All the Days Past, All the Days to Come

by Mildred D. Taylor

  Christopher-John looked worried. “I can understand you wanting to go, Cassie. I’d like to do more myself, but you know what can happen.” He was silent, then asked, “You going to talk it over with Mama and Papa first? It’ll affect them too, you know.”

  “I’ll talk to them, but they’re not going to change my mind about it.”

  “You stay with them, you could be putting them at risk too.”

  “Maybe I can stay somewhere else.”

  “Where?” questioned Dee. “You know they’ll want you at home with them.”

  “There’ll be some other workers coming from different parts of Mississippi and outside of Mississippi to teach. Morris’ll be asking folks at Great Faith to put them up, feed them, but if they don’t, he was thinking maybe we can all stay at Great Faith in one of the old class buildings. We can get some foldaway beds. It’s only for a couple of months.” I looked at Man. He had been uncharacteristically quiet. “What do you think, Clayton?”

  Man’s eyes were downcast. Without looking at me, he said, “Least you’ll be doing something, Cassie.” He was again silent. He was in one of his moods.

  “You’re mighty quiet,” I observed. “What is it?”

  Man’s eyes were still downcast, looking at the table. “Remember that friend of mine, Ray Wallace, served in the Army with me? Got killed back in forty-nine because he refused to move to the back of the bus.”

  I nodded. “I remember.”

  “They dragged him off that bus, kicked him, beat him over the head with baseball bats. Police stood there and watched it all. Everybody who wasn’t beating on him just stood there and watched it. They killed him because he wouldn’t move to the back of the bus. He served this country. He fought in their war and they killed him.” Man paused, then looked up. “Ray and I always watched out for each other. Once I got into it with some white soldiers and Ray came right over and joined up with me to fight them. He didn’t even know what the fight was about, he just jumped in. He didn’t stop one moment to think about the trouble we were about to be in either. He never let me down. Now, I’ve been thinking, maybe I need to do the same for him.”

  Christopher-John leaned forward. “So, what are you thinking, Man?”

  Little Man looked around the table at each of us. “We all know how they used to do us when we were walking to school, how those white school buses used to pass us spewing that red road dust and splashing all that muddy water over us.”

  Dee, who had experienced the same where she grew up, said, “How could any of us forget?”

  “That’s right,” said Man. “How could we forget? Well, I’m thinking maybe it’s time for me to take one of those freedom rides right into Mississippi. Maybe it’s time for me to get on the bus.”

  “You know what this could mean, don’t you?” asked Stacey. “You would go to jail. You thought this through?”

  Little Man looked at Stacey with a wry smile. “When you know me not to think things through? I’ve talked to Rachel. She knows the risks. She’ll go along with what I decide to do. We’ve already figured it out, how we’ll get along. We’ve got those two rental houses that’ll bring in some money. We’ve got a little savings and we’ve got the gas station.”

  Yes, they did have all that. Man had been very good about investing his money. Like Stacey and Christopher-John, he had bought houses that he rented. He also had bought a small gas station on the corner of his block. It was a quiet street of residential houses. Several blocks around were all residential too, and the little gas station on the corner was a bonus to the residents of the neighborhood. People stopped there in the early morning on their way to work or when they returned in the evening. Clayton, always hardworking, opened the station at five in the morning and worked there until he left for his job at the factory. A part-time worker took over after that.

  “Clayton,” I said, “you know anybody going on a freedom ride has to be prepared to stay in jail for thirty-nine days, and not post bail until after that. In Mississippi, sentencing is usually for sixty days, but to stay any longer would mean giving up any right to appeal. Are you ready to be in prison that long?”

  Man’s eyes met mine. “If you were going, wouldn’t you be?”

  I shook my head, doubtful about my own perseverance. “It’ll be hard. It’ll mean Parchman. That’s where they’re sending all the riders, men and women.”

  Man nodded in acceptance and for several minutes we all were silent; then Christopher-John said, “What about your job?”

  “I’ll do like Cassie and apply for a leave of absence. I’m hoping that time will cover some of my jail time. Of course, I won’t tell them what the leave is for, just that it’s personal, and it is. If they find out, if it gets on the news and they have a problem with it, I figure I can find work somewhere else.” Clayton spoke as if unconcerned about his job; being a mechanical engineer, he had more security than workers like Stacey and Christopher-John. “I’ve talked to the children, tried to explain to them what I plan to do, tried to explain that this is for them and their future. But they’re so young, it’s a difficult thing for them to understand.”

  “But one day they will,” I said.

  “I hope I’ll be around when they do. I’ve updated my will just in case. I want Rachel and the children to be taken care of.”

  “Ah, Man,” sighed Christopher-John.

