By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
April 1, 1965
It was the Ecumenical Council, a hootenanny, a happening, and a revolution all rolled into one. And it happened in Montgomery, "Cradle of the Confederacy."
A broken-down hipster, the Realist sticking out of his dungarees, marched alongside an Episcopal bishop clutching the Holy Bible. There were the kamikazes of the Student Non-Violent Coordinating CommitteeSNCCin their blue-denim overalls, mud-caked boots, and rash helmets, next to middle-class housewives who won't ride the subways after dark. There were nuns in flowing black habits arm in arm with jowly labor leaders who discriminate in their unions.
There were rabbis, junkies, schoolboys, actors, sharecroppers, intellectuals, maids, novelists, folk-singers, and politicians40,000 motives and 40,0000 people marching to Montgomery behind James Forman who hates the oppressor and Martin Luther King who loves the oppressed.
There were hundreds of high school and college youngstersthat new breed of revolutionary that has somehow grown up inside the bowels of prosperous America. There were kids who rioted against HUAC, vigiled against the Bomb, invaded Mississippi last summer, and turned Berkeley upside down. They are a new generation of insurgents, nourished not by Marx or Trotsky, but by Camus, Lenny Bruce, Bob Dylan, and SNCC. Their revolution is not against capitalism, but against what they deem to be the values of an enlightened AmericaBrotherhood Weeks, factories called colleges, desperation called success, and sex twice a week.
And there were thousands of clergymen symbolizing the revolution within a revolutionthe nun with suntan cream on her face who marched all the way from Selma, priests, ministers, rabbis with yarmulkes. There was a huge sign: "Lutherans are Here Because Christ Cared." Another read: "Kansas Mennonites Support Civil Rights." And another: "SMU Marches for Freedom."
On the streets of the Confederacy's cradle that "coalition of conscience" Bayard Rustin and Michael Harrington have tried to will into existence materialized spontaneously. A line of marchers, strung out as far as the eye could see, sang "America the Beautiful" and made it sound like a revolutionary anthem.
The day that was to end in triumph and tragedy began in sleepy whimsy at 4 a. m. last Thursday for the 104 participants in the Village Independent Democrats' "Fly-In" as they pulled out of the West Side Airlines Terminal singing ironic songs about their pilgrimage.
They sang in spirited atonality that quickly disintegrated into anarchy songs like "Stars Fell on Alabama" and "I'm Alabamy Bound" and "Swanee" and "Dixie."
"Al-a-bam-a, here I come," roared Bill Tatum, "VIDers, don't be late, open up that capitol gate. Alabama, here I come, right back where I started from . . ."
The "Welcome to Montgomery" sign at Dannelly Airport reinforced the ironic mood of the pilgrims, especially for those who noticed that billboard just outside the airport that read: "Get the U. S. out of the U. N. or get the U. N. out of the U. S."
Within 20 minutes the small airport lounge became congested as flights from Boston and St. Louis also landed, disgorging eager, smiling, scrubbed middle-class faces, some on top of clerical collars.
A white minister from Martin Luther King's Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC) greeted new arrivals, urged them to leave the city "as soon as the rally is over because it will be dangerous," and directed them to shuttle buses to the City of St. Jude, a Roman Catholic complex where the marchers had camped the night before. On the SCLC minister's lapel was a button that said "GROW." He explained it stood for "Get Rid of Wallace."
At St. Jude the predominant mood was gaiety, as thousands upon thousands of visitors swelled the great serpentine line of march that coiled around the vast, muddy athletic field.
Small clusters sang freedom songs during the two hours it took for the whole line to unwind onto the streets towards the capitol, four miles away. The visitors sang off-key versions of better-known freedom songs, while local Negroes, led by either SNCC or SCLC staff members, sang raucous, sassy, taunting songs that came out of the Movement in Alabama's Black Belt. A group of about 500 from St. Louis stood in a large circle, one small, Negro woman calling out chorus after chorus of "We Shall Overcome."
Other demonstrators milled around the staging area like conventioneers, wearing name tags and introducing themselves to strangers, pronouncing their home towns with accents of prideMontreal, Berkeley, Boston, Detroitand their association with equal prideADA, the United Auto Workers, NAACP, the University of Virginia, the American Legion (Gramercy Park chapter).
