So then after the massacre happened, when the—when the massacre happened and they wouldn’t even lower the flag to half-staff, that was kind of the snapping point for me. Like, how could we possibly get this flag down? Because back in 2000, somebody had put a ladder up against the pole, climbed to the top, set it on fire, and so then South Carolina built this like four-foot fence around it. Like, it wasn’t that easy. But Yin had a friend named Todd. And Todd had actually gone down. And looked at it. And he knew a Greenpeace activist in New York who had experience, you know. Scaling trees and all of these things and so, he was like, “You know, I really think”—he was looking at it and he said—“you know, I think that it’s really just hooked on there. And that somebody could probably scale to the top and just unhook it.”
And so then we kinda came together at a meeting. But it was essentially, um, the coming together of two activist groups. ’Bout ten to twelve folks. Basically a Black Lives Matter group. We refer to ourselves as the Tribe? You had Black Lives Matter, The Tribe, which was…mostly black activists. And then you had these, like, environmentalist/Occupy activists, who were mostly white.
(Shaking her head.) I mean, it took a lot of—lot—of—trust. You know, because, I mean, I walked into this room and it was like, half the people in the room were folks I had never seen before. In my life. And here we were talking about going down to take down the flag, I mean, you know, at that time, it was, there was so much national attention. You know, on it, so I mean, it was a dangerous thing to do. I think it speaks a lot to Yin’s character, the fact that we were all able to trust each other. It’s Yin’s heart. He was fighting before it was cool. And he’s just very—he’s very true! When—when he called me and said, “You know, I—I know somebody who’s really talking about taking the flag down, and we could really make this happen,” I trusted him.
There was just the practical question of “Well, who can do each of the roles?” Um, a lot of folks just weren’t in position to get arrested. Several people are teachers and they just couldn’t—Yin’s a teacher, he has children. I mean, Yin wanted to climb the pole, like that was his dream to do that. Um, but his wife just had a lot of concern. You know. About him doing that.
And so, you know, I think when we looked at who was able to be arrested? To risk getting arrested—and who was physically able to climb the pole, that really narrowed it down to about three or four people. And I was the only person of color. In that group? And when we, you know, were like really thinking about it, we felt that it would be most powerful to have a black woman be the one to scale the pole.
I have this memory of everybody staring at me? (Laughing.) Now, maybe that’s not how it happened. I stepped into another room to pray. It was kinda like, yeah, okay, I will volunteer but I kinda wanna take a moment?
I prayed just for clarity and guidance. (Slow, careful, sitting up even straighter.) I mean, I really felt it on my heart, that I was supposed to do this; that God had called me to do this? I didn’t want it to just be some whim. You know what I mean? It’s not a whim thing to do. I had no experience climbing.
Well, I mean, here we were really talking about like some real physical danger. I’d been arrested before, and I was never afraid. There was never a concern of you know there being harm—a physical harm—in like the first arrest, but this was really a situation where I could potentially be putting myself at risk. (Focused, no emotion, matter-of-fact.) A vigilante coming by and shooting me while I was on the pole. I mean, we were really more concerned about that than what the police might do.
But on the day [when we were going to take] the flag down, they had a Klan rally scheduled. For later that morning, and so we, that’s part of why [we planned our action for so early]. In the morning.
Just to reduce the—the chances of somebody coming by, you know, and possibly having a gun. And, you know, we just discussed what we would do in that situation, because obviously I would be, well, I wouldn’t be able to do anything; I’d be in a very vulnerable position on the pole. (Matter-of-fact.) But we agreed that everybody else would scatter.
(Direct, clear, focused, no emotion.) I mean, I really had to make peace with that. I mean, I was it was very—I mean, it was a moment of radical faith on my part.
I just like made this, you know, commitment—and I can’t say anything to, you know, my family. That’s when it beca—that’s when I started to feel the fear a little bit more of like what I was really about to do. And then I felt like tremendous fear.
I think I prayed…I mean that’s some of the most intense praying I’ve ever done. (Laughing.)
That’s where I think the idea and the cause becomes greater than the person? Because in a lot of ways, it was kind of like, even if I didn’t make it down the—the statement would still…you know. Be made. (Strong.) And that was—that was the point that we wanted to—to make that…this is how—this is how serious it is.
You know, I got involved in this movement in 2013, and it was like, “Yes, we recognize that we are in this new civil rights movement. This is like the wake of the Trayvon Martin case. Y’know, the fir—the first action that I participated in, where I got arrested, we were doing a sit-in over the issue of voting rights. And I remember—I remember being arrested, and we are just like sitting there with our hands handcuffed behind our backs and—and it just hit me, I was like, “Wow. There was like a time when people did this and didn’t know they were going to make it out alive.” But there was still the sense of separation? From the sixties? I could still recognize there was a definite difference between the situation I was in at that time and, say, John Lewis with the Freedom Riders. You know what I mean, do you understand what I’m saying? [But now] the—the sixties felt so much closer, I think.
I thought about Martin Luther King. I thought about Malcolm X.
But then I really had to focus on learning how to climb the pole.
