You may know munira from On the Road, where she sometimes shares her beautiful haikus, perfectly paired with her photos. In a recent afternoon post, munira made mention of having marched in Selma in 1965, and when I asked if she would consider sharing her story with us, she graciously agreed. The result is this beautifully written tale, both hopeful and harrowing.
Reading her story, I was taken back in time. I am wiping away tears as I write, for all the obvious reasons, but also because Barack Obama was such a gift, and I am reminded of what it felt like to have so much hope. Only to come to learn that nearly half the people in our country are no better than the Klan members who threatened munira all those years ago.
And so our great gifts of Martin Luther King, and Barack Obama, and others, were not just squandered. No, it’s worse than that. We are being pushed backwards as people, as a nation. We can’t let them win; we need to fight every bit as hard now as the people who fought in the 1960s.
With her story, munira takes us back in time.
Marching 1965 – Selma and Montgomery
by munira
When I think about my trips down to the Selma and Montgomery marches in 1965, I am struck by what I do and don’t remember. I went with J. (my ex-husband) and two friends. I don’t know how we knew what was happening in Alabama. We certainly did not have TV. Did we listen to the radio? Read the newspaper? I also don’t remember registering or signing up for the march in Selma, but we must have because we did have a place to stay that was pre-arranged. I am sure, however, that we knew exactly what was going on, and when the call came from Martin Luther King for people to come down in support of the African American people’s right to vote, we knew we had to go.
I don’t remember much about the trip down. Google Maps says it’s a 10-hour drive from Champaign-Urbana, where we were students at the University of Illinois. I know we took someone’s car – I’m not sure J. and I even had one at the time. I also know we drove straight through (we were young). I do remember driving into Selma and seeing National Guard troops holding guns, standing on the streets. Someone in the car said, “My God, it looks like a war zone.”
I also remember arriving at the house where we stayed. It was in the black section of course. It belonged to a young couple. They had children, who were staying with relatives. I believe J. and I slept in the kids’ bedroom. I remember feeling shy. I think everyone did, including our hosts. We didn’t talk much, but I know we had a lot of respect for what they had been going through. Maybe they thought of us as entitled (we were), but they also seemed grateful that we cared enough to come down. I guess we didn’t really need to talk. We all knew why we were there.
The timeline of events is foggy to me now, but two incidents stand out. I vividly remember walking over to Brown’s Chapel for a rally. It seems to me that it was the evening we arrived, but I’m not sure about that because I know we also assembled for the march at Brown’s Chapel the next day. I mostly remember the walk with our hosts. That’s when they told us that we needed to make sure we stayed in the black section because the rest of the town was too dangerous. I know Martin Luther King was at the chapel, along with some of the other leaders, but I don’t remember much about the speeches, only the feeling of tense solidarity.
The other incident occurred sometime before the march. For some reason, we piled into the back of someone’s pickup truck and went into the town center. We pulled into a gas station, but before we could fill up, a couple of big white guys came out of the garage. They walked toward the truck, holding tire irons, and threatening us. The driver left quickly without the gas. I’d ever felt so vulnerable before.
I vaguely remember gathering for the march. We were told that we could cross the bridge and then most of us would have to drop out. Only 300 people were allowed to go all the way to Montgomery. Since then, I’ve been to many protest marches, and the atmosphere is usually pretty upbeat. In Selma, however, it was grim. We knew people had already been beaten and arrested. Some had even died. We had the National Guard to protect us, but there was still a sense of danger. When we made it across the bridge without incident, I had a feeling of exhilaration. Then someone took us to our car, and we drove straight back to Illinois.
A few days later, we were in the car again – this time a rental for some reason. We drove straight to Montgomery so we could join the march at the end. The main thing I remember about Montgomery was marching through the black section of town. People were out on their front steps or hanging out of windows, cheering us on, waving and shouting their support. When we got to the courthouse, we listened to Martin Luther King’s speech and watched the presentation of the petition to Wallace. This time the atmosphere was much more jubilant. The marchers had not been attacked. We had a sense of accomplishment. We could taste victory.
Once again, we drove straight back to Illinois, but this time there was a delay. Just outside of Selma, I was driving the rental car when I was pulled over by the sheriff. He said I’d run a stop sign (I had not). He made us come to the jailhouse with him. It was terrifying. The sheriff was really threatening. He told us he was with the Klan, and we wouldn’t get away with what we were doing. J., my ex-husband, was from Texas, and when the guy heard his accent, he said, “What’s a nice southern boy like you doing with these people?” Then he said, “You have beer in your trunk. That’s illegal.” We said, “No it’s pop,” and he said, “Pop doesn’t come in cans.” After that, we kept our mouths shut.
Then another man came out of an office. The sheriff referred to him as the Marshall. He took J. into the office while the rest of us stayed with the Klan guy and listened to more of his threats. Fortunately, the Marshall was more reasonable. J. finally emerged from the office, and we were allowed to leave. J. said they’d spent most of the time talking about football. I think we were all pretty shaky as we got back in the car. I do remember crossing the border to Tennessee and feeling so relieved to be out of Alabama. Later on, we heard about the assassination of Viola Liuzzo, the white mother from Detroit, who, just like us, had come down to support voting rights for black people. Sobering.
In 2008, my son and I went to a black church in Oakland, Calif. to hear Teddy Kennedy campaign for Obama. We were the only white people in the church apart from Kennedy. We were warmly received. The atmosphere was joyful. A black man was running for president and had a good shot at success. At the time, I said to my son, “I think this is a direct result of what we did back there in Selma. Not only can black people vote, but Obama could actually become president. This is what it was all about.”
These days, however, I can’t help but wonder what we really accomplished. Obama was elected president – twice. Women and the LGBT community did make gains. But voting rights (and all these other gains) are under attack again. The struggle is certainly not over. Maybe it never will be, but I think, in spite of the right-wing insanity we’re seeing today, we did make progress – in fact, that’s probably why we’re seeing such a strong and fearful reaction from the right.
The pendulum always swings between progress and reaction, but as we continue the fight, we need to remember our victories in order to keep our energy and determination. So, what can I do now? I’m no longer young. I couldn’t drive 10 hours straight down to Alabama and back these days. But I can still march in protest, I can write postcards, I can donate, and of course, I can vote. And I can still say, “Power to the people. Stay strong. We have overcome and we will again.”
Thank you, munira.
Memories of Marching in 1965 – munira in Selma and MontgomeryPost + Comments (48)