To the Capitol
At noon, under one of the day's brief showers, the procession began to move out, with the bloody-shoed 300 who had marched all the way in the vanguard. With them were barefoot Joan Baez; James Baldwin, nervously smiling, just back from Scandinavia; the angelic looking Montgomery seamstress Rosa Parks, who ignited the mythic bus boycott a decade ago; and SNCC's John Lewis, who walked the whole way from Selma and who had suffered head injuries on "Bloody Sunday" at the Alabama River Bridge. And there was Martin Luther King, to whom Negroes of the Black Belt now sing "Glory, Glory Hallelujah" and then kiss his hand.
The streets in the Negro slums of Montgomery were of mud and clay. There were row upon row of run-down shacks, with the very old, the very young, the unemployed sitting on porches.
The First Time
At first the non-marchers were timid and shy. It was as if shame made them look down rather than at the masses that surged past them. But slowly, they looked up, to wave, and when the marchers began to shout, "Join us, come on," many accepted the invitation and probably protested their plight for the first time in their lives. Marching through the slums was like taking LSD for the soul.
One bent old woman ran off her porch and kissed a white marcher. Children, dirty and scrawny, ran alongside, singing the songs and chanting the slogans of freedom. A very old man, his cane resting between his legs, sat on his porch steps and wept.
About a mile from the capitol we reached the downtown section of Montgomery, with its banks, hotels, movies, stores, office buildings and clean asphalt streets. The sidewalks were almost deserted except for a sprinkling of hecklers and the federal troops at each intersection, standing at attention, their rifles at their sides.
But against the windows of the office buildings were pressed the white faces of the South. Some shook their heads "no" or gave the thumbs-down sign when the marchers waved at them. A beautiful woman of about 25 stood on the balcony of the Jefferson Davis Hotel, and when the demonstrators waved at her, this flower of Southern womanhood made the traditional obscene gesture of one finger up.
On the lawn of an elegant home a hunched, elderly mad stood in the midst of her sullen employers. She was smiling and waving a white handkerchief at the procession. One wonders what was happening in the minds of her employers at that moment.
Remarked Edward Koch, the Village Democratic leader: "Walking through the Negro section made me feel like I was walking through Paris again with the liberation army. The white section was what it must have been like marching through Germany."
From the window of the Alabama Bible Society Building hung a blow up of the picture Senator Eastland introduced into the Congressional Record prior to the March on Washington to prove Martin Luther King was "part of the Communist conspiracy." The photograph shows King at a rally in 1957 at the now-defunct leftist Highlander Folk School, which was burned by segregationists several years ago.
Turns the Corner
Dexter Avenue is the eight-lane street that leads into the white stone capitol building. As the procession turned the corner of that final leg of the journey the marchers suddenly broke into "America the Beautiful" and sang it with a passion normally associated in the Movement with "We Shall Overcome."
"America, America, God shed his grace on thee. And crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea," they sang. Hundreds of school children waving little American flag. Ahead loomed the dome of the capitol with its Alabama and Confederate flags blowing in the breeze. "By 2 p.m. all 40,000 marchers, including about 10,000 whites, arrived at the foot of the capitol and stretched out several blocks down Dexter Avenue. The symbolism of the scene was inescapable. At the spot where Jefferson Davis was inaugurated, where George Wallace shouted in his inaugural in 1961, "Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever," the largest civil-rights demonstration in the history of the South sang "We Shall Overcome" black and white, together "We are not afraid today."
Ten Years Later
In the shadow of the red-brick Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, from whose pulpit Martin Luther King led the bus boycott 10 years earlier, the huge rally was turning into a kind of coronation of the 37-year old minister as spiritual leader of the nation.
"Who is your leader?" the Reverend Ralph Abernathy asked the throng. The answer swelled up. "Martin Luther King!" The only exceptions were veterans of SNCC, who yelled, "De Lawd of Slick." But even that invidious distortion of SCLC was probably shouted as much in respect as in cynicism.
