In the spring of 2022, my introduction to Zac Henson was marked by an unexpected act of hospitality – a steaming bowl of homemade soup. Arriving at his Montgomery, Alabama home, I found him relaxed on his porch, beckoning me inside. His house, nestled on a quiet street, was a fascinating blend of domesticity and ruggedness, with banjos and hefty automotive tools sharing space in the living room. The kitchen was a hive of culinary activity, dominated by a large pot bubbling with a vibrant mix of green tomatoes, onions, corn, and cabbage. Next to it, pork patties sizzled in a cast-iron pan, their smoky aroma filling the air. He casually broke the patties into rough pieces and tossed them into the pot, followed by a handful of rice noodles. As he stirred, he began to share stories of his recently deceased father, a man defined by violence and a relentless competitive spirit. Another handful of noodles went into the pot. Henson recounted how, at age six, an exceptionally high IQ test score had been interpreted by his father and teachers as a blueprint for a lucrative career, a path towards becoming a successful businessman or stockbroker – a life of winning. He was set on a trajectory of achievement in the conventional sense.
However, Henson veered sharply from this predetermined path, taking a job as an auto mechanic after high school. This choice was met with disapproval; a middle school teacher once told him he was wasting his potential. Yet, Henson found intellectual stimulation in the mechanical work and camaraderie among his working-class colleagues. “I genuinely felt misled by both my family and educators,” he confessed. He realized that raw intelligence wasn’t necessarily a virtue or the key to happiness, and that a high income wasn’t his ultimate goal. His life’s purpose, he discovered, lay elsewhere.
Zac Henson.
Later, Henson pursued higher education at Auburn University, developing interests in sociology and geography. He eventually earned a doctorate from Berkeley, focusing his research on social organizations in Birmingham. Identifying as a “redneck” in its original, politically charged sense (referring to communist-sympathizing miners), Henson immersed himself in anti-racist, Marxist political activism in Birmingham after completing his Ph.D. His efforts centered on fostering cooperative businesses, community land trusts, popular education, and community farming initiatives. However, after eight years, a sense of ineffectiveness began to weigh on him. A significant blow came when a mayoral candidate they endorsed betrayed their progressive ideals, using the language of liberation while, in Henson’s view, serving as an agent of gentrification and corporate interests. While surprised by this outcome, Henson, described by others as somewhat idealistic, admits to a degree of naiveté and optimism. This perceived failure of left-wing political organizing in Alabama led to profound disillusionment, making him question the very possibility of meaningful change. He wondered if the isolating, patriarchal culture he grew up in had ultimately prevailed. He withdrew from political organizing and entered a prolonged period of mental health struggle, his initial hope extinguished.
Cars are essential infrastructure in Alabama. There is virtually no public transportation, and the cities are not walkable.
As we finished the soup, Henson spoke plainly about his father, labeling him a “bad man.” “At this stage of my life,” he stated, “the highest praise I can receive is to be called a ‘good man.’ That’s my priority now.” He was finding his way back to activism, now with a focus on caring for individuals while working towards systemic change. Despite his somewhat novice approach to cooking, evident in his kitchen manner, he was generously feeding a traveler. And as I enjoyed my third bowl of his unexpectedly delicious soup, I had to agree: it was indeed good soup, a comforting start to understanding his journey into community-focused a i d auto repair.
The engine of Henson’s 4Runner.
In 2020, Henson sought out Montgomery Pride United, an LGBTQ activist group at the Bayard Rustin Community Center, to propose a mutual-aid car repair project. He had recently resigned from his mechanic position at a Toyota dealership due to the owner’s dismissive attitude towards Covid-19 safety. During his unemployment, he decided to dedicate his skills to repairing cars for low-income individuals and community members on a sliding scale. Having recently moved from Birmingham to Montgomery, he felt ready to re-engage with community work after his previous political disappointments. “I also just wanted to make some friends,” he added, highlighting the personal connection he sought through this endeavor.
During his conversation with Montgomery Pride United, Henson’s passion for Toyotas surfaced. Meta Ellis, the group’s director, mentioned a long-dormant Toyota Hilux pickup at her home, inquiring if Henson might be able to assess it. Ellis explained that despite paying for repairs from two different mechanics, the vehicle remained unfixed. Clutch issues were suspected, but the exact problem was unclear. This left Ellis and her wife sharing a single car, a significant inconvenience in a car-dependent city like Montgomery.
