I placed my hand in Papa’s calloused hand. “When I’m here, in this place, Papa, with all of you, I am. I’m very happy.” Papa squeezed my hand, and together, we looked up into the trees.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
September came, and Mississippi headlined the news. A young black man named James Meredith was attempting to enroll at the all-white University of Mississippi. James Meredith was twenty-seven years old, a student at all-black Jackson State and an Air Force veteran. He was denied admission. With the help of the NAACP and its Mississippi field secretary, Medgar Evers, who had also once applied to the university and been denied, James Meredith filed a lawsuit against the University of Mississippi, stating that he was denied admission based on his race. A federal court, supported by a Supreme Court ruling, ordered the University of Mississippi to admit James Meredith.
On September 20, James Meredith, with the backing of the court order, went to the university campus to register at “Ole Miss,” as the university was affectionately called by white Mississippi, but he was denied admission by the governor himself, one Ross R. Barnett. Governor Barnett had gone on statewide television and proclaimed that a Negro would never be admitted to the University of Mississippi. Many whites considered the university a white sanctuary, a bastion of white purity, and they wanted it to remain that way. They said keeping the school all-white would protect the white race. James Meredith did not give up. On September 25 he again attempted to enroll at the University of Mississippi. Again he was denied admission by the governor, Ross Barnett.
That wasn’t the end of it.
On September 26 James Meredith once more attempted to register. This time it was the lieutenant governor, Paul Johnson, who blocked him and denied his admission. By now the Kennedys had become involved. The state of Mississippi had defied a federal court order, and President Kennedy and his brother Attorney General Robert Kennedy had no choice but to enforce that order. A war had been fought a hundred years before that decided federal law superseded state law, and Mississippi had to comply with the federal order. It was understood that James Meredith again would attempt to register; this time he would have the full backing of the Kennedy administration and, if necessary, federal troops. The date set for the next attempt at enrollment was Monday, October 1.
On Saturday, September 29, at an Ole Miss–Kentucky football game, Governor Barnett appeared before the all-white stadium crowd and cried, “Never!” and the aroused crowd responded in kind, chanting “Never!” Late Sunday afternoon September 30, the news reported that hundreds of federal armed guards had arrived outside the administration building at Ole Miss. A white crowd had begun to gather on the campus, and before the sun was down a riot broke out as the crowd challenged the guards. Governor Barnett went on Mississippi television and urged calm. He said he had been told by Attorney General Robert Kennedy that James Meredith was already on the Ole Miss campus. Later that night, he assured his fellow white Mississippians that the state of Mississippi would never surrender to the court order.
The rioting grew fierce.
President Kennedy addressed the nation. He said, “No man is entitled to defy a court of law.” He too called for calm. He called for rational thinking.
Christopher-John and Clayton Chester with their families had come over to Stacey and Dee’s during the afternoon, and we all watched the television news, transfixed, as the rioting, out of control now, raged on and the standoff between the state of Mississippi and the federal government continued. Not only were the white students rioting to keep James Meredith from registering, but also hundreds of whites from around the state and elsewhere were pouring into the university town of Oxford to combat the guards and prevent the enrollment. We watched until after the nightly news. The fierce rioting was still going on.
The next morning we learned just how bad things had gotten down in Oxford. Two people had been killed and more than one hundred wounded, including federal marshals. Several hundred people had been arrested. The white rioters had thrown rocks and bottles, overturned and burned cars, and smashed windows as they raged against the admission of James Meredith. During the night President Kennedy had ordered in thousands of Army troops from Tennessee to quell the violence, and the soldiers had put a stop to all the mayhem. Before eight o’clock on Monday morning, James H. Meredith was enrolled as the first black student at the University of Mississippi.
