The Appeal stated that “every normal human being wants to walk the earth with dignity and abhors any and all proscriptions upon him because of race or color. In essence, this is the meaning of the sit-down protests that are sweeping this nation today. We do not intend to wait placidly for those rights which are ours already legally and morally to be meted out to us one at a time. We want to state clearly and unequivocally that we cannot tolerate, in a nation professing democracy and among people professing Christianity, the discriminatory conditions under which the Negro is living today.” The appeal detailed the gross inequalities and discrimination in education, jobs, housing, voting, hospitals, movies, concerts, restaurants, and law enforcement.
After calling on all the adults in authority of all races and on all leaders in civic life—ministers, teachers, and business people—“and all people of good will to exert themselves and abolish those general injustices,” we announced our “plans to use every legal and nonviolent means at our disposal to secure full citizenship rights as members of this great Democracy of ours.”
Students had carefully drafted the ad at the behest of our college presidents who had gained a whiff of our “secret” meetings at Yates and Miltons corner drugstore near our campuses where we were planning sit-downs like the highly publicized ones in Greensboro. While very mixed in their attitudes towards their students’ impatience and plans to protest against segregation, my college diary says, “There was one place where we were all together: the need for clarity of purpose.” Morehouse president Dr. Benjamin E. Mays told an Atlanta University audience years later, “Before the students did anything, we wanted to make it clear what they were striking about or grumbling about or protesting about.” The presidents not only provided the money to pay for the ads (a freedom that private, unlike public, colleges could exercise), but they also read it and were in full accord with it. The evidence for this is plain from a slip of paper with scribbled notes concerning the Appeal that also includes comments from Dr. Mays that fell from my college diary thirty-seven years after I’d put it there. Dr. Mays’ comments on the Appeal call it a “great document” that sets forth a philosophy and makes the case in a manner that “nobody has said the same way.”
We students believed in the Appeal and the meaning behind it with our whole minds and bodies and souls and were prepared to go to jail and even to die for those beliefs. The response to the eloquent student appeal was loud and mixed. Georgia’s segregationist Governor Vandiver claimed it was a “Communist-inspired document and that students couldn’t have written it.” I recalled his comment in an Aspen Institute Seminar in the 1970s when a corporate executive questioned whether Dr. King had really written “A Letter from a Birmingham Jail.” Some White students issued statements of support of our Black student appeal.
We followed up the Appeal by sitting in on March 15, 1960 at seven White-only restaurants in Atlanta. I and seventy-seven other students were arrested on that day for our actions. Our series of demonstrations included a boycott of Rich’s department store in Atlanta (we incorrectly calculated its prominent Jewish owners would be more sympathetic to ending discrimination because of the Jews’ history of persecution not realizing the equally likely psychological reaction to protect one’s own perceived unsecured status which is what happened). Student pressure eventually led to an Atlanta Compromise: seventy-five stores officially opened up 177 counters to Black citizens. Atlanta became the 104th city to desegregate lunch counters since the sit-ins began in February 1960, but the legal pressures and charges were still pending in various places and remained to be settled. The U.S. Supreme Court accepted a case involving sit-in students like me in 1964. I got out of law school in time to help write the brief.
Dr. King’s message at Spelman in April that “segregation is a cancer killing democracy’s health” affirmed and emboldened us. From April 19, 1960, until his assassination on April 4, 1968, he was a continuous, personal, important presence in my life and in that of so many other young people. His courageous example, his accessibility to me and to other young people in the movement, and his support at a time when only a few of our professors—Howard Zinn at Spelman, M. Carl Holman at Clark College (later president of the National Urban Coalition), Whitney Young, Dean of Atlanta University’s School of Social Work (later president of the National Urban League)—openly supported us was incalculably important.
