They Come in All Colors

by Malcolm Hansen

  XIX

  GOOD MORNING, BROTHERS AND SISTERS. Good morning, Rector Stern. Deacon Willemot. And in particular, I’d like to thank Minister John Stevens for letting us borrow this wonderful church, as well as all the ushers and deacons who have been so generous with their time. As many of you know, there has been great interest in this service. It was not easy to make the necessary arrangements. We’ve done our best to accommodate as many of you as we can, and so here we are.

  The line outside extended all the way around the corner. An old colored man recognized Mom when we got into it, gave her a big hug, and whisked us inside the church. Everyone was sitting down, fanning themselves. Mom was taking her sweet time in the entrance, whispering on and on into that old man’s ear.

  My apologies in advance to all of you who have been unable to secure a seat. I trust the younger among us will volunteer their seat to that elderly gentleman I see standing there. I see some space over near the back, and here, if anyone would like to claim it. Oh, and here. I see a few latecomers. Please make room.

  The old man led Mom down the aisle. Dad pulled me along after them.

  By way of a few introductory remarks, I would like to acknowledge Irma Muncie. There are many who did not want this service to proceed. Yet she prevailed in imparting its importance to us all. Needless to say, we would not be assembled here today without her unflagging insistence. I would also like to thank you all for being in attendance. These are tough times, and our accommodations are cramped. Nonetheless, it is an important day, and your presence is appreciated. As I said, we are not accustomed to hosting such a large crowd. But interest was overwhelming and, inspired by Irma’s steadfastness, we resolved to do what we could. Please accept my apologies in advance, especially to those of you in the back. I’ve been told that there are still a great many others gathered outside. Know that we’re doing the best we can to make room for everyone. Now. Please, folks. Now. The outpouring of sympathy has been tremendous. Irma, my wife, Agnes, and I have been scrambling to deal with the onslaught of reporters. I would like to thank all of you, naturally. These are merely a few of the thoughts that I have had time to jot down for the occasion.

  The pastor tapped a sheaf of papers.

  The circumstances that bring us together today are quite difficult, as all of you gathered here know. Late Saturday night, a respected member of our community was murdered in cold blood.

  Mama, he said—

  Shhh!

  Now. Now. I would like to emphasize, at this point, that this is not a matter of conjecture, as some have suggested. The police report, which I have examined with my own eyes, states that. Tobias Wetherall Muncie was one of us. Like many of us, he lived in this town his entire life. Akersburg was all Toby knew of the world. And those of us assembled here—the farm hands, janitors, mechanics, and gas-station attendants, and the one stonemason among us—who had the good fortune of knowing Toby know that he did not deserve such an end. But Tobias Muncie was a colored man born into a world where we humans prey upon each other. And so we consequently find ourselves gathered here today asking, are we not all equals in the eyes of God?

  Now, brothers and sisters, I recount this brief history of one of our native sons to you with great pain in my heart. But I do so in order that you may better understand the Akersburg that we must deliver from the hands of our shared oppressor. Because Tobias Muncie was a good man. A hardworking man. A family man who stood out only for having asserted his rights. And as we gather here to pay tribute to the uncommon bravery of one who would not submit to their predations, still, we find ourselves asking, are any of us safe in an environment such as this?

  Hallelujah!

  It was hot and stuffy, and the trickles of sweat crawling down my temple itched. I couldn’t wipe them off fast enough. I leaned over and whispered to Mom, asking if she had something for me to fan myself with.

  And as we march up Main Street bearing his casket on our shoulders, let us remember that the slander made against the character of the man lying in this box of tinder is a symptom of the many problems ailing our community. As we lay white carnations gently down upon a slab of etched granite, let us remember that the crumbling world of segregation has everything to do with the violence wrought against Tobias Wetherall Muncie. As we stop to shed a tear of remembrance, as our white brothers and sisters heckle us as we join hands in a sliver of cemetery off Oglethorpe, let us remember that in a small farming community such as ours, those who are fortunate enough to be blessed with a small holding fear nothing more than the Negro tenant farmer coming into his own form of productivity.