We could hardly believe it.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
The South’s racist’s armor was starting to fracture. Voting registration was now allowed in some states. Interstate buses now allowed integrated seating. Lunch counters in South Carolina and North Carolina, Georgia and Virginia were now integrated. It looked as if we were actually beginning to win this fight. So much was happening, even in hard-line Mississippi, but we knew that not everything was about to change, at least not right away. Racism and bigotry had been centuries in the making and were not about to disappear without a trace overnight. We had not yet gotten all we were fighting for, but we were making inroads. In October, Mississippi had its state fair. As always, the first week of the fair was for whites only. The following three days were for blacks. Medgar Evers of the NAACP called for a boycott of the fair. Black folks mostly stayed away. We were, as Mama said, hitting the white powers in Mississippi in their pocketbooks.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
As Christmas and the new year approached, ’lois wrote one of her long letters to Mama, giving her all the details to pass along to Papa and Big Ma about the family and how we all were doing. ’lois always wrote long letters. She had gotten that from Mama, and Mama always responded with a long letter of her own. Everybody else in the family, including me, wrote a page or two and were done, but not ’lois and Mama. When Mama wrote back, ’lois shared her Christmas letter with the rest of us. Mama wrote about the boycott of Jackson stores recently begun by Medgar Evers and the NAACP. It was hitting downtown merchants hard right before Christmas. Demands were for the end of segregation in the stores, the right to first come, first served service, as well as for Negroes to be addressed with respect by all store personnel as Mr. or Mrs. or Miss, the same as white patrons. Mama also wrote that there had been more trouble in the area. Hooded riders had driven through Strawberry and throughout the countryside. Pastor Hubbard had asked that no Christmas lights be displayed, in support of the Jackson boycott and to protest for our demand for equal rights. We did not need lights to celebrate the birth of the Christ child. In Toledo, at our church, we asked that the lights be darkened too.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
The new year started quietly enough. It was 1963, and the hundred-year anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation. All of us working in the Movement knew the quiet would not last. There were big plans in the works as we pushed for equality in this centennial year. There was even talk about a grand march for civil rights on Washington. In the spring, demonstrations continued across the South, in Greenwood, Mississippi, and in Birmingham, Alabama. The boys and I talked about going home, not just because of all the unrest but because Papa was still not feeling as strong as he should. Mama wrote that Papa couldn’t shake the cold which had lingered since the revival and throughout the winter. She said he had finally given in and gone to a doctor in Jackson, but the doctor said it was simply a cold and needed to be treated that way. Papa had been given vitamins and he ate well, had all the nutritious food he needed what with Big Ma’s cooking and the preserved vegetables from last year’s garden, but his strength still seemed to be waning. “You know Papa, strong as a bull,” said Christopher-John, “but last time we were home, he got winded just chopping firewood.”
I tried to rationalize Papa’s diminishing strength. “Well, he is older now. We have to expect he can’t be the same as ten years ago.”
“But at the revival he still had plenty of stamina,” contended Man. “He was fin
e working on the church.”
Stacey pointed out that was several months ago. “Maybe we’ve all got to accept the fact that Papa’s starting to go down, like Cassie said, just because of his age.”
None of us wanted to accept that Papa was not as strong as he once had been, but we knew it was true. In early April, Stacey decided to go south. “I’ll go before Easter and see for myself how Papa’s doing.” Before Stacey left, he and I went to see Moe.
“Wish I could go with you,” Moe said.
“Well, you can’t,” said Stacey.
“Ought to go anyway.”
“I’d knock you out before I’d let you go,” Stacey threatened.
Moe sighed. “Well, anyway, here’s something I want you to take down.” He gave Stacey a package, then reached into his wallet and pulled out an envelope. “Some shirts and some money for my daddy.” Stacey nodded and took the envelope. “Give my love to him, to all of them, and tell that hardheaded Morris to be careful down there. I don’t want him getting on the wrong side of Mississippi law the way I am.”
“He already has been,” I reminded Moe. “Long as he’s working in that voter registration drive, he’s going to be on the wrong side of Mississippi law.”
“Yeah, I know . . . that’s what I’m afraid of. . . .”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
When Stacey returned from his trip south, he told us news we did not want to hear. “Papa’s got a blood disease.” He waited a moment, but Christopher-John, Clayton Chester, and I said nothing. We were too stunned to speak. “I persuaded Papa to let me take him to Jackson again, to a different doctor, to have some testing done. This is what they found.”
After moments of silence I muttered, “What can they do about it?”
Stacey was somber. “They’ve got him on some medications, but I’ll be honest with you. It doesn’t look good, and you know how stubborn Papa is. He already said he’s not about to spend his days in a hospital when there’s work to be done on the land.” We all nodded, knowing that was Papa. “Thing is, Papa looks good, same as always. Lost a few pounds, hardly noticeable, but I could tell his strength isn’t the same.”
We all were silent, not wanting to believe that Papa was really ill.
Christopher-John broke the silence. “Look, Stacey, we’ll each go down, stay a few weeks. I just hate that they’re down there without us.”
“I’ll go down next,” volunteered Man.
So it was settled. Little Man drove south in late April and stayed into May. Christopher-John went down in early June. Uncle Hammer joined him there. Stacey and I would go together in July, and I, with the most flexible schedule, would stay on for a while. All of us figured to be home in August for the revival. That was our plan. But then, in the second week of June, while Christopher-John was already in Mississippi, our plans changed. Myrtis suddenly called from Detroit. I answered the phone. She was frantic. “Tell Stacey, he’s got to stop him!”
“Stop who? What are you talking about, Myrtis?”
“Moe!” she cried. “They done killed Morris, and Moe, he’s gone back to Mississippi!”
LET THE CIRCLE BE UNBROKEN
(1963)
It was late night Mississippi when we reached Jackson. Stacey, Man, and I had gotten on the road shortly after Myrtis called. Our hearts were heavy. We all loved Morris. We all loved Moe too and we had to do what we could to stop him. We didn’t know if we could reach Moe before he was caught or he did something stupid like go after whoever killed Morris. We didn’t know if there was anything we could do, but we had to try. As always when we drove south, there was the anticipation of being back home again, of being with people we loved most in this life, but there was also, as we drew closer and closer to home, the mounting dread that came with setting foot again on Mississippi soil. The tension had always been there since our first trip back from the North, but in these recent years, with racial unrest and white folks on the alert for every wave of protest against their social order, the dread was more pronounced and the fear mounted.