  “You bound to take that ride,” said Stacey, “don’t worry about anything here. We’ll watch out for Rachel and the children and take care of the gas station, your houses too.” He looked across at Christopher-John, who, without a word, nodded in affirmation. Then we all looked at Man, knowing what could happen.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  We made a plan. Man would go on the bus ride, but Stacey, Christopher-John, and I would follow him all the way; others were doing the same to give some protection to the riders. I put Clayton in contact with Solomon Bradley, and the two of them made arrangements to ride together. Since that first ride, which had brought so much national attention, a number of rides had taken place, originating from different cities with destinations throughout the South. Clayton Chester and Solomon were assigned to a bus going from Nashville to Jackson. They knew they would be jailed once they reached the bus terminal in Jackson. They would not post bail. Not posting bail and staying in jail brought continued media attention both nationwide and around the world, and that international attention was important. Communist countries were now using the injustices here against the United States in their international dealings, and emerging African nations were turning a skeptical eye on the so-called democracy preached by a United States that denied equal rights to black people within its own borders. With every civil rights stand we took—every sit-in, every bus ride, every kneel-in, every demonstration—the white backlash of terror that followed gave a black eye to America and embarrassed the government.

  The Kennedy administration was up against it. It was politics. Most black folks thought of John and Robert Kennedy with affection and as being friendly to the movement, but in reality the Kennedy administration was concerned with how the protests made the United States look, both at home and abroad. The Kennedys also needed the white Democratic vote that dominated the political South. They were caught in the middle.

  In June, Stacey, Christopher-John, Clayton Chester, and I drove to Nashville. We arrived early enough before the ride so that Man could meet with the other riders and be briefed on what to expect and how to react. There were both black and white riders. Solomon was already there. He greeted Stacey, met Clayton and Christopher-John, and said to me, “So, you’re not making the ride this time.”

  “No, not this time. We’ll be following along though.”

  “Good. We’ll need witnesses.”

  “You’ll have plenty. How are you doing?”

  Solomon smiled. “I’m scared, like everybody else. I�
��d be lying if I said I wasn’t.”

  “I know the feeling. I’m not even going to be on the bus and already I’ve got a knot in the pit of my stomach.”

  After the meeting we went to a motel, where we got little sleep. The next day we all met at the bus station. Before getting on the bus, Man said, “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you next month sometime.”

  “You be careful,” cautioned Christopher-John. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Man smiled. “Just watch out for Rachel and the children.”

  “Anything they need, we’ll take care of,” Stacey assured him, “and soon as you’re out of jail, we’ll be down to pick you up.”

  Man looked at me. “Guess by the time I get out, Cassie, you’ll be back home doing the voter registration.”

  “More than likely,” I said as I put my arms around him and hugged him tight. “You be careful.” I heard myself repeating what Christopher-John had said. I didn’t want to let him go. I was more afraid for him now than when I had said good-bye to him as he headed overseas to fight in the war. The world war had been far away, fighting against a massive, faceless enemy for whom I had felt nothing. Now this war was at home and we were fighting an adversary we knew all too well.

  Little Man hugged all of us and got on the bus. We watched as he gave his ticket to the driver, walked down the aisle, and sat beside one of the white riders right up front. Stacey, Christopher-John, and I went to our car parked on the street. We waited as the bus pulled from the station. Then we followed.

  The ride from Nashville to Jackson was uneventful. When the bus reached the terminal, all was quiet. There were no crowds, no boisterous demonstrators protesting the arrival of the Freedom Riders. Stacey parked the car and we hurried to the terminal. Standing outside where the bus was parked, we waited. The riders were still on the bus. Finally, the bus door opened. We saw Solomon step out, and then Clayton Chester. The riders had been instructed that if they made it to the terminal, they were to go immediately to the white waiting room. Doing this, they would surely be arrested. The riders never got the opportunity to go to the white waiting room. As soon as they stepped off the bus, the police lined up on either side, creating an aisle for them to walk through straight to waiting police paddy wagons. They were being taken directly to jail. Stacey, Christopher-John, and I watched Man go, then made our own decision to protest. We sat down at the lunch counter. Several other people joined us.

  We were all arrested.

  VOTER REGISTRATION DRIVE

  (1961)

  I arrived back in Mississippi in late July to teach in the voter registration drive. Man was out of Parchman prison and in Toledo. Stacey, Christopher-John, and I were released from Hinds County jail located in Jackson after an overnight stay. The jail was overflowing with protesters. I went home first to see about Mama, Papa, and Big Ma. All three were worried about the boys and me, but they did not try to dissuade us from what we were doing. I had already told them I would be staying at Great Faith with the other registration workers. One building would house the men working in the drive, another the women, and the third would be used for the classes. Mama, Papa, and Big Ma did not like the idea of my not staying at the house with them, but I pointed out it was better for all of us who were teaching to be together so that we could drive to the different farms to contact people for classes and, if needed, take them to and from the classes. Also, teachers needed to be in one place for training and planning. I did not mention I was concerned for their safety and that was the main reason I was not staying at home, but I think they knew that anyway.

  “You just be careful out there, Cassie,” Papa said when Morris came to get me, “and you call if you need us.”

