“…the winds of change blow many kinds of people together.”
My father responded to the call for people across the country to join the 3rd march for civil rights in Alabama. He flew down with clergy and other businessmen from St. Louis.
In some ways this is a historical document of a particular time and awareness. It is also a legacy handed down with many sides for me to think about in looking at my own level and limits of awareness about issues of social justice, race, privilege and oppression.
Perhaps I am ‘outing’ him, since he did not sign his name at the end of the six page document that I found in his thin file of attempts at writing. We are sure it is his voice and we speculate on his reason for ‘wishing to remain anonymous.’ Was it fear or humility?
For me, at this time, in these times, I read my father’s story of his experience with both pride and weariness. Could he have had a clue about the depth of the hatred and relentless effort to disenfranchise voters that would go on to this day? He was an extreme liberal of his time as perhaps I am of mine. He was doing his best in his context to contribute to a critical cause. As he says from the start, “It was not courage which brought us to Alabama….It was conviction.”
We do our best. Some sacrifice more than others. Some are forced to sacrifice more than others. How do we each decide, every minute of every day, what to do about oppression and destruction? We each walk a line between our own comfort, risk and danger and our acceptance or refusal to heed the call.
The March
It was not courage, which brought us to Alabama to join the marchers from Selma to the state capital. It was conviction. I saw no one on that cold morning at 5:00am in the St. Louis hangars of Interstate Automotive who was going for publicity or thrill. No one mouthed moralities of the day. We were going to give courage by our physical presence to people on the front lines of a battle for voting and civil rights, and to reaffirm the power of non-violent demonstration for a people whose desperation might at any time erupt to violence. We wished to assure them as no printed statement can do, that we believe their cause was right, and that we from many other states were with them.
To those who say, “Haven’t these demonstrations gone too far?” I know all of us would have answered that they have not gone far enough. For to force new legislation, there must be protest against the old. The leaders of the non-violent movements remind us that the rich man has his lobbyists, or can contribute to political campaigns, but the negro has no other way to force change in his behalf than bodily protest. In India, the Gandhi tactics were practiced by the millions, were the majority. The Negro in the south, however, caught in the ruthless tactics of brutality, evasion and repression, is a minority. He desperately needs whites to help him. Most important of all, he needs white persuasion that non-violent demonstrations can be effective, else he will turn to something else.
To those who say, “Isn’t the civil rights movement a Communist front?” I would answer that the winds of change blow many kinds of people together. Yes, there will be Communists among our ranks. We cannot exclude their presence. Yet it is a smoke screen to say that the civil rights movement is Communistic. Those who resist change are thus willfully delaying response to its powerful voice. For the public must rise and soon to a cause that is right both morally and constitutionally, and delay is dangerous. Those who cast aspersions on the movement or who seek to create discord among its new organizations are aiding those who will not be peacefully contained and helping those in the ranks who wish to twist the movement for other causes.
To those who say, “Doesn’t the civil rights movement obstruct the rights of others by its demonstrations?” I answer that surely a few of us in our country should be willing to pay for small inconveniences so that thousands who have not had these rights for generations can get them, especially if many today risk jail or death. We need to be reminded that individual freedom in a democratic society does not mean freedom to do anything we please at the expense of others. We need to search our conscience to see whether we do not really mean by our petulance “Oh yes, I believe in civil rights – for me but not for him.”
Conviction does not go deep enough when one says, “Why go to Montgomery; let us stay home and tend to conditions in our own city.” Each of us on that day represented many friends who yearned to be with us, and each of us represented our city. We marched for the cause everywhere but we wished personal involvement in Montgomery because of the death of individuals suddenly brought home to us that the cause of justice can never be separated from the people it serves, and we were terribly needed by individuals in Montgomery at that moment – personally, by physical presence.
“SELMA IN MINNESOTA” was printed on one placard. “I march for Selma and Saginaw,” said a one-legged man on crutches. We marched as representatives of many states because the problem is a national one. But we marched also because this old Negro on a bench, watching silently, could see that the priest or that woman from the north had come from a distance to say that he and she were on his side, and so that a Negro child sitting on front porch steps could see that jovial white man who looked at him kindly an different way and hoped for a new future for him.
