​Memphis. We arrived Friday night, and Saturday morning went to the National Museum of Civil Rights at The Lorraine Motel. To me, it seemed a little anti-climactic. For many of us, the emotional drain had been tremendous. We have visited museums, one right after another. On trips with my family I might have spent several hours, (or until overload), going through one museum, and not another one for a few days. But perhaps there is method to this madness, giving us the feeling of being oppressed. The people of the time endured so much more. I wonder if growing up in the South, during the Movement era, would qualify as PTSD?
 
I had been to Memphis twice before. I was there in the mid 70’s for several weeks of training to teach in an academically gifted program in Joliet, IL. Memphis Public Schools had a model Gifted and Talented program and Joliet, in an attempt to better integrate a couple of it’s schools that were physically cut off from the rest of the city, decided to put a program for gifted students into those schools, feeding it with students from all over the city. And I was in Memphis about about 5 years ago for a Progressive Ministry conference. Memphis happened to be the home of one of the founders of that movement, Phyllis Tickle. I visited part of the Civil Rights Museum at The Lorraine Motel on that trip; the part that dealt with the theories of Kings death.
 
The Museum proper, is stunning. It has all the glitz, bells and whistles of most of the other museums we had visited, but in a more comprehensive way. It traced the life of Black people in the US from slavery through after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. Much of what we had learned on the Pilgrimage already, was recapped for us in this museum. Maybe I was just tired from the assault on my emotions, but I have to admit, as I toured the museum, I spent very little time at any one exhibit. I had some information clarified, but had reached emotion overload so not sure how much I took in.
 
I will never see images of people being brutalized and feel nothing. Whether the photos and videos are of slaves standing on auction blocks, with chains and shackles around them, or being set upon by dogs, or drug through crowds by police at what began as peaceful demonstrations, I will always be disturbed and feel my pulse accelerate. I’ll always feel the pressure in my eyes, of tears being held back when I read the name, Emmett Till, or hear King’s speech given the night before he was killed. I know I will never feel nonchalant, about seeing the Confederate flag, or a hangman’s noose, or even hearing people talk about lynching. All of these things are too painful. These things are not worthy of humanity.
 
That leads me to something I’ve thought about and even mentioned in a previous post. The last exhibit in the Civil Rights Museum at the Lorraine, focused on the aftermath of Kings death and the movements that emerged from the era. It looked at Black Culture and how it evolved. It looked at the plight of Native people and that of Gays and Lesbians. I appreciated the understanding that there is indeed, a relationship of the “isms”, that the fight for the rights of Black people cannot be separated from a fight for freedom, justice and the rights of others who are disenfranchised. I am glad those are logical conclusions and that it’s understood the fight(s) continue.
 
But to me, it seems the Civil Rights era culminated with the passage of the Civil Rights Act and the death of Martin Luther King, Jr. With the election of Barrack Obama, many people felt America was now in a post-racial era. People were (are?) tired of talking about race, I get that. But it’s been my observation we move on too quickly. The resistance seemed to recede after King was assassinated. Just as when Evers and other Movement leaders were assassinated, the racists hoped that by cutting off the leadership, the Movement would fizzle out, it certainly seemed to with King’s death. The conversation about race seemed to be put onto a back burner. Whenever we talk of race, other things become a distraction and racism becomes sidelined. But I understand, I truly do, because I could not sustain complete focus on racism and Civil Rights for an entire week without pulling back a little! But we have to continue the resistance, we have to continue the conversation and the education and the push for diversity and inclusion. We have to continue the movement for justice.
 
Throughout the week, as I’ve shared my reflections, a few people have responded that what I’ve written is very dark. I agree. But the hope is in the people we met in Alabama, Mississippi and Tennessee. The grace and openness of the people, to living more fully as citizens of the United States, and to not letting the hatred, the violence, and vileness win. The hope is with the people touched by the history, whether because they lived it, have been witnesses to it, are in other ways part of the resistance, or have been with me and the Living Legacy Pilgrimage or in other ways, immersing themselves into an experience whose intention is to not just be informed, but to be drafted into a movement that is as much needed today as it was 50 years ago.
 
I think I will let the stuff in my head and in my heart settle for a while, and may amend this last post with another, in a week or in a months’ time. Please know that I am tremendously grateful for the prayers and well wishes, for the stories some of you have shared with me, and for simply listening as I’ve tried to be coherent about how the experience has impacted me. I treasure your walk with me. Just knowing I was not alone in the walk, that those physically with me and those of you with me through the magic of the internet, helped me to find balance in a world I really didn’t know. Having two of my sisters with me on the trip, and a third sister and my brother and husband with me via email also meant a lot - that we could share it together, means more than I can say. Thank you all for caring. I look forward to sharing further with you as time permits.
 