Joe is one of many volunteers that has worked with Henson at the Automotive Free Clinic. Joe doesn’t share Zac’s politics — in fact, he’s a Republican — but they’ve bonded over cars.
The reality in Alabama is that cars are essential. Public transportation is virtually nonexistent, and walkability is limited in most areas. This car dependency is not accidental. The state’s first gas tax in 1950 explicitly restricted funding to roads and bridges, excluding public transit. This decision, made in a state soon to be at the epicenter of the Montgomery bus boycott, reflected deep-seated racism and classism. Public transit is a powerful tool for wealth and power redistribution. A 60-year-old Selma resident recalled a time when Montgomery had a functional bus system, calling it the city’s “bloodline.” However, budget cuts in the 1980s, a backlash from the boycott, effectively dismantled the system. “They gave us the bus seat,” she lamented, “but they took the damn bus!”
“Cars just shouldn’t be this crucial,” Henson argued. “Cars should be a hobby.” He views automobile culture as a system where individuals bear the financial burden of essential public needs. In Alabama, a car breakdown can trigger a cascade of problems—loss of work, inability to access groceries or school—leading to a downward spiral. It’s a system that entrenches poverty.
So, Henson, with his distinctive Rasputin beard, slender frame, trucker hat, and slightly shaky hands, visited Ellis’s home. Within thirty minutes, he diagnosed the Hilux’s multiple issues: a rusted-out gas tank, a destroyed fuel pump, and a failing clutch master cylinder, timing belt, and water pump. He was puzzled by the previous mechanics’ failure to identify these problems. Ellis explained that as a woman, and particularly as a lesbian, she often felt vulnerable and distrusted in auto repair shops. She worried about being overcharged, judged, or subjected to unnecessary repairs. Research from Northwestern University supports this, showing that women are often charged more than men for car repairs, and other studies indicate mechanics are more likely to recommend unnecessary services to women. Henson was different. Ellis felt an immediate trust, a different experience in the realm of automotive repair, a testament to his approach of a i d auto repair.
Most people drive their cars even two blocks to the corner store.
Before starting work on the Hilux, Henson had an open conversation with the Ellises in their kitchen. He declared himself a communist, and explained that his repair work was an extension of his political beliefs. If this declaration surprised the Ellises, they didn’t show it. Henson’s political views are decidedly left-wing, even for Montgomery, but the Ellises valued anyone willing to help their community.
Henson towed the truck to his place, repaired it, and got it running. Months later, when Henson and others decided to establish a permanent car repair location, naming it the Automotive Free Clinic (AFC), the Ellises sold the Toyota to the AFC. The clinic then sold it on Facebook Marketplace to generate funds for operations.
Today, the Automotive Free Clinic operates as a pay-what-you-can auto repair shop in Prattville, just outside Montgomery. It’s staffed by Henson, the only certified technician, and a dedicated group of volunteers. These volunteers contribute in various ways: working in the shop, maintaining their own vehicles, creating content for the clinic’s newsletter, fundraising, and handling other essential tasks. The AFC primarily serves community members and those connected through word-of-mouth, offering parts at cost and labor on a sliding scale. According to Henson, most customers donate the full cost of repairs, highlighting the community support for this a i d auto repair initiative. To date, the AFC has successfully repaired over 100 vehicles, exceeding Henson’s initial expectations.
The AFC offers more than just car repairs; it provides a unique space for volunteers. Car culture in Alabama, like many places, is deeply intertwined with traditional masculinity and conservative politics. The AFC challenges this norm by fostering a culture that confronts toxic masculinity and redefines the nature of work. While not overtly political in its outreach to avoid alienating potential volunteers in conservative Alabama, the AFC quietly allows volunteers from diverse political backgrounds, including Trump supporters, to engage and contribute. For some volunteers, the AFC is a tangible way to put their values into practice. When questioned about his communist ideals, Henson simply points to the shop. “We’re living communism,” he says with a shrug, demonstrating practical a i d auto repair in action.
The AFC operates out of a two-bay garage filled with car jacks, holiday lights, a kettle grill, improvised sink, automotive stickers, car parts, and handwritten messages on the dry erase board. (The hole in the door was from the previous owners.)
