“He’s white,” said Morris.
The nurse looked skeptical. “White? You work for him?”
“We brought him in,” Morris replied. “We’d like to know how he’s doing.”
The nurse was wary. “Well, I wouldn’t know. He’s in the white wing of the hospital.”
“Can’t you find out?” I asked.
“Now, why would I do that?” questioned the nurse. “You’re not family.”
“Never can tell,” I said. The nurse gave me an irritated look. “Well, can you tell us anything?”
“What did I just say?” demanded the nurse.
I felt like going around that desk and yanking her. “Lady, I didn’t ask you about what you just said! I asked you if you can tell us anything about how Guy Hallis is doing!”
Morris interceded. “Ma’am, can you at least check for us to see about his condition? We’ve been waiting some time now to find out how he is.”
The nurse turned her back on us without answering Morris. I started toward her, but Morris, his hand grasping my arm, led me away. “Come on, Cassie, that’s not going to help anything for you to go off on her. There’s nothing we can do but wait.”
So, that’s what we did. We waited.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Morris and I waited all night long. We asked several more times about Guy but still got no answers. The night passed and the morning came. The shift changed and the new nurse on duty was a bit more cordial. She made some inquiries about Guy, but learned nothing concerning his condition. She said she had left word for Mr. Hallis when he arrived that we were waiting. It was not until early afternoon that we received word about Guy. It came directly from Mr. Hallis. “They told me you were here,” he said as he entered the waiting room.
I rushed over to him. “How is he? They wouldn’t tell us anything.”
“Still unconscious, Cassie. He’s got broken ribs, some internal injuries—”
“Did they operate?”
Mr. Hallis shook his head. He glanced at Morris and gave a nod in greeting, but did not speak to him. “And they’re not going to.” He hesitated. “There could be some brain injury. . . .”
I was silent.
“After you called, I called down here and talked to these doctors directly and then called my own physician. I’ve decided to take Guy back to Boston.”
“What?”
“I’ve hired a medical plane. They’re moving Guy to an ambulance now to take him to the airport.”
“Well, wait—can’t I see him?”
“Afraid not. There’s not time. I have to go. I’m riding in the ambulance with him.”
“But I need to see him—”
“No, Cassie . . . this is not the right time. I’ll be filing a report and talking with the local police about what happened. I’ll see to his car too. Now, I’ve got to go. I’ll keep in touch.” He gently touched my arm. “I’ll call you, Cassie. I believe the office has a number for you down here. We’ll get back to you.” Mr. Hallis then turned and left the waiting room.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Before going home, Morris and I went to Great Faith. We passed Guy’s car, still in the ditch. At Great Faith we let the other registration workers know about Guy, then Morris took me home. We both needed sleep, but I stayed up for a while telling Mama, Papa, and Big Ma all that had happened.
“And that’s all you know about Mr. Hallis’s condition?” asked Mama.
“His father has your number. He or someone will call to let us know how Guy is doing when they know. If they don’t call before night, I’ll call them. Right now, I’m going to get some sleep.”
“And no one got registered?” Mama said as I turned toward Big Ma’s room.
I looked back at her. “No, ma’am. Not one person.”
Mama, Papa, and Big Ma looked at each other and were silent. That was what was expected. I went to bed, but as exhausted as I was, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing Guy bloodied on our Mississippi road, Guy who had hardly known pain in his privileged life, Guy who had come down here so optimistic and innocent, unaware of how brutal these people could be, Guy who put his life on the line because of his feelings for me. When evening came and there was no word yet from Boston, I called the Hallis house. Neither Mr. Hallis nor Mrs. Hallis was available, but the word on Guy was that he was now conscious. Little else was known. I thought about returning to Boston.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“You’re very worried about this young man, aren’t you?” Papa asked when I stepped onto the front porch. Papa was sitting alone on the steps, looking out across the land to the forest. I sat down beside him.
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“He special to you?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Well, I’ve known him for years. We went through law school together, traveled on that group project through Europe and Africa together. He’s been a good friend.”
Papa was silent a moment, then, still gazing out at the forest, said, “Any more than that?”
Now I hesitated. “Sir?”
Eyes still on the forest, unexpectedly Papa said, “I don’t want you marrying white.”
“Sir?”
“You know what I mean, and why.”
I was silent.
Papa now looked at me. With his eyes on me, I started to protest. “Papa, what makes you think—”
Papa stopped me. “You think I ain’t seen how y’all been looking at each other? My own papa was half white, looked white, and he always said, ‘You have daughters, don’t ever let them go with a white man.’”
I looked away.
