THE SEEDS OF CIVIL RIGHTS were planted during my childhood, in a neighbourhood called Norwood; in the City of Warwick, Rhode Island ... think The Andy Griffith Show meets Leave It To Beaver. Some of my earliest memories are of a friend named Beverly Wiley. We met in Sunday school at the Norwood Baptist Church, and by the time we started first grade at Norwood Elementary School we were already friends. We grew up together in the same classes, danced together at dancing school, and enjoyed other church and school activities together.
Ironically, Beverly and her family lived literally on the other side of the tracks – theirs the only house amongst the woods and fields hugging the western side of the Boston to New York railroad line. Beverly was a Negro, the only one I knew. Today that’s not a “politically correct” term, I know, but that’s the word we used then, we didn’t know of “politically correct” in the late forties.
Having been a victim of labels myself from a very early age – first sissy or fairy, later fag, faggot, queer or worse – I don’t have much use for them. Even the politically correct black or African American or gay are still labels. Nonetheless, for the sake of clarity and convenience, for this writing I will use ‘black’ and ‘white’ as descriptive terms, although they are not a part of my regular verbiage. Usually man, woman or even just person or human being is enough of an identifier.
MY FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH RACISM was with my maternal grandmother. I loved her dearly and she adored me, I was her favourite. She was truly a loving and caring and generous soul yet, sadly, a product of her times. The son of Grandma’s next door neighbour and one of Beverly‘s brothers were friends, and every time Grandma saw him there she would grouse, “Why do his parents allow that xxxxxx in their house?” And it was she who admonished us children to always wipe off the top of a soda pop bottle – usually with our dirty hands – before drinking from it because, “You never know what xxxxxx lips have been on it.”
One day one of the tires on Beverly’s bicycle needed air, and we started walking the bike to the gas station. As we were approaching my grandmother’s house I panicked. Remembering how Grandma reacted when Beverly’s brother visited next door, I didn’t want her seeing me with Beverly. I made up some flimsy excuse as to why I must run ahead to the gas station to get the air pump ready, which forever left a pain in my heart. Pain for Beverly, for my grandmother, and for myself; obviously it still haunts me.
MY SECOND ENCOUNTER WITH RACISM occurred when a new subdivision, Village Circle, was planned near our home. Beverly’s three brothers were much older, adults then, and all professionals – a doctor, a lawyer, and a dentist. When one of them wanted to build a house in Village Circle there was a hue and cry, as he would be the first ‘black’ to live on “our” side of the tracks. A petition was circulated to try and stop him.
When the petitioners came to our home my father greeted them at the door. He took the petition, looked it over, tore it into pieces, threw it into their faces, and gave them a good scolding as they hastily retreated to the sidewalk. Afterward my parents explained what the neighbours were trying to do, and why my father reacted the way he did. It was one of our early lessons that all people are equal regardless of anything. Beverly’s brother did build his house in The Circle, and he and his wife raised their family there.
MY THIRD ENCOUNTER WITH RACISM was when Beverly and I completed sixth grade, graduated from Norwood Elementary, and enrolled in Aldrich Junior High School. That student body was an amalgam of four elementary schools, but in addition to Beverly only one other ‘black’ student was added to the mix. We continued our friendship without much derision, until the first school dance.
Although I didn’t notice it at the time, some students where apoplectic when Beverly and I were dancing together, and we danced a lot; Beverly was my favourite dancing partner. From that point on I was treated as a pariah by many students, including some who had previously been friendly. It was not long before the gossip fell upon my ears, and I learned why things had changed; which was of little consequence to me, as by that time I had become accustomed to being a regularly harassed outcast for other reasons.
After entering Warwick Veterans Memorial High School in 1960, with a student body of 3000, Beverly and I drifted apart. Then at the beginning of my senior year, my family moved to Connecticut, and I rejoiced in the opportunity to leave the school system and the students that had been my nemesis since the age of five.
So I finished my senior year at Newington High School in Connecticut, where I quickly became one of the most popular students (quite a change from being a pariah). Next I did a year of “post-graduate” at Cheshire Academy in Connecticut—a private prep-school for boys—to better prepare me for college, and the fall of 1964 I entered Boston University as a theatre major, my acceptance based primarily on my auditions.
