Oh my, where do I start? Today was a difficult day.
There are two instances where my family might claim a brush with the famous (or infamous?). The first is that I had a great, great uncle, who rode with Poncho Villa, but that’s a story for another time. The second, is that for one brief moment, Rosa Parks was a guest in our home. The unfortunate thing about that was I didn’t realize who she was, I couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11!
We drove to Montgomery and visited the Rosa Parks Museum. I won’t repeat the history you know except to say that Mrs. Parks appears to have been a gentle, unassuming woman, who worked as a tailor at a department store. She married a man who was a member of the NAACP 11 years before she herself joined. She provided leadership for the Youth branch, and volunteered to work as a secretary to a man who provided counsel to the Montgomery NAACP chapter.
Once she was arrested, when she was allowed to make her phone call, she called the attorney she worked with who soon arrived with a white attorney and bailed her out. Within hours, people knew she had been arrested and a day later, she was asked by the Montgomery Improvement Association (of whom ML King was the leader) if she would allow her arrest to stand as a test case for the courts. There was already a national order for the desegregation of interstate bus lines. The rest is history. The boycott lasted 13 months. The people did not give in. At the conclusion of it, King pronounced that it wasn’t a win for the Negro community, it was a win for justice.
That was inspiring. With all the things done to try to dissuade the people to give up and go back to riding the segregated bus, it was a justice issue. Again, I was in awe of the commitment of the people to meet regularly at the churches throughout the process, and to remain firm when they were harassed, drivers ticketed for made up infractions, new laws made with fines intended to hurt (such as, if 3 or more people waiting for a ride were congregating, they could be fined for loitering).
The Rosa Parks story was indeed, a good one.
The story at the EJI, the Equal Justice Initiative Complex, The Museum and National Memorial for Peace and Justice was also a good one, even though it was somber, and many of us wept. This museum is commonly referred to as ‘the Lynching’ museum.
Metal columns, each representing a county in the states where there were lynchings were hung in a semi-covered outdoor arena. The idea was to walk in rings, around this square and upon each county column, there were the engraved names and dates of those who had been lynched. Over 4000 known and documented lynchings from the early 1800’s – early 1960’s, were represented on these columns. I’ll try to attach a photo at the end.
As I walked through the monument, as I walked deeper into the columns, I felt as if there were a weight pressing down on me. At first, I wanted to pay homage to all those named; I began by touching the first column, then the second, as if I could tell them, “Today you are not forgotten, I am here to acknowledge you lived!” But there were too many to touch, too many names to read, too many people represented by the word, “Unknown”, Too, too many. As I walked past columns, the columns grew denser, closer together. County after county, state after state. And then I noticed the columns were being raised higher – they weren’t hanging so low anymore. And soon, my neck was stretched and it was hard to read the names anymore, and the weight of the metal of the columns was crushing and all I could think of was that all these people were killed. They were killed and so there would never be a chance for their children, or their grandchildren, or their great-grand children to be. And I remembered again the Commandments of the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights Pledge, that it is about justice and reconciliation, not victory, and that one should refrain from violence of the fist, tongue and heart. And I remembered Jesus’ command to love, and all I could think of is that I don’t know if I can love enough to overcome the weight bearing down on me, the weight of all the deaths, the weight of the loss of all the hopes and dreams that were simply gone. I don’t understand that hatred, or that evil, or whatever it is that could kill.
Some columns toward the end were attached to walls and instead of a listing of who was killed, it listed a name, date and location, and the reason for the lynching. For speaking to a white woman. For complaining to the sheriff that a cow was stolen. For living with a white woman or marrying a white woman. For arguing with a white neighbor. For walking by a window when a woman was getting undressed. For being present when someone being looked for was not there. For looking at someone who was white.