“Years ago, there could be no thinking about marriage. Now we’re in this new world and some folks do marry white, like your Cousin Bud, but it ain’t something I want for you. I don’t want you with a white man, Cassie. I don’t want you marrying white. Now, you know ’bout your grandpa. You’ve heard the story often enough. I’ve told you and your grandmama’s told you too. Now, my white grandpa was a decent enough man for his times. He treated my papa and my papa’s sister almost the same as his white children. He took care of them, made his white sons share their books with them and teach them each day whatever they learned in school. He even treated my papa’s mama all right too, I suppose, but that didn’t take away from the fact that she was his slave and first time they were together as man and woman was because she had to do whatever he said because he was her master. Both my papa and his sister were born out of that union, born their daddy’s slaves, and as much as my papa loved his daddy, he hated what his mother had to do for that man not because she wanted to, but because she had to. It wore at my papa all his life, and he always taught my brothers and me, ‘You ever have daughters, don’t y’all let them debase themselves at the feet of a white man.’”
Now Papa was silent, and I said quietly without looking at him, “I haven’t debased myself, Papa.”
Papa said nothing to that, and we both looked out at the forest without another word.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Mama was now contributing to the registration drive. Although she didn’t teach a class at Great Faith, she taught people what was needed to register when she made her teaching rounds in the community. She also expressed an interest in registering to vote herself. She knew the 285 sections of the Mississippi constitution as well as I did, but Papa had never studied the constitution and had no interest in doing so. “I’m not about to waste my time studying on rules these white men have set down, then march up to another white man who’s going to judge me as to whether or not I’ve got the same way of thinking about them as he has.”
“But, Papa,” I said, “for now, that’s about the only way to get to vote down here.”
“Then I won’t be voting. Besides, even if I could vote, who’
d I vote for? More white folks?”
“Maybe,” Mama said, “one day we’ll get some white people running for office who’ll think twice about their politics and do what’s good for colored folks as well as whites because they’ll want our vote. We don’t like how they’re doing us, we’ll help vote them out.”
“And maybe one day,” I added, “there’ll even be some colored folks running for office and we can vote for them.”
Papa laughed. “Well, maybe then I’ll see about trying to vote. ’Til then, they just gonna have to do without me.” He sounded like Uncle Hammer, and both Mama and I told him so, but we understood. A lot of people felt the same.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
I told Mama and Papa I needed to return to Boston for a few days to take care of some casework. I told Morris the same, but Morris knew I was going to see about Guy and I didn’t deny it. Probably Mama and Papa knew that too, but they said nothing. Each day I had called the Boston office to check on Guy. He was still in the hospital. There had been some swelling on the brain, but the swelling had gone down and the prognosis was that he would fully recover and that there would be no brain damage. As soon as I arrived in Boston, I went to see him. His mother was at the hospital when I arrived and she did not leave. When I went again, he was alone, but there was an awkwardness between us. He didn’t have much to say. I didn’t know how he was feeling toward me. I didn’t know how I was feeling toward him either.
I was in Boston less than a week, but while I was there, Morris was arrested. He had taken Mrs. Batie and the Steptoes back to the county registrar. As before, white people had gathered in front of the courthouse and were waiting when he, Mrs. Batie, and the Steptoes came out. The sheriff was waiting too. As the white folks jeered at Morris, Mrs. Batie, and the Steptoes, the crowd became animated and the sheriff stepped forward and arrested Morris. He handcuffed him and took him to jail, saying Morris was “inciting folks toward riot.” I returned to Mississippi and got Morris out on bail. Although paying bail was discouraged, many in the movement did pay bail for expedience. As head of the Spokane registration drive, Morris was needed, not in jail, but to continue the drive. He still had to appear before a judge, and most likely he would have to serve more jail time. He would be standing before a white judge, and we all understood what that meant.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Mama decided to take the test. On the next trip to the registrar’s office, Papa drove her to Strawberry and I went with them. Morris drove his car with a group, and Deacon Sanders also drove a group. Once more we walked the long flight of stairs to the courthouse doors and once more no one’s answers suited the registrar’s interpretation of the articles. No one passed the test, not even Mama, and we all knew if anyone, black or white, was qualified to pass that literacy test, it was Mama, and she was clearly upset about it. “So, what happens if folks keep failing the test according to the registrar?” Mama demanded to know on our way back.
“Well, there are already lawsuits against county registrars. We’ll probably do the same here. Over in Pike County and a couple other counties, the registrars have allowed a few colored people to pass the test, mainly doctors, college professors, and leading Negro business people, so they can point out in a lawsuit how qualified the people they let pass are, not like all the other colored people who are attempting to register. Course now, only a handful of colored people voting won’t change anything and these white people know that. Thing is, here in Spokane County no one has passed.”
“And with these white folks around here,” Papa said, “no one will.”
I turned to Papa. “Then eventually we’ll file a lawsuit against them.”
Coming from Strawberry the sky was clear, but halfway to home we noticed haze settling in. As we neared the Wallace store we smelled smoke. “Something’s burning,” Mama said. The pungent smell of smoke grew stronger as we approached the crossroads. Then we saw the black plumes rising above the trees.
“Great Faith!” I cried.
