by Anne Moody
I got tired of everyone staring at me so I decided to leave the party. I told Mama that I had a terrible headache, and that I had left a present on the bed for her. I wished her a happy birthday and left. On my way back to the apartment, I was almost blinded by tears running down my cheeks. I couldn’t understand why I seemed so strange to everyone. At the party I felt like I had committed a crime and everyone was punishing me by not talking to me. All of a sudden, I found myself wishing I was in Canton again working in the Movement with people who understood me. Here among my own people, I seemed crazy because I was grieved over problems they didn’t even think about.
I walked around most of the next week wondering what to do about the Movement. At one point, I made up my mind to go back to Canton. But then I couldn’t think up any reasons for going. I had the feeling that I should be back in the Movement, but involved in some different way that I could not yet define. I decided to give up thinking about it for a while.
On Friday, November 22, 1963, I was headed for the pantry during the rush hour at the restaurant with a tray of dishes when Julian, the new cashier, a white Tulane Law student, walked up behind me and said, “President Kennedy was just shot!” Everything around me went black. When things were light again, I found myself sitting dazed in a chair with Julian holding my tray. Just that morning, I remembered, James had made a crack about President Kennedy coming to the South—I hadn’t even given it much thought. Julian went out front to see if there was any further news. A short while later, he came back and said that President Kennedy was dead. For a while I just sat there staring at everyone and not seeing a thing. “So much killing,” I thought, “so, so much killing. And when will it end? When?”
Miles away I could hear the other waiters talking:
“Where did it happen, Waite?”
“In Dallas.”
“What? He should have known better than to come to Texas.”
“Anne, there goes your civil rights,” James said. “The Negroes may as well start packing. Yes, I think I’m going to haul ass back to Africa or somewhere.”
All of us working there were Negro except Julian. I guess we were all afraid to even consider what his death meant to Negroes. I know I was.
After all the other waiters left the pantry, I somehow pulled myself together and walked slowly through the dining room. My customers were still there, all of them. I noticed how quiet it was. Usually during the rush hour it was so noisy. But right now no one was saying a word.
By the time I got to the front of the dining room, I was enraged. When I turned around and looked at all those white faces—all of those Southern white faces—fire was in my eyes. I felt like racing up and down between the tables, smashing food into their faces, breaking dishes over their heads, and all the time I would shout and yell MURDERERS! MURDERERS! MURDERERS! Then I wondered what was I doing in this segregated restaurant. What was I doing serving all of these evil-minded murderers? I stood there with blood gushing up to my brains, feeling the hot air as it came out of my nostrils. Tears were burning my cheeks. Mr. Steve noticed I was crying. He must have thought I was fainting or something. He walked me back to the pantry and asked me to take the rest of the day off. I looked at him and he had tears in his eyes, too. I wondered if he would be crying if he was a native white Southern American instead of a Greek. I didn’t remember seeing a single tear when I was out there—no, not one. All those stony faces were white as a sheet, but dry as a desert.
It took me about an hour to change my uniform and another hour to get enough nerve to leave the restaurant. It was as though I was afraid to go out into that world that was waiting outside, that cruel and evil world. I had the feeling that when I walked out on the street everything would be pitch black. “A world this evil,” I thought, “should be black, blind, and deaf, and without any feelings at all. Then there won’t be any color to be seen, no hatred to be heard, and no pain to be felt.”
Stumbling up to the corner, I picked up a newspaper as I waited for the St. Charles streetcar. The headlines of the New Orleans States Item read PRESIDENT DEAD in the largest print I had ever seen.
On the streetcar, I tried to look at the faces of the people. All I could see was newspapers. Every head was buried behind one. I looked especially for the faces of Negroes who had so many hopes centered on the young President. I knew they must feel as though they had lost their best friend—one who was in a position to help determine their destiny. To most Negroes, especially to me, the President had made “Real Freedom” a hope.
Chapter
TWENTY-EIGHT
Sometime during that next week, James said to me, “Annie, ever since Kennedy was killed you have been walking around here as though you were in outer space. Why don’t you stop killing yourself over all these problems? You should never have come back to New Orleans. What you should have done was take a vacation from the States.” I realized he was right. But I didn’t even have money to cross the state line. I also realized that coming back to New Orleans was even worse than staying in Canton. Here I had nothing in common with the people around me except the color of my skin. Just to keep my sanity, I knew I had to get involved with the Movement again.
I called a girl I knew in the New Orleans CORE chapter, and the following week I went to my first meeting. I learned there that CORE had a voter registration drive going on in Orleans Parish and that teams were being organized to canvass on Saturdays and Sundays. I volunteered for one.
My canvassing partner was white—a quiet-spoken New York girl named Erika, who was managing editor of the Tulane Drama Review. I brought her to my apartment several times and introduced her to Adline. Adline had never been introduced to whites before on a social level. She hated white people with a passion. Although she never did act up around Erika, I think Erika sensed how she felt. For a while Erika didn’t act comfortable around her, but before long, she and Adline were cracking jokes with each other. I hadn’t quite gotten Adline to canvass with us, but I could tell she was coming around.
