Home   Conflict Resolution

1966, Queens New York -- I am between jobs, lazing on my friend David's couch when his older sister, Claire rushes in, pausing only to toss a New York Times in my lap before rummaging through the closet for her brother's sleeping bag. "On my way to Mississippi," she says. In the headlines James Meredith, the first black man to integrate the University of Mississippi, was now lying in hospital, shot in the back while marching from Memphis to Jackson encouraging black people to vote. Mississippi was mostly black, yet there were no blacks in office. Martin Luther King had decided to finish Meredith's job, and march a hundred miles down highway 51 to the State Capital in Jackson. Dr King was inviting any one to join him, and Claire and a few friends were going. "I've got room for another driver," Claire says. So I lift myself off the couch, out the door, and into her car.

We drove for three and a half days, non-stop, switching drivers, destination Jackson. Our plan was to leave the car there and get a lift back up to the action. Around Nashville we started to pick up local radio reports of the march. Apparently the police in Canton Mississippi had just tear gassed the marchers as they slept in the town square. People grabbed their things as they could, disbursing in all directions, and eventually regrouped on the edge of town. Some gas station attendants and waitresses we met were glad it happened, taking vicarious anger out on "those trouble makers." "Niggers shouldn't have the vote if they don't want it." The marchers were seen as commie rabble rousers, outside agitators who deserved what they got and more. "And where are you folks headed?" they'd query. "Oh, on vacation."

We arrived in Jackson at midnight and found the march headquarters closed. We didn't want to stay at the Holiday Inn, but would rather make our beds among the people we came to join. So we sought out a run-down hotel in the black slum. But we were not let in the door. The man said there were no more rooms, and directed us to the white section of town. Undaunted, we tried another black hotel. The same story. By this time we had an escort. As we drove to the next hotel, a set of headlights fixed itself in our rear view mirror, and it occurred to us that for a black to let a white into his hotel might mean serious trouble for the black... as well as us. To our relief the headlights veered off as we pulled in to the Holiday Inn.

My sense of justice had been insulted but we had gained some prudence for the situation into which we had so cavalierly thrown ourselves, and truth be known, after sitting on a cramped and sweaty bum, wending our way along 1800 monotonous miles of hypnotic highway, my middle-class white body appreciated clean linens and a comfortable bed.

Next day we found the march headquarters in a church in the black district, where we left our car and a nice gentleman drove us to meet the march, about 50 miles from Jackson. We started to walk. There were about 100 of us. A big flatbed truck crawled along ahead, on which stood a dozen reporters and photographers. And behind us, a highway patrol car. It was beastly hot. My two traveling companions and I were among the only whites. The road guided us through forests and swamps. Whenever I passed a stream I'd soak my shirt and hat, and dip my feet, sneakers and all in the cool water.

We didn't hurry. Some were older folks, especially those from Mr. King's church. Our little band also included angry young people who were impatient with Mr. King, impatient with non-violence, and impatient with whites. They talked about something called "Black Power" I'd not heard of before. There were also black men dressed in blue overalls and white t-shirts who never smiled and rarely spoke. They always walked at the outskirts of the group. A few walked on either side of the police car. When Mr. King was with us, which wasn't always, the men in overalls walked beside him. My friends and I usually walked among the more motherly types from Mr. King's church, who told us, "It's just wonderful you folks coming from so far away to help us register the voters."

Whenever we approached a town people would join the march. Sometimes our numbers swelled into the hundreds. We would detour around the white neighborhoods and wend our way through the shanty streets, handing out leaflets to the folk who lined the sidewalks and front porches. Some would hold out garden hoses for us to drink and soak our sweaty shirts. Some put coins in a collection hat. There was much smiling and encouragement.

As we left town the numbers would dwindle again. Some might walk with us for the day and then head home. Once, a man with one leg met us at the outskirts of his town and kept pace for a mile or two before falling behind.

At night we lay in sleeping bags under the stars in whatever protected area we could find. With Canton as an object lesson, the men in overalls did not sleep but walked the perimeter of our camp. I remember a lovely evening at the University in Tupalo, where we were fed chicken and provided showers. That night we felt very safe sleeping on the Common in the centre of the black university.

Approaching Jackson the numbers really began to swell. A thousand of us entered the city and wound our way through the slums toward the capital building. The streets were packed, with more and more stepping off the sidewalk to join the surging mass. There was cheering and waving and mounting excitement. Exhilarated people would reach out and we would take their hands, sweeping them into the march with our magnetism.

"Join us," we called out. "Come to the capital."