  Yessa!

  Let us remember, brothers and sisters, that the violence wrought against Tobias Wetherall Muncie is a necessary extension of this fear—that what begins with the right to swim in a white man’s pool, or the right of a Negro to work his own bit of land with the same equipment as his white neighbor, ends with a farming contract that was previously white-only. Let us remember, then, when we depart the site of our dear friend’s eternal resting place, that those jeering us from within the shade of aging alders have no patience for any brand of justice that threatens their tenuous social standing. But most of all, brothers and sisters, when we’re tossed into the back of a paddy wagon, let us remember that fairness may mean nothing to a man holding on to his last grain of food, but it means the world to he who has not even that.

  My suit coat felt like a straitjacket. I was struggling to undo the topmost button of my shirt. Mom slapped my hand still.

  Let us also remember, then, that brave foot soldier who once said, “I paid my damned twenty cents and I can sit where I want.” Let us remember his indomitable grin and unquenchable spirit. Oh yes. It has been a long summer here in Akersburg. There has been too little rain. The hoeing has been difficult, and crop yields stubborn, and tempers running high. Many of the field hands have been at work not out in the fields but in the streets—so have the service women, stock clerks, and attendants. Many of you. Bus service has been suspended, restaurants closed, businesses shuttered and burned. The public library is in a state of indefinite hiatus. Everything is in flux. And still we have had great difficulty winning concessions from the town council, the local merchants’ board, the chamber of commerce, the county commissioner, the board of supervisors, and Mayor Simon McDowd himself. But we must not give up our fight. As we look them in the eye, make no mistake—it is a staring contest. And we must not blink. We must continue to fill Mayor McDowd’s jails, knowing full well that when they are full, he will call his cousin Asa Grenall in Calhoun County and his brother-in-law Roger Claymore in Baker County and his fishing buddy over in Dougherty and have us taken to one of their jails instead.

  And I will have you know, kind brothers and sisters, that so long as not a drop of blood had been shed, I resisted the temptation of inviting outside involvement. Many of you questioned that judgment but accepted the wisdom of not provoking our illustrious sheriff—so long as not a drop of blood had been shed. But, brothers and sisters, what was simmering has now boiled over. And what was bloodless is no longer so. And so I have come to the determination that if justice is frail in our community, then let our brotherhood with the outside world be strong. And so today, we stand together with those who have come from distant places to stand at our side. Yes, brothers and sisters, it has been a very long summer here in Akersburg, indeed.

  The pastor stopped. I stood up because I thought he was done. Mom jerked me back into my seat.

  Now, let us take a deep breath. And let us take this opportunity to remember that people are tense, that nerves are frayed, and so we must remain calm. Let us carry the Lord in our hearts with every step of our journey. Because Prinket, in all his cunning, will exercise great restraint. But he will do so not out of a sense of decency but out of a desire to undermine us. The eyes of the world are upon him, and his singular boast will be that he has dealt with us “nonviolently.” But make no mistake, brothers and sisters, the ends he seeks are the same as
those who are trying to put us down in Montgomery. And Selma. And tonight, as we stand, eighty-eight of us in one room with twenty steel bunks and no mattresses, you can judge for yourselves how much more humane. And those of you who aren’t in jail with us, please yell out through the thick steel-mesh window and over the cinder-block walls topped with barbed wire that you hear us. Lift our sagging spirits by calling out to us by name. And as we stand inside, shoulder to shoulder, stewing in our own sweat, listening to your voices, let those of us not from these glorious native woods of southwest Georgia remember that the sheriff knows that many of you have hometowns and families and will seek to return to them one day. Yes, I speak to you. And to those of you over there against the wall, bright-eyed and fiery-spirited and filled with hope, who have come to us from places like Missouri and Des Moines and Sacramento, distant places—to all of you whom we are fortunate to have with us: know full well that he will sit back and patiently wait for the day when you grow tired and dispirited, and leave us the way that you found us.

