Photography by Daniela Stallinger
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A Time to Remember
May & June 2004
In their own voices, Americans who lived through the civil rights era share their personal stories of courage, compassion, and hope
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More than 1,000 people have responded to AARP's call for personal
memories of the Civil Rights Movement and the quest for equality and justice.
Below are just four of these stories. They tell of personal experiences on a
bus, in school, in a house threatened by bombing, and in jail. The Voices of Civil Rights Project, sponsored by AARP
and the Leadership Conference on Civil Rights, will become part of a permanent
archive at the Library of Congress.
"I had done nothing but acknowledge my
sisterhood"
The year was 1959. At the Trailways bus station, we formed two lines, whites
in one and blacks behind in another. Being the last white people in line, my
little daughter and I took the last two seats before the long seat across the
back of the bus, which would soon be filled by four black women. An elderly
black woman and a young black man were left standing in the aisle.
We set out on our journey, lurching westward along the roads of Mississippi.
The elderly lady was having a difficult time keeping her footing, so I quickly
picked up my two-year-old and put her in my lap, and offered the lady a seat,
which she timidly took. I was pregnant, and I asked the grandmotherly lady if
my daughter could sit in her lap instead of mine. We smiled, made the transfer,
and traveled on—but not far.
Suddenly, the bus pulled to the side of the road, and a rabid bus driver
exploded down the aisle toward the back of the bus as every head turned to
watch. When he reached our row, he unleashed venom at the black lady holding my
daughter, the gist of which was, "How dare you sit with a white
woman!" After he had finished accusing her of all manner of crimes against
humanity, I heard these words come through my mouth with calm assurance:
"Sir, this is my mother."
The rage in his face was obvious, but he was speechless. Here sat a black
woman holding a tiny white child in her lap, with a white woman sitting next to
her who had just claimed kinship. Had we been sitting in any other seat, the
driver would have thrown us off the bus, or worse, but we were sitting in the
back rows that were usually reserved for blacks, and there was absolutely
nothing he could say or do. If I were black, then I was surely sitting in the
proper place on the bus. Stomping back down the aisle, he drove on amidst
whispering whites.
When all had quieted down, I felt a light tap on my shoulder and turned to
face a group of smiling black women. "We thank you for what you have
done," one said. I had done nothing but acknowledge my sisterhood with
another human being. —Jane Trotter, Flint, Michigan
"The board closed all the public
schools"
I remember the last day of school in 1959. I had excellent grades, and my
report card read, "recommended to the third grade." Little did I know
then that I would never return to Mary E. Branch Elementary School in
Farmville, Virginia.
In 1954, [the Supreme Court] declared segregated, unequal schools
unconstitutional. The Prince Edward County school board was not about to allow
black and white children to attend school together, so rather than comply with
the mandate, the board closed all the public schools from 1959 to 1964.
There were five children from my family affected by the closings. A few
brave retired teachers and volunteers conducted classes in church basements and
Sunday school classrooms. The white children who remained in Farmville were
doing the same thing; however, the local school board recognized their class
work as formal education, so they were promoted each year suffering no loss.
Not so for us black children.
Through the efforts of the American Friends Service Committee, an emergency
program was planned and several black students were placed with host families
in six states and 10 communities. Some of the students succeeded and some did
not. Through it all, God blessed my family, and even though I never formally
entered the third, fourth, or fifth grades, I was able to complete my primary
and secondary education, ultimately achieving my goals of becoming a registered
nurse and lawyer. —Celeste Wiley, Fort Washington,
Pennsylvania
"The entire front of the house was
empty"
In the summer of 1969, I arrived in Anniston, Alabama, to join WDNG radio. I
was 21, recently out of the Navy, and a lifetime New Yorker. That was the first
year the schools were integrated by court-ordered busing, and people were not
happy with the ruling. There was a lot of racial tension. Once, the city was
hit with racial violence, and my best friend and I kept the station on the air
all night, playing requests so people would stay home and off the streets.
I was invited to dinner by an African American minister who was a voice for
the black people in Anniston. I can still clearly remember his home. It was a
nice middle-class house similar to the one I grew up in, but with one large
difference: the entire front of the house was empty. The family lived in the
back so there would be an extra wall to protect them from bullets that were
occasionally fired at the house.
I returned to New York in 1972. The events of those three years in Anniston
left an indelible impression and helped me understand the need to change the
way things were. —Jim Frey, Chester, New York
"I don't remember the number of times I went
to jail"
In the early '60s, I was a teenager who was angry about discrimination.
I went to school in Selma, Alabama, and would routinely sneak away to
participate in the marches. I don't remember the number of times I went to
jail. You learned to prepare. That meant you wore several pairs of pants,
shirts, socks, and underwear so you had changes of clothing. Those layers also
helped decrease the pain when you were cattle-prodded or smacked by a billy
club. You also learned to fill your pockets with essential items, because you
didn't know when you'd be going home. —Geneva Craig,
Anchorage, Alaska
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