Stand Up Straight and Sing! (14 page)

As it turns out, Vernon Jordan could not help to save the accused; the Jim Crow laws were in full force. The man was found guilty and electrocuted by the State of Georgia for a crime everyone knew he did not commit. Vernon Jordan had been hired practically the moment he completed law school to work on the legal defense team of the NAACP. As it happens, the woman who accused the African American man—in actual fact, her boyfriend—of rape lost her mind completely. She would later be found wandering around various African American churches throughout Augusta on Sunday mornings, asking for forgiveness for what she had done; she could not find peace. When she found her way to a church, she was allowed to speak, as was anyone who wanted to stand up and testify before a congregation, whether it was to give thanks for the help that a grandmother received during her illness, or for being hired for a new job. Still, when this woman finished her apology and begged for forgiveness, the church was often silent as there was no discussion.

I cannot imagine what the adults felt about all this as I was much too young to understand the nuances of the situation or the reactions of those who heard the woman’s plea. I imagine that it was quite a test for those churchgoers to practice that which is a tenet of our faith: forgiveness. I have no idea what happened to this woman as the years passed.

Since that experience, at so early a time in my life, I have been against the death penalty, but firmly. And true to my father’s prediction, Vernon Jordan, as we all know, went on to “make quite a name for himself.” I am honored to count him and his family as among my closest friends and mentors.

Not long after this most disturbing incident, I joined the local youth chapter of the NAACP, along with my siblings and many of our friends from the community and the church. Now in middle school, we participated in sit-ins and marches, and even though we were still very young, we understood fully the necessity, the implications of what we were doing.

Of course, the reverence we felt for Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., his strength, courage, and vision in the face of extreme adversity, was at a level far beyond mere hero worship. To us he was a leader and a prophet, and even the youngest of us recognized this. We children in the family were very fond of telling the entire world that our mother’s maiden name was King, and that her family was from a part of Georgia not very far from Atlanta, which naturally meant that we could have been related. Or so the tale was told. Even as those hearing the story had their sure doubts, our imaginations ran unbridled; this was too delicious a fantasy to be hampered by mere facts! No one bothered to interrupt our beginning a sentence with something like, “Well, our maternal grandparents’ last name is King and they live. . .” It was a shared fantasy, heard and enjoyed by many. Publicly, we followed his lead, doing all we could to help change our corner of the world. The closest I ever came to Dr. King was while I was standing at the corner near the Tabernacle Baptist Church one day, only a block away from my high school in 1962. Tabernacle, one of the most beautiful of all the black churches in Georgia, was the very heartbeat of the African American community at this time. It was the site of so many mass meetings, so many discussions about civil rights, so many inspiring homilies calling the town to action against the horrors of Jim Crow laws and their more-than-willing enforcers.

Of course, everyone was excited by the prospect of the Reverend Dr. King gracing Tabernacle’s pulpit. But my family’s excitement reached beyond that proverbial fever pitch with the knowledge that my brother Silas, then a student at Paine College and president of the Augusta Youth Chapter of the NAACP, would actually be in the company of Dr. King on this momentous occasion. On the afternoon of the speech to be delivered that evening, the pastor of the church, Rev. C. S. Hamilton, and my brother Silas escorted Dr. King across Gwinnett Street (now Lucy Laney Boulevard) as they made their way from a visit to the church and back over to the pastor’s home. Reverend Hamilton’s wife, a public school teacher, had been one of my teachers in elementary school, and both she and Reverend Hamilton were prized members of the community, so it was of no surprise that they hosted Dr. King in their home. I watched from a respectful distance as these three men crossed the street in the middle of the block, not bothering to cross at the light. I remember thinking to myself that my brother and Dr. King resembled one another. Or perhaps I imagined it. I was mesmerized by the sight.

At Tabernacle Baptist on the evening of the speech, the church was packed: there was not a space on a pew to be found. White visitors were also present at this gathering, as was typical when Dr. King spoke, and all was peaceful, with an understanding of the importance of the moment.

Dr. King’s voice rang out as always, challenging the status quo and exhorting one and all to go forth in the spirit of Gandhi, in the spirit of nonviolent resistance, to that promised land of equality for all. Tabernacle Church was more than its edifice that evening; the sanctuary was filled with a spirit of unity, of recommitment to the struggle. Indeed, it was a proud moment for all of Augusta.

But there were dangerous moments as well, even for us children. As a teenager, I joined other young people in my community to help integrate S. H. Kress, Woolworth’s, and H. L. Green, the five-and-dime stores in our city. We seated ourselves in the areas where we knew we were not invited to sit, and we ordered food, daring the staff not to serve us. The NAACP supported us in this effort, providing the money with which to purchase the meals. It was not a matter of having lunch, of course; we were fighting for equal treatment. Much tension accompanied these protests, because many of the workers at these lunch counters were African Americans and they worried both about losing their jobs if they served us, and for our safety, the children they loved. They certainly did not want to see us suffer bodily harm as a result of our actions—a threat that was ever present. But it was a risk that we, even as children, understood and were prepared to take—one that each of us in the movement understood.

On one occasion, the prospect of physical harm almost became reality for some of us. We were marching against a supermarket that, at the time, sat squarely in the African American section of town but refused to hire African Americans for anything other than menial jobs. The demonstration was very organized: the police were present, and all the required permits had been obtained, so no one was expecting trouble. Still, as we took part in the march, a scream suddenly rang out behind us. Were it not for that scream, I am not sure I would be here today, as it alerted us to a car careening down the street. The car had jumped the curb, and the driver was heading straight for us. We were able to disperse, and no one was hurt.