I’ve been to Germany. I’ve seen a similar monument: stone slabs or ‘stelae’, at the Memorial to the Murdered Jews, in Berlin. And though I never try to compare the horror of the Holocaust, the German atrocity seemed so cold blooded to me. The Nazi’s marched their captives into the showers and used gas to kill them, or put them in ovens and burned them. Although not cold to the family and friends of those slaughtered, it had a different feel to me. But our pain is our pain. The Lynchings seemed personal. The Black people were beaten, sometimes burned, sometimes maimed, with body parts cut off or broken, genitals stuffed into the mouths of those who might then have been burned before they were hung. Then they had to be physically roped and hung. And again I thought, “I don’t know that I can love that much, to overcome that much”.
The Equal Justice Initiative also had a Legacy Museum, with the theme, ‘From Slavery to Mass Incarceration’. It always gets to me the fact that something like 20,000 slaves were captured and brought to America, with about about 2000 dying on the way. Of those that survived, half of them arrived with families and had their families separated and sold. Half of them.
This Legacy Museum viewed Mass Incarcerations as the new Lynching. Several years ago, the statistic was something like 3 out of 5 African American men, were either in prison, on parole, or awaiting sentencing. I don’t want to know what that statistic is now. The numbers of African American men who are wrongly incarcerated is staggering. The number of African American young men, children really, is beyond staggering. By this point in the day I can’t process the numbers any more. And I can’t process the photos and more. I didn’t want to, but I bought a book at the center, that I will take out and read when I can. But at this point in the day, I knew I couldn’t shoulder any more weight.
We drove through downtown Montgomery. Passed Dexter Avenue Baptist Church; King’s church. We went to the Civil Rights Monument sponsored by the Southern Poverty Law Center. This monument was designed by the same person who designed the Viet Nam Memorial in Washington DC. It was calming, meditative, flowing with water over black marble in which were etched dates and names of crucial persons or dates of the Movement. It was a fitting end to the day.
Several of you have asked if you might share my reflections with others. I’m okay with that. Just remember, these are my reflections as I’ve gone through the day. I’m trying to recall the information accurately, but some of the dates might be more approximate than actual because I’m reacting, not simply fact finding. And also remember, experiences, though shared, are uniquely felt.
L
There are two instances where my family might claim a brush with the famous (or infamous?). The first is that I had a great, great uncle, who rode with Poncho Villa, but that’s a story for another time. The second, is that for one brief moment, Rosa Parks was a guest in our home. The unfortunate thing about that was I didn’t realize who she was, I couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11!
We drove to Montgomery and visited the Rosa Parks Museum. I won’t repeat the history you know except to say that Mrs. Parks appears to have been a gentle, unassuming woman, who worked as a tailor at a department store. She married a man who was a member of the NAACP 11 years before she herself joined. She provided leadership for the Youth branch, and volunteered to work as a secretary to a man who provided counsel to the Montgomery NAACP chapter.
Once she was arrested, when she was allowed to make her phone call, she called the attorney she worked with who soon arrived with a white attorney and bailed her out. Within hours, people knew she had been arrested and a day later, she was asked by the Montgomery Improvement Association (of whom ML King was the leader) if she would allow her arrest to stand as a test case for the courts. There was already a national order for the desegregation of interstate bus lines. The rest is history. The boycott lasted 13 months. The people did not give in. At the conclusion of it, King pronounced that it wasn’t a win for the Negro community, it was a win for justice.
That was inspiring. With all the things done to try to dissuade the people to give up and go back to riding the segregated bus, it was a justice issue. Again, I was in awe of the commitment of the people to meet regularly at the churches throughout the process, and to remain firm when they were harassed, drivers ticketed for made up infractions, new laws made with fines intended to hurt (such as, if 3 or more people waiting for a ride were congregating, they could be fined for loitering).
The Rosa Parks story was indeed, a good one.
The story at the EJI, the Equal Justice Initiative Complex, The Museum and National Memorial for Peace and Justice was also a good one, even though it was somber, and many of us wept. This museum is commonly referred to as ‘the Lynching’ museum.