I had about a day and a half. A Greenpeace activist from New York came down and taught me and so we went out—Jimmy—James Tyson—he’s the white man who was arrested with me. And so we were on James’s farm, practicing—we practiced on a lamppost. And then finally we were able to find a school that had a flagpole.
We weren’t even actually sure exactly how the flag was attached. I had in my backpack scissors and pliers just in case. They were calling for showers actually at one point. Showers and possibly lightning so that was the other factor we had to deal with. There were so many factors. Once I was actually on the pole, I was like right there at sunrise. I think I had so much adrenaline—I think I had so much adrenaline pumping? That—that I was all right.
The police arrived when I was about halfway up. It wasn’t—it wasn’t long after I got to like, my key point, because when we were practicing, we figured that I wanted to get eight feet up? Before the cops showed, so that they wouldn’t be able to snatch me down and ironically, the fence that South Carolina put up actually helped us. Because it made it harder for the cops to grab me.
In fact, there was a moment when a police supervisor directed the two officers who were standing at the bottom to tase me. And that would have electrocuted me because, you know, I was on the pole. And James grab[bed] the pole, he turned around to them and he said, “If you electrocute her, you’ll have to electrocute me, too.”
And I think that’s when they again became aware that, you know, there are folks standing around with cameras, and, you know, smartphones, and all these things, and so then they, you know, backed off.
Actual cell phone video of Bree taking down the Confederate flag on June 27, 2015, is shown. The musician enters. He regards the video of Bree taking down the flag. A young woman in the crowd whom we cannot see yells up at Bree, “Take your time, Bree!” On the video, a police officer shouts to Bree, “Get down off the pole, ma’am. Ma’am!” Bree: “You come against me with hatred and oppression and violence. I come a
gainst you in the name of God. This flag comes down today! The Lord is my light and my salvation. Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life.” In the film, the group assembled below Bree claps and cheers. As the video ends, the musician begins to play a riff on “Amazing Grace.”
[Slide]
CONGRESSMAN JOHN LEWIS
US REPRESENTATIVE (D-GEORGIA, 5TH DISTRICT)
WASHINGTON, DC
“Brother”
“Brother”
(In his office in DC. Congressman’s office, with traditional furnishings. Shirt, tie, perhaps a jacket, shoes. A seasoned storyteller.)
* * *
On our way. On this trip that we been takin’ for the past thirteen years. I been going back every year since 1965. Back to Selma. To commemorate the anniversary of Bloody Sunday, that took place on March 7, 1965. But we usually stop in Birmingham for a day. And then we go to Montgomery for a day. And then we go to Selma.
But on this trip, to Montgomery, we stopped at First Baptist Church, the church that was pastored by the Reverend Ralph Abernathy. It’s the same church where I met the Dr. Martin Luther King and the Reverend Abernathy. In the spring of 1958.
Young police officer—the chief—the chief, came to the church to speak on behalf of the mayor that was not available. And he gave a very movin’ speech to the audience. The church was full. Black. White. Latino. Asian American. Members of Congress. Staffers. Family members, children and grandchildren. And he said, “What happened in Montgomery fifty-two years ago durin’ the Freedom Ride was not right,” he said. “Fifty-two years ago was not right. The police department didn’t show up. They allowed a angry mob to come and beat you,” and he said, “Congressman! I’m sorry for what happened. I want to apologize. This is not the Montgomery that we want Montgomery to be. This is not the police department that I want to be the chief of. Before any officers are hired,” he said, “they go through trainin’. They have to study the life of Rosa Parks. The life of Martin Luther King Jr. They have to visit the historic sites of the movement. They have to know what happened in Birmingham and what happened in Montgomery and what happened in Selma.” He said, “I want you to forgive us.” He said, “To show the respect that I have for you and for the movement I want to take off my badge and give it to you.”
And the church was so quiet. No one sayin’ a word. And I stood up to accept the badge. And I started cryin’. And everybody in the church started cryin’. There was not a dry eye in the church.
And I said, “Officer. Chief. I cannot accept your badge. I’m not worthy to accept your badge. Don’t you need it?”
He said, “Congressman Lewis, I can get another one. I want you to have my badge.”
And I took it. And I will hold on to it forever. But he hugged me. I hugged him. I cried some more. And you had Democrats and Republicans in the church. Cryin’. And his young deputy assistant. A young African American. Was sittin’ down. He couldn’t stand. He cried so much, like a baby, really.
It was the first time that a police chief in any city where I visited or where I got arrested durin’ the sixties ever apologized, or where I was beaten. Or where I was beaten. It was a moment of grace. It was a moment of reconciliation. [The chief] was very young, he was not even born fifty-two years ago. So he was offerin’ an apology and to be forgiven on behalf of his associates, his colleagues of the past. [It’s a moment of grace.] It means that sufferin’ and the pain that many of the people have suffered have been redeemed.
And then for the police officer, the chief, to come and apologize. To ask to be forgiven. It—it felt so good, and at the same time so freein’ and liberatin’. To have this young man come up. He hugged me and held me. I felt like, you know, I’m not worthy. You know, I’m just one. But many people were beaten.
