One Night in Mississippi (6 page)

Amblan, 2008

My experience consisted of three women. The first was a white girl at a roadside shack back in Mississippi. She was drunk and had dragged her friend out to the black section of the county on a dare. We danced, nothing more, but still she'd nearly cost me my hand.

The second was an arts student at Loyola University, the first person I'd known other than Graden who believed the world could be changed by ideas. I had learned early that the world is defined by what you do, not by what you think, but she was full of the kind of optimism that can only be held by those who have been sheltered from reality. And yet her passion for everything she did won me over for a short time. Our relationship was mostly platonic as well. There were a few occasions of intimacy, but they were clumsy and unnatural. She could give in to the moment completely, but I could not.

The third was a whore I took in Minnesota. My co-workers had urged me on and had even taken up a collection. My actions were timid and uncertain. She guided me through my part patiently, but when I tried to convince her to stay and talk afterwards, she collected the money, kissed me on the cheek, and walked out without a word. I said nothing about it to the others. When they asked me about how it was, I looked down at the tops of my shoes, and they didn't press me.

Looking out the window of the rented room, I could see a woman standing on the front doorstep. I hoped she would go away, but she pressed the buzzer again, and I turned to shuffle down the stairway. When I opened the door, I could see that she was older than she had appeared to be from upstairs. She might have been in her mid-forties, but her skin was still smooth except for a few wrinkles around her eyes. She wore a heavy coat, but had the hood thrown back despite the cold, and wisps of brown hair twisted about her ears in the wind.

“I saw you on the news,” she said.

I blinked and loosened my grip on the doorknob.

“I see.” I hesitated. “OK.”

I stepped aside, and she followed me. The front door of the house opened on to a small living room that had been clumsily converted into a reception area for tenants. It held little more than three mismatched couches crowded together and angled around a faux-antique coffee table. The woman removed her boots and tossed her coat and scarf across the back of one of the couches before sitting down. I admired the line of her jaw, the smoothness of her neck, her pearl-coloured collarbone, but I wasn't drawn to her. I had come to hate beauty. She declined my offer of coffee or tea, and so I sat across from her on the opposite couch.

“I guess you must be the one who called.”

“Yes. I'm Miriam.” She leaned forward to shake my hand, but I just nodded. She sat back and looked around the room, then back at me.

“I'm sorry about your brother.”

“Long time ago.”

“Still a terrible thing. And still hurts, I'm sure. I'm guessing you wouldn't be here otherwise. I lost a husband. It was years ago. Heart attack. I guess it's not really the same …” Her words trailed off. She cleared her throat and tried to compose herself. “Maybe I will have a cup of coffee after all,” she said.

I rose and went into the kitchen to put on a pot. I could see the edge of her around the corner.

“I was at my cousin's place in Windsor when I saw the news piece. When they put that picture up of the eight of them, I was sure as anything that it was Earl. Later on, when they said that fella in the photo was dead, I wasn't so sure. I mean, it's hard to look at someone and imagine that they could do something like that. It's just something you can't believe. I couldn't get that feeling out of my head, though. Took me a few days before I decided to call.”

Returning with two cups of coffee, I placed one in front of her and sat on the opposite couch.

“Earl Daniel?”

“Yes. At least I guess so. That's how we all know him here.”

“How long's he been here?”

“I can't say. I've only been here six years myself, so he's been here at least that long.”

“Do you know him well?”

“No. I mean, it's a small place, so everyone knows everyone some. I haven't spoken to him much. He keeps mostly to himself. Seems to be well liked, though.”

Her voice tailed off at the end, as if she had just remembered who she was speaking to.

“I guess that don't hold much water with you, though.”

We sipped our coffees and spoke for a half an hour, with her doing most of the talking. I questioned her about the man's habits, his health, who he knew, what visitors he had, and how often. She told me a little about her life, although I told her nothing about at all about my own. She explained that she had moved up here to be with her husband, whom she'd met on camping trip. It was her second marriage. The first husband had left her after ten years. The second husband died young, and suddenly. I asked why she had stayed here after his death, and she didn't have an answer, but she told me about the tightness and warmth of the community.