On the way down the radio news reported that two Negroes had been admitted as students to the all-white University of Alabama. Their names were Vivian Malone and James Hood. The governor of Alabama, George Wallace, who earlier in the year had proclaimed, “Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever,” at first had stood at the door of the university auditorium to deny them admission. There was a federal court order to integrate the university, but the governor continued to block the entry. Then, after a presidential order demanding the governor step aside, and with federal marshals as well as the federalized Alabama National Guard standing by, the Negro students were admitted peaceably. There had been no riots. President Kennedy again addressed the nation and said that segregation was morally wrong and that it was time for Congress to act to ensure equal rights. Still, the events of the day, no matter how celebratory they were to our cause, knotted our stomachs as we approached home. We knew most Mississippi white folks did not like hearing this news; it was another stone dislodged from their foundation of inequality and white superiority.
When we arrived in Jackson, we went straight to Little Willie’s. We needed to know if Moe had contacted him. He hadn’t. “You mean to tell me that scound’ gone and come back here after all the trouble we gone through just getting him north?” exclaimed Little Willie.
“After what happened with Morris, what you expect?” countered Stacey as Dora brought a tray of cold lemonade for us.
Little Willie shook his head. “Yeah, guess you right. Lord, that’s a terrible thing! Dora and me, we been crying ’bout it since we heard. They killed that boy because of all that voter registration business!”
“Well, just what happened?” I asked. “All Myrtis could tell us was that Moe came to Detroit, got Dwayne’s car, and said Morris was dead, that they’d killed him. That’s it, nothing else.”
“Well, from what I hear,” said Little Willie, “Morris’s car gone off into the Creek Rosa Lee. That’s where they found him.”
“He just went off the road?” questioned Clayton incredulously, his voice muffled with emotion he was trying to hold back. “How’s that?”
Little Willie shrugged. “That’s what the sheriff said. Seems Morris had been up to the courthouse in Strawberry, had taken folks there to try to register. That was on Friday. When they came back from Strawberry, he dropped them off and that was the last anybody seen him until they pulled his car out of the Rosa Lee. It was over there where the creek runs along one of them back roads. Now, here’s the thing. What’s today? Tuesday? Well, the sheriff down there already done ruled Morris’s death an accident. We don’t know if the boy drowned or what. Talked to Maynard. They seen Morris’s body, they ain’t seen his car. Sheriff got it. Might not be a bullet in that boy or a rope around his neck, but we figure Morris was forced off that road. Wasn’t no accident.”
“Any way to prove that?” I said.
Little Willie looked hard at me. “Late at night. Nobody around. What you think?”
There were no words to speak what we all felt.
Little Willie cleared his throat. “Crying shame. And his wife just had that baby, not even a week ago.”
I bowed my head thinking of Denise and how much in love she and Morris had been. “How is she doing?” I asked softly.
Dora answered. “’Bout as you’d expect. She loved that boy. Morris was her world.”
“What I want to know,” said Willie, “is how did Moe find out?”
“Levis,” Stacey said. “He called him from Jackson. Figured Moe needed to know.”
“Fool!” cried Willie. “Didn’t he know what Moe might do?”
“Guess he wasn’t thinking. Time like this, a body doesn’t always think straight. Soon as Moe heard, he jumped in his car and headed for Detroit, that’s what Myrtis said. Myrtis couldn’t stop him from g
oing. Said if Dwayne didn’t give him his car, he’d drive his own, and he was talking about finishing what he’d started.”
Little Willie looked wild-eyed at Stacey. “What you mean?”
“What you think I mean?”
“Ah, naw! Ah, naw! He ain’t fool enough to think he could go kill them white boys!”
“Well, that’s what started it all,” I declared. “Statler, Leon, and Troy all those years ago.”
“Who said it was them?” retorted Little Willie. “Can’t be sure about that! Plenty of white folks hated Morris because of that voter registration business! Heard some white folks say Morris like driving folks around to register so much, maybe they’d just give him a ride. And remember now, the sheriff already ruled Morris’s death an accident. So far, nobody got proof otherwise.”
Stacey lowered his head and rubbed his forehead in thought. Looking up again, he gazed across at Willie. “If Moe didn’t get stopped, he has to be down here by now. We thought he might contact you for help.”
“Wish he had’ve. I would’ve done told the boy to go on back to Canada. Ain’t nothing he can do down here dead.”
We all stared at Little Willie.
“It’s the truth! He end up dead, just like Morris! If they ain’t picked him up, he probably went straight on down to his daddy’s.” Little Willie took swallows of his lemonade and looked around at us. “So, what y’all planning on doing? Y’all come all the way down here to see ’bout Moe, keep him from getting caught, what you got in mind?”
All the Days Past, All the Days to Come Page 40