Papa pressed his foot flat to the gas. Morris was right behind. When we reached Great Faith, we saw several people already on the grounds running to and from the church toward the old well, buckets in hand. Others held hoses that were connected to the building, spraying water onto the fire. Mama, Papa, and I rushed to join them. Morris and the folks in his car did the same. Papa and Morris went over to help with the hoses. Mama and I and those able-bodied enough took up buckets and ran to join the brigade of people at the well. Already the fire had burned through a portion of the roof and smoke was spewing from broken windows. No one rang the bell; no one could get to the belfry to summon the community for help, but more folks were coming anyway. They had smelled the smoke.
More people joined the line at the well. Another line formed all the way to the creek as folks passed along bucket after bucket of water in a frenzied effort to save the church. Others took up wet blankets and attacked the fire directly to try to beat it down. The men with their hoses at the front and back of the church sent water rushing onto the building. The elderly people, unable to lift buckets or swat the fire with blankets, stood back and prayed. We all fought the fire as best we could, coughing as the smoke filled our lungs, enduring the rising heat, the filth of the soot, and the burning embers that scorched our skin as the flames leapt toward us. Night settled over the grounds of Great Faith, but the light of the fire reddened the night.
The fire kept growing. We couldn’t stop it.
The fire could be seen in the belly of the church sanctuary. It consumed the pulpit and the altar and the benches. There was no longer hope of saving the building. Finally, as the roof of the church totally caved and the walls began to crumble, we put down our buckets and our hoses and our blankets and stood in horrified silence, watching Great Faith burn.
A HUNDRED YEARS
(1961–1963)
I went back to Boston. Morris stayed in the fight. After Great Faith burned, people turned away from trying to register to vote, but once Morris was out of jail, he became more defiant and went to each person who had previously attempted to register and tried to persuade them that this was not the time to quit. He told them that quitting was what the people who had burned Great Faith wanted, for the drive to end. Still, people were frustrated by their attempts to register, for despite all their efforts no one was registered, and they were sorrow-stricken by the burning of the church. The church could be rebuilt, but they figured they would never be allowed to vote. The teachers who had come from other parts of the state returned home, just as I had done, and only Morris was left in the Great Faith community to carry on the drive.
The Great Faith drive in Spokane County wasn’t the only one to falter. In other counties, teachers were also going home, but that didn’t mean protests were over. In late September we learned that Mr. Herbert Lee of Amite County had been killed by his white neighbor, who had ordered him to stop working in the drive. Mr. Herbert Lee refused. The white neighbor, a Mississippi legislator and relative to the sheriff, pulled out a gun and shot Mr. Herbert Lee right in front of more than ten other people. That white neighbor went before a coroner’s jury that same day and was acquitted. County law officials dismissed all charges. But the death of Mr. Herbert Lee sparked the black community to action and people took to the streets in protest. Some of the SNCC workers were arrested. High school students were arrested. Then, right around Christmastime, a bus carrying Freedom Riders arrived in McComb and the riders were brutally attacked and arrested too.
Soon after the freedom ride into McComb, Morris stopped in Toledo on his way to see Moe. It was the holidays and I was in Toledo. Since the burning of Great Faith, all of us had been raising money to rebuild the church. I had managed to raise more than a thousand dollars in Boston. Stacey, Christopher-John, and Clayton had done the same in Toledo. Across the country people who had been part of the Great Faith community, but had fled from Mississip
pi, were raising money. That included Uncle Hammer in Oakland. All of us were going to the churches and businesses in our communities and telling them what the church meant to our Mississippi community and why it was so important to rebuild. None of us knew the names of those who had burned Great Faith. Other churches throughout the South had been burned, but mostly under darkness. The people who burned Great Faith had come during the day, but no one had seen them. No one had been at the church.
Back home, plans were already under way for the rebuilding. Papa and other elders of the church had met with banks in Jackson and Vicksburg to see about getting a loan. They wanted the rebuilding to begin by the next revival, and the money we were raising would lower the amount of the loan needed. The banks, however, denied the loan. Great Faith Church had allowed the registration drive, and the banks were not about to forget that. Great Faith would have to raise all the money needed to rebuild. The Great Faith community remained undaunted. They wanted a building kickoff that would involve people coming home for the week of the revival to labor along with the community. In the meanwhile, church services were being held in one of the vacated school buildings.
“So, here’s the thing,” said Morris as we sat in Stacey and Dee’s living room strategizing about our next moves for Great Faith. “We get enough money raised and start rebuilding, we’ve got to make sure another burning doesn’t happen. You know a lot of the younger people have left over the years, but we’ve still got enough able-bodied men, women too, who could watch over the grounds, both during the rebuilding and after. We want to recruit those people coming for the revival and the rebuilding to stay on at night as well and watch out for the place.”
We were all in agreement with that.
All the Days Past, All the Days to Come Page 37