Many of us will admit that we were a little frightened and apprehensive. An intense little nun with an Irish brogue remarked, “Many said to me ‘Oh Sister do not go! You will be hurt or killed!’ But I told them, ‘We are all in God’s hands. If this is our day and we are killed – so be it. Let’s face it. All of us are always only [indicating a small space between her two hands) this far from Eternity!’”
We were well protected by the hordes of federalized Alabama guards (1900 in all, we were told), and the population of Montgomery showed admirable restraint. I did not feel danger. The courage was with the local Negroes.
As we poured off the planes into the airport, I saw two old Negro men idling on a bench taking everything in. While we waited for a bus I saw their eyes follow not the whites, but he handsome and distinguished Negroes who had come along with them, well-dressed business men with expensive cameras, high ranking clerics to whom all spoke with respect and equality and who were helping to direct operations.
A couple of buses shuttled as rapidly as possible the three miles from the airport to the city of Jude, a Negro Roman Catholic complex on the outskirts of Montgomery where the marchers were assembling. The buses were driven by white drives who gave us hard and steely looks as we boarded. A young Negro lad in a black cowboy hat moved among us extending a paper bag. “Please contribute to the bus trip,” he said. “We have spent an awful lot of money to hire these buses. Please help us.” There was an instant and concerned response and he was soon pushing the paper money down into the bag with the back of his fist.
Since our DC3 was one and a half hours late due to mechanical trouble in St. Louis, we arrived as the vast line of marchers, which stretched around the hug playing field, was already starting to move on the four mile stretch to the center of the city. There wee thousands already there and more and more came running up. There were 500 from St. Louis. It was later estimated the total number in all swelled to nearly 25,000.
Struggling with overcoats and lunch satchels, we 26 of Plane 2 tried to find other members of the six planeloads and more than ten busloads from our city, so we could move as a unit, but we were only partially successful. “Are you from St. Louis?” I asked one group. “No, we’re from Massachusetts.” Martin Luther King had already spoken and was at least ¼ mile ahead at the front of the line. It was a balmy 70 degrees and I glimpsed dogwood and redbud trees blooming in shanty backyards. Amid the clutter of junk and leaning outhouses I saw the incongruous innocence and sweetness of young trees budding green in Spring.
Negro and white young people with knapsacks, sprinted back and forth along the flanks of the column yelling and organizing. Many, who had undoubtedly been on the 50 mile march Selma looked understandably dazed and tired. Their hair was long and many had rag sweat bands around their foreheads. Some ran around extending crash helmets and paper bags. “WE NEED BAIL MONEY—NOW!” said one sign. “Please help us get them out of jail,” they yelled, “Many are on hunger strikes. Help us! Please contribute!”
“Five abreast! Five abreast!” called a young Negro. He wore, like many of the others, an orange vest with “FREEDOM NOW!” printed on it. “Ladies in the middle. Hurry up! Tighten up the line! Catch up! Hurry up!” We sprinted across the bruised grass, which was littered with orange peels and lunch scraps, and struggled through sticky puddles, trying to keep together, losing each other, finding ourselves in new company every time we raised our eyes.
Adjoining St. Jude’s were blocks of poor Negro frame houses, many unpainted and some little more than crumbling shacks. The streets were unpaved. Each porch was loaded with Negro people and upon the lawn banks sat rows of silent children, many holding small American flags. Surely they would not forget this day as long as they lived. Occasionally white marchers on the margin of the column grasped their small hands and waved to them.
Everyone who has been in the south knows the studied look of detachment in the eyes of Negroes of the older generation. We know also the “Yes, Massa,” smile and the bow of courteous acquiesence when a white man tries to make friendly contact. There is simply no real communication. They watched us in silence, and often they waved, but this time I saw something else break through. Something on the faces of the middle aged and older men and women seemed almost beatific and could be described by the word, “Hallelujah!” We passed a Negro school and the windows were jammed with little faces above which I could see the proud and smiling face of the Negro teacher. Her expression said, “See, children, See! One teacher had lined up her kindergarten group at the curb and ten little voices were changing, “Free-dom, Free-dom.” On one rickety porch two cerebral palsied friends, their wheelchairs placed side by side, raised faltering arms as we passed.
