After hanging up, I felt encouraged. I remembered that it was Easter, and my spirit began to lift. This was the first Sunday in my adult life that I had not been to church. I turned on the radio and listened to a church service. As I thought about it, my understanding of Easter seemed to expand. I was lonely, worried, and depressed, and I thought that maybe Martin felt the same way. Yet what I was experiencing was nothing compared to the suffering of our Lord, Jesus Christ. Through His suffering, Christians were redeemed. Somehow, I knew that Martin’s and my suffering would not be in vain—it was constructive suffering that would help bring down the walls of segregation. It was not happenstance, but meaningful suffering to help people, both black and white, reach a higher purpose. Jesus had been crucified, but in the end He triumphed. I encouraged myself to hold onto my faith that what I was going through was meaningful, too.
At about five o’clock the next evening, I heard two-year-old Dexter babbling away into the phone. I picked up the receiver and heard an exasperated operator say, “Will you please get that child off the phone?” The next voice I heard was President Kennedy’s. He told me that he had sent the FBI into Birmingham to check on Martin’s situation, and he assured me, “He’s all right.”
After hanging up, I felt such relief. About fifteen minutes later, Martin called. Martin always fasted for strength before going to jail, and his voice sounded tired and lifeless. I told him about my conversation with the president, and a smile returned to his voice. I learned that after my call, he had been allowed to take a shower, and been given a pillow and a mattress.
While in prison, Martin wrote his famed treatise, “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.” He wrote it on the margins of newspapers and on scraps of toilet paper. For some reason, some of the world’s most powerful writings have been penned by leaders imprisoned for political causes. There is something about the confinement, the isolation, and unjustness of those prisoners’ situations that helps focus their minds on their principles. With little left to lose, their bodies already imprisoned, there is nothing left to do but state their principles unequivocally, what they will live and die for. Just as Apostle Paul wrote the prison epistles Ephesians, Philippians, Colossians, and Philemon, strengthening believers while being scourged and put in stocks in Roman jails, Martin found the strength while suffering to challenge white clergy to speak out against racial injustice.
Finally, I felt well enough to fly. Juanita Abernathy and I flew to Birmingham to visit our husbands, and on Saturday, April 20, they were released. Shortly thereafter, in response to the invitation of SCLC staffers James Bevel, Andy Young, Dorothy Cotton, and Bernard Lee, thousands of black high school and college students attended mass meetings and training sessions on the philosophy of nonviolence and then marched through Birmingham in what would come to be known as the Children’s Crusade.
Naturally, the press, which had not criticized the segregated social system for abusing black children, accused the movement of exploiting the children. But neither the negative media attention nor the arrests dampened the marchers’ enthusiasm. Somehow they understood that the movement was about them. Their numbers were being arrested, but they kept marching, wave after wave, until nearly a thousand children were locked up. For the first time in the civil rights movement, we were able to put into effect the Gandhian principle of filling the jails to obtain justice.
Heartfelt, heroic scenes like those of the marching children, however, only increased the venom coming our way from Bull Connor. On May 3, as a thousand children and teenagers marched toward the police, Connor ordered his troopers to open their water hoses. Jets of water, at hundreds of pounds of pressure, knocked down children, ripping off the clothes of some. Then Connor unleashed the police dogs. Some of the snarling beasts ran through the crowd, biting the legs and arms of children.
Two days later, on May 5, came an unforgettable and astonishing development. Rev. Charles Billups led a group of adults from the New Pilgrim Baptist Church to the police barricade. As they knelt in prayer, Connor ordered the dogs loosed and the hoses turned on. Connor shouted, “Turn on the hoses, dammit.” But a miraculous thing happened. As the black people rose from their knees, Connor’s men fell back to each side, their hoses sagging in their hands. A force stronger than their hoses was working. It was a soul force, what Gandhi called satyagraha, a moral power outweighing physical pressure. Under the eyes of a watching world, the spiritual force of that little band of blacks broke through the ranks of the armed police. Billups led his people past the police, singing. As they knelt in prayer, the police froze in their tracks, disarmed by our nonviolent army.