After about two months, I found it as hard to persuade Negroes to register in New Orleans as it had been in Mississippi. In Orleans Parish the number of registered Negroes never exceeded 35,000—regardless of how many voters registered each year. To keep the number constant, a certain number of Negroes were purged annually from the voting list. The voting test was just as hard and the registrar flunked Negroes just as fast as in Mississippi. But most New Orleans Negroes were very content. The majority of them had come from rural Mississippi or rural Louisiana—in comparison, New Orleans seemed like a utopia; at least they were able to find work. The only big difference about canvassing in New Orleans was that here civil rights workers, Negro and white, could canvass together and not be threatened or openly assaulted.
The first weekend in March, Junior went home to Centreville. I was kind of sorry he was going. Every time someone went home and returned, they always brought back bad news. If Negroes weren’t being killed in Woodville or Centreville, the whites were beating them up or running them out of town. Late Sunday night, Adline and I had just gotten into bed when we heard someone knocking. Adline got up to see who it was. It was Junior.
“What are you doing coming by here this time of night?” Adline said.
“Mama sent y’all this,” he said, giving Adline a package which consisted of two large feather pillows. “Essie Mae, you sleep?” he asked.
“No. Why?” I said, still in bed.
“Emma’s brother was killed Friday night.”
“What? Clift was killed?” I asked, almost daring him to repeat what he just said.
“You’re kidding,” Adline said.
“Why should I come by here at twelve at night to kid y’all,” Junior said.
“How was he killed?” I asked him.
“He was coming from work Friday night. They say his whole face was almost shot off. I went to Woodville to see Daddy and Emma and they is almost crazy now. They don’t know who did it.”
“T
hey know didn’t nobody do it but them goddamn white crackers,” Adline said. “They need to blow Woodville and Centreville off the map and kill all of them bastards.”
“Essie Mae ought to see if she can get Martin Luther King or CORE or one of them organizations to go in there and help the Negroes,” said Junior.
“What Essie Mae need to do,” Adline said bitterly, “is try and get some of these organizations to take us back to Africa or somewhere. This government ain’t no fuckin’ good and ain’t meant to protect us black folks. That’s what she need to do while she is running around here trying to get the Negroes to vote. I’m goin’ to save my money and get out of this fuckin’ country.”
“That’s five Negroes been killed up there in three months,” Junior said. “Them three killed in the car in Woodville in December, and some man in Liberty, Mississippi, last month. They say his head was almost shot off, too, just like Clift’s.”
Junior sat there on the sofa for almost an hour, without anyone saying much more. Finally he said, “I better go, I gotta go to work early tomorrow.” After he left and Adline was getting into bed, I noticed tears in her eyes. She and Junior had never reacted to all the other killings in Woodville or Centreville. At least it had seemed that way to me. Now they were very concerned, for the killings were getting closer. All night I lay awake thinking about Clift, his beautiful young wife, Ruby, and their four children. I remembered how close I had felt to them all when I went with Daddy and Emma to visit them, and how much fun we’d had together. I had accepted Clift as one of my blood uncles.
Next morning, I realized that I hadn’t shed one tear for Clift’s death. I had cried so much for other people who had been killed—even people who were strangers to me. But now it was as though something had happened to me so that I couldn’t cry. I just felt funny all over. I lay in bed and pretended I was asleep until Adline went to work about eight o’clock. As soon as she left, I got up. I felt so tired when I stepped out of bed, I could hardly move. I took a hot bath and went back to bed, setting the alarm clock for ten-thirty—I didn’t have to be at work until eleven. Soon I was sleeping. When the alarm went off at ten-thirty, I tried to get up and couldn’t move. There was what seemed like a heavy weight on my heart. I tried to breathe and couldn’t. It seemed as if heavy weights also pressed against my diaphragm and kept it from moving. I felt like I had suddenly become paralyzed from my neck to my waist.
For almost three hours, I lay there unable to move. Then tears started running down my face. Slowly I began to breathe again. Slowly my heart began to beat. The more the tears came, the more I could breathe. Again I thought of Clift’s death, his wife and children, and the tears wouldn’t stop coming. I was glad—glad I was crying. Just a few minutes ago I’d thought I was going to die.
It was about three before I was able to get up and call the restaurant. Since we had no phone, I used a friend’s phone across the street. Joe, the cook, answered.
“Joe, this is Anne,” I said.
“What’s wrong? Are you sick, honey?” he asked.
“Yes, let me speak to Waite,” I said.
“Yes, Anne,” Waite said when he came to the phone.
“I am sick, Waite,” I said, “and I can’t come in …” He cut me off. “If you are sick why didn’t you call me earlier this morning?” he asked, almost yelling. “At least we could have gotten someone to work in your place. We got swamped in the dining room this morning.”
