As soon as I saw the announcement in the Sunday order of service at First Unitarian Universalist Church of Austin, I knew I had to go to Selma. Why? And why so clearly? I don’t have “reasonable” answers. To be part of history, to say “Enough!” to the recent killings of unarmed black men, to state by my presence that the American dream, MLK’s dream, can be true. To stand in solidarity.
I wasn’t sure what to expect about the conference the UUA’s Living Legacy project had put together, but I was glad for that experience, too. Being surrounded by people who share (at least some of) my values fed my spirit. It was fun to play hooky from an afternoon workshop and sit in front of a television in the Sheraton Birmingham lobby with a small group of UUs watching President Obama’s Selma speech on Saturday. Applause and whoops brought others to the group as Obama responded to his perennial critics, saying America is strong enough to acknowledge our flaws – and to rise above them. He nailed it.
The day of the “march” was spent mostly I transit and waiting. Nine buses filled with nearly 500 UUs left Birmingham at 8 a.m. on Sunday, March 8 – coincidentally International Women’s Day. Retired minister, Gordon Gibson, who marched with King over the Edmund Pettis Bridge in 1965, was on our bus and pointed out sites along the way, like where Viola Liuzzo was shot by a Klansman during a car chase as she returned from Montgomery to ferry marchers between stops end route to Selma. An FBI agent was embedded among the Klansmen in their car. I wondered why he didn’t stop them and, later, why the murderer was acquitted. Rev. James Reeb is probably the most famous UU who was killed during the 1965 march. He was clubbed when leaving a restaurant in Montgomery with two other UUs. His killer was acquitted, too, as was Jimmy Lee Jackson’s. If you’ve seen the movie, Selma, these names might ring a bell.
We stopped for lunch at the City of St. Jude Catholic community. St. Jude was the only church that would assist the marchers in 1965; 25,000 of them slept on the grounds outside the school gym where we ate turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce and green bean casserole – a real thanksgiving meal. I took a photo of the long tables filled with UUs I bright yellow Standing on the Side of Love t-shirts. The school – and the entire community – is closed now, except for occasions like our visit.
Jesse Jackson beat us to Selma. His tour buses with Rainbow Coalition and Push logos, alongside big headshots of the Reverend, were parked outside Brown Chapel where MLK spoke before the first march. Police surrounded the chapel, as did news vans. One van had huge LED screens and speakers airing the memorial service Jackson was leading inside the chapel. As Jackson walked out of the church, the screens and speakers silently folded in on themselves and lowered into the van.
The crowd shuffled its way to within sight of the infamous Edmund Pettit Bridge. Wall-to-wall people, although estimates varied from 40,000 (the Montgomery Advertiser) to 120,000. I was struck by how many parents, especially African-American women, had young children in tow. What will the kids remember, I wondered? What will they commemorate 50 years from now? I could appreciate the parents’ desire to bring their children to be part of the event, although it was 180* away from my parents’ desire to shield me and my sister from the unsettling news accounts of the Civil Rights marches in the 1960s. Although we lived in suburban Atlanta, I honestly don’t recall any direct contact with the Civil Rights Movement at the time. Did I see the firehoses and dogs and chaos that news cameras in Montgomery captured during the first attempt to march over the Edmund Pettis Bridge? I feel like I must have and that it informs my commitments today, but it is such iconic footage I can’t say for certain when I first saw it. I learned the original accounts interrupted a broadcast of the movie, Judgment at Nuremburg, which chronicled the war trials of four German judges during WW II. Was I watching that movie on March 7, 1965?
Chris Jimmerson, a newly ordained minister – and one of 3 at First U. – took me under his wing during the march, at one point asking me to stay in front of him so he would know I wasn’t lost. I was touched. The crowd didn’t feel threatening to me, more like detached, with each person having their own internal experience. There were drummers and banners and even some dancers at the side of the road. Even so, I started at the sight of a line of police cruisers with blue lights flashing as we topped the arc of the bridge. I contrasted the atmosphere with what I imagined in 1965 – solemn, determined and well aware of life or death danger.
I couldn’t see much directly ahead of me except others’ backs as we approached the bridge, so I tapped an extremely tall guy on the (lower) arm and asked if he would use my iPhone to take some pictures of the bridge. He seemed happy to be asked and after taking several with my phone offered to do the same for others.
I got into a conversation with someone about whether or not the bridge should be renamed instead of continuing to honor a Confederate general and possible KKK Grand Dragon. Was it better to keep the reminder of a brutal history and, if not, for whom might the bridge be renamed? How about John Lewis, who was clubbed on Bloody Sunday and is one of the few remaining “lieutenants” of the 1960s Civil Rights era? Lewis has represented the Atlanta area (coincidentally) in Congress for almost 30 years. I have just learned there is a change.org petition promoting his name for the bridge. I like the idea. As useful as a brutal reminder is, how much better to have a reminder that highlights hope? Edmund Pettis won’t be forgotten, but he would become history, only one piece of backstory to the present and future, like Unitarians James Reeb and Viola Liuzzo, along with others like Jimmy Lee Jackson, Malcolm X, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and so many who have been part of the Civil Rights Movement because we must – and because we can – a privilege to be appreciated.
