All the Days Past, All the Days to Come

by Mildred D. Taylor

  Brother Adams from Jackson talked about the protests taking place across the country. He talked about all the college students and their sit-ins at restaurants and stores and movie theaters throughout the South. He talked about a man being beaten for having the audacity to insist on his voting rights. He talked about Negroes going to a public beach down in Biloxi and wading in the waters. He said it was being called a wade-in. More than seventy-one people had been arrested during several of those wade-ins. Nothing “public” in Mississippi was meant for black folks, only whites. He said we were going to change all that. It didn’t all make the newspapers, he said, but through word of mouth local folks had heard about all this just the same. The stranglehold and the hammer of the white man was fierce, but change, little by little, inch by inch was coming.

  He talked about what was to come and said everybody needed to get involved with this movement. “Don’t just be sitting back, waiting for somebody else to do it. We’re all in this fight together, and whether we want to be or not, each and every one of us is a part of it.” He said money was needed to keep going forward, and even more important than that, body support in the protests. “If you can’t actively participate, then give money, or if you can, give both. This is all of our fight and when we win it, each and every one of us can claim the freedom and victory.” He also urged us to come to the NAACP meetings in Jackson.

  When he sat down, Morris got up. Morris talked about the need to vote and how things could be changed with the vote. He talked about how to get registered to vote and about classes to teach people to prepare for the registration. “Everybody needs to know from the get-go that we don’t get to vote in the primaries. Right now, that’s just for the whites only, but we’ll deal with that later. We’re going to concentrate just on getting registered so we can vote. Now, the white folks got to register too,” he said. “They’re supposed to know the state constitution and be able to interpret those 285 sections of it just like us in order for them to vote. Got to take a literacy test, just like us. Thing is, for the most part, white folks don’t even take that literacy test, and if they do, registrar gives them easy sections to explain, and when they give their interpretation, whether they got a notion of the constitution or not, it’s always right as far as the registrar’s concerned. Well, we don’t have that luxury. We’ve got to know that constitution backward and forward to get the vote. Not only that, we got to fill out a questionnaire before we register with some twenty-one questions and there can be no kind of mistakes whatsoever! No spelling mistakes, no misspelling your name, your address, or the state of Mississippi! And how many of you know how to spell that one without messing up?”

  There was an acknowledgment of laughter. “Now, the state of Mississippi requires a poll tax to be paid before a body can register to vote. Most folks around here can’t afford to pay it, but don’t worry about that. We’re raising money to cover that tax, so anybody go to register can pay the poll tax. We’ve got to do everything just right, but if we do and we get the vote, then we get to help elect people like the sheriff, people like the county registrar, people like the governor. The vote is power and the white folks know it. There was a time they didn’t even want us to learn how to read or write, because they know knowledge is power. That’s the same with the vote. The vote is power and getting it won’t be easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is.”

  After the meeting I spoke to Morris. Morris, now in his mid-twenties, was a confident young man, smart and affable and tall—six and a half feet of tall. “So, Little Brother Morris,” I said, “looks like you’ve decided to stay down here.”

  “Well, there’s no reason to be in Detroit now that Moe’s gone. Besides,” he grinned—“you see that pretty young woman over talking to your mama? Teaches at the school. She’s plenty of reason for me to stay, her and my daddy.”

  “Denise Thomas,” I said as I looked over. “Good reason.”

  “I think so.”

  I turned back to Morris. “About this voter registration, when do you expect to start classes?”

  “Right now, we’re thinking not until next year. We’ve got to get organized.”

  “I know the Mississippi constitution,” I said. “Maybe I can help.”

  “Guess you do, being a lawyer and all.”

  “That’s not why I know it. Long time ago I studied it with Mrs. Lee Annie Lees.”

  Morris nodded knowingly. “Mrs. Lee Annie,” he repeated. “Heard about her.”

  I knew he had to have heard about Mrs. Lee Annie, even though he was too young to have known her. Most people around here knew her story. Mrs. Lee Annie was an elderly woman who decided she wanted to vote and she asked me to help her with reading the constitution. I was only eleven at the time. When interpreting the constitution became difficult for both of us, Mama joined us in our studies. Mrs. Lee Annie and her family lived on the Granger plantation and she was told by Mr. Harlan Granger himself not to try to register to vote. She went to register anyway. Mama and I went with her. She failed the test, but that made no difference to Harlan Granger. He put Mrs. Lee Annie and all her family off his land.

  “Well, that’s what folks are afraid of now, same thing,” said Morris. “Folks in some counties already got put off their places just this year for trying to vote. These white people intend to stop registration if they can. They know once we get the vote, we can outvote them in a number of counties. We got more black folks in Mississippi than any other state, and if we can outvote them, we can begin to change some things. Problem is though, getting folks to come to classes and learn that constitution. Even then, if folks learn it, you know as well as I do, it’s up to the county registrar to choose the section he’ll question them on and then it’s up to him to decide whether or not he approves of the interpretation of the section. It’ll be a slow process and not always a rewarding one.”