  “And you make sho you get here for Sunday dinner,” ordered Big Ma.

  I smiled and hugged them all. “See you at church.”

  Morris had already laid the groundwork for the voter registration classes. He had made announcements not only at Great Faith Church but at the other local black churches in the area. He, along with a few others, had visited many of the families working the farms, many of them still living on the Granger and Montier and Harrison plantations. Some of the people still sharecropped, although not as many as when I was a child. The plantations over the years had mechanized and now needed fewer workers to produce crops, especially cotton, for market. Some of the smaller farms had mechanized as well. Also, since the war, many of the younger people had left their farms for better lives in Jackson or cities in the North and West. Still, those who remained on the plantations were dependent on their white landlords for their livelihood and for being able to keep their homes.

  The first week I was back, I went with Morris to several families. They were mostly families I knew and they greeted us warmly, but when Morris and I got down to our reason for coming, most people shook their heads and said, “Naw, can’t do that. Admire y’all for puttin’ in the time, but we been told already, we go takin’ classes and tryin’ to vote, we gotta start lookin’ for another place to live.”

  “Who told you that?” asked Morris.

  The answer was always the same. The plantation owners—the Montiers, the Harrisons, and the Grangers. That was the same thing the Montiers, the Harrisons, and Harlan Granger had threatened years before, when Mama had organized the boycott against the Wallace store. That was what they always threatened whenever the colored folks of the community tried to exert their rights for equality. Despite that, when classes began, there were a few stalwart souls who turned up, and the hard work of teaching the Mississippi constitution began.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Our Great Faith community wasn’t the only one undertaking the difficult task of pursuing the right to vote in Mississippi. Several counties were involved in the voter registration drive, among them Pike County. At the center of the Pike County drive was McComb, the largest town in the county and a former railroad center. Unlike in Spokane and many other counties, colored workers living near McComb were not so much dependent on sharecropping as on jobs provided by the railroad. Still, some of the colored folks in the county had small farms or lived on white-owned land and, like most other colored folks, were hesitant to go against centuries of tradition and white rule.

  The drive in Pike County was staffed by a number of people who had come from outside the county, from outside Mississippi. Mainly, they were from CORE or were members of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, known as SNCC. SNCC workers had started teaching in August, about the same time we had. Morris knew some of the people in McComb who were working in the drive and who had helped in getting the SNCC workers to come. He had also worked with them in setting up our program. Morris and I along with Denise, now Morris’s fiancée, decided to go to McComb. First, we went to visit Aunt Callie. Several of her family were studying to register to vote. They took us around the area and introduced us to some of the people working in the drive. We spent the day in McComb observing their program. Among those local people leading the drive and working with SNCC were Reverend C.C. Bryant and Mr. Herbert Lee. Together and with others, they canvassed the black community for food donations, money for the drive, and housing for the SNCC workers. They seemed tireless.

  They inspired us.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  By the end of August four people in the Great Faith community were prepared to take the test. Both Morris and I went with them to face the county registrar in Strawberry. I had last climbed the stairs of the courthouse when I was eleven years old, walking with Mama and Mrs. Lee Annie Lees when Mrs. Lee Annie defiantly had gone to register to vote. Now, as I walked up the steps, I felt eleven years old again, and even more afraid than I had been back then. I knew more now and understood how risky it was for us. Morris and I and the four brave souls taking the test stepped into the registrar’s office. They filled out the registration questionnaire, paid the poll tax, a
nd answered the constitutional questions. The result was no different than the result had been for Mrs. Lee Annie.

  That wasn’t surprising. Although it was disappointing, we all figured this would be the case. In some counties, recent attempts at registration had resulted in a few colored people being registered, but not many folks who attempted to register had been successful. Judgment was still up to the white county registrar and his interpretation of the Mississippi constitution. In addition to filling out the form to register without any mistakes and interpreting a section of the constitution to the satisfaction of the registrar, the Mississippi legislature had added another hurdle to keep black folks from registering. In November of 1960 legislators had passed a morals clause and added it to the list of qualifications for any prospective registrant, stating that the person had to be of good moral character to vote. Judging the morals of anyone attempting to vote was, of course, also left to the county registrar. Still, as Morris pointed out, each solitary registration of a black voter made a dent in the racist armor of the state and gave hope to every black woman, man, and child that one day they could be registered to vote too.

  “Now, we all knew this would happen,” said Morris, trying to keep discouragement from settling in as we drove back to Great Faith. “We just have to keep going back, time and time again, until we get one of you registered, then all of you.”

  There was silence in the car.

  Morris let his words sink in. After several minutes he suddenly began to sing. It was a song instilled in all of us, a song we all knew: “Free at Last.” “Day we get registered,” said Morris, “this here’ll be the song we’ll be singing.” Hesitantly everybody in the car joined in. By the time we reached Great Faith we had sung the song over and over again, and we were all inspired. “Thank God A-Mighty, we’re free at last!”