Coming down the other side of the bridge, the crowd dissipated as folks peeled off to buy BBQ, cold drinks and other food offered in entrepreneurs’ tents or off truck beds. It took a long time for our buses to work their way through the traffic to pick us up, and it was a long ride “home” to Birmingham, mostly in silence.
The day of the “march” was spent mostly I transit and waiting. Nine buses filled with nearly 500 UUs left Birmingham at 8 a.m. on Sunday, March 8 – coincidentally International Women’s Day. Retired minister, Gordon Gibson, who marched with King over the Edmund Pettis Bridge in 1965, was on our bus and pointed out sites along the way, like where Viola Liuzzo was shot by a Klansman during a car chase as she returned from Montgomery to ferry marchers between stops end route to Selma. An FBI agent was embedded among the Klansmen in their car. I wondered why he didn’t stop them and, later, why the murderer was acquitted. Rev. James Reeb is probably the most famous UU who was killed during the 1965 march. He was clubbed when leaving a restaurant in Montgomery with two other UUs. His killer was acquitted, too, as was Jimmy Lee Jackson’s. If you’ve seen the movie, Selma, these names might ring a bell.
We stopped for lunch at the City of St. Jude Catholic community. St. Jude was the only church that would assist the marchers in 1965; 25,000 of them slept on the grounds outside the school gym where we ate turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce and green bean casserole – a real thanksgiving meal. I took a photo of the long tables filled with UUs I bright yellow Standing on the Side of Love t-shirts. The school – and the entire community – is closed now, except for occasions like our visit.
Jesse Jackson beat us to Selma. His tour buses with Rainbow Coalition and Push logos, alongside big headshots of the Reverend, were parked outside Brown Chapel where MLK spoke before the first march. Police surrounded the chapel, as did news vans. One van had huge LED screens and speakers airing the memorial service Jackson was leading inside the chapel. As Jackson walked out of the church, the screens and speakers silently folded in on themselves and lowered into the van.
The crowd shuffled its way to within sight of the infamous Edmund Pettit Bridge. Wall-to-wall people, although estimates varied from 40,000 (the Montgomery Advertiser) to 120,000. I was struck by how many parents, especially African-American women, had young children in tow. What will the kids remember, I wondered? What will they commemorate 50 years from now? I could appreciate the parents’ desire to bring their children to be part of the event, although it was 180* away from my parents’ desire to shield me and my sister from the unsettling news accounts of the Civil Rights marches in the 1960s. Although we lived in suburban Atlanta, I honestly don’t recall any direct contact with the Civil Rights Movement at the time. Did I see the firehoses and dogs and chaos that news cameras in Montgomery captured during the first attempt to march over the Edmund Pettis Bridge? I feel like I must have and that it informs my commitments today, but it is such iconic footage I can’t say for certain when I first saw it. I learned the original accounts interrupted a broadcast of the movie, Judgment at Nuremburg, which chronicled the war trials of four German judges during WW II. Was I watching that movie on March 7, 1965?
Chris Jimmerson, a newly ordained minister – and one of 3 at First U. – took me under his wing during the march, at one point asking me to stay in front of him so he would know I wasn’t lost. I was touched. The crowd didn’t feel threatening to me, more like detached, with each person having their own internal experience. There were drummers and banners and even some dancers at the side of the road. Even so, I started at the sight of a line of police cruisers with blue lights flashing as we topped the arc of the bridge. I contrasted the atmosphere with what I imagined in 1965 – solemn, determined and well aware of life or death danger.
I couldn’t see much directly ahead of me except others’ backs as we approached the bridge, so I tapped an extremely tall guy on the (lower) arm and asked if he would use my iPhone to take some pictures of the bridge. He seemed happy to be asked and after taking several with my phone offered to do the same for others.
I got into a conversation with someone about whether or not the bridge should be renamed instead of continuing to honor a Confederate general and possible KKK Grand Dragon. Was it better to keep the reminder of a brutal history and, if not, for whom might the bridge be renamed? How about John Lewis, who was clubbed on Bloody Sunday and is one of the few remaining “lieutenants” of the 1960s Civil Rights era? Lewis has represented the Atlanta area (coincidentally) in Congress for almost 30 years. I have just learned there is a change.org petition promoting his name for the bridge. I like the idea. As useful as a brutal reminder is, how much better to have a reminder that highlights hope? Edmund Pettis won’t be forgotten, but he would become history, only one piece of backstory to the present and future, like Unitarians James Reeb and Viola Liuzzo, along with others like Jimmy Lee Jackson, Malcolm X, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and so many who have been part of the Civil Rights Movement because we must – and because we can – a privilege to be appreciated.
Coming down the other side of the bridge, the crowd dissipated as folks peeled off to buy BBQ, cold drinks and other food offered in entrepreneurs’ tents or off truck beds. It took a long time for our buses to work their way through the traffic to pick us up, and it was a long ride “home” to Birmingham, mostly in silence.