L

​Today is our last full day. On the schedule is the Medgar Evers house, Fanny Lou Hamer and Emmett Till. All three people are tremendously instrumental in the Movement. Medgar Evers and Fanny Lou Hamer, for the way they lived. Emmett Till, for the way he died.
 
Again, I am struck by the ordinary. The Evers house is small. It’s painted a turquoise color and has an attached car port. Evers was killed when he arrived home one night. An assailant with a rifle, from across the street from his home, shot him in the back. Evers lasted long enough to pull himself into the house. I couldn’t help but think, ‘This was his home, the place he came to be refreshed and not the leader of a Movement, but a place where he was a husband and a Dad. A man’. Looking at the street where he lived, it was an ordinary street with houses all around that really weren’t any different. This ordinary man, had a calling to do something extraordinary – something necessary, vital for his family, for Black people, for white people (though many of them might not have known it or acknowledged it), for the country.
 
We didn’t know it (the team leaders knew) but, Reena Evers, daughter of Medgar Evers, was expected to be present and share her story. Unfortunately she was ill and couldn’t be with us. Being aware of his assassination back when it happened, though not fully aware of the significance of it, I was disappointed. As we were driving to our next location, we were surprised with a phone call from her. I was impressed that someone so central to the Medgar Evers story, would take the time to speak with us! She didn’t know us. But when she spoke it was as if she really wanted to share with us, something about the man she knew, something about his drive and motivation, something about his character. In the process, we learned that he and his wife, Myrlie, did a phenomenal job with their children because Reena exuded grace, gentleness, sureness and love in her conversation with us.
 
After a week of so much heaviness, I felt the tension from my emotions begin to lighten. She invited us into the struggle, into the movement, with sweet words that spoke of the house as a place of love, not a place where tragedy struck. And when no one spoke up to comment, I found myself raising my hand. I thanked her for the generosity of her family, and told her how humble I felt, and how grateful we all were for their commitment. I spoke with Medgar Evers’ daughter! Of course, she couldn’t hear me well through a cell phone, and later I had to ask someone what I said, but that’s beside the point. I spoke with her.
 
We then went to the Fanny Lou Hamer memorial. She was a woman who was larger than life. She began from very humble beginnings, in a family of share croppers. And she became someone who helped galvanize people to work toward voting rights. She stood on the floor of the Democratic convention and told her story as she and the delegation of ‘Freedom Democrats’ from the state of Mississippi demanded the right to be seated as duly elected representatives to the convention. I had often heard songs of Fanny Lou Hamer. Another ordinary person who did something quite extraordinary.
 
My awe of these ordinary Black people from the South, a region of the country and a people from that region that many white people didn’t have much use for, was overwhelming. As we approached the Hamer memorial, we sang, “This Little Light of Mine”, which happened to be a signature song for her. And after viewing the memorial, before pausing for a moment, to hear her speech to the convention, we sang another song, a song that expressed triumphantly,  who this lady was and what she did. And why the Movement was so important.
 
Music was so important in the Movement. The songs galvanized, geared up the Civil Rights workers for what was to come. They comforted them when there were upsets, soothed them when there were tragic losses, bolstering their spirits, and when words were insufficient, helped the people to speak volumes about life and the effort to live it wholly and fully. One of the leaders of our Pilgrimage is a musician who taught and led us in the singing of the protest songs from the time. These songs were a lifeline and an outlet for the emotions the workers and ordinary people, and we the Pilgrims felt on the journey. I’ll never again hear the words to some of the songs we sang, songs I had known, in the same way.
 
Emmett Till is the young man whose abduction and death shocked the nation and world and, in my opinion, set the Civil Rights movement firmly on the path of securing the vote for Black people. A 14 year old visiting Mississippi from Chicago, apparently whistled at a white woman. He was pulled from his bed in the late hours of the night, taken, horribly beaten and killed. When his body was found and returned to his mother in Chicago, he was unrecognizable. His mother made the decision to have the casket open at his funeral, to which thousands attended. She wanted to the world to see what had been done to her son.
 
The Emmett Till Intrepid museum was, more than any other museum we have seen on the journey, the most stark, the least glitzy, the one museum locked in a time warp. It didn’t have the multi-media displays. It didn’t have the well manicured or landscaped look of a place designed for impact from the moment you step into it. It was in an old building that had been part of the processing plant for the cotton that would have been picked in the area. It was a dingy looking place that people from the town had made into a memorial. It made an impact in a way the other, multi million dollar places could not.
 