“Can I ask you … what's it like? Chasing something like this your whole life? I mean, I admire it, but do you ever think that maybe your brother would just want you to move on? Do something else?”

“Maybe he would. But I was never very good at doing what my brother wanted.”

She nodded, rather than prodding further, and I was grateful to her for it.

“So what happens next?” she asked. “Will the police be involved?”

“Not yet. No sense getting everyone riled up until I'm sure. Does anyone else know you called?”

“My cousin, yes. But no one from around here. I felt silly even thinking it, to be honest with you, but I just couldn't shake that picture. Just struck me somehow, you know? Like instinct or something.”

I collected the empty cups and took them into the kitchen. She took the hint and rose from the couch.

“What if it's him? TV said that everyone else is either dead or in jail, right? So this would be the end of it. What would you do?”

“I don't know,” I said, returning from the kitchen. “It doesn't matter. I spent most of my life doing nothing. Doing nothing is always easy to go back to. For now I just … just need to know.”

I caught the scent of her perfume as I handed her coat to her and she wrapped a scarf around her neck, She paused in the doorway.

“You seem like a nice man, Mr. Williams. For what it's worth, I hope it's not him. I just wouldn't want something like that to be true.”

Mississippi, 1964

The summer before Graden died
, I sat beside him on a crowded school bus on its way to Jackson. There had been two more meetings since the one that I had attended, but the well-dressed young men from the north were absent. Graden explained that they had come from all across the northern states — whites, blacks, boys, girls — all students who had given up their summer to work in Mississippi. In some parts of the state they had built makeshift schools and set up health clinics, but mostly they were here to get people registered to vote. He said they sometimes moved from county to county, depending on the need, but I suspected that staying on the move was in their best interests for safety reasons as well.

In their absence, Mr. Townsend led the meetings, but, to my surprise, it was Graden who was responsible for most of the organizing. He weaved through the barn, shaking hands and addressing each person, reassuring those he sensed were weakening, reasoning with those who suggested last-minute changes to the plans. Despite his youth, it was obvious that he was held in high regard. He carried himself with the same confident air that had struck me when I saw the young northerner grab the crowd. In those few hours, in Mr. Townsend's barn in the middle of the night, I saw that my brother had become much more than what our father had feared.

Our bus was one of six, rented with funds donated by a student group at a northern state college as well as with money collected by our church. The breeze through the windows kept us cool while we were moving, but at each stop the heat smothered us in its grip. Some of the men were dripping sweat, but no one seemed to care. The bus rang with church standards and old field songs.

Graden was the youngest among us. At just a few weeks shy of his eighteenth birthday he was unable to vote, but that didn't deter him from throwing his energy into this voter registration rally, attending meetings with the northern students, canvassing houses to speak to people about their rights and why they must exercise them, and holding education sessions in the back room of the church. I couldn't believe that he had found the time to do so much and keep it hidden from the family, but he told me that he had been skipping out of school, several days a week. On those nights when he stayed up late to teach me, we did lessons that he had made up himself.

The bus driver told Graden that the drive to Jackson would take about an hour and a quarter. We were forty-five minutes in before I began to get nervous. I had never been this far from home, and while the others sang, I stared out the window. We rolled slowly by shallow swamps, the trees tangling amongst each other and occasionally dripping leaves on to the still, moss-covered water; past clapboard and tar-paper shacks, jumbled together and haphazardly placed within a few feet of the rust-coloured gravel road; then over the tracks and turning on to the plantation-flanked highway, row upon row of cotton just beginning to burst from its bolls and long driveways leading to the gates of antebellum mansions; and finally into the outer edges of Jackson.

