Freedom's Children (10 page)

Larry Russell from Birmingham sums it up: “I was always trained that if you're hit, you hit back. But this was one occasion where we united under the idea and philosophy of nonviolence. We didn't feel that violence was the way to get the job done.”

It wasn't always easy to be nonviolent. Towanner Hinkle in Selma, Alabama, says:

Mary Gadson in Birmingham describes how the protesters were taught. “They trained you to be disciplined. They would get up into your face and say all kinds of things, like ‘Nigger sit down!' and ‘Nigger move!' You'd have to stand there and take it. You were being disciplined to take the harshness. The training was to take control. I wouldn't let them get to me. I would not allow the person who was doing the shouting to be in control.”

If someone was unable or unwilling to agree to be nonviolent, they were not allowed to participate in demonstrations. But as Ricky Shuttlesworth notes, the movement was big enough to find a place for most everyone. “They could do calling or writing letters or something else. They weren't looked down upon, because there was so much to do. They always needed workers to do something.”

From 1960 until 1965, scarcely a day went by without a nonviolent protest in some southern city or town. Some actions were broad-based marches and demonstrations, protesting against widespread patterns of segregation in a city or town. Other actions were specific and limited to one place. The stories in this chapter reflect that wide spectrum of protest.

I went over to Ricky's house, and Reverend Shuttlesworth asked me, “Frances, you think you want to get involved?”

I said, “Yes sir.”

I remember my first demonstration. It was eight days after my fourteenth birthday. I had on the clothes I got for my birthday that year. My aunt saw me on the television and she told my mother, “Bea, that girl's on TV with her new dress on and her new kid shoes and that new purse you bought her.”

Everybody chose the store that they wanted to go to. There were possibly a dozen of us. Before we went, we had prayer, and that gave us confidence. Some went to Loveman's or Newberry's. I went to Pitzitz with my partner. I bought books. After I made the purchase, I went to the luncheonette on the mezzanine and sat down. There was a young black lady working there. She was afraid to come over to the table because she didn't want to lose her job, or do anything detrimental to herself. Or perhaps she thought something would happen to me.

A white lady came over and said, “What are you doing up here? You know you can't eat up here.”

I said, “Why can't I? I made a purchase here in the store and they accepted my money for that. I'd like to order, please.”

She repeated, “You have to go. You just can't eat up here. You know better.”

I said, “I'm not leaving until I'm served,” and so I sat there.

A white man came up and said, “I'm going to have to ask you to get out of here, girl. You know you all supposed to go downstairs somewhere.”

I said, “I'd like to have a menu, please. Will you have someone come clean the table off.”

A few minutes later television cameras and the Birmingham police came. “Girl, you know you ain't supposed to be up here. Come on, let's go. We're going to take you on down to jail.”

I said, “I'm still waiting to be served my lunch. They haven't come to clean the table off yet, and I'd like to order.”

The policeman said, “You know ain't no niggers allowed to eat up here.” The cameras were right there, so I politely came down the steps like the young lady I was at that time.

I wasn't afraid at all. I was very happy that day because I felt like I was gaining something. I felt I had done something for myself and my race. I knew it would be televised, so my purpose was fulfilled. We went there to show the world what they were doing to us here in Birmingham.

Downstairs they had cars waiting for us. [Police Commissioner] Bull Connor was there. When I got down, there were about six people in the car already. He told me to get in. I said, “That car is too crowded. I can't get in the car and wrinkle up my dress.” It was my new dress.

He said, “Heifer, if you don't get in this car, I'll take this gun and hit you upside your head.”

I said, “I'm not a heifer and I'm not going to get in that car. There's no seat for me to sit down, and I can't wrinkle up my dress.” Back and forth like that we went. Finally he made somebody sit on somebody else's lap, and I got in.

They took us straight to juvenile. In jail they let us watch it on television. I was so proud of what I had done. I knew that one day segregation had to go away.

I had been in the struggle—that was one of Reverend Shuttlesworth's words—all the way through, and at sixteen I went off to college in Huntsville. A guy named Hank worked for SNCC, and he had been given my name. Hank came to my dormitory room and asked me if I was in the movement. I said, “Yes.” When he said we needed to get something started in Huntsville, I agreed. We were not the only ones organizing. Students were doing this at other schools. Hank was our source of information about what was going on elsewhere.

At that time I was president of my freshman class. We had a meeting in the basement of the First Baptist Church. We decided to target fast-food places. We had classes on what to do and what not to do. Number one, stay alert. Number two, the object of the sit-in was to take control of the counters. Taking control meant to occupy all the seats. This would eliminate money coming in, and that would create a confrontation. The main thing was not to be vulgar. Do not curse, do not exchange insults, sit quietly. Believe it or not, whites thought it was an insult to sit near a black. If a black sat down next to a white, the white would jump up instantly.