I had known of Emmett Till but not until years after his murder. I had not seen photos until just a year ago, at the exhibit at the African American Museum of History and Culture, in Washington DC. I’m not sure I could see them before then, and sorry I saw them then. I cannot think about him and what was done to him, without shaking and knowing that what was done was pure evil. The world has to see. The world has to know. The world has to come to grips with the inhumane, the senseless, the horrific way it deals with racism. We have to find ways to assert our humanity. We have to find ways to co-exist with people who are other than us. We have to find ways or we are doomed. We will annihilate ourselves. We have to fight for wholeness. We have to fight for life. We have to fight. If we want to live, if there is any humanity in us, we have to fight for it. We have to fight.
 
​Laura

Today (Tuesday) was not as heavy as yesterday was. We met a few people, both alive and dead, and visited a museum that was dedicated to the Right to Vote. Oh, and we walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge.
 
Part of the Pilgrimage journey has included speakers who were in different ways connected to the Movement. On Sunday, during dinner, we met a man who was the son of Viola Liuzzo. I had not heard of her, but she was a UU Civil Rights activist from Michigan. I’m not sure she thought of herself as an activist, but she was a housewife and mother of 5. When ML King issued a call for clergy and others to come to Selma, in the wake of the Bloody Sunday attempt at marching across the Edmund Pettus Bridge, en-route to Montgomery, she told her family she felt called to go. She helped with coordination and logistics in the successful Selma to Montgomery march. Driving back from a trip shuttling fellow activists to the Montgomery airport, she was shot dead by members of the KKK, just outside of Marion, AL. She was 39 years old.
 
Anthony Liuzzo shared horrific stories of the aftermath of his mother’s killing. The family, in Detroit, was harassed, received death threats and nasty, telephone calls. The children (youngest was about 6) were threatened and for the longest, life was hell for them. We visited her grave site. A monument is erected on the side of the road, near where her body was found. It has a wrought iron gate around it, but that has not stopped vandals from applying graffiti, or others from shooting it with shot guns.
 
Rev. James Reeb was a UU minister, who worked with the American Friends Service Committee on housing issues in Boston. He too responded to ML King’s summons following Bloody Sunday. He and two Black men had dinner together and were walking back to the Church in Marion AL (Brown Chapel, where the mass gatherings were held), and they were attacked by 3 or 4 white men who bludgeoned them, causing fatal injuries in Reeb, who died 2 days later. 3 men were tried for the attack and were acquitted.
 
Jo Ann Bland was 8 years old when she told her grandmother she wanted to sit at the counter at Carter’s Drug Store, and have an ice cream cone. She didn’t understand it when her grandmother told her she couldn’t do that, but that one day, when Black people were free she could. She argued with her that there was this thing called the Emancipation Proclamation that said she was already free. When she was 11, in 1965, she joined her sister and other children on the March on March 7. As the marchers crested the Edmund Pettus Bridge, they were met by a sea of blue – the police and state troopers had come out to prevent their going to Montgomery. The Sheriff told the people they would have 2 minutes to turn back. There were so many people, however, those in the front of the line were unable to warn those in the back of the line. The Sheriff, however, gave the marchers only 1 minute before the patrolmen began confronting them, with clubs, batons, cattle prods and guns.
 
11 year old JoAnn and her 15 year old sister ran as best they could. They too were hit with clubs. JoAnn was not hurt so much as she was terrified. She didn’t know until later, as the two of them finally managed to get away, that the drops falling on Joann’s shoulder from her sister were not tears, but drops of blood. Her sister required 35 stitches in her head and on her face. But, on March 21, when King defied a court order to not assemble and march, JoAnn’s sister was again there, and was the youngest person to complete the entire march to Montgomery. JoAnn had been arrested 13 times by the time she was 13, for her Activist work.
 
I love and am committed to Jerrett. I love and am committed to Jessica and Stephanie (my step-daughters) and their families. I love and am committed to my sisters, Charlotte, Starla, Audrey and my brother Michael, and their families. I love and am committed to God. The commitment of Viola and James and Viola’s sister, points us all toward understanding justice as more than a concept, more than an ideal to aspire to.
 
The right to vote was the way to be counted, as a way of having a say. To be acknowledged as a person. The rules were continuously changing for the Black population. Literacy tests and citizenship tests were used to disqualify people. And the goal posts were always being moved. A question on the literacy test might have been, “How many feathers are on a chicken?” If the applicant got a certain number of questions wrong, it would disqualify them. People returned time and time again, to complete the questionnaires.
 