I had not expected many of the Montgomery Negroes to participate. There would be a fear of loss of jobs and other reprisals. Most business was conducted as usual in the city tough I did see many shops closed. Teenagers, however, who are always more daring, kept moving in and out of the ranks. Some would join us and break away. “Goodbye,” they would say to friends, “I’ve got to get back to work.” Arm in arm all around us the young people started the singing and our eyes met as I turned my head to watch their mouths ad catch some of the words of the songs, which had become part of their lives, for both sides. “We Shall Overcome,” “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” and “Onward Christian Soldiers,” there were many more. Those of us just newly entered into the Cause must have seemed to them incredibly naïve. A young woman beside me, a sociology teacher, had been very excited at seeing Alabama for the first time. We discussed the bright red soil and she marveled at the Spanish moss and wondered if it ever turned green. Then she said, “I hear they still fly the Confederate flag down here.” Through the back of the Negro gentleman in front of us I felt a gentle incredulity and saw him smile slightly.
We were a varied lot. With the death of the Reverend Reeb of Boston the civil rights movement had at last become championed by the church. There was now an enormous contingent of the clergy and in our plane prayers had been said before take off and upon arrival. Over the warm-up roar of the motor at departure, there was to be another prayer and still another after our rather rough and frightening journey back. Bibles were silently read and many small black clerical zippered cases were toted full of refined lunches, rubbers and raincoats. My little nun companion had a very pretty repast; a carefully peeled orange, carrot sticks, some fancy cookies and two trimmed, crust-less sandwiches. There were in a white lingerie box with the word “TOP” neatly printed on one side. I carried my rather grubby jungle-collecting bag in which I had stuffed several bagels, cheese wedges, and a small loaf of sliced date bread. I also had a plastic hop flask full of water and I saw the little sister a bit as I offered here a sip out of the jigger cap. “Hey!” called a priest laughing. “Are you sure that’s just water in there?”
There are many types of minorities and one would expect to find the awkward and social rejects among us too. An obese young man was holding a Negro girl’s hand and was feeling a strange rapture in his his participation in the cause of another minority. A wall-eyed boy walked near us with a pale and mournful expression. The intellectuals were there too. I recognized several Jewish leaders from University City, some rabbis and some Washington University professors. There was solemnity but there was also jovial chatter and constant greetings between Sisters and priests. I found the priests good fun to be with, sincerely interested in everyone and pleasantly gregarious. One Negro priest wore a black lamb Cossack hat. When I remarked that I had not heard many comments from the whites on the sidewalk he chuckled and said, “Oh I don’t know – one of them pointed at me and said, ‘Look at the Communist.”’ I guess he got the idea from my hat.”
Our planeload had chosen a minister in a beret to be “Our Great Leader” (as he was facetiously called). He had stood up and had outlined for us the rules for our behavior. Stay together at all times. If any should have to break away for purposes of toileting always go with someone else. Do not provoke argument. Be well mannered at all times. If lost make your way to the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church. “Keep on that beret, Great Leader so we can spot you!” someone called brightly.
During the first lap of the march we were in the bosom of friends. Many Negroes called, “God bless you!” or “Thank you, Father!” and though I did not witness this, the newspaper at home said many wept. Then the street became roughly paved and I saw that we were entering a poor white neighborhood. So far there were not many guards around and only one stood stiffly with feet apart at the intersection of each street, wearing camouflaged helmet and holding a rifle by his side. The whites in this new section were on their porches too but in much smaller numbers. Rocking chairs were returned casually only halfway around and empty coffee cups stood on little tables as if to say, “We just happened to be out here sitting.” There were no flags. The people said nothing, only stared at us without smiling. The windows in a white school, like its Negro counterpart was jammed with white faces, but I did not see the teacher.
The young Negro men in our flanks ran back and forth. “Sing!” they shouted, “Sing! What are you anyway-a bunch of sick chickens?” We tried between gasps and laughed at our feeble efforts. The march had started with a rush and the column seemed to have a sort of pulse – sudden gasps. When we would be exhorted to ‘run, run, catch up,’ and sudden jam-ups. Two Negro ladies on our plane had come in high-heeled shoes and had had trouble running. Many realized that we had brought too much food, too much clothing.