  “Well, you let me know when you get started. I can’t do much from Boston, but maybe I can lend some ideas and raise some money too.”

  “That’ll be a big help, Cassie. What would be a bigger help is if you come down and teach in the drive—”

  “Now, I don’t know about that.”

  “Think on it. Fact, why don’t you come to a meeting we’re having in Jackson this weekend? We’ll be discussing organizing drives here in the state. Won’t be a big meeting, but we’ll have some speakers there.”

  “Maybe I will,” I said.

  “You’d be surprised to know who’s offered to help.” Morris didn’t give me chance to respond. “Mr. Wade Jamison. Saw him in Strawberry the other day and he stopped me right there on the street and asked me into his office. He wanted to talk to me about the sit-ins. He asked me if there were any plans for sit-ins in Vicksburg or Jackson. Fact is, I didn’t know and I wouldn’t have told him if I had, but he was genuinely interested. He went so far as to say he supported the sit-ins. Said he understood the need for them.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Well, I was.”

  “Little Brother, he knows the constitution backward and forward. Wouldn’t hurt to have him on our side.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, he said his door was always open if he could be of help.” Morris glanced around, then took my arm and led me away from anyone else’s hearing. In a low voice he said, “What do you hear from Moe? Nobody down here’s heard a thing.”

  “He’s all right,” I quietly replied. “Stacey and I went up to see him a couple of weeks ago. We knew you all would want to know how he’s doing.”

  “And how is he doing?”

  “He’s still in Toronto, managed to get himself a little job under another name. He sent a letter by us to your daddy. Stacey’ll take it over tomorrow.”

  “Good. Daddy’ll be happy to get it.” Morris frowned. “You think Mississippi knows Moe’s in Canada?”

  “I really don’t know, Morris. Only thing I do know is that the arrest warrant
and extradition request are still in effect in Michigan. But as long as Moe stays in Canada, I think he’ll be okay. Thing I worry about though is Moe taking risks like he did at Christmas, coming back into the country.”

  “I worry about that too,” said Morris. “He better not come back here again. I don’t want him to be a dead man.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Mama and I went with Morris to the organizational meeting in Jackson. The meeting was at Little Willie and Dora’s house. Little Willie and Dora owned a dry cleaners on Farish Street and were doing well. They had even bought a house in what many considered an exclusive neighborhood for coloreds. It was a middle-class neighborhood occupied mostly by professional people, educators, lawyers, business owners, and the like. The street was only a block, but it was a long block, curving at one point and going up a slight incline. Situated right in the middle of a white neighborhood, the houses had been designed by a black architect and built by a black builder. They designed the houses for Negro veterans like themselves, and Little Willie and Dora had gotten the house under a VA loan. Living at the other end of the block from them was Medgar Evers, field secretary of the NAACP and also a veteran. Both he and his brother had fought in World War II, but unlike Christopher-John and Clayton and many other returning Negro soldiers who could no longer tolerate the racial injustices of the South and had left, Medgar Evers, his brother Charles, and men like Little Willie had stayed. Many of them were now in the fight for equal rights.

  The meeting was informal. Before the call to order, I was introduced around by Little Willie and Dora as the lawyer from Boston. I didn’t meet everybody. As the meeting began, several people scheduled to speak were seated in wooden chairs in front of the fireplace. One of the men looked very familiar to me. I tried to place him. I searched my memory, knowing I had seen that face in a younger time. It was a face now different, but echoing of the past. It was not until his name was announced that I recognized who he was.

  Solomon Bradley.

  Solomon Bradley had been my first love. My Memphis prince. I had met him when Stacey, Little Willie, and I had fled Mississippi to get Moe on a Memphis train headed north. Solomon Bradley had been in his twenties then and was publishing his own newspaper. At the meeting he was introduced as an active member of both the NAACP and CORE, the Congress of Racial Equality, and as publisher of a weekly Negro newspaper up in Memphis. When he began speaking, his voice was as I remembered, deep and resonating.

  “There’s a lot of talk now about voter registration,” he said. “The NAACP is talking about it and CORE is talking about it. Now, there’s some might think we’ve got no chance to get our people registered to vote, but we’ve overcome hurdles just as big during this last decade alone. We put pressure on the government and now we’ve gotten the end of segregation in our armed forces. President Truman ordered desegregation back in forty-eight, didn’t get it though until we were deep into the Korean War, but now our colored soldiers fight side by side with white soldiers. In fifty-four, the Supreme Court ruled racial segregation in public schools unconstitutional, under Brown versus Board of Education, that separate but equal no longer stands since there is no ‘equal’ when it comes to segregation. We’ve already moved forward with school integration in Baltimore and Washington, D.C., and, of course, down in Little Rock at Central High School—other cities too. We’ve gotten integrated city buses in some cities. Just look at Montgomery. Supreme Court ruled segregation on those buses was unconstitutional.