  Lord, let us now go peacefully into the light. And whether we take our place in the sheriff’s outhouse or that of some other, do not let us forget that there will be busloads behind us filled with mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, grandmothers and grandfathers, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews just like all of you, lining up to fill another man’s jail. If not today, then tomorrow, and so on, until we achieve the liberties that we seek. Brothers and sisters, are we not tired of the endless accusations made against us? Tired of the contempt felt for us? Tired of living in fear of men hiding under sheets as they burn sticks in a man’s front yard? We have had enough. And like our friend, that brave foot soldier, Tobias Wetherall Muncie, who would dare to defy the bit part consigned to him on this, life’s grand stage, we too must defy the script others have assigned to us. Akersburg is not a slave ship, brothers and sisters. Akersburg is no plantation. And Boss is not your Creator. For the Lord alone is God of all men.

  Let us march off not with spite in our hearts but with love. Now, please, let us bow our heads and pray for peace and reconciliation. That Tobias Wetherall Muncie, a humble man whose memory looms large on this, the twenty-fifth day of July in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and sixty-two, may somehow bring our beloved community together as one. That we may find the courage to claim our rightful place in this, a community of equals. Amen.

  • • •

  I WAS THE first out of the church that afternoon. I jerked off my coat and mopped the sweat from my face and stood at the top of the steps and looked out over a gathering of what seemed to be every single white resident of Akersburg. Two horse-mounted policemen were stationed on the periphery. Mom snapped at someone behind us to please stop pushing. There was nowhere for us to go. The sheriff’s deputies were struggling to keep the mob behind a barricade. I couldn’t understand why Toby’s death had made them so angry.

  Dad headed down the stairs and crossed the street without us. I looked up at Mom. It felt like Armageddon had finally arrived, and he’d forgotten to take us with. The sheriff was leaning against an Oldsmobile parked on the far curb with a helmet on and his arms folded. Mom handed me off to Irma and pressed her way down the steps and across the street, after Dad.

  I tried to run after her, but Irma snatched me back. She held me fast against her big, round belly. Mom disappeared behind a patrol car, then reappeared beside the sheriff. Dad was shouting at the sheriff, asking when he was going to clear a path for the people in the church. The sheriff said, Soon. Dad was saying, Now, damn it. There’s a pregnant widow back there. There was no way for her to leave safely. The service was over, and it was important that we all get home before dark. Mom tugged at Dad’s arm, yelling for him to stop making trouble. Next thing I knew, she was on the ground. Irma clapped a hand over my eyes. By the time I managed to pry it off, two deputies were hauling Dad off, and Mom was sprawled out in the middle of the street with a bunch of people gathered around. They were taunting her. I hollered out, Stop!

  The pastor appeared at my side. He begged pardon and made his way down the steps with two deacons. The crowd at the foot of the steps parted. He made his way across the police line and calmly gathered up the stretched-out folds of Mom’s dress and picked her up and brushed her off.

  Get over here, Pea!

  It was Dad. I looked around but I couldn’t see him. The pastor returned with Mom in his arms. Her hair had come undone and was twisted out of shape. He propped her up at his side and led her through the crowd, up the stairs.

  I’m right here, Mama!

  I jumped into her arms and squeezed her tight. She was okay. The people across the street were stabbing the air with their battle flags.

  Over here, Pea!

  It was Dad’s voice again. He was hidden and obscured by the hundreds of people lined up out front, leaning over the sawhorse barricades, pumping their brass knuckles and waving bats. I knew he was close, but I couldn’t see him. I slapped the dirt from Mom’s front and sat her down on the steps. She was gazing vacantly out at the faces shouting angrily at us. I couldn’t bear to even look up. Because I knew them. I covered my ears so that I didn’t have to listen to their endless ranting about what awful people we were and how we were to blame for ruining their country.

  I looked over my shoulder at the small white clapboard church. The double doors were wide open and a large number of colored people dressed for the service were hunched up together in the doorway, looking out. I didn’t even know the pastor, never mind the rest of his congregation. I knew more of them across the street than I did those cowering in the church behind me. It dawned on me that I was sitting on the wrong side of the street. I was supposed to be on the other side, where Dad was. I pulled Mom to her feet and tugged at her arm, figuring that we just needed to cross the street and everything would be okay.

