A towering Confederate flag that once loomed over Interstate 85 in Spartanburg County is no longer flying, but the legal fight behind it isn’t finished – and that means the symbol could still return in some form.
WSPA 7News reporter RipLey Simone said the flag measured about 30 feet long and had been flown roughly 120 feet in the air, making it impossible to ignore for drivers passing beneath it, and just as impossible for the community to avoid debating what it represented.
Simone framed the moment plainly: after years of controversy, the flag is down for now, but the decision-making and appeals are still moving through the courts, which keeps the situation unsettled.
Kelci O’Donnell, the 7News anchor, introduced the update as the latest turn in a four-year legal battle, explaining that a judge ruled the flag must be lowered or removed rather than left as-is, and that the issue has never truly been “just a flag” to many people who live and work in this growing part of South Carolina.
That’s what makes this story feel heavier than a zoning dispute. When something that big is planted next to a major interstate, it stops being private expression in any practical sense and starts functioning like a billboard – one that shouts a message at thousands of people a day, including families who don’t get to opt out of seeing it.
A Flagpole That Became A Flashpoint
Simone said the flagpole sits on Teaberry Road overlooking I-85, and that it was built by the Adam Washington Ballenger Camp, a local group tied to the Sons of Confederate Veterans.
The group erected the 120-foot pole in 2022, which is when the legal pressure started building, because Spartanburg County said the structure went up without the required permits under local zoning rules.
From there, Simone laid out a timeline that reads like a tug-of-war: county citation, appeal, reversal, another appeal, and then higher courts stepping in to pause or restart enforcement. It’s the kind of procedural battle that can sound boring on paper, but the symbol at the center of it made every step feel personal to people watching from the outside.
Simone reported that in October 2022 the county cited the group for not getting the proper permit, and then in January 2023 the camp appealed to the County Board of Zoning Appeals, which sided with the camp and canceled the violation.
If you live in a community trying to move forward, that sort of decision can feel like being told to swallow the conflict and keep driving.
But the story didn’t stop there. Simone said that in February of the following year, the County Circuit Court ruled against the zoning board, meaning the flagpole was considered in violation again, and then in May the camp appealed once more – this time to the South Carolina Court of Appeals.
A lot of people hear “appeal” and assume it means somebody is guilty of something big, but Simone’s reporting made it clear this is largely about enforcement and process: who had authority, what rules applied, and whether an unpermitted structure can be treated like it’s permanent simply because it was built.
The Court Orders: Lower It, Remove It, Or Shrink It
Simone explained that the state appeals court paused the flagpole ruling in December 2025, but a judge later ruled the camp still had to comply with violation rules, saying the pole had been built without proper disclosure of its height.
That detail matters because it’s not a technicality – it goes to whether the county was given a fair chance to review the structure before it was planted into the landscape.
In the most recent decision, Simone said a judge required the camp to comply with that December ruling even while the appeal process continues, and that compliance meant one of a few options: remove the flagpole, lower it by 30 feet, and use a much smaller flag – no larger than five by eight feet.
When you hear “five by eight,” you understand what the court is really doing: not just addressing paperwork, but limiting the ability to project a massive public symbol from a private hilltop. A small flag on private land is still a statement, but it’s not a statement that dominates a skyline and a highway corridor like a landmark.
Simone also included a key detail that tends to get lost in the shouting: court files show Spartanburg County has not taken a stance on the flag itself, only on the violations involving the flagpole. In other words, the county is arguing, “You broke zoning rules,” not, “We’re banning your viewpoint.”
That legal approach may be intentional, because it keeps the fight on enforceable ground, but it also creates a strange mismatch between what the law is technically about and what the community emotionally experiences. People aren’t upset about a permit; they’re upset about the symbol of the Confederacy being placed like a proud roadside banner in a county that’s trying to grow, diversify, and attract new residents.
Why The Flag’s Message Still Hits Like A Punch
Simone said different organizations have pushed for the flag’s removal for years, but the pole sits on privately owned land, which makes the fight harder and slower. Private land rights are real, but so is the reality that a flag flown 120 feet high over a major interstate isn’t experienced as “private” by the people who have to look at it on their commute.
