In 1960, I watched John Lewis and other black college students march past our Nashville, Tenn., high school on their trips downtown to the sit-ins.
In 1963, while I was preparing for my senior year, Medgar Evers was assassinated in Jackson, Miss. For me, news of the civil rights movement was an unsettling blend of dark tragedies and heady victories.
In our barbershop, black men debated pros and cons of actions of civil-rights leaders. I recall one debate on whether Martin Luther King Jr.’s returning to town was good or bad. And I remember the letdown I felt when arguments focused on: What would the good white people think? But at 16, it was not yet my turn to speak.
I got wind of a “March on Washington.” When I found out the march would be the subject of the next meeting at our Methodist church, I attended, immediately getting caught up in the spirit of the meeting. I can’t recall who spoke, sang or prayed; but I remember they talked about the significance the march, that there would be thousands in attendance, and they wanted youth participation. Someone said they had one seat left on one of the buses. I rushed up, saying I wanted to go. But I was told I needed my parents’ permission, which I thought would be no problem. So I ran home and asked my mom for the OK. She quickly and unequivocally said, “No, you might get hurt.” The decision was final.
What I didn’t understand then was that violence befalling blacks seeking change was common. I didn’t understand that racist violence was capricious and arbitrary. And I didn’t realize I was being protected by generations of black mothers’ wisdom.
The march became the largest peaceful protest in American history. But the glow from the march evaporated when, a few weeks later, four girls were killed in a church bombing. Then President John F. Kennedy was assassinated.