Young people need the example and validation of adults they respect when they are trying to do the right thing especially when it is unpopular. We needed to be encouraged to take risks and not to be deterred by the majority of Blacks and Whites in Atlanta at that time who wanted to maintain things as they were. Some of our Black college presidents were more concerned about maintaining equanimity on their campuses than about promoting racial equality in their communities. Many of our Black college teachers (like the South Carolina public school teachers who had refused to support Septima Clark’s and the NAACP’s efforts to equalize their pay) were more worried about their jobs than about ending segregation in the South despite the protective covering of their private school status. And too many Black preachers acted as if the last pharaohs to get in the way of God’s people lived in Egypt three thousand years ago. That’s why I stopped going to church in the community during my senior year in college although I did continue to be nourished by chapel services at Spelman and Morehouse.
Some of my loneliest and most instructive moments occurred on May 16, 1960, when I stood with Lonnie King, Julian Bond, Johnny Parham, Ben Brown, and a few other key leaders of Atlanta’s student movement on the lawn in front of Atlanta University’s Trevor Arnett Library. We were waiting to see if any students would show up to march with us to the state Capitol. We had decided to conduct a march after the Ku Klux Klan had threatened to block any further demonstrations by Black students in the aftermath of the Appeal for Human Rights and the sit-ins that had stirred up Atlanta’s racial pot.
The day before our planned march a few student leaders had met with our six college presidents. After the Appeal for Human Rights and sit-ins had occurred, we met regularly with them to discuss our ideas and general plans and to hear their concerns and advice. Atlanta Police Chief Jenkins, a decent man, joined us. He expressed his worry about threatened Klan violence and about ensuring our safety. When we students refused to back down, we, he, and our presidents worked through a planned route and reached what my peers and I thought was a balanced compromise between our free speech and assembly rights and those of the Klan. We agreed to be peaceful and disciplined in our actions so as not to provoke White violence but said we would not have Klan threats deter us. From our first involvement in civil rights demonstrations, thanks to Dr. King’s teachings and example, we were prepared to accept but not inflict violence on others. When a young Black male attorney came to help me out in 1964 in Mississippi and tried to give me a gun to protect myself because I lived alone in Jackson I refused to touch it. My upbringing and the teachings of Dr. King made the thought of killing another abhorrent even for self-defense. When my husband and I visited Golda Meir in Jerusalem in 1968, I understood when she said, “We could forgive the Arabs for killing our sons but could never forgive them for making us kill their sons.”
Each of the student leaders attending the meeting with our college presidents thought we had agreed upon a reasonable plan that we would share with our fellow students in chapel convocations on our respective campuses the next morning. I did so at Spelman and urged my Spelman sisters to join me and students from other colleges in front of Atlanta University’s Trevor Arnett Library at the appointed hour to begin our march to the Capitol and then to Auburn Avenue’s Wheat Street Baptist Church for a mass rally.
To my shock and dismay, Dr. Manley, Spelman’s president, stood up after I sat down and urged Spelman students not to participate. He stressed all the dangers but none of the values at stake. As the few of us students gathered together at the assigned place and time, we learned that nearly all of the other col
lege presidents had done as Dr. Manley did and discouraged students from joining our march. Clark College’s president Dr. Brawley had gone so far as to lock the dormitories to try to make it impossible for students to leave the campus.
The moments felt like days as we huddled together and gazed on the empty lawn stretching before us. But then, after what seemed an eternity of waiting, we heard singing from a distance that got louder and louder as a line of Morris Brown students, whose campus was the farthest away, began to file onto the lawn in front of us. Like magic, other students began to pour out from their campuses from all directions. Some jumped out of their dormitory windows at Clark. Joyfully and purposefully, we marched singing, about one thousand strong, past the Klan hecklers with their hateful jeers and placards who were kept behind ropes and other street barriers manned by Police Chief Jenkins and his officers.
The tumultuous welcome from the packed crowd at Wheat Street church, the grinning welcoming committee of college presidents lined up across the stage, and the surprise entrance of Dr. King who’d flown up from Montgomery to encourage our youthful efforts taught me some lifelong lessons: hang on when life gets rough for pain and progress are Siamese twins just as midnight and dawn are regular hours in God’s days.