(The bitterness lurking in the background was based on the fact that SNCC, which had been alone in Dallas County since late 1962, had great difficulty working in harness with King after SCLC took over the Selma campaign in January. There had been serious disputes over strategy and tactics, since King's basic goal is integration and SNCC's is a revolution.)
After two hours of speeches by every major leader of the civil-rights movement, King was finally introduced to the crowd. Like the multitude in Washington in 1963, they had become fatigued and restless; many had been awake as long as 20 hours. Overhead, a helicopter and a Piper Cub circled noisily. Behind the platform two dozen green-helmeted Alabama conservation police guarded the steps of the capitol building. Behind them stood a number of members of the Alabama legislature.
Then King began, his resonant voice and preacher's alliterative rhythm slowly rousing the audience from boredom. From behind him on the platform came counterpoints of "Amen" and "Tell it, Brother" from other ministers.
In Washington he invoked the phrase, "I have a dream," the way a blues singer repeats a key phrase. In Montgomery, facing the capitol, it was, "We are on the move now," that became the launching pad for a series of crescendo-like thrusts.
"We are on the move now," he said. "The burning of our churches will not deter us. We are on the move now. The bombing of our homes will not dissuade us. We are on the move now."
Now the throng responded with shouts of "Yes, Lord," and "Amen."
"The beating of our clergymen will not divert us. We are on the move now. Yes, we are on the move now, and no wave of racism can stop us."
King climaxed his speech by repeating four times with rising fervor, "Glory Glory Hallelujah." And then the cooks, maids, and janitors were crying and cheering at the same time.
There were supposed to be 26 shuttle buses waiting after the rally to ferry demonstrators from the capitol to the airport five miles away. But 21 of the drivers called in sick, and for two hours thousands milled around in a muddy lot a block behind the capitol while fives buses tried to do all the work. There was pushing, shoving, and maneuvering each time a bus pulled in. Finally an SNCC worker with a walkie-talkie told the crowd, "Come on, you're acting like kids. This ain't the New York subway."
By dusk, the troops had disappeared and the last handful, waiting unprotected in the lot, feeling fear for the first time during the day.
Chaos reigned at the airport. Hundreds sprawled on the lawn, picnicking, sleeping and singing. Huge lines pointed to the lavatories and phones; there were no snack counters. All outgoing flights were late.
After an hour's delay on the VID flight was ready to be boarded, except that there was no ladder available. So for another hour, the 104 weary passengers stood in a cramped line, 20 yards away from the plane, while a ladder was searched or, as some suspected, hidden.
Meanwhile, a few yards away, the dean of all civil rights leaders, 77-year old Asa Philip Randolph, had collapsed from exhaustion and Bayard Rustin and Michael Harrington tended him while dispatching friends to find a doctor. The Montgomery police seemed uninterested.
"It's my fault," Rustin mumbled. "I never should have gotten him up at 2 a.m. and he never should have walked those four miles."
At 10:45 New York time, the VID flight left the cradle of the Confederacy amid complaints to the Civil Aeronautics Board about the delay and caustic reflections on "Southern hospitality." There was no singing on the flight back. Most of the passengers slept. A few talked about the future of the civil rights movement, agreeing at the outset that Montgomery was just a skirmish in a long war whose end still lies beyond the rim of history.
Steve Berger, an aide to reform Congressman Jonathan Bingham, said the new voting rights bill was "pretty bad and very poorly drawn." Others, activists of the movement, thought no legislation could possibly deal with the specter of firing, beating, and murder that faces any Negro who tries to register in the Black Belt. Other militants spoke eagerly of the next battle the continuing attempt to unseat the five Congressmen from Mississippi by the Freedom Democratic Party.
Elizabeth Sutherland, who works for SNCC in New York, sat reading a private legal memorandum on the proposed voting bill, pointing out all its flaws and loopholes. "I just hope the registrars don't get their hands on this memo," she said.
And there was speculation about what would happen in the Black Belt now that the "civil rights tourists," Dr. King, the federal troops, and the outside journalists were leaving and the Negroes were left alone to confront the Jim Clarks, the racist registrars, and those terrible faces that looked down from those windows.
When the plane landed at Kennedy Airport, its passengers were told it had already happened murder. Nobody said anything memorable or poetic. They just cursed.