On a hot, clear April day, I visited the AFC in Prattville. Henson had warned me it might be hard to find, tucked away off a rural highway behind a large RV dealership. Navigating through a maze of RVs, I located the shop, a blue and white aluminum shed with three bays. Uninsulated and lacking proper lifts, it’s a basic setup; all repairs are done using jacks. The neighboring RV dealer’s ultra-conservative talk radio provided a stark contrast to the leftist activities within the AFC, yet they seemed unbothered by their unconventional neighbors.
Upon arrival, I found Henson, Reggie Bolton, and Hollis (a pseudonym to protect his identity) relaxing on the garage apron. The intense morning sun beat down on the unshaded parking lot. One bay was empty, housing only a grill, tires, a box of doughnuts, and a fan. We moved camp chairs and red plastic Adirondacks into the shade of the shop, hydrating with Gatorade and discussing the origins and philosophy of the AFC.
Bolton, in his seventies and resembling Marx with his tall stature and beard, leaned on a wooden cane topped with a deer antler. After growing up in Alabama, he attended Hampshire College in Massachusetts but returned to the South, taking over his family business while remaining a committed leftist. He met Henson in Birmingham. During the pandemic, they and others connected through Facebook formed a reading group spanning from Berlin to San Francisco. They delved into Marxist theory, reading Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed, watching David Harvey’s lectures, and studying Frantz Fanon and Antonio Gramsci, preparing, as Bolton put it, for “the end of capitalism.”
The Alabama members also explored the history of communism in the South, which Bolton traced back to yeoman farmers whose communal harvest practices embodied a form of ad hoc communism. Formal communist organizing arrived in the 1920s, inspired by Harry Haywood, a Black communist who advocated for autonomous republics in regions like Alabama and for workers’ rights and self-determination in the South. These organizers found fertile ground not among steelworkers, as anticipated, but among sharecroppers. They helped establish a sharecroppers’ union to fight for farmers’ rights to sell their crops directly and manage their finances independently from landowners.
Henson stands with his “baby,” a 1985 Toyota 4Runner. He got it running using parts from other vehicles on the property that were beyond repair.
The Communist Party adapted its strategies to resonate with its constituency. Sharecroppers and workers sought inclusion in the American system, not its overthrow. Beyond unionizing, the party fought evictions and provided legal aid, famously supporting the Scottsboro Boys, turning their wrongful prosecution into an international symbol of Jim Crow injustice. Culturally, Alabama communists were not rigid; prayer was common at meetings. Though small in number (never exceeding 700 official members), their influence was significant. Civil rights figures like Rosa Parks participated in their meetings, and the sharecroppers’ union grew to 12,000 members.
The reading group, now the AFC Brain Trust, drew inspiration from this history, though not explicitly focused on these past Alabama communists. Their theoretical studies propelled them to action. They launched a newsletter and published “Internal Orientalism of the American South,” a manifesto co-authored by “rednecks from Alabama to Paraguay.” This essay challenged common misconceptions about the South, highlighting political realities like low voter turnout, widespread poverty, and concentrated wealth. They argued that media often exoticized the South, focusing on negative stereotypes and overlooking the potential of the white working class. The Brain Trust observed that while organizing efforts existed among poor Black communities, few groups were addressing “fascist deprogramming” among white working-class Southerners. Their a i d auto repair clinic became a practical response to these observations.
Engaging white rednecks in leftist discourse is challenging due to the pervasive influence of right-wing media and the dismissive attitudes of mainstream liberal media. However, the AFC organizers believe that people in the South, even conservatives, respond to institutions that foster altruism, community, and care—what Henson calls “positive reinforcement to not be fascist.”
This became the core mission: creating a successful mutual aid organization in the heart of conservative America, providing essential a i d auto repair services while subtly promoting community and solidarity.
A car that Andy fixed using parts from other vehicles at the AFC.
Finding volunteers was easy. An oil change event at Henson’s church, the First Christian Church of Montgomery, promoted their work. Once they secured the shop, they operated 2.5 days weekly, limiting work to under $500 per vehicle and four hours per job. Henson’s ideal AFC customer is someone who actively participates in their car’s repair, aiming to extend its life to 300,000 miles.