From that day, I learned that risk and failure have few friends and victory many and that one should struggle to follow one’s conscience whatever the consequences. I also remembered that one should not wait for others, especially those in power, to say it’s all right to act when you know in your soul—after thinking through the pros and cons of doing something and doing nothing—that acting is right. My good friend Saul Alinsky once told me that the most immoral act of all is to do nothing in the face of injustice—a course so many choose most of their lives.
During the Easter weekend of 1960, I took my first plane ride, from Atlanta to Raleigh, North Carolina, on an airplane chartered by Dr. King’s organization at Ella Baker’s behest. Student leaders were traveling to Shaw University to share experiences and to see how we could sustain and strengthen our student movement challenging southern segregation. While some in the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), the organization Dr. King now headed and that Ella Baker helped organize, sought to incorporate sit-in leaders as SCLC’s youth arm, Ella Baker discouraged this course. She urged us to develop our own organization. The Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) was the eventual result of her urging. SNCC lasted six years sustained by the extraordinary organizing efforts in Mississippi led by the saintly and brilliant Bob Moses and in Alabama, Georgia, Tennessee, and elsewhere by gifted leaders like Diane Nash, John Lewis, Jim Forman, Charlie McLaurin, Stokely Carmichael, Ruby Doris Smith, Bernard Lafayette, Ivanhoe Donaldson, and Charlie Cobb. SNCC brought together freedom-hungry and fearless youth with energy and creativity and willingness to push the edges of the envelope. Ideas like the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party’s challenge to Mississippi’s Jim Crow delegation at the 1964 Democratic Convention in Atlantic City and the Mississippi Freedom Summer project, which opened up the violent, unjust, closed Mississippi society to public view, came from SNCC’s Bob Moses.
Beginning in March 1960, my college diary reflects this time of powerful excitement and change.
MARCH 4, 1960
Now as never before is the chance offered to do something. This is a history-making epoch where we—me—the young—can be major characters. Now is the time to act—to work—to sacrifice.
Life is so pressing. Time is so strange. I’m very frantic in my quest to use it and not waste it. Each moment must be made to count.
I’m afraid and discouraged about my future yet feel a strong pull of destiny on the other. These are strange times and I’m torn apart.
So much has happened since I last wrote here. Posey Poole—a Dutch woman, student of Negro poetry, and former Nazi prisoner—knew Anne Frank and talked of her to us. She was tremendously moving. William Warfield came with his big voice and bigger heart.
We are all in the air about sit-down protests now. Am damned sick and tired of our inactivity. A group of us have been planning—led by Lonnie King, an able and sincere person who’s backed by the Kings; Julian Bond, Morris Dillard, Amos Brown (bright young NAACPer), Melvin McCaw, and Ed Harper are our caucus. The college presidents have been a big hindrance and we are to meet with them tomorrow and discuss the issue. For the most part, they’re a bunch of handkerchief heads—unworthy of respect and motivated by self-interest. When are we going to outgrow ourselves, God?
Last night at Howie’s we were interviewed by an Atlanta Journal reporter. He is doing an article on Negro opinions. It was an interesting session: Julian Bond, Morris Dillard, Marjorie McClenden, and Johnny Popwell were there. Am afraid the article is going to have some repercussions because of our attack on Clements [President Rufus Clements of Atlanta University] and his damn conservatism. Couldn’t care less.
Asked the reporter without forethought what would happen if I applied to Emory’s law school. He thought it a great idea. God please show me what I am to do.
MARCH 5, 1960
Dr. Mays is so inspiring. He said: “Life is serious business—be high—noble—seeking. Every minute is an eternity—you must use it. There is much to do and so little time to do it. If you live to be ninety, life will still be all too short.”
Today’s meeting with the six college presidents and students lasted 4½ hours. A lot, I feel, was accomplished. The doubts and grievances I had were cleared up and I came out rather impressed with the idea of the Manifesto. Roz did a good job. [Roslyn Pope, my fellow Merrill Scholar and gifted pianist had drafted it.] We all corrected it by adding and subtracting certain things. In rough finished form it works well. They [the presidents] are not issuing the Manifesto as a final or last gesture and assure us that they’re not trying to hinder us from whatever else we want to do—sit-downs, boycotts, talking to Governor Vandiver, or whatever.