This incident surely frightened every last one of us. Still, we had to keep moving, through the fear and through the danger. It was hard for us to understand the level of hatred that would bring someone to contemplate such an evil act—to run down young people marching on a sidewalk. Or in other cases, to set trained dogs on peaceful protesters, or use powerful water hoses against fellow citizens. Where was humanity in all of this?

This is a question that would resonate among my fellow students one evening toward the end of my academic years at the University of Michigan School of Music. It is the norm to find schools and conservatories offering up presentations of student accomplishment, and this was the case on this particular day, as the opera department featured several of us performing singularly and in operatic ensembles. The preparations consumed most of the day, which meant rehearsals in the morning, a break for lunch, and further preparations in the afternoon for the evening’s concert in Hill Auditorium.

I was unaware of anything happening outside of that space, although I noticed my friend from the orchestra stopping into the quarters I had appropriated as my dressing room rather frequently. I assumed he thought I was nervous about my upcoming performance, and I took this solicitous behavior as in keeping with his gentle personality and his always-loyal friendship.

The concert was well received, and only after all was completed did my friend reappear in my little space to ask me to sit, as he wished to say something to me. He went on to tell me that he hoped he had made the correct decision in keeping this information from me, as the news of the day was again very sad. “They have done it again,” he said. “They have taken the life of an American prophet today: Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated.” He added again: “I hope I did the right thing in not allowing anyone to tell you.”

We sat together for a short while. Without either of us saying very much, we put my things together and joined the others at our usual table at a nearby student restaurant, where we all talked, finally, of this latest tragedy and all the similar acts of notorious violence that had transpired during our study years—beginning, of course, with the death of President John F. Kennedy while some at our table were yet in high school, and of Medgar Evers. We talked, too, of those horrors committed against the many unnamed and unheralded civil rights activists whose lives were taken in hate: James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner, those our own age, killed in Philadelphia, Mississippi. I recounted how Vice President Humphrey had introduced me to the then-junior Senator from Massachusetts, Ted Kennedy, just months prior to this, when I sang in Washington at a service dedicated to the memory of slain civil rights leaders and workers.

We talked through the night. I thanked my friend for his sensitivity to me and assured him that all was surely well in our friendship, our mutual respect and our caring.

The reaction across the country to this latest assault on the spirit of a nation would be visited upon city after city. Fire!

There were those who believed that the plight of African Americans, all we had endured, from the slave ships to the plantations and cotton fields, from the limbs of southern oaks bearing their “strange fruit” to the bloodstained roads leading to Selma, would break the spirit of our people. Yet these horrors did not accomplish their goal. And any time that I have a chance to speak on this subject, I do, because it is vitally important that those who did not live through that period of our nation’s history learn about it and understand it. See it through the eyes of those who did live through it. Know that there is still work to be done. As a people, we have stood tall in faith, in determination, and in knowing that the light that guided our forefathers and foremothers is the same light that must guide this world to tolerance, to mutual acceptance, and, indeed, to the fellowship of humankind.

This is certainly what I had in mind many years later when I stood in the Capitol Rotunda to witness Miss Rosa Parks, a woman who taught the world the power of quiet resistance and self-determination, receive her due. On that day, the mother of the civil rights movement was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal from the President of the United States, President Bill Clinton. The Rotunda was filled with those whose hearts would sing out with the true meaning of democracy: justice and freedom—a celebration of the best of humankind.

As Miss Rosa Parks was honored, she honored every single one of us with her serene presence.

How does one begin to offer an appropriate degree of thanks to an American icon—a person who helped to lead this country into the light of political and social change by deciding to take a seat on a city bus and remaining there? We know now that her early work with the NAACP in and around her community had prepared her for that moment. It was nothing so prosaic as a woman taking the first seat available to her at the end of a long workday, but rather an act of true protest, motivated by the sure knowledge that the unalienable rights belonging to all American citizens, belonged to her, too. She deserved to be feted over and over again—for her bravery and for her commitment to truth.

The Rotunda was packed to the brim: the President lauded her, the Reverend Jesse Jackson spoke stirringly of her place in our nation’s history, the civil rights activist Dorothy Height was present, in one of her fabulous hats—I always loved her hats—and the ceremony was made all the more moving when the choir from my undergraduate school, Howard University, sang one of the Spirituals that I, too, had sung when I was a member of that very choir: “Done Made My Vow.”

Done made my vow to the Lord

And I never will turn back.

I will go

I shall go

To see what the end will be.

Done opened my mouth to the Lord

And I never will turn back.

I will go

I shall go

To see what the end will be.

When I was a young mourner just like you,

I prayed and prayed ’till I came through.

I was beyond thrilled to have been asked to sing for Miss Parks, and was seated on the right-hand side of the dais, facing the hundreds assembled. When we all sang “The Star-Spangled Banner,” I happened to be standing directly in front of Senator Patrick Leahy, who was seated in the first row of guests. He commented to me at the conclusion of the song, “Now, that was something else,” or something to that effect. I admit it: I sang with as much gusto as I have ever put into our national anthem on that day! Miss Parks, our President, the Capitol Rotunda, the nation’s highest civilian award being offered to an icon I admired, making her one of a relatively small number of citizens to be honored in this way dating back to the Revolutionary War: all of it was magical.

And for me, “America, the Beautiful” had seldom been truer to its words. For a country that would recognize in this important manner the magnitude of Miss Parks, while she was living, while she, too, could marvel at the distance traveled from Montgomery forty-five years prior to this national embrace, my heart was full. Miss Parks allowed us the privilege of thanking her, and it was done in a fashion befitting a true American hero.