If I leaned my head out a little, I could hear shouting and snatches of song carried on the wind from the bus ahead of us. Graden sat quietly beside me, beaming. His leg bounced up and down in time with the singing. I elbowed him playfully to get his attention. He smiled and placed his hand on my arm.

“I'm glad you came.”

“I only came to look out for you.”

Graden laughed. “You go ahead and tell yourself that. Whatever the reason, you are here. And together we're gonna change things.” He gestured around the bus. “All of us, together, are gonna change things.”

“The only thing that's gonna change is that look on your face when we get home, and Ma and Pa find out where we've been.”

“That's your problem, Warren. That's Daddy's problem. That's so many people's problem: they are only thinking about the small things. This is bigger than that, brother. This is a chance for us to stand up and tell everyone that we will not be looked down on.”

“Humph. A whupping from Daddy ain't no small thing. And you got all these crazy …”

The rhythm of the singing broke, and the bus slowed. Graden stood and looked out the window opposite him. He called up to the bus driver.

“We're not supposed to stop here.”

The driver shrugged and gestured towards the road ahead. The other buses had stopped in front of him. Graden crawled over me and stood in the aisle, trying to make out what was going on.

Others were standing now as well, looking out the windows and whispering. There was the slow clomp of hooves on pavement as police on horseback flanked the sides of the row of buses. They moved without urgency. The horses' heads were as high as the bus windows, but the blinders they wore kept them looking straight ahead. The men astride them were calm, but wore full equipment — vests, helmets, visors.

Graden moved down the aisle to the front of the bus. The driver slid the door open, but before Graden could get off, a state trooper had dismounted and was stepping onto the bus.

“Back to your seat.”

“Sir, we are on our way to Jackson to exercise our right to vote.”

“I said back to your seat.”

Graden was a half-head taller than the officer. He stood straight and showed no signs of budging, though he was careful to keep his arms at his sides and not appear aggressive. The officer looked past him and addressed the rest of the bus.

“Everyone sit down. You're going to have to turn these buses around and go home. It's too dangerous.”

“We are not afraid of danger, sir, and we will not turn around. We are on our way to Jackson. We intend to be peaceful, and we intend to exercise our rights. We have every confidence that the police of this state will protect us from any threats.”

I winced at the words, torn between pride and fear. Graden looked and sounded for all the world like the sharp young northerner who had originally stoked these people's courage, but this wasn't the north and staring down a policeman here had only one outcome. I could feel the tension throughout the bus, and I hoped that these people would not back down, that they would stand with Graden. I hoped their courage would hold, and that mine would as well. The trooper took off his sunglasses and looked at Graden wearily.

“Son, there's a whole lot of angry people in the street up ahead of you, and I don't think they mean to be peaceful at all. So you're going to have to turn around.”

“We will not, sir. We have a right to continue on, and if there are people who intend to stop us by force, then it is the responsibility of the law to control those people.”

“Now, you listen here! I ain't gonna stand here and have some boy tell me how to do my job. I'm not here to protect you, I'm here to keep the peace, and if …”

He was cut off by shouts from outside. A crowd of white protesters were encircling the buses, some carrying signs, others carrying baseball bats, bricks, and stones. The bus began rocking as they pushed against the sides, slapping angrily at the windows. The trooper gave Graden a look that said “I warned you” and exited without another word. I watched as the crowd parted in front of him to let him through.

I went to the front and grabbed Graden by the shoulder.

“We shouldn't be here!” I cursed myself for not having more sense, for not having listened to Papa. I thought protecting Graden meant coming along with him, but there was no way to protect him here. I had failed the moment I let him get on the bus. Running was the only thing that made sense to me, but there was nowhere to run, and besides I knew Graden wouldn't follow me.

Graden shook off my hand and tried to calm the passengers, urging them to stay away from the windows. We heard glass shatter, and suddenly there was dark smoke billowing from the windows of the bus ahead of us. The emergency back door opened, and people clamoured to get out, screaming and beating at their burning clothes. The crowd grabbed them as they exited and threw them to the ground, kicking, punching, and swinging wildly.