The Negro youths, like cheerleaders, shouted near section after section, “What do you want!” receiving the multitude’s answer, “FREEDOM!” “WHEN DO YOU WANT IT?” NOW!” crashed the answer as one voice. The column seemed to warm up to tis as it finally turned a corner and began to enter the heart of the city and the “NOW sounded like a whip snap. I heard the young man say in delight. “I really think you mean it!” Teenage girls now stood on the flanks facing us, holding cards, which read “KEEP SMILING!”
The main street of Montgomery is broad and handsome and at its far end is the white capital building with dome. The street rises towards the broad flight of steps upon which Jefferson David took the oath of office as leader of the Confederacy in 1861. All traffic had been stopped; there was not a car to be seen. Now in the number of troops increased so that at every 30 feet along the sidewalk a soldier with hard and glaring face stood rigidly. Helicopters roared low overhead. I glanced behind me and could not see the end of our vast line. Ahead it was a mighty river of people and I could not help but notice the weird incongruity of tis flood, which did not stop and the traffic lights which kept perseverating slowly over a dover, – yellow, red, green, yellow red, green. A SNCC representative came up and ordered, “Eight abreast now.” I saw the column dividing into two tributaries so that the entire broad street was now spanned. Tall American flags were being carried up front The Battle Hymn of the public was being sung. Whites watched from the sidewalk but to my surprise there was only an occasional screamed abuse There seemed to be mainly shopkeepers and waitresses in aprons. The population had certainly not made it a point to come out. There faces were sullen. There were no American flags. Some of the garage mechanics had sarcastic semi-smiles and seemed to be making facetious remarks to one another. The Jefferson David Hotel balcony was lined with white businessmen. Fro an apartment building window ledge hung a huge Confederate battle flag. A little man in a business suit was capering alone on the sidewalk with his own small version, taunting the rhythm of one of the marchers’ songs. Against another building hung a banner with a picture of Martin Luther King and members of the Highlander Folk School and bore red letters the word “KING AT COMMUNIST SCHOOL.”
None of us had missed the significance of the flags, which flapped from the capital dome. As the horde massed closer and a female voice over a blaring loudspeaker led the singing of “The Star Spangled Banner,” the tragedy, the futility and the dreadful waste of the city’s defiance was brought home to us. For no matter how much the South’s injured pride is justified by the shameful revenges of the Reconstruction, tis prodigal behavior cannot be excused and borders on insurrection. Fro the flags on the capital dome were two and only two — the Alabama State flag on top and the battle flag of the Confederacy below.
It came as no surprise that Governor Wallace refused to accept the petition, which a delegation tried to present to him. It was not expected. The march itself had made the desire for change clear. We did not stay very long after that. The noise of the helicopters drowned out the speeches and we knew we had to get back to the airport by taxi if we could find one. Miraculously Plane No. 2 had stayed pretty together. Two Negro girls led us as a group down a side street where they said we could pick up Negro cabs. White drivers drove by, conspicuously ignoring us. It was 2:30 and many soldiers were already being loaded into army trucks.
As we waited on the corner of this back street, I saw that a white woman had followed us. She talked earnestly and briefly to one of the priests and then hastily, murmured, “Thank you, Father.”
“What did she say?” I asked.
“She said the Voting Rights Bill would be ineffective if it was left in the hands of local registrars.”
“Where was she from?”
“Tuscaloosa, Alabama.”
I have said that it took little courage for us to come. It was different with the local Negroes. Since I now had a clearer picture of the social climate in which they lived, a fear came over me as we left. Not for myself, but for them. A friend from Creve Coeur had brought along a pocket tape recorder. During the march he kept dashing out to elicit comments from the Negroes.
“What did you ask them?” I queried.
“Well, mainly I asked if they thought we were doing any good.”
“And what did they say?”
“They were shy at lots of questions, but at this one they all said, ‘Yes! Yes!’”
Upon our cab was printed the words, “NEW DEAL CAB COMPANY.” (Ironic or symbol of hope?). I noticed that our route back was largely the one we had taken on the march.
“When do the troops leave?” we asked our shy driver.
“At 4:00,” he said. “Man, at 4:00 o’clock I won’t be on the road. Man, oh Man! At 4:00 o’clock. I’m goin’ to hide!”
(Author wishes to remain anonymous)