On Friday, May 10, an agreement was announced that accepted most of our demands word for word. The stores were to be desegregated, hiring of African Americans upgraded, charges against protesters dropped, and the Senior Citizens Committee of the Chamber of Commerce would meet regularly with black leaders to reconcile their differences.
Nonetheless, the terror of Birmingham didn’t end there. The night after the agreement was signed, the home of Martin’s brother, A.D., who was a pastor in Birmingham, was bombed twice. When the first bomb exploded, A.D. grabbed his wife, Naomi, and pulled her safely into a back room—just as a second bomb blew off the whole front of the house. Still another bomb blew up the office of the Gaston Motel, where Martin had been staying.
Hardly four months would pass before four little girls, Denise McNair, Carole Robertson, Cynthia Wesley, and Addie Mae Collins, were killed when a bomb hit the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, the very church where Martin had preached to the children only months before. When they died, they had just finished listening to their Sunday school lessons and were in the ladies’ lounge in the basement, freshening up. Like many parents, I thought of those children as my own.
What could be more evil than bombing children in church on a Sunday morning?
* * *
OVERALL, HOWEVER, BIRMINGHAM was a victory, a high point in our movement. We forged a rough and blood-drenched road, but Martin never looked for easy victories. I learned from him the value of searching for the worst cases, of allowing people to catch the spiritual dimension of their struggle and victory. The way I see it, Birmingham was so evil that only God could change it—and God did. Never before had black people taken such unified, direct action to change the conditions of their lives.
On the significance of those days, Martin wrote:
I like to believe that Birmingham will one day become a model in southern race relations … that the negative extremes of Birmingham’s past will resolve into the positive and utopian extreme of her future; that the sins of a dark yesterday will be redeemed in the achievements of a bright tomorrow. I have this hope because once on a summer day, a dream came true. The city of Birmingham discovered a conscience.
At that time, it required a great leap of faith to believe in Martin’s words, in his hope for Birmingham to radically change. Although Martin never saw what his prophetic words proclaim, I was fortunate enough to see his dream come true.
ELEVEN
I Have a Dream
OUR VICTORY IN Birmingham helped give President Kennedy the courage to propose a Civil Rights Bill that would continue the dramatic movement under way to further integrate blacks into American society. All that was needed was to build congressional support, which would not be easy.
Nevertheless, in 1963, there was excitement and victory in the air. Blacks in city after city began to take the shackles off their minds, to believe what was once thought impossible: they did not have to tolerate being treated as less than human. They could see the possibility looming, that after more than three hundred years of existence in America, perhaps the day was coming when they would be granted the full rights of citizenship.
But as astonishing as the events of 1963 were, they were incomplete, like the thunder before the rain. We had experienced the thunder. Now leaders in the movement were ready for something more, for a downpour, for our communities to experience a
flood of opportunity in all sectors where we had been deprived and discriminated against, from schools to labor unions, from hospitals to housing.
As bigger crowds all over America began to welcome Martin—35,000 in Los Angeles, and 125,000 in a Detroit parade Martin led with Walter Reuther, head of the United Auto Workers—an idea began to gel in the minds of those of us around him. The timing had come to put all our energies into one mammoth event. We needed to link the hidden and subtle obscenities of northern racism with the more blatant forms in the South, pile them at America’s doorstep, and demand full redress. We could show that the Negro Revolution had come of age, as American in its desires and dreams as the American Revolution.
I remember saying to Martin, “People all over the nation have been so aroused by the impact of Birmingham. You should call a massive march on Washington to further dramatize the need for legislation to completely integrate black people into American society. I believe one hundred thousand people would come to the nation’s capital at your invitation.”