  Pea!

  I searched the crowd, but between all the shouting faces competing for my attention and Mom resisting my help, there was no way I could find him. There was a convulsion within the crowd of people standing directly in front of me. The crowd swelled briefly, and everyone jumped back.

  Dad was suddenly standing right in front of me. I stood up in disbelief. Mister Buford pushed him out of the crowd toward me. Go on back to your nigger!

  I forced my way down the steps and through the crowd, all the while shouting out to Dad that I was coming. Mister Buford had jumped on top of Dad and started punching him. I squeezed past a tangle of policemen standing beside a tipped-over barricade. I could tell that Dad had heard me because he held his hand out. I reached out for it but was jerked back just as I touched it.

  It was Missus Orbach. She barked out that she was sick and tired of seeing me everywhere and jerked me around by my necktie and dragged me off with her. I stomped on her foot and scrambled away before she knew what had hit her. But it was too late. Dad was sprawled out over the wide asphalt street, shielding his face. Mister Buford was still on top of him, slugging away. Missus Krasinski was standing there, beating him with her purse and hollering out so loud little bits of spit were flying from her mouth. Get him, Lance! Get him good!

  I jumped onto Mister Buford’s back and yelled for him to stop. I hadn’t gotten two licks in when Missus Krasinski teed off on Dad’s face with her heeled shoe. Dad went limp. I let go of Mister Buford and reached out for Dad’s hand. I clutched it, but his cold and clammy fingers slipped away. I knelt down beside the gash in his face, put a hand over the blood spilling out, and shook him.

  Pop? Wake up!

  Dad groaned. I looked up at Missus Krasinski.

  LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!

  She was heaving, her purse strap doubled up in one hand, and her face was expressionless. I turned to the other men and women standing beside her.

  Missus Henniger? Mister Chambers? Mister Hildebrandt? Mister Orbach? Missus Baxter? DON’T JUST STAND THERE! DO SOMETHING!

  When they didn’t move, I stood up, smeared the tears from my face, and started
dragging Dad through a pool of his own blood. Mom appeared at my side. Together we got him across the street. Aurelia, Evan, and Irma were waiting for us. They stepped aside and let us in.

  XX

  THE EARLY-MORNING SUN FLICKERING AROUND the edges of the broken front window seemed to cast Toby in a different light. I was sitting against a wall inside the church, staring at his casket. It wasn’t until the gray hours before dawn that the uproar outside had ebbed and a smoky sunlight washed out that of the torch flames that had raged outside all night. I couldn’t see much, but I could hear everything. I had sat huddled beside Dad in a back corner of the church, far from the front windows. Dad was on his back, holding his nose straight. Mom was dabbing his forehead with a damp towel. Mister Swanson popped up at one point and suggested that it might be light enough to leave. Dad hesitated, but I begged him please. My arm felt like it was about to fall off.

  Yet another heckle and jeer rang out. A brick crashed through the window. Glass sprayed over the floor. There was renewed commotion about how best to avoid the few lingerers remaining outside. I gazed around at the others crowded inside the church. Most were intent on waiting for help to arrive from Albany. They didn’t want to be caught out on back roads alone before full light. Which left me and my aching arm. We bid the others farewell and left by the back door.

  When we got to our truck, we found the windows busted and the tires slit, so we got a lift from Mister Swanson. The sun hadn’t crept over the horizon yet, but the sky was lit. The fresh smell of dew seeped in through Mister Swanson’s cracked front window. And as we made our way down the windy back roads that I knew so well, I thought about how strange it felt, after all these years, to be riding shotgun in Mister Swanson’s Plymouth. It wasn’t new, but the window roller worked, and there were no springs poking out of the seat cushion. Mom and Dad were jammed into the backseat along with Irma and Evan. They were each looking out their respective windows with blank expressions on their faces. No one seemed to have anything to say.