It was a fascinating meeting for me because of the workings of the presidents together. President Clements is a smooth operator, suave, a real manipulator. Can’t guess him. He’s a patrician in the truest sense of the word. Dr. Richardson [president of Gammon Theological Seminary] was impressive—a thinker, sincere, and concerned with the students. I liked him. Dr. Manley [president of Spelman] without influence. Dr. Cunningham [president of Morris Brown] was distracted and distracting. Dr. Brawley [president of Clark College] absolutely silent—never opened his mouth, thank heavens. Dr. Mays is Dr. Mays. Amazed how Rufus Clements talks to him.
Other student groups went down to Rich’s to get served at 6th floor restaurant. Am flabbergasted at Morris and Benedict College student protests. Know Dr. Bacote and Dr. Rubin [presidents of these colleges who were friends of my family] are stewing.
Help me to do the right thing and to be sincere and honest. Clean me of my underminings and make me fit for Thy service. We need Thee dear God and Thy loving guidance.
MARCH 9, 1960
The time has come for you, Marian, to have a frank talk with yourself. Where are you headed? You are in the midst of a history-making epoch. The Manifesto today is provoking all kinds of reactions and here you stand helpless. Get a hold of yourself and then forget yourself. What do you really want more than anything in life? I want to be good and a true feeler and doer of life.
MARCH 10, 1960
We are meeting our group again. The Manifesto came out. Good reactions. Some threats. Mayor Hartsfield met with student leaders yesterday. Nothing accomplished. Meet with 6 of 134 signers of pro-cause Ministers Manifesto tomorrow to discuss tactics—certainly a good sign.
I am to survey City Hall tomorrow. Am going to lead one of groups in our wildcat strike to be carried out the first of the week. Think it’ll be effective.
Snow outside 3 or 4 inches deep. Is simply beautiful. No school held today. Thank God. Wish the same thing would happen Monday!
Bless my Mama. Read and righten our hearts.
MARCH 16, 1960:
/> SOMETHING WORTH LIVING AND DYING FOR!
Yesterday was a great experience. We carried off our “sit-in” strike demonstrations and have raised quite a bit of stir. About 200 of us took part and I will never forget the beautiful spirit manifested by every one of them. Before we left yesterday morning, we congregated in Dean Sage Hall [at Atlanta University] for final instructions and pep talks. Otis Moss got up and talked of the things we should be prepared for—abuse, hurt, and even death. We were all willing—some a little queasier than others. He then called several ministers from ITC [Interdenominational Theological Seminary] up front to lead us in several stanzas of “Amazing Grace.” It was beautiful.
APRIL 10, 1960
Here it is nearly a month later and I’ve yet to write of all the events. It’s impossible to recollect everything. Just heard Martin Luther King, Jr., speak for the first time—for our 79th Founders Day—and he was great! There’s something almost holy about him—powerful—assured. He has found the meaning of life in God. Hope and pray by the time I’m 29 I will have done half so much for people and the world. He said, “Segregation’s a cancer killing democracy’s health. Segregation says God made a mistake in creating me a Black brother.”
He talked about four mountains that had to be removed: (1) the mountain of moral and ethical relativism; (2) the mountain of practical materialism; (3) the mountain of racial segregation (Black supremacy as bad as White supremacy); and (4) the mountain of chronic disorder and violence. “We have been there in the mountains much too long. We must go from Egypt to Canaan.” And he described three groups of people: (1) been down so long, down don’t bother me. Will stay in Egypt rather than fight their way to the Promised Land; (2) halfway-outs—don’t know whether to go back into Egypt or to go on to the Promised Land; and (3) Promised Land at any cost. He said to love all though you can’t like everybody.
He also talked of three kinds of love: Eros, Platonic, and Agape. Used the language beautifully—a real power. His mother read the scripture. He ended by telling us, “If you cannot fly, run; if you cannot run, walk; if you cannot walk, crawl. But keep moving. Keep moving.”
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