ONE EVENING EARLY IN 1965 my boyfriend Tommy Rabbit, a Harvard senior, invited me to join him at a Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC) rally, held in support of the civil rights movement. At that time they were recruiting students to participate in the march from Selma to Montgomery, tentatively timed for the traditional college spring break. We were captivated, and at subsequent rallies we joined forces with a fellow named Jon, who had a beat-up 1952 Ford, and started planning the trip to Alabama. Our little band was later joined by another guy and a gal, names now long forgotten.
SCLC provided training in non-violent resistance, and mapped out the strategies for our trip to Selma. Marching as a contingent in Boston’s Saint Patrick’s Day parade that year gave us a taste of what was to come, as there was an angry crowd jeering and heckling. The expletives bounced off us like Ping-Pong balls on a paddle, not so the rocks and bottles. It was intense, but the violence was contained.
By then we were raring to go, but the march was postponed. It had been on again, off again, and on again for a few days until our scheduled departure on the 15th, at which time SCLC told us not to go. There was a legal battle raging about the right to have the march, and at that point it looked as though the battle was lost. Impetuous youths that we were, we left anyway.
INSPECTING THE OLD FORD I was doubtful, but hopeful. It had a good spare tire but no lug wrench, which I insisted we buy with money from the kitty, to which we had each contributed for travel expenses. The first driving shift was mine, and it went smoothly until we hit rainy snow in New York, then about a foot of mushy slush on the heavily trafficked George Washington Bridge.
Thick gobs of it were thrown up onto our windshield by a passing truck, breaking the windshield wipers. The arms kept moving back and forth, but the blades were horizontal, clearing no more than a one inch gap, through which I peered as I managed to manoeuvre us to the end of the bridge and on to the first available pull-out. There I used my shoelaces to fasten the blades upright on the arms, makeshift at best, but it was all I could do until we reached a gas station.
The SCLC had told us that as long as we were traveling the route to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, we’d be perceived as students heading there for spring break, but that once we veered off in the direction of Atlanta, Georgia, we would be conspicuous. We were advised to stay on the highways and only stop in cities for food, gas and facilities. Nine months earlier a 21-year-old ‘black’ student, James Chaney; a 20-year-old Jewish student, Andrew Goodman; and a 24-year old Jewish social worker, Michael Schwerner; we murdered in Philadelphia, Mississippi, 150 miles west of Selma, where they had gone to help register ‘black’ voters. We knew that we were wading into troubled waters, and we planned to be careful.
As it turned out, I willing agreed to do most of the driving, and only took a break when I seriously needed some sleep. To be candid, the way that the others handled the car was nerve-racking at best, and being behind the wheel kept me occupied and out of the cramped backseat. The trip was uneventful as our little posse travelled south, passing Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; Baltimore, Maryland; Washington, DC; Richmond, Virginia; and then Florence, South Carolina, at which time we made that ominous shift in direction, from ostensibly Florida bound to a beeline for Atlanta.
A MISS CALCULATION FOUND US RUNNING LOW ON GAS somewhere along the 214 mile stretch between Columbia, South Carolina, and Atlanta. It was doubtful that we had enough to make it to our destination. Reluctantly, we all agreed that breaking SCLC protocol and stopping for gas in this rural area was better than running out, so we pulled off at the next exit and into the nearby station.
Just as we drove in four ‘white’ men were driving away from the pumps in something like a Chevy Suburban, apparently they were hunting as we saw rifles in the back. Noting our arrival they stopped at the edge of the roadway, where they sat watching and waiting, while the ‘black’ attendant filled our tank. Once we paid and were about to leave, the hunters departed.
Feeling safer, we asked the attendant about a place to eat. He gave us directions, but we never found a town or a diner ... we ended up back on the highway heading towards Atlanta. Baffled at first, we soon realized that it must have been his subtle way of getting us out of town as fast as possible. Fear permeated the car as we entertained visions of the hunters following, or waiting ahead. We were lucky. Had it not been for that shrewd attendant, our fate could very well have been the same as James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner in Mississippi.