“My uncle was killed in Mississippi, Waite. Now if I don’t feel like coming in tomorrow I’ll call you.” Just as I was hanging up the phone, I blacked out. When I was conscious again, my friend was holding a wet towel to my forehead.
“You want me to get a doctor?” she asked.
“No, I’m all right,” I said, “it’s just that we had a death in the family.”
But when I went back to the apartment, I started feeling tired again. I was afraid that if I got in bed again, this time I might not come out of it. I decided I’d better see a doctor after all.
I went to a doctor on Claiborne Avenue, one that Winnie went to all the time. He told me after checking my heart and blood pressure that I had a terrible strain on me, and that I was overexerting myself. He thought I had probably fainted because of anemia or overexertion. He gave me a prescription for iron tablets and tranquilizers and told me to stay in bed for a few days.
I stopped at a drugstore to have the prescription filled, and I bought some envelopes and writing paper. I was going to write Emma even though, after the Woolworth’s sit-in, she had asked me not to write them. I was not sure I should write now, but I felt the need to express my feelings or at least let them know that I knew about Clift’s death and that I cared.
On the bus back to the apartment I got that faint feeling again. I opened the window and the cool March wind made me feel much better. With the wind blowing into my face, I sat there trying to think of what I would write to Emma. This was the first time that someone had died in the family. I didn’t know what to say. Everything seemed so inadequate. And perhaps in a sense I had caused Clift’s death because I was the only one from that area who had actively participated in the Movement. In fact, every time anyone was beaten or killed in Wilkinson County, I had guilt feelings about it.
Back at the apartment, it took me about two hours to finish the letter to Emma. I read it, and reread it:
Dear Emma,
Junior told me about Clift’s death Sunday night. It was a terrible shock to me. It has caused me much grief as I realized what it must have meant to you and the entire family. How are Ruby and the children taking it? When is the funeral? I am truly sorry that I cannot come. I would come in spite of the fact that it’s not yet safe for me to come back. However, I have decided not to come because my presence might cause more trouble in the family. That is, if the whites found out that I attended the funeral.
I heard about the three people that were murdered in their car. I have also heard that nothing has been done about it yet and no arrests have been made. I personally would like to see these crimes solved. Have any officials from the Justice or FBI Departments been in to investigate the murders? From past experience, I know that even if there has been an investigation, as soon as the investigators leave nothing will be done; the murders will be forgotten and the killings resumed.
I know that Bob Moses, the SNCC director, is very much concerned about these murders. In fact, he has been making plans to move into southwest Mississippi (Natchez, Woodville, McComb, and Liberty). If you will find out all you can about the murder of those three people killed in the car and tell me what you know about Clift’s murder, I will pass this information on to Bob. Perhaps there is some way that we can get some protection for Negroes in that area. I am sure that Bob will try to do what he can to see that something is done. I sincerely hope that this letter doesn’t cause any trouble. And that it gets to you without being opened. Give my regards to Daddy with sympathy to Ruby and the children. Write as soon as you can.
Love,
Anne Moody
Finally I put it in the mail, and as soon as I had done so, I was sorry. I hadn’t put my name on the envelope. However, I was thinking that after Clift’s death the whites working at the post office in Woodville might open or censor all the mail to and from his immediate family. Because of this, I had not written Ruby directly, but had written Emma instead. Mama once told me that after I began to demonstrate in Jackson, all of the mail that she received at the post office in Centreville had been opened.
I went back to Maple Hill on Thursday and broke dishes all day. My mind wasn’t on the work. I knew that I would be nervous until I received a letter from Emma. Two weeks passed and she still hadn’t written. Another week and no letter. I was going out of my mind. Finally, I gave up hope of receiving one. I didn’t know if the whites had received my letter or what had happened. I wanted to write Emma again, but decided not to. I was afraid that a second letter might cause trouble, even if the other one hadn’t.
>
I worked about a month in the restaurant after my uncle’s death and continued my voter registration work for CORE on weekends. During this time, Adline and I also moved to a larger and much nicer apartment. Then in mid-April I began to get restless again. The grass was beginning to get green, the trees were budding, sap was rising, and everyone seemed happy and pleasant. I had never been able to enjoy myself and feel relaxed like most people during this time of the year. Adline had bought all kinds of beautiful spring skirts and blouses. I hated to see people so content, especially Negroes. It made me mad every time I saw one smile. And it seemed as though every Negro in New Orleans was smiling but me.
I was down in the French Quarters at Erika’s apartment for a party one weekend. A lot of the people there were students from Tulane who were members of CORE. When I noticed that even the Movement people were getting spring fever and talking about getting out of New Orleans, I knew that I couldn’t remain there long myself. I also knew that I was more than likely headed back to Mississippi, where the Negroes weren’t laughing all the time. Where they knew, as I knew, the price you pay daily for being black. Where I felt I belonged. The weekend after the party, I quit my job at the restaurant and started canvassing full-time for CORE. But even that didn’t help. I just had to get out of New Orleans.