Sometimes a song would ignite and spread among a hundred or so who marched to its lilt.

I saw one woman on the sidelines laughing aloud and shouting our praises as if we were the Great Emancipator himself. Her hair was white and face wrinkled but her body still held much strength.

"Come on," we shouted. "Martin Luther King is going to speak."

Joy bubbled inside her. I reached out and she took my hand, stepping with us into the street. Two young people embraced her and for a few yards we marched apace.

"NO!" I heard a shout. "Leave her alone."

A woman, probably her daughter, rushed up to us to reclaim her mother's hand.

"You don't know what you're going to find at the capital." The woman's face held fear and anger. "You don't know what you're leading her into. Leave this old woman be." Firmly she guided her mother back to their porch.

Our numbers grew and grew. There was no end to what I could see ahead or behind. We were an army, leading the wave of the future. Yes, I recognized fear in some of the faces we passed but we were invincible. We were an army.

After passing the old woman we walked for quite a distance, and I remember being grateful that we had left her behind because she would have become tired. But we forged on toward the capital where the final rally would take place, where Martin Luther King would speak. There were thousands upon thousands of us now, singing and chanting, marching in the spirit.

As the capital drew near, the chanting died down, and by the time we assembled in the expanse of park around the capital building there was utter silence. Then I saw it... cops everywhere. On the steps of the building itself stood a platoon with riot guns cradled in their arms, tear gas canisters hanging from belts slung over shoulders. Closer to us was a ring of cops with shot guns, helmets, and shields. And right at the edge of our multitude was a third line of cops with pistols and truncheons.

I found myself near the edge, a few paces from one of these cops. His face was blank as if he didn't see the assembly of thousands that overflowed the park. He didn't seem angry or mean. He looked to be just about as scared as me, because if violence broke out we would both be caught in the onslaught. Standing almost shoulder to shoulder with him was a black man in overalls and t-shirt. The man was smiling at the cop, or rather leering. He stared into the cop's face and showed his teeth... which were filed down to points! Honest to God, I saw it. And as I looked down the line I saw that there was a man in overalls beside every cop. I was very frightened.

The silence of all of those people was overpowering, and I soon realized that what I had taken as being cowed by the governmental show of force was really a silence of strength and peace... and a silence of respect as we awaited our leader.

Nevertheless you could have shoveled me into a bucket I was so scared. Someone was crying. Was it me? NO! Oh no. Not six feet behind me was the old woman! Obviously her daughter's admonitions had not been heeded and we had led her miles from her home into the lion's jaws. She stood still, not daring to look at the lines of police, but fixed her stare on the podium a hundred yards away, where Martin Luther King was to make his address.

But she could not hold back the tears from her eyes, nor an occasional whimper of fear from escaping her throat. I felt terrible and responsible. Her daughter was right. What would happen to her in a riot? How could she protect herself from blows, gas and bullets?

It seemed like an eternity before Martin Luther King stepped up to the podium. He began with the words, "I have a dream." And in his dream he painted a beautiful picture of the goal which awaited us at the end of our struggle. He dreamed of black and whites sitting down together at the table of brotherhood. He dreamed of children, black and white, walking together as brother and sister. He dreamed that we, in our struggle would hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. Dr King spoke for a long time and finished with the words, "I still have a dream." Many of us were crying when he stepped down. My knees felt weak. After a moment a voice sang out from somewhere in the crowd.

"I'M GONNA LAY DOWN MY SWORD AND SHIELD," and some people answered,

"DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE." A thousand took up the song,

"DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE." And then all fifty thousand of us were singing,

"DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE.

I'M GONNA LAY DOWN MY SWORD AND SHIELD,

DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE.

I'M GONNA STUDY WAR NO MORE."

Suddenly a voice with the strength of Joshua's ram's horn leaped into counterpoint from behind me.

"I'M GONNA..." And the congregation answered, "...STUDY WAR NO MORE"

"OH LORD, I'M GONNA..." the voice chanted, and the congregation answered "...STUDY WAR NO MORE."

It was the old woman! The song surging through her like an electric wave, conquering fear with a reassuring authority that covered us with a blanket of strength, lifted our spirits, and made us one. I don't know how many could hear her guiding us through the song like the lead singer in a church choir. But the music in her soul must have reached a hundred years in both directions. I know that the cop heard it, and so did the man in overalls. I know that I heard it and it filled me with a spirit that banished the lump in my throat and gave me back my voice so that I too could join the choir.

"I'M GONNA STUDY WAR NO MORE."

Home  Conflict Resolution