Metal columns, each representing a county in the states where there were lynchings were hung in a semi-covered outdoor arena. The idea was to walk in rings, around this square and upon each county column, there were the engraved names and dates of those who had been lynched. Over 4000 known and documented lynchings from the early 1800’s – early 1960’s, were represented on these columns. I’ll try to attach a photo at the end.
As I walked through the monument, as I walked deeper into the columns, I felt as if there were a weight pressing down on me. At first, I wanted to pay homage to all those named; I began by touching the first column, then the second, as if I could tell them, “Today you are not forgotten, I am here to acknowledge you lived!” But there were too many to touch, too many names to read, too many people represented by the word, “Unknown”, Too, too many. As I walked past columns, the columns grew denser, closer together. County after county, state after state. And then I noticed the columns were being raised higher – they weren’t hanging so low anymore. And soon, my neck was stretched and it was hard to read the names anymore, and the weight of the metal of the columns was crushing and all I could think of was that all these people were killed. They were killed and so there would never be a chance for their children, or their grandchildren, or their great-grand children to be. And I remembered again the Commandments of the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights Pledge, that it is about justice and reconciliation, not victory, and that one should refrain from violence of the fist, tongue and heart. And I remembered Jesus’ command to love, and all I could think of is that I don’t know if I can love enough to overcome the weight bearing down on me, the weight of all the deaths, the weight of the loss of all the hopes and dreams that were simply gone. I don’t understand that hatred, or that evil, or whatever it is that could kill.
Some columns toward the end were attached to walls and instead of a listing of who was killed, it listed a name, date and location, and the reason for the lynching. For speaking to a white woman. For complaining to the sheriff that a cow was stolen. For living with a white woman or marrying a white woman. For arguing with a white neighbor. For walking by a window when a woman was getting undressed. For being present when someone being looked for was not there. For looking at someone who was white.
I’ve been to Germany. I’ve seen a similar monument: stone slabs or ‘stelae’, at the Memorial to the Murdered Jews, in Berlin. And though I never try to compare the horror of the Holocaust, the German atrocity seemed so cold blooded to me. The Nazi’s marched their captives into the showers and used gas to kill them, or put them in ovens and burned them. Although not cold to the family and friends of those slaughtered, it had a different feel to me. But our pain is our pain. The Lynchings seemed personal. The Black people were beaten, sometimes burned, sometimes maimed, with body parts cut off or broken, genitals stuffed into the mouths of those who might then have been burned before they were hung. Then they had to be physically roped and hung. And again I thought, “I don’t know that I can love that much, to overcome that much”.
The Equal Justice Initiative also had a Legacy Museum, with the theme, ‘From Slavery to Mass Incarceration’. It always gets to me the fact that something like 20,000 slaves were captured and brought to America, with about about 2000 dying on the way. Of those that survived, half of them arrived with families and had their families separated and sold. Half of them.
This Legacy Museum viewed Mass Incarcerations as the new Lynching. Several years ago, the statistic was something like 3 out of 5 African American men, were either in prison, on parole, or awaiting sentencing. I don’t want to know what that statistic is now. The numbers of African American men who are wrongly incarcerated is staggering. The number of African American young men, children really, is beyond staggering. By this point in the day I can’t process the numbers any more. And I can’t process the photos and more. I didn’t want to, but I bought a book at the center, that I will take out and read when I can. But at this point in the day, I knew I couldn’t shoulder any more weight.
We drove through downtown Montgomery. Passed Dexter Avenue Baptist Church; King’s church. We went to the Civil Rights Monument sponsored by the Southern Poverty Law Center. This monument was designed by the same person who designed the Viet Nam Memorial in Washington DC. It was calming, meditative, flowing with water over black marble in which were etched dates and names of crucial persons or dates of the Movement. It was a fitting end to the day.
Several of you have asked if you might share my reflections with others. I’m okay with that. Just remember, these are my reflections as I’ve gone through the day. I’m trying to recall the information accurately, but some of the dates might be more approximate than actual because I’m reacting, not simply fact finding. And also remember, experiences, though shared, are uniquely felt.
L
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