  “Supreme Court also ruled way back in forty-six that segregation in interstate travel is unconstitutional, and the Interstate Commerce Commission has banned segregation on all interstate travel, and that includes trains and buses—waiting rooms too. But these southern states still enforce their own segregationist laws while the federal government just looks the other way and lets them do it. Well, now we could change all that. If we continue to organize in Mississippi, we take our fight right to the heart of the beast. We change things in Mississippi, we break the backbone of segregation.

  “Now, we all know Mississippi is going to be a tough nut to crack,” Solomon said. “No state in this union is harder on black folks than Mississippi, and more than likely it’ll be the last state to go down before we finally get the equal rights we’re fighting for. Just saying the word ‘Mississippi’ strikes terror in the heart of the strongest black man alive. Sure does me! But the time has come for us to face the terror, to face the fear. The time has come for all of us to stand up, stand up and be heard.”

  During his talk, I noticed Solomon Bradley’s look more than once directed my way. It was as if he was trying to place me too. After the meeting was adjourned, I watched as people crowded around him, but I did not join them. I remained with Mama, Little Willie, and Dora and those encircling us. Soon, however, with everyone enjoying coffee and sandwiches and homemade sweets, a soft voice from the past spoke over my shoulder. With my mouth full of sweet potato pie, I turned.

  Solomon Bradley was standing in front of me.

  “Cassie Logan,” he said, then he smiled his big smile.

  I gulped, held up my hand to let him know that at the moment I could not speak, and swallowed my pie.

  Solomon laughed. “Hot-shot lawyer from Boston can’t find her words! Ah, yeah, I heard about you!”

  I laughed as well. “I don’t think of myself as a hot-shot lawyer,” I declared as I studied him. Solomon was heavier now and he was balding, but once, when I was seventeen, I had thought him the most handsome man I had ever met. “I can’t believe it!” I exclaimed. “I’m standing in the presence of Mr. Solomon Bradley!”

  “And I’ve sure heard plenty about you, Miss Logan,” he responded. “Little Willie and Dora been talking you up. They’re mighty proud of you.”

  I patted my lips with a napkin. “Well, they’re pretty much family. What do you expect?”

  “You know, Cassie, at seventeen you were a very pretty girl, and now you are a woman. A beautiful one.” I let him know that I had heard that line before. Solomon smiled. “So, what are you doing here in Mississippi, Miss Cassie Logan?”

  “The name’s Cassie Logan de Baca, Mr. Bradley, and I’m just here visiting my family.”

  “De Baca? That’s your husband’s name?”

  “It was. He’s gone now.” I cleared my throat. “He passed.”

  “My condolences.”

  “No need,” I said. “It was a long time ago. What about you? Are you married?”

  “Happily, with four worrisome teenagers.” I laughed. So did Solomon, then he said, “All right, Mrs. De Baca, what do you do after your visit with your family? Do you go back to Boston?”

  I put down my empty pie plate. “Well, that’s my plan.”

  “Not joining in the fight?”

  He caught me off guard. “Here in Mississippi? I don’t think so!”

  “You know you’re needed here. You could make a big difference. You’re a lawyer. You could challenge the Mississippi laws. A lot is being planned for this state and change is coming. It’s coming sooner than a lot of folks think.”

  “To Mississippi?” I was doubtful.

  “All over. Even Mississippi. It’s coming—as sure as the sun rises, it’s coming. Won’t be overnight, but we’ve already put in close to three hundred fifty years of slavery and inequality and it’s high time for a change. Come nineteen sixty-three, we’ll be facing a hundred years since the so-called emancipation that was supposed to set us free, but we still don’t have equal rights. We’re still second-class citizens. We’ve got to get those rights, Cassie, and the time is now.”

  I stared at him. “You know you’re preaching to the choir.”

  “Sorry. Wasn’t meaning to talk down to you. But thing is, Cassie, we’ll need lawyers like you when things begin to break here. Some people even been talking about taking interracial bus rides all across the South, e
ven into Mississippi. We’ll sure need lawyers then.”

  “What!” I exclaimed. “Lord, these white folks down here’ll kill them!”

  “Maybe,” Solomon said. “But if the rides happen, they’ll get the attention of the whole country. They’ll help show just how bad things are down here.”

  “It’ll get attention all right,” I agreed. “Could get folks killed too.”

  “Well, everything we take on could get us killed, Cassie. As you probably know, back in forty-seven when there was that interracial bus ride through part of the South—the Journey of Reconciliation, it was called—those riders were arrested; some even served on chain gangs. Back then, we pretty much only had radios and newspapers and word of mouth about things. Now we’ve got television and we’ve got national networks following what’s happening. This time if we start this, it will have to be more than just one bus that comes down here. There’ll have to be bus after bus, buses that keep on coming so people don’t just go and dismiss it. Buses have to keep coming until things get changed, just like the students sitting in at the lunch counters have to keep on doing what they’re doing. One sit-in wouldn’t have done it, but now we’re beginning to see some change. If the bus rides come about, all we’ll be doing is forcing the federal government to enforce the laws already on the books and override the state laws preventing integrated seating and putting colored folks at the back of the bus. And if we do this thing, lawyers like you’ll be needed. If these riders don’t get killed, they will get jailed.”