Glenda, is one of his rocks. When he was young, she always defended him against those who confused him being hyperactive for him being a bad kid. One afternoon in the summer, she saw a woman walk up to her doorstep and leave a letter. The first line read: “Hey d—head.”
Karenda filed a police report. She filed another, she says, when someone called her in the middle of night, asking if she was Kylin Hill’s mother. When she nervously replied yes, the voice on the other end said, “You’re a n—–,” then hurled the racial slur four more times before hanging up. She tried to keep that story from her son, because she didn’t want to contribute to his worry. Hill was uneasily trying to maneuver as he had before his tweet, but he told his mom that wherever he went in Starkville, someone would pull out a cellphone to capture an image of him. Without stopping to ask if they were intrusive fans or something more sinister, Hill became more reticent. His car was eventually keyed too, he says.
“When you become a change-maker, you’re going to always have some backlash and criticism. And some hatred,” Bell says. “That’s a part of the process. That’s a part of growing up.”
Hill was coming off a junior season that nudged him closer to the NFL: 1,350 rushing yards with 10 touchdowns in the SEC, the conference with the most future professional players. He had declared for the NFL draft in December 2019 but announced a month later — on Twitter, of course — that he would return to play in Leach’s Air Raid attack, an offense that would give him a full season to show scouts that he could catch the ball out of the backfield and be an effective third-down option.
His first game in September went according to plan: Hill caught eight passes for 158 yards, including a 75-yard touchdown, hurdling and juking defending champion LSU in an upset.
But the season took a turn the next week, when Hill suffered a concussion on his first carry. The next week against Kentucky, he had a decent game, tying the school record with 15 receptions, but Mississippi State lost, 24-2.
That Monday, Karenda called with the news: Hill’s little brother, Darion Carder, had tested positive for the coronavirus. Carder had undergone brain surgery a few months earlier. Hill immediately thought the worst.
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“During the time, when people say covid, you think about the death rate,” Hill says. “I feel like with all the covid stuff, people don’t take it serious until it hit family. For sure. I’d always say ‘Mask up.’ But I’d always say, ‘It’s going to bypass; the world’s going to be straight.’ ”
Hill wasn’t prepared to handle another loss. He had lost a cousin to gun violence in high school. Taylor Harris — his “best friend, little sister” — was killed in a car crash just as his college career started, on the way back from a party they attended together. Hill was so distraught by her death that he broke down crying in a huddle during practice.
There was also the more generic stress of going to college and playing through a pandemic. Classes went virtual. Each week he and his teammates endured four of those invasive coronavirus tests, a nasal swab deep up the nostrils. And Leach, one of college football’s most divisive coaches, was starting to make his mark on the program. Several Mississippi State players opted out or decided to transfer, and Leach spoke openly about a “purge” of the roster.
Then, before a game against Texas A&M, Leach suspended Hill. The coach never cited a reason, but several outlets reported Hill had an outburst and clashed with the coaching staff. “All that is false. Everything is false,” Hill says when asked about the reports. “When I opted out, Coach Leach personally texted me himself, told me how proud he was of me and that he’ll support me in my career.” Through a university spokesman, Leach declined to be interviewed.
Carder eventually recovered. But during that time, Hill’s conversations with Karenda led him to the conclusion that he needed to put his energy into preparing for the NFL. Hill has those three letters tattooed on his right arm, but to him they stand for “Never Forget Loved Ones” and “Never Forget Loyalty.”
As part of his agreement with his mother to opt out, Hill also had to vow to continue pursuing his degree in psychology. He’s scheduled to finish his degree in May.
Hill only played two full games his senior season before opting out. (Butch Dill/AP)
His successful college career included a 63-6 win against Stephen. F. Austin in 2018. Hill, No. 8, scored 10 touchdowns his junior year. (Rogelio V. Solis/AP)
LEFT: Hill only played two full games his senior season before opting out. (Butch Dill/AP) RIGHT: His successful college career included a 63-6 win against Stephen. F. Austin in 2018. Hill, No. 8, scored 10 touchdowns his junior year. (Rogelio V. Solis/AP)
Eyes on April
Hill was in Mobile, Ala., this week at the Senior Bowl to show NFL executives and scouts that his reputation as a running back who can elude defenders and plow through them, the pass-catching skills he acquired in his brief time in Leach’s system and the months of training at the Exos sports facility in Frisco, Tex. — which spared him from hundreds of hits — are enough to warrant the investment of a high draft pick in April.
Willis, his mentor, was initially concerned that Hill’s tweet might make him less attractive to a league accused of blackballing quarterback Colin Kaepernick, even as the league inches toward being more accepting of activism. “I commend him for being brave enough to do that,” Willis says, “knowing that his NFL dreams could’ve went a different route. But he stepped out on faith, man. Enough is enough.”
But an NFL scout who anticipated Hill being available in the 2020 draft, projecting him to go from the third to the fifth round, doesn’t believe the past year has affected where he’ll land. “This year’s tape, there’s not much there,” he says. “He showed enough in the ’19 tape what he is. That’s what he’s going to get drafted off of.”
For Hill, the ups and downs of the past seven months have proved the need to be adaptable. He returned for his senior season thinking he was making strictly a football decision. Now, when he considers the role he played helping his state move beyond its ugly history, he believes everything turned out how it was meant to.
“In a situation like that, it’s easy for somebody to say: ‘Nah, I ain’t going to get into that. I ain’t trying to mess up my career,’ ” Hill says. “I was thinking, in order to change the flag, we’re going to need somebody with some status behind they name. I was basically saying, ‘Why not me?’ ”