There’s also an uncomfortable truth here: the Confederate flag doesn’t function as neutral history in public life. It’s not a textbook or a museum display behind glass.
It is widely recognized as a symbol tied to slavery, white supremacy, and rebellion against the United States, and for many Americans – especially Black Americans – it signals intimidation more than heritage.
When the flag is this large and this strategically placed, it can feel like a deliberate decision to provoke, to remind, and to divide. That’s why supporting its removal isn’t about censoring speech – it’s about refusing to normalize a symbol that has been used for decades to tell certain neighbors, “This place isn’t for you.”
And it matters that this is happening in Spartanburg County, because as communities grow, the choices they make about public symbols become part of their identity.
A county can’t claim it’s welcoming and forward-looking while tolerating a gigantic emblem that many residents and visitors read as racist, exclusionary, and hostile.
The NAACP’s Michael Brown Says It’s Time
Simone spoke with Michael Brown, the president of the Spartanburg chapter of the NAACP, who said it’s time for the flag to be removed, especially as the county continues to grow and diversify. Brown’s point wasn’t complicated, but it was direct: history belongs in places where it can be studied in the right context.
Brown told Simone the flag is “a symbol of history” and that there are places for that – history books and museums – where it can be examined with context instead of waved as a proud roadside marker.
He also said, in his words, that “division, hatred, oppression, those kind of symbols must come down” and be put in their “proper place.”
That’s the core argument a lot of people have been making for years, and it’s hard to rebut without pretending the flag’s modern use hasn’t been tied to racial resentment. People can claim it means “heritage,” but heritage for who, and at what cost to the neighbors who see it as a celebration of a cruel past?
Brown’s comments hit because they acknowledge something that often gets dodged: yes, there is history here, but when a symbol is used to hurt people in the present, you don’t get to hide behind the past and call it harmless.
Silence From The Group, And A Case Still Moving
Simone reported that she reached out to the camp and to the Sons of Confederate Veterans, but no one responded. That silence leaves the public with only court documents and public statements from officials, which tends to harden opinions on both sides rather than soften them.
Kelci O’Donnell added another detail from the anchor desk that shapes how the judge viewed the group’s actions: the camp argued for fairness and said it informed the Federal Aviation Administration about the flagpole’s height, but Spartanburg County was not told beforehand. O’Donnell said this led the judge to believe the camp did not act in good faith.
That “good faith” language is important, because courts care about whether someone tried to follow rules honestly or tried to slide around them. If a group tells the FAA because aircraft safety is a concern, but doesn’t tell the county that enforces local zoning, it looks less like oversight and more like strategy.
Simone closed with the reality that the legal fight is still ongoing and the case is now moving through the South Carolina Court of Appeals, which means the outcome isn’t locked in. The flag may be down, but the argument is still alive, and if the group wins in court, the community could see some version of the display return.
Why Removal Still Feels Like The Right Direction
Even if the courts treat this as a zoning and permitting dispute, the public understands the stakes differently, because symbols shape how safe and welcome people feel in a place.
A massive Confederate flag on a highway isn’t a quiet personal belief; it’s a public broadcast, and the message it broadcasts has been used too often to excuse racism and glorify a cause built to protect slavery.
Supporting removal is not about erasing history. It’s about refusing to let a symbol of oppression sit above a major road like it deserves a place of honor, especially in a modern, changing county that should be trying to bring people together rather than daring them to pick sides.
If this fight ends with the flag staying down, Spartanburg County won’t lose its history – but it will lose one of its most visible sources of division, and that’s a trade that makes moral sense. The past can be taught without being celebrated, and a community can remember where it came from without forcing every driver on I-85 to stare up at a banner that too many people experience as a slap in the face.
Gary’s love for adventure and preparedness stems from his background as a former Army medic. Having served in remote locations around the world, he knows the importance of being ready for any situation, whether in the wilderness or urban environments. Gary’s practical medical expertise blends with his passion for outdoor survival, making him an expert in both emergency medical care and rugged, off-the-grid living. He writes to equip readers with the skills needed to stay safe and resilient in any scenario.