WE ARRIVED IN ATLANTA EARLY EVENING and found our way to the Greyhound bus station. SCLC had instructed that we park the car there and travel the more dangerous route to Montgomery by bus. One close call was enough; we did as we had been told. All of the bus passengers and the driver were ‘black’ and they all knew why we were there. After a while someone broke the ice, and the rest of the trip was filled with vibrant conversations, advice and warnings, and robust singing.
The 160 mile trip took about four hours, landing us in Montgomery late at night. We were bewildered as we walked into the bus station; we had absolutely no idea what to do next. We had no contact, no one was expecting us. We didn’t know where to go, and even if we did we had no way of getting there. No ‘black’ taxi driver would dare pick us up, and if a ‘white’ one did we might never have been heard from again.
After some time we heard a, “Psssst!” We looked around; it was the ‘black’ janitor. “Don’t look at me!” he whispered. “You kids are in deep shit. I know why you are here. I know where you need to go. I’m getting off work in one hour, and I can help you.” We listened as we milled around trying to look aimless, and he proceeded to give us instructions in muted voice.
He said he had a big old Packard parked out back, in the corner of the parking lot farthest from the street. It was unlocked and had a big blanket on the floor of the back seat. He told us to go out one at a time, real casual at irregular intervals about five to ten minutes apart. Get into the backseat, crouch down on the floor, and pull the blanket over. He said that we all had to hunker down low so that nothing, not even the blanket, would be visible in the windows. It was a leap of faith but we took it, we had no other options. Thank God for big old Packards, they don’t make cars like that anymore.
It seemed like hours before we heard him open the door and start the engine, and then we were off to who knows where. When he finally pulled to a stop and turned off the engine, we emerged in front of a church. It was at the centre of a large semi-circular street, and we were told that there were sentries in each of the corner houses on each end of the street, prepared to do whatever was necessary to keep any hostiles from getting to the church.
This was like a safe house in the middle of a war zone, and I imagined what it must have been like being in the French resistance during World War II. The folks at the church fed us. It was the first time that I had ever had hominy grits, and they were good, but by the end of this adventure I would be sick of them. They gave us each a blanket and showed us to the floor, telling us that in the morning they’d arrange our transport to Selma.
THAT MORNING THERE WAS A CAR GOING TO SELMA with four spaces available, so Tommy, Jon, and the other two climbed in, leaving me alone on the curb somewhat flabbergasted. The SCLC folk said that I’d have a place in the next vehicle, and so I did. About a half hour later I found myself climbing into a car with three other ‘white’ men, all reporters, and two ‘black’ men. The infamous Bobby Seal – who, along with Dr Huey P Newton, would found the militant Black Panther Party For Self Defence the following year – and his lieutenant, the driver. The fifty-four mile trip to Selma was not uneventful.
They needed gas and Bobby, ever the radical, had the driver pull into a ‘white’ gas station. A fracas ensued and within minutes three state police cars arrived. It started to get ugly and I thought we were all going to jail, or worse, but the journalists intervened. Once the police realized that the eyes of the media were upon them, things settled down and they allowed the gas to be dispensed and we were on our way. The reporters were animated and impressed upon me that we were in the middle of history in the making. History or not, all I knew was that I was in a car with Bobby Seal, he and his associate were no doubt armed, and I was scared to death. We couldn’t get to Selma fast enough.
Once reunited with my Boston cohorts we had lunch at a church, more grits, and I was given another blanket and shown to another place on a floor where I would be sleeping. The march was still an on and off proposition, so we had time and were looking for ways to kill it. Chatting up the local ‘blacks’ was an effort as they were oblique, but the children more forthcoming and at times disturbing. Obviously parroting adults some called us trouble-makers, agitators from the north who wouldn’t be around to suffer the consequences in the aftermath.
DESPITE HAVING BEEN APPRISED OF THE BOUNDARIES of this the town’s ‘black’ sector, and advised not to venture beyond them, one day about a hundred of us got together and decided to go visit the Mayor of Selma. We proceeded to stroll two at a time, male and female couples leisurely walking about fifty feet apart, out of the ghetto on the way to see His Honour. We didn’t get far. Very quickly we were surrounded by police cars and a paddy wagon, and once they were filled townsfolk arrived in a variety of vehicles, from pickups to panel trucks.