My heart hurt, just hearing JoAnn’s stories. And I had no words at Viola’s grave, or at the marker for Rev. Reeb. I find that not only do I not understand the kind of hatred a person must have, to want another person killed, I am also beginning to understand some of the anger Black people hold against white people who deny their humanity.
 
Even though I’ve read a lot, and talked a lot with others about White Privilege, I understood it in another way today. With the Montgomery Bus Boycott that continued for 13 months, the question was asked why the business leaders didn’t try sooner to come to some kind of compromise. They were losing thousands of dollars, every day. The surrounding businesses were losing money. The fines collected for the most inane things couldn’t begin to cover what was being lost. Why wouldn’t the business leaders (white men) try to reach some kind of compromise? The answer, ‘They loved power over the Black people, more than they wanted money. They loved their status and their perceived superiority, more than money.” Privilege is that power, that feeling of superiority. I am profoundly saddened by that understanding.

​L
 ​

I am in awe of the many men and women of the Civil Rights movement, whose commitment of not only their time and money, but also their lives, made so much possible, helped create the changes that the Movement is responsible for.

It was a very full day in Birmingham. After breakfast we were bused to Bethel Baptist Church, the new home of the congregation which had been, along with it’s pastor, at the center of the Civil Rights movement in Birmingham. After worship and lunch we went to the original, or the Historic Bethel Baptist Church, the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, the 16th Street Baptist Church and the Kelly Ingram Park, both across the street from the Institute. In the evening, we went to the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Birmingham, for dinner and a presentation.

There is so much to say that this note could easily become a history lesson, and I don’t want it to be that. But ...

The Rev. Fred Shuttlesworth, the activist leader of the Movement in Birmingham, had his house (next door to the historic church) bombed, was beat and arrested numerous times, and yet still put his life on the line, for the hope of justice. He was co-founder of the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights, which came into being just a few days after the NAACP in Alabama was outlawed. Under his leadership, the non-violent actions the Movement became known for, were already being used in attempts to get Black representation on the police force, in public transportation as bus drivers, and other areas of Birmingham society. The Birmingham airport is named for him. There are several walks or marches identified throughout the neighborhood of the church and the downtown area where actions occurred, many bearing words he uttered about the fight for justice. He walked along side MLK, Jr., and Abernathy and other giants. Historic Bethel, no longer used as a worship center, is being considered as a potential World Heritage site.

The 16th Street Baptist Church, the church that was bombed and 4 young girls killed, and in the confusion and fighting afterwards, 2 young men also killed.

The Kelly Ingram Park, the sight of one of the vilest events in the history of the Movement in Birmingham, where the children were hosed and dogs unleashed upon them at the command of “Bull” Connor, the Commissioner of Public Safety for Birmingham.

I am impressed with the organization it took to get people fired up and committed to fight for basic rights. Every Monday night, EVERY Monday night, there were meetings at several churches throughout the area, where people would go to rally together, learn, and plan. Every Monday night, for years.

The Birmingham Civil Rights Institute houses the history of the movement in Birmingham, from it’s founding to the present.

There is/was too much to take in, and too much to relate without, as said before, this becoming a recitation of history. But there are a few things (among the many) that stuck me or pulled at me, or twisted my gut – nothing really new, but grabbed me just the same.

The Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights had a Pledge that members were required to sign on to. Two of the Ten Commandments members agreed to were;

            #2  Remember always that the nonviolent movement in Birmingham seeks justice and reconciliation – not victory.

            #8  Refrain from violence of fist, tongue and heart.

The folks were still fighting Jim Crow …  in the South. But the goal was to be able to live together with those who are white, to be reconciled – there was a bigger picture in mind, not just the cessation of the evilness of racism. And in order to achieve this reconciliation, it needed to be an interior process too. It could not be just refraining from striking out with the fist, but ultimately, working on the soul to love enough, to know that the only way to get there was with a change in hearts.

And yet, Birmingham still struggles today with voter suppression among other issues. I spoke with a gentleman in the Institute, who was easily in his 80’s, and guiding people through a hallway into the main exhibit. When I asked if he was a native of the city and said I bet he has seen many changes, his reply was, “Yes, and need many, many more”.

I am in awe that people living so close to Jim Crow risked their lives in so many ways. Even the children who marched. Perhaps naively, but even some of them were quoted, “I am not afraid”.