Henson’s tattoos have deep meaning for him: Pictured here is the ASE (Automotive Service Excellence) logo, in honor of his mechanic’s certification, and the word “pneuma,” Greek for “spirit” or “soul,” in reference to his spirituality and religion.
I was struck by how often Henson and others emphasized the AFC as a “business model” that “worked.” While financial considerations might seem secondary, they are essential for sustainability. Despite limited funding and the financial constraints of those involved, the AFC has operated for over a year, repaired over 100 cars, and even generated a small profit of $1,000. Given the financial risks, labor demands, and technical complexities of auto repair, the AFC’s success is remarkable.
The goal was, very simply, to create a successful mutual aid organization in the heart of reactionary America.
However, the AFC’s impact extends beyond finances. “It’s my way to care for the community,” Hollis explained. Echoing Henson, Hollis felt that Southern masculinity often inhibits men from expressing care. Growing up poor in Montgomery with a single mother who instilled sensitivity, Hollis’s sensitive side was buried by the harsh realities of chaotic public schools and drug epidemics. Violence became normalized. At 16, he dropped out of school and lived in a crowded house, engaging in drug dealing and theft to survive – an experience he later recognized as his first encounter with a form of communism.
Years of addiction and imprisonment followed, but Hollis eventually achieved sobriety. Therapy helped him confront his anger and reconnect with his empathy. Like Henson, Hollis sees the AFC as a space to challenge the structures that push working-class white men towards toxic behaviors and to practice community reintegration and shared responsibility. While the impact of this aspect is hard to quantify, the AFC provides a rare space in Alabama for conversations about toxic masculinity.
The AFC also serves as Hollis’s entry point for political conversations with other “rednecks,” including people from his past. When asked about his free car repair work, he explains it as “changing the community through direct action.” Without explicitly labeling it communism or mutual aid, he inspires others to volunteer, contributing to their community and realizing the potential for alternative social organization through initiatives like a i d auto repair. Some volunteers, even conservatives, remain unaware of the AFC’s underlying politics. This approach, a subtle form of left-wing organizing, is proving effective in Alabama.
The Brain Trust’s pursuit of “living communism” has become a deeply meaningful endeavor, linking Henson’s Christian faith and Marxist beliefs—a connection he didn’t explicitly explain but clearly demonstrates through his actions. This approach also functions as an effective organizing strategy. “Being respected for what we do is important,” Henson stated.
“The respect we earn by fixing that car,” Henson said, pointing to a red Suzuki hatchback on jacks, “for people who desperately need these vehicles, gives us the credibility to discuss our politics and be taken seriously.” This tangible a i d auto repair service opens doors for broader social and political conversations.
Many parts of Montgomery and its surrounding towns lack sidewalks, bus stops, or any means of public transportation. Broken-down cars are a fixture of sidewalks and driveways throughout the city.
By the end of my visit, I had spent hours driving, feeling the physical toll of car dependency. Back at Henson’s place, I expressed a need to walk. Finding a suitable place for walking proved challenging; even short distances are typically driven in Montgomery. Henson suggested Hank Williams’ grave, nearby and unvisited by him. We walked along crumbling, then nonexistent, sidewalks through his quiet neighborhood of modest homes and large oak trees. Henson shared stories of the AFC’s growing influence, with other groups seeking to replicate their mutual aid model in carpentry and other trades. He envisioned AFC members consulting with others to establish similar organizations across various sectors, expanding the reach of community-based a i d auto repair and mutual support.
“They gave us the bus seat, but they took the damn bus!”
To reach the grave, we cautiously crossed a busy four-lane road lacking crosswalks. As we approached the hilltop cemetery, the setting sun cast a twilight glow. We discussed our shared love of labor-focused radio shows where callers voice workplace grievances. We talked about Henson’s passion for basketball, a quintessential team sport. Then, conversation paused; Henson admitted exhaustion. We had been immersed in discussions about the AFC for days. “I feel like I haven’t talked about myself this much since grad school,” he remarked, as we prepared to navigate the road back across, our walk and conversation underscoring the importance of community initiatives like the Automotive Free Clinic in a car-centric world.
Robin Kaiser-Schatzlein is a journalist who writes about American culture for numerous outlets including the New York Times, the New Republic, and The Baffler.