We were all shoved in wherever we would fit and carted off to the police station. There they started to book us, but when they realized that we numbered over a hundred, they stopped the booking and we were moved to a well-guarded community centre. Next they remembered that we were all “wacko Communist sex perverts” and fearing untoward behaviour, they moved the men to the basement and left the women upstairs. At about midnight we were told that we were free to leave, but looking out the doors we decided to stay. There was a mob of ‘white’ townsfolk waiting to escort us, all armed with shotguns, baseball bats, pitch forks, and the like. In the morning we made a peaceful return to our safe haven in the company of SCLC leaders and the media.
Soon we heard the news that the march was confirmed, it would commence on Sunday, March 21st. As the wait continued our female companion told us that she would be returning to Boston with a fellow she had met, and wanted a refund of her share of what remained in the kitty. This was a blow as our funds were low, and now we were scrapping bottom. Time to call my parents … collect. My mother took the call and immediately said, “Oh my God, I was praying that you were in Washington.“ Activists were protesting there as well.
She had not fallen for my ruse, the story that I wasn’t coming home for the school holiday because I needed to hit the books. Yeah, right. After fourteen years as a mediocre student, she’d believe that all of a sudden I had become studious. She turned the call over to my father, we had words and then he hung up on me. Being that my parents were the architects of my stance on civil rights, it was difficult for me to understand their reaction, but no doubt they perceived the dangers better than I. In the meantime Jon had contacted a congressman who was a friend of his family, and he wired us the money.
Next, Tommy announced that he had volunteered to be a marshal in the march, an overseer of thirty marchers. In other words, the one who – if there was shooting – could not hit the dirt until all of his group were down on the ground. Not to be outdone, I volunteered to be a marshal as well. On the morning of the 21st our contingents gathered and began marching the six blocks to The Edmund Pettus Bridge.
THE BRIDGE WAS THE SITE OF “BLOODY SUNDAY” where, exactly two weeks earlier, the 600 participants of the first march, including Rosa Parks, were attacked by local and state police wielding Billy clubs, bullwhips, and tear gas. The brutal images had been televised throughout the country. Ours was the third march and we numbered 3200. The bridge was crossed without incident, and we proceeded unmolested except for the jeering ‘white’ mobs lining the roadway that, although kept at a distance, were catcalling and shouting profanities.
Later in the afternoon we all converged on a knoll, in a sparsely wooded area along the roadside, where brand new thirty gallon galvanized trash barrels arrived full of food. We all lined up and ate what was offered, including the ubiquitous grits. Sadly, this was the end of the march for our band of four. Having been away from Boston for a week our time was up, we had to go back.
At least we had the opportunity to begin the march for which we had travelled so far and waited so tirelessly. With heavy hearts we hitched a ride back to Selma, and from there another to Montgomery, on the way waving a fond farewell to our fellow activists as we passed them camped in the woods. From Montgomery the bus back to Atlanta, then the long car trip back to Boston. As soon as we got on the Massachusetts Turnpike we had a flat tire, which was ironic. Despite my scepticism at the start, that old Ford made the trip to Atlanta and back without any mechanical problems, except the windshield wipers. But I was right; we did need that lug wrench!
BACK IN BOSTON we watched the end of the march on television and, despite our personal disappoint, we shared vicariously in the glory as they marched triumphantly into Montgomery, by then 25,000 strong. But our joy was short lived. Later we heard that after the march Viola Liuzzo – a devoted and inspiring activist whom we had met – was murdered by Ku Klux Klan members. One of the Klansmen in the car from which the shots were fired was an undercover FBI informant. A mother of five from Michigan, Viola was thirty-nine.
So with tears of sorrow and joy, we took solace in knowing that we had been a part of history in the making, and we were proud of our contribution, albeit miniscule. But the work was far from finished. Governments can legislate, but laws can be obeyed or ignored ... until the hearts and minds of the people change, the struggle for all of the worlds disenfranchised will continue.
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