I talked about to hate is to be weak. Hate destroys the hater. I talked about Jesus bearing his pains on the cross and Gandhi of India and King. I had a premonition. I expected it to be bad. But honest to God I didn’t expect it to be as bad as it was. We left here late. I had a suspicion that we was being set up. Because Heath had
worked with the sheriff, and basically the sheriff decided on the logistics.
I reckon that’s how the Klan come to schedule their rally on the very spot the sheriff had chosen for our march to commence. Any nut would have put one group on one side of town and the other group on the other. That sheriff must have figured we’d back down as quick as we got word that the Klan would be waiting for us. I reckon that’s why he delivered me so many messages on my answering machine.
When the bus pulled off the interstate at the White Oak exit, it was only about ten or fifteen people waiting on us. They stood there waving signs and hollering as we rode past. That flooded me with hope. I thought maybe the Klan had finally lost its hold on Prince George. But when we arrived at the place where the march was to start, I quickly discarded that notion.
It was like a war zone. Now your eyes and ears, even your heart, can play tricks on you under such fearful conditions. But I’ll swear to the Lord my God it was close to fifteen hundred of them jammed into that field alongside the road. I’ve been through a lot of these things before. I’m not a neophyte. I’m a veteran of mob violence. But the sight of these people threatened to drown me in dread. We stopped the bus where we’d been told to. Then here come the sheriff rushing up to me.
“Ain’t you done heard they was rallying here today?” He told me not to let anybody off. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute, it’s too dangerous.”
“Hey, man, we getting off this bus. We’re fixing to march in Prince George County today. I know it’s been seventy-five years. We’ve come to make history. We’ve come to make our witness. We’ve come to honor Martin Luther King, Jr.” That sheriff wasn’t studying me. He was eyeing Heath like he’d brought the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse home.
We commenced to filing off that bus. Those people were so souped up, it looked like to me they was
gliding
across this four feet fence, screaming and hollering, “Kill the niggers” and “Fuck the niggers” and “Goddamn the niggers” and “Here come the niggers
bringing their AIDS up here!” They just raged all kind of vulgarities.
Heath and I were trying to line everybody up. Our people acted real good. They responded very well to all I had said about keeping calm. We had a quick prayer. I said a quick prayer there. Quite a quick one too. Because I thought we could get away from the mob. That was a possibility. I know the sheriff must have had some plans of protecting us.
If he had any, I never knew them. As we went to march away, the crowd started badgering us with bricks and bottles and stones and pieces of iron. I kept trying to tell everybody, “Stay put. Keep praying. Keep marching. Keep your composure. Be nonviolent.” Finally, it got so bad, I asked the guy to pull the bus up along beside us. Then they started throwing junk over the bus, from the front of the bus, from the rear of the bus. A brick hit me in the head. It just staggered me. But I tried to keep my composure, because I know if I ever lose my composure, I’m the leader, it’s going to be a bloodbath right there if I ever start fighting. Because everybody really is watching me and I know that. I kept trying to sing these freedom songs. Because these freedom songs have pulled us through so many times even though it was deathly fear. When you start singing those freedom songs, a kind of oneness comes about, a kind of bond of mutuality, of love, respect and protection. So I start singing and I kept throwing in things like, “It’s okay. It’s going to be all right. God will protect us. Love, not hate.” Things like that.
That’s when I noticed this great big old white dude. He was trying to get a clear shot at me with a big brick. He would run up to the front of the bus and I’d kind of fade back and then he’d run to the back of the bus and I’d slip forward and finally I thought, “Well, I’m going to have to
try
him.” This is a key point. I said, “I got to
try him.”
So the next time he got within clear view of me, I looked at him and I smiled. He went berserk.
“Oh, goddamn! Got to kill that nigger! Them goddamn niggers’ marching! Now that nigger done
smiled
at me!”
He started throwing bricks and rocks, and he couldn’t contain his shouting and flouncing about because I
smiled
at him.
Heath was a soldier on duty that morning. I knew he must be dying inside. These were mad men to me. But they were his people, his family and friends. This was his place. He was standing alone and apart from his time.