There were others sounding the same theme. James Bevel, who successfully advanced the idea of the Children’s Crusade in Birmingham, proposed marching from Birmingham to Washington in imitation of Gandhi’s spectacular Salt March to the sea. But given that Birmingham is twelve hundred miles from the nation’s capital, the idea became too much of a hardship to actualize. A. Philip Randolph, founder of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, had threatened to lead a massive march on Washington in 1941, but he canceled the march after President Franklin D. Roosevelt issued the historic Executive Order 8802, which called upon defense industries to hire workers without discrimination on account of “race, creed, color, or national origin.” Twenty years later, in drumming up support for the 1963 march, the seventy-four-year-old Randolph reiterated how difficult finding work still was for blacks, with unemployment rates more than double that of whites. Moreover, the violence of Birmingham was still fresh on the national conscience.
To settle the matter, Martin, as president of the SCLC, and Roy Wilkins of the NAACP organized a conference, for July 2, gathering together the heads of other major civil rights groups, including Dorothy Height of the National Council of Negro Women, James Farmer of CORE, and Whitney Young of the Urban League. The SCLC’s Fred Shuttlesworth, SNCC’s James Forman, and Norman Hill of CORE also attended, but Wilkins insisted that, since these three were not major civil rights chiefs, they be ejected from the room. It was hard for me to understand how Wilkins could get away with such a demand, considering the battle scars of a man like Shuttlesworth. Moreover, Fred had come all the way from Birmingham to attend the meeting. Wilkins also evicted Bayard Rustin, whom A. Philip Randolph wanted to help organize the march. Wilkins had warned Rustin by phone not to show up, feeling that recent attention to Rustin’s arrest on a sodomy charge in California and his admission, in the aftermath of McCarthyism, that he belonged to the Young Communist League could prompt negative publicity. Randolph, however, got his way, and Rustin reappeared as coordinator.
Young and Wilkins spoke against the march, arguing that too many things could go wrong. Others in the group felt the victory of Birmingham spoke loudly enough, and worried that if inadequate numbers supported the march, the forward thrust of the movement would be seriously crippled. There were also concerns that this would be an all-black march, which could alienate southerners and work against the passage of the Civil Rights Bill.
Despite the wrangling back and forth, supporters of the march won out, and the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom was set for August 28, giving us fewer than sixty days to organize, plan, and transport the one hundred thousand people we expected to attend. The mobilization was nothing short of a miracle.
The night before the march, Martin and I checked into the Willard Hotel in Washington, DC. It was about midnight when he finished the outline for his speech, but completing it was difficult, since he was trying to keep within the eight minutes he had been allotted. The speech began with Lincolnesque phrases: “Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation.” Martin then inserted language pertaining to America issuing blacks a check that “has come back marked insufficient funds.”
As I listened and watched him insert, delete, state, and restate his premises, I did not hear the famed “I have a dream” phrase that would so electrify the gathering. He had used that phrase so eloquently at Detroit’s Cobo Hall the previous June. Since that had been a smaller audience, however, the press in Washington treated the “dream” flourishes as new.
At about 3:00 a.m., I took my last look at Martin cutting, paring, and shaping his speech. I felt guilty for being too sleepy to serve as a sounding board. Martin gave his handwritten draft to Wyatt Tee Walker at 4:00 a.m. for typing and reproduction, which meant it was too late to forward a summary or excerpt to the march committee’s press office, as had been asked of him.
Near sunrise, I awakened. Martin was at the hotel window. He probably hadn’t caught more than an hour’s sleep. He was watching the street to get wind of the crowd size. We were anxious, hoping that the crowd would reach one hundred thousand. The initial news reports we heard were discouraging: commentators predicted a meager turnout. One news report said, “A very small number of people have assembled, only about 25,000.”
As we reached the Mall, however, our spirits began to soar. The reporters were seriously underestimating the crowd. By 10:00 a.m., we estimated that there were about 90,000 people—and they were still coming. By bus, train, plane, and automobile, crowds flocked to the Mall, and would soon soar to more than 250,000 people, a number that exceeded our wildest dreams. Some were cycling, and a few arrived by foot. Forty percent of the marchers were white, and the crowd came from every state in the union. The crowd applauded their leaders, but it was the leaders who, in their hearts, were applauding the crowds for their dedication and commitment.