And then there are things that repulsed me. Like the video of a society matron who said she was unaware there was much prejudice in Birmingham. She recounted a story about an essay contest held in the schools. The winner would have his or her essay framed and on display at the Library. She got a call when the winner’s family showed up at the library, to see the display. She didn’t know until that call, that the winner was a Black student. Blacks weren’t allowed to go into the Library. At all. After giving it some thought, she made it possible for the family to get in, outside of the regular business hours. She was happy to know that the good people in the Black community were really content with Birmingham society and there wasn’t really any prejudice to speak of. I wanted to vomit right there in the middle of the room.

I am descended from gracious, resilient, strong people. I am not a violent person, but I think perhaps we as a people, and as a nation, have grown very complacent. Maybe we moved on too quickly from the lessons learned in the 50’s and 60’s. And in moving on we’ve lost some of our dignity, chosen to “settle” for what we were given instead of holding out for more.

I saw in the faces of the photographs, heard in the words and voices of the quotes, heard in the stories and saw in the artwork, the memorials, the statues in the park, the memorial garden that replaced where a parsonage used to be, the energy, the zeal, the palpable yearning of people just to be, and to be with dignity. To breathe, and to breathe freely. And to live, not in isolation, but in peace and in relationship with others.

Wow! What a goal. What a dream. What a reality?

​Laura

I am in Birmingham for the beginning of what promises to be a very rewarding journey. As I waited for the time to gather, I couldn’t help but think about the people we will meet and the places we will see. And, I couldn’t help but think about what I know and what I know I don’t know.
​
​I grew up in Chicago, born in 1952. Chicago surely had it’s manifestations of racism, but for whatever reasons, I am not sure how much I was aware of them. My first awareness, where I could verbalize the injustice of racism, was in 1963 at an exhibit of the centennial anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation. I don’t remember photographs of slaves working the fields, in revolt, in chains or dressed well and in church. I do remember reading about Lincoln, and the document that made freedom a law, and that it pertained to me. And I do remember being surprised that we were celebrating this freedom. My family didn’t have much money, but I didn’t equate that with being poor because all the people around me seemed to be on the same economic level. I didn’t know or understand about racism because all those around me were positive, supportive, and trying to do the best for their families. I was protected by my mother and father and taught education was essential. That was my world. At the age of 11, I was just like any other 11 year old.
 
I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t know how I learned about racism. I think while growing up I had a dim awareness of riots in the south, water hoses and dogs turned on protesters, names like “Bull” Connor, and even the NAACP. Chicago had Jessie Jackson and a Saturday morning breakfast on the radio that was called Operation Breadbasket, which later became Operation PUSH (People United to Save Humanity – Jackson’s Rainbow Coalition). But I was much more aware of my own little world, with a father who was an alcoholic (though we didn’t acknowledge it then, at least not openly), a big brother who was being recruited by a gang, and that  my teeth protruded so much I was going to need braces. And so as our group gathered, and people who are about the same age I am talked about their lack of knowledge of the activities surrounding the fight for Civil Rights, I felt a big weight lift from my shoulders. Most of the people in the group were as ignorant as I am. I didn’t need to carry the mantle for being the resident expert on racism, or even on being Black. I didn’t need to be the one to process other peoples’ feelings of ignorance, guilt, shame, or whatever they were feeling, and not acknowledge my own.

We were encouraged to let go of things that might get in the way of our entering into the experiences being offered to us this week. And so already, I am glad I came. I am hopeful that I’ll not only learn some of this tragic, necessary and valorous history, but be able to claim this history as an important and integral piece of who I am. Instead of feeling like one who has never quite fit, in a society where it seems lines have been drawn and I’m either a radical, an uppity nigger or someone who has sold out to the other side (what ever that other side is). I am hoping this week will begin to help me understand, internally, the cost of the freedom I value to simply be me. I want to cherish, in fact, the strength, the hope, the resilience and the pride of people, whether Black or other, who have fought the battles and made it possible for me to be who I am.

And as I bare my ignorance, I hope you can see, hear, feel, and understand that this quest for wholeness for myself and for the people whose skin color I share, is simply that: the need for wholeness, rightness, and to use a theological concept, the need for Shalom – peace and unity of spirit. There is so much more to us than what we see and project to the world. And as I type this I will be honest with my feelings. At this moment I am crying and I want to say I don’t know where that is coming from, but I think that maybe I’ve worn a mask for so long, that I’ve assumed a certain character to fit in and be successful, and that like many other Black people, there are hurts so deep, I am only now acknowledging them and allowing them to surface. And at the age of 67!

Thanks for being with me on this journey.

 Laura, Nicky, Sister, Pastor, Friend, or however you know and call me. Me.