The press kept running into me and saying, “Reverend, is this bad?” I kept telling to them, “No it’s not so bad.”
I was seeing it and I couldn’t believe it. But once that fear gets a toehold on any part of you, you’re done for.
“Rev, you ever seen it this bad?”
“Yeah, we’ve seen it.”
I was ducking and dodging and trying to walk and watch and hold myself back from going after those evil, ignorant people with both my fists. A great big old stone hit my right knee. It just busted my leg. Something hit me then. Then that old ratty fellah with the missing teeth came up to me. He’d showed up for every demonstration since 1965 on the Selma-Montgomery March.
He said, “Rev, it’s bad. Ain’t never seen it this bad before.” I had no choice but to accept how bad it really was.
Then what appeared to be nothing less than a little miracle happened. I noticed we were marching out of range of those bricks and bottles and so forth. I said, “It’s going to be better now. They done thrown out.” We walked along a few more yards. Then my heart stopped. I looked up ahead a few yards and I seen them folks had another damned pile of them bricks and rocks.
That sheriff had set us up.
Here they come again, bricks and rocks. Oh, my God! By that time, a lot of them had gotten in front of us and some had gotten behind us. They’d crossed that road. They were throwing bottles and bricks and objects so hard that when we ducked they were hitting their own people on the other side and knocking them down. Somebody said, “Reverend, they’re trying to incite a riot.” I said, “Hey, man, you don’t kill your friend
inciting.
Ungh-ungh. These people just ignorant”
We ain’t never faced a mob like this before. All the other mobs
were basically white males. At least a third of this mob was women. They had babies in their arms and little children beside them, children raging all kind of vulgarity, “Fuck the niggers. Kill the niggers.” Then I noticed a good fourth of that mob was seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds. Ain’t never seen a mob like this before. Except once before.
The only time we had ever faced a mob similar to the mob in Prince George was when we marched out in Cicero in Chicago in that Polish community. That was no mob in Birmingham with Bull Connor. Or with Jim Clark in Selma or Hoss Manucy and the Night Riders of St. Augustine or in Philadelphia, Mississippi, or Grenada, Mississippi. We didn’t face no mob like this mob. I know this mob has the
will
to
kill.
I started thinking. I’ve been beaten. I’ve been jailed 137 times. I’ve been beaten in more states and bled in more states than maybe most people will even travel in. I can take that beating. I’m prepared. I know something is at stake much greater than me. Out there by myself, they’d have to kill me. I looked at the fear on the faces of those brave souls out there marching. I knew they was going to attack us. They was at a pitch. It was going to be a mass murder.
Just at that time, somebody threw one of those bricks and it did hit a state trooper and almost knocked him out. Heath must have known the man because he broke out laughing. That’s when the police finally
tried to make an effort.
See, it was a big long van right in front of the bus. I didn’t know what was in that van. The van doors flew open and these men come out dressed like soldiers fixing to fight a war. I thought they was coming after us! Those were the sheriff’s deputies. Been in that van all along. The people raging now! Mob violence have set in. There is no way to stop these people short of killing them. I really started thinking evil, I says suppose they attacked us to kill us? Suppose one of these good people is killed and I survive? What kind of life would that be knowing I’d led somebody to their death? I said I really have a mess on my hands. By that time, they was closing in all around us and it was just a matter of time before they killed us.
Here come the sheriff hollering, “Get these people out of here. You going to get these people killed. Get them out now.”
I said, “Sheriff, we can’t run.” So then he said, “Would you at least put your people back on the bus and pull the bus down and give us a chance to try to contain them?” I just knowed they was not containable at that point. Nothing but my blood—would quench their evil thirst. I said, “Okay, I’ll put them on the bus and we’ll pull down. But you got to understand we’re going to get off and finish this march in this county today.”
“You going to get these people killed.”
“Well, I don’t want to get nobody killed. But we can’t run.”