It is amazing grace. You know the line in there, “Saved a wretch like me”? In a sense, it’s saying that we all have fallen short! ’Cause we all just tryin’ to just make it! We all searching! As Dr. King said, we were out to redeem the soul of America. But we first have to redeem ourselves.
This message. This act of grace, of the badge says to me, “Hold on.” And “Never give up. Never give in.” “Never lose faith. Keep the faith.”
Even in this day and age for a city like Montgomery. For this young man, somethin’ moved him. And it takes what I call raw courage. To go with the spirit. To go with his heart. His soul. He’s a very, he’s really a very interestin’ man. I been thinking about callin’ him. “How ya doin’?”
The only time somethin’ happened like this before was a member of the Klan from Rock Hill South Carolina that beat me and my seatmate. On May 9, 1961, durin’ the Freedom Ride. He came here to this office in February ’09. His son had been encouraging his father to seek out the people he had wronged.
And he came in the office and said, “Mr. Lewis, I’m one of the people that beat you on May 9, 1961. I want to apologize.” He said, “Will you forgive me?”
I said, “I forgive you. I accept your apology.”
His son started cryin’. He started cryin’. I started cryin’. He hugged me. I hugged him. His son hugged me. And since that time, I seen this guy four times since then.
He called me “brother.” And I call him “brother.”
(As the lights fade to black, the musician reprises his riff of “Amazing Grace.”)
ABOUT THE MUSIC
Marcus Shelby
COMPOSER AND BASSIST FOR NOTES FROM THE FIELD
It has been a great honor creating and performing the musical score for Anna Deavere Smith’s play Notes from the Field. Our process began about five years ago, when she and I first discussed how music could support the play with its many different voices, movements, transitions, and dramatic inflections. Anna and I come from the same musical tradition, firmly rooted in the black church experience, and this became our starting point. The musical devices that we borrowed from this shared history included the dynamic interaction of call-and-response, improvisation, and the blues. We wanted to employ the blues as a central language, one that springs from field hollers, blues shouts, blues cries, work songs, complaint calls, sorrow songs, prison songs, and griot storytelling.
When we first met in New York City to discuss Notes from the Field, Anna shared several interviews with me. She talked about her research into what was beginning to be called “the school-to-prison pipeline.” This inspired me to do my own research, and I began a personal journey to learn more about mass incarceration and the “prison-industrial complex.” One of the first things I discovered was that early blues forms championed by Bessie Smith and other black female blues singers spoke often of the prison experience. Blues was the primary musical vehicle for expressing the multiplicity of black experience at the turn of the twentieth century, and prisons, workhouses, and death row were frequent themes. For Notes from the Field, I wanted to borrow from the power of blues-based music to support the characters. I gave some of the characters themes that recurred later in the play where appropriate, as with the young Native American, Taos, whose story connects to so many other stories that show our schools struggling to deal with kids surrounded by trauma.
Although we performed Notes from the Field many times in different cities and for different types of audiences, and the play evolved in the process, the score stayed pretty much the same. In our first workshops we combined tenor saxophone with live bass. By the time we opened at Berkeley Repertory Theatre in Berkeley, California, in 2015 for the first theatrical run, we had changed it to solo bass, with the performer (myself) onstage for the entire length of the play. Anna and I looked for moments where music could build tension and release in the play and for moments where I could verbally communicate and respond as myself within the play.
These moments came without too much discussion, as we wanted the flow of rhythm and sound to be pure and unscript
ed. For me, it was a normal impulse, because I verbally communicate with the full spirit of call-and-response in my natural habitat as a musician. We also discovered where music was not serving the play and made changes accordingly. In the summer of 2016, we opened in Cambridge, Massachusetts, at the American Repertory Theater, and the musical score was reset to accommodate new characters and set changes (though the basic musical content remained the same). The changes made for the Cambridge run and, later, the New York City Second Stage Theater run gave the score more impact. We were able to pinpoint the most effective moments and characters that music would support. Furthermore, I was now present onstage only for certain characters, and my presence was integrated into the video, lighting, and panels that supported the play. These changes provided a rhythm and musical flow that was consistent with our initial goals of reflecting call-and-response, improvisation, and the sound and joie de vivre of black life.
The score is composed for solo acoustic bass and comprises single-line melodies, double- and triple-stops to create harmonic moods, and rearrangements of spirituals. The main goal was to find the right moods, using simple-but-blues-inflected shapes that at times were reprised and rearranged. Anna’s theatrical voice reminds me of the great blues singers of the early twentieth century, singers like Bessie Smith, Ma Rainey, Clara Smith, Alberta Hunter, and Mamie Smith, all of whom had a resonant, pure tone quality that was articulate and soulful. The common quality in all great blues singers is their ability to hear and respond to the bass, which provides the root of the harmony and regulates the time like a heartbeat. Anna’s voice is buoyant, and her timbre is full and distinct, especially when undergirded by the dark tone of a bass. This made it possible for us to interact both musically and vocally throughout the play. Working with her onstage, I could look for spaces to interpolate musically and create harmonic moods, much in the way I would accompany a vocalist.
Notes From the Field Page 9