Martin and I had discussed at length whether I would march, and since I usually joined him for every march, I was not pleased that his answer was “Well, the wives are not going to march.”
He explained that the planning committee had decided the march would be led by the top leadership, and no place was reserved for their wives. Although I understood, I was extremely disappointed. I would not bring up my grievance, however, because I knew Martin needed my support during the awesome task of delivering his speech.
On the Mall, I was separated from Martin, and found that no seat had been reserved for me on the platform. Thankfully, Ralph Abernathy helped me get a seat directly behind Martin. I looked around to see Lena Horne, Ralph Bunche, Marian Anderson, and about fifty members of Congress seated on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Sporadically the crowd would chant, “Pass the bill! Pass the bill!” in reference to the pending civil rights legislation.
Not many in that tremendous gathering had any idea of the battle royal going on behind the scenes. Different civil rights leaders were jockeying to be seen and heard. Martin, aware of some of the discord, strained to avoid distraction. There was much calamity over attempts to coerce John Lewis to soften his speech. Try as they might, march leaders could not stop Lewis from using anti-Kennedy rhetoric, which the leaders feared might sour JFK toward the civil rights bill. In addition, the debate was still raging over Shuttlesworth, who had been excluded from the list of speakers; the writer James Baldwin vigorously defended him. Finally, Shuttlesworth was given his proper respect and allowed to make brief remarks.
No woman was allowed to make a major speech, though Daisy Bates, substituting for Myrlie Evers, delivered 149 words. This was very upsetting to me, especially when there were so many battle-weary female veterans who deserved an opportunity to speak. Fannie Lou Hamer, Rosa Parks, Daisy Bates, Diane Nash Bevel, Ella Baker, Dorothy Cotton, Juanita Abernathy, and Dorothy Height—the list was endless. But that’s how chauvinistic the leadership was at that time.
Although no woman was allowed a prominent speaking
role, Mahalia sang. We listened to her soulful voice as it rang out: “I’ve been ’buked, and I’ve been scorned.” Then the moment that so many had come so far to experience arrived. A. Philip Randolph rose to introduce Martin. The applause echoed like thunder. From one side of the Lincoln Memorial to another, people began chanting Martin’s name.
He started slowly, a little husky at first, emerging into the strong and beautifully resonant tone that came when he was inspired to do his best. He orated the themes I had heard the night before, but when he got to the rhythmic part of “Now is the time,” the crowd caught the timing and began shouting “now” in cadence. Their response lifted Martin to new heights of inspiration. In a moment of transformation, he turned aside from his manuscript and the “I Have a Dream” rhetoric, which was not on paper but was tucked inside him, began to roll off his tongue.
As he spoke, it seemed to me like heaven itself had opened up and poured out visions of hope. When Martin ended, there was an awed silence, then a tremendous crash of applause, shouts, and amens. Thousands cried out in ecstatic agreement with his oration. They kept on shouting and applauding, and for that brief moment, it felt to me like the kingdom of God had come to earth.
I sat, awed by the magnificence of the occasion. At the time, I could not know the waves the march would continue making. It provided a trail for many other groups to follow—from feminists to antiwar vets, from the physically challenged to the Million Man and Million Woman marches of the 1990s.
Ironically, some of the very leaders who had fought against Martin and the march, like Wilkins and Young, were now reaching for him. I reached for him, too, putting my arm in his so as not to be swept aside by the crowd. As I walked along, the federal marshals made room for me. “Step aside, that’s Mrs. King,” they urged the crowds.
Despite the magic of the hour, I was soon brought back to earth. Having talked several times to JFK by phone, I very much wanted to meet him face-to-face to thank him for the times he had intervened to help Martin when he was in prison. As the top leaders readied themselves to be driven by limousine to the White House to meet with Kennedy, I tried to convince Martin to allow me to sit in on the conference.
My Life, My Love, My Legacy Page 13