The first place we went to was Shoney's Big Boy. This was the first time anything had ever been done in Huntsville. We planned not to get arrested. We were to go in, demand food, and when they called the policemen, leave and go somewhere else.

We were very well dressed. They weren't going to be able to say we were not clean. We were not drinking, we didn't smell, we were not hostile. It was a weekend night, and the place was filled almost to capacity with whites. As we walked in, there was the clacking and clicking of plates and forks. Snap, poof, it stopped suddenly. It was like some people from Mars had walked in. Nobody would seat us. The five of us just stood there. The silence captivated the whole restaurant. You would have thought we had walked in nude, or had three eyes. We waited a long minute. The kind of minute where you can feel your skin tightening up and ants biting. You knew you were doing something “wrong.” We were not afraid, but we were tense because we didn't know if they were going to start a fight.

Then one of the white patrons said, “You get the tar and I'll get the feathers. We'll get these niggers out of here.” We all turned around and looked at him. He quieted down. We had no weapons—no knives, no guns, no sticks. We were not going to get arrested for carrying concealed weapons.

The manager was a young white guy. “I can't serve you,” he said. “I'm from up North and I understand, but you guys just can't eat here.” We told him we weren't going to leave until we ate. He said he'd have to call the police. We said, “Do what you have to do, but we're not leaving.” By the time he hung up the phone, we said we'd be back and we quietly walked off, got in the car, and went down to another place. The Huntsville police were going everywhere that night, saying, “What's going on?”

We went to another place and sat at the counter. This black guy in his forties was mopping the floor. He was so proud of us sitting there, he was just beaming over. Of course the manager was white. There were no black managers then. The manager said, “You all gonna have to get up.” We didn't say anything. So he turned to the black guy standing by his bucket and said, “Throw it on them! Throw it on them!”

The guy hesitated. The manager yelled, “Doggone it, throw it!” The guy tried not to throw it on us. He threw the water down the counter. Then he walked off. I never will forget his eyes. You could see the hurt, the plea for understanding and forgiveness. You could see him thinking, I had to do it. I go along with what you all are doing, but I got a family to feed. I got bills to pay and I'm under the control of this man. If I don‘t, I'm going to lose it all. So he did it and walked away. You could see he was crushed. We just sat there.

I was one of the first to integrate a movie theater. I remember that evening. The MIA put us in pairs, two to the Paramount and two to the Empire. I integrated the Empire theater. They did not let us in the first time we tried. We went back a week later, and then they let us in. I remember sitting in the center aisle, scared to death. Fortunately there weren't many whites there. I remember that distinctly. But boy, we did not stay for the entire movie—I remember that much too. It was the symbolic entering, integration, of the place. I was so scared, I don't remember what the movie was.

What if an older redneck did something to us, then how would we respond? We had been taught if you had to speak, let it be something polite. No cursing. If they struck you, we were told how to crouch and protect ourselves. No fighting back. Would I be able to do what we'd been taught? That was the fear.

Nonviolence was the philosophy that was being taught to all of us in the movement, stemming from Dr. King's dream of an integrated society and his agreement with Mahatma Gandhi from India. We did freedom workshops at some of the churches, where they would teach us how to act, what to say, how to protect ourselves. Songs—that was the key, that was the spirit lifter. “Ain't Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Round,” “We Shall Overcome,” of course, and “O Freedom.” One of my favorites was “Go Tell It on the Mountain.” This was during George Wallace's time, and Bull Connor, so we put their names in the songs.

A lot of times we would go into the apartment buildings to recruit young people. Many of our rallies were not scheduled in churches, but were in open areas. We'd recruit young people to join us for the sit-ins.

“You can't sit back at your home and think that white people are going to give you something,” we'd say. “They are not. You gotta come on out and join us and take it. Help make a difference.” We would tell them that we were trying to integrate, to make all of what's available to the whites available to us.

At one point we started saying “black.” “Black is beautiful.” I can remember the student leader Stokely Carmichael coming up with that slogan. It made us start to appreciate our own color. It built our self-awareness.

Highlander was an interracial camp, and I think we were there six weeks. It was an experiment of children from various nationalities and races living together. Oh, I liked it! We had groups divided into cabins for various activities. We swam. We had creative writing. I remember one little song that we made up, a nonsense opera that we put to music.

That summer was the most fun I have ever had in my life. The cabins were completely racially mixed. It was also the first time I ever met an atheist. His name was Roger. One day it was real hot. Roger put his fist up to the sky and said, “Rain, you bastard!” Clap! Lightning happened, and everybody ran. I don't know if we ran because he was cursing God or because of the lightning.