One woman on our bus dashed for the door, but Graden grabbed her and held her back. He yelled for everyone to lay down in the aisle. Before doing so, I looked again out the window, and behind the throng of angry faces, I saw a dozen or more state troopers lined up, sitting calmly atop their horses and doing nothing.

I crouched in the aisle with the rest and waited for a firebomb to claim our bus as well. I could hear the slurs and shouts. A window crashed, and I looked up, but it was only a brick, bouncing off the opposite wall of the bus and finally coming to rest on the dirty floor. Then there was a loud banging, and the bus shuddered even more violently than before. The crowd were using their bats and clubs to smash the sides of our bus. The rear sank down as they cut the tires.

I looked at Graden, but there was no trace of fear. All I could see was disappointment.

The state troopers let the crowd have their way for a few terrifying minutes before stepping in. A shot was fired in the air, and a trooper called out orders over bullhorn for the crowd to disperse. Once they were under control, we were led off the buses and told to lay face-down on the hot asphalt. The hooves of the troopers' horses clacked heavily near our faces. We were cuffed and led to state police cars in small groups.

“You are all under arrest for disturbing the peace. I will not stand for the inciting of riots in this state ...”

“We didn't do anything,” someone shouted. An officer pulled the man up by one arm and clubbed him half-heartedly behind the ear before dragging him off.

We spent the night packed fifteen to a cell in cells intended for two. We huddled close together to make room for the wounded to sit. A woman in my cell sniffled faintly while pulling remnants of cloth from a patch of burned skin on her arm. Her eyes were glazed and distant. Others had wide cuts and scrapes and ugly, swollen lumps. One man's forearm was violently crooked, and he held his wrist in his lap while resting his head against the bars.

Some cried, or shook, or murmured. An older woman tried to sing, but no one joined in and her voice soon faltered. There were calls for help and calls for arms, angry speeches shouted out, and just as quickly shouted down or shouted over, but when Graden finally spoke, they stayed quiet.

“We knew this could happen. You all knew this risk and you came anyway, and I am proud of you all, but we are just beginning. They use their dogs and their fire and their clubs against us because their
ideas
have lost their force. And so they turn to force. But if we yield to these tactics, they will continue to use them. If we let them push us back then they will continue to push us. The way to defeat them is simply not to be deterred. Not to be intimidated. To show them that the power they wield will not give them power over us.”

He continued, but I can't remember all that he said. I was transfixed by the serenity on his face, the poise in his manner, the inability of the environment to influence him, and the inability of the others to resist. He stood with the grace of command.

He soothed them and rallied them at the same time. He convinced them that action would be taken, but not violent action. “We will resist these injustices, not with force but with our persistence. We will frustrate those who oppose us with our refusal to quit. We have placed a stake in the ground today, and we cannot allow anyone to move it.”

The guards outside the row of cells had been content to stay there when the crowd was riled up, but the calmness unsettled them. They came and stood by the door of Graden's cell, but he continued to speak. As the group murmured their support, the guards fidgeted and shot sideways glances at each other. They went back outside and switched off the lights. We stood together in utter darkness. They cut the fans as well, and the heat filled the spaces between us. My clothes stuck to my chest and shoulders and sweat ran down my face like a sheet. I heard the gasping of hot air as some laboured to breathe and felt the shifting of the crowd as people tried to get closer to the bars to find relief.

We stayed that way throughout the night. In the morning we were led out of our cells three at a time, driven out to the edge of the city, and dropped off at the side of the road without a word, left to find our own way back. I was in one of the first cars, and I waited on the shoulder while the state cars pulled up time after time until finally they brought Graden. He stepped out of the car with dignity, as if he had been politely offered a ride, and I saw in him the victory of which he'd spoken: a victory achieved solely by not allowing himself to feel defeated.