So we got on the bus and pulled the bus down about half a mile. I felt certain the sheriff was back there trying to contain the rioters. We open the door and the sheriff standing there. Now that sheriff was
serious
then. He was not jiving. That man was shaking like a leaf on a tree if he’ll ever admit it. I believe they had set us up to keep us out of that county. I’m convinced just as sure as hell the majority of people that beat us up in Prince George were
articulated,
many brought and paid by a little small white power structure clique to make sure blacks don’t get enough nerve to come back to that county. Keep that land. It has an unusual
absorbent
value. Anyway, here’s the sheriff.
“Don’t get off this bus, you going to git this people killed. They coming! They coming!”
“That’s
your
problem!”
You know, I figured if Doctor King could die and Malcolm X and many others, at least we could march in Prince George! If we have to take a beating, then take it.
“Don’t get them off the bus!”
That fool sheriff thought he had somehow tricked us back onto the bus. He thought we was going to ride away with our tails between our legs. I could see the mob was get closer. We got off that bus. Honest and truth, the sheriff said, “Come on!” He begun to leading the march, hot-footing it up the highway!
“Sheriff, you can
jog
if you want to, but we’re going to walk
in Prince George County today!”
I started everybody to singing and we made it to the place where the sheriff had chosen for us to terminate our march. By this time, several of the protesters had jumped in their cars and made it down where we was. The sheriff says, “All right, you done had your march, then get them back onto the bus and get out of here.” I says, “No, no. No, Sheriff. We’re not running.” I started to say like “Gimme liberty or gimme death and I’m American and this is America.” He was just screaming and flagellating and waving his arms. I said, “No, but I got a speech all prepared.” The sheriff said, “A speech!? A speech!?” I said, “I know a black man have not spoken in this county in seventy-five years. But this one black man is going to speak in this county today. If it costs me my life, I’m making my speech.”
Well, the speech wasn’t no more than ten or fifteen minutes. The hoodlums was swarming around us. I could see the local fire chief giving us the nasty sign. But it looked like some of the blaze had went out of them. They hadn’t run us off. They couldn’t kill us in the broad daylight with the press watching.
We got on the bus and we started back. We all sat there for a long time in a kind of silent shock. We had to contemplate what we’d just come through. We had to absorb what we’d just done. I set there, my head aching and my knee busted all up and I started laughing and some of them says, “Reverend, what’s the matter?” I said, “Them’s some
bad white folks.
They’re bad.”
I started thinking as the bus drove along, I had such a glorious feeling to come over me. Such a wonderful feeling, such a rewarding feeling. I started laughing again. I mean I was cracking up.
“You know, I can just see old Doctor King up there in heaven. I bet he’s just tickled to death. I could see him nudging Gandhi saying, “Look down there in Prince George County. It’s not all over! They’re still on the march to freedom; they’re still waging the holy war to make the dream come true.” I just could see him laughing. I said he probably told Gandhi to ask Jesus would he get off the throne for just a little while and observe what’s going on in Prince George County. I said to myself, “We can be pleased now because we have adequately celebrated the birthday of the King.”
We came on back home, leg aching, head aching, and I was watching television and we have that old song, “I Ain’t Going to Let Nobody Turn Me Around.” The news came on and it said that Reverend Hezekiah Thomas and his contingent was run out of Prince George. Which we wasn’t.
I caught Cheryl’s eye. I said, “I got to go back. We didn’t make it plain. I got to go back.” Cheryl closed her eyes and said, “Lord, come for Thy world,” and walked out of the room.
No, I got to go back. They can never feel that they frightened us into giving up our constitutional right. The United States Supreme Court ruled back in the late fifties that peaceful demonstration was a matter of free speech. One of the greatest freedoms we enjoy in this country. I said I got to go back. I said I got to go back to Prince George County. I began to try to call around and drum up some support. I’m like this. If I think I’m right I’m going to do it. If it costs me my life, then that was the price I was supposed to pay because I certainly couldn’t live—that old saying, “Before I’ll be your slave I’ll be buried in my grave and go home to God and be free,” I live that. Doctor King lived that. He taught me that. He’d preach like hell on Sunday morning. But unlike other preachers, come Monday he’s out in the streets making that sermon become a living reality, blowing breath into that sermon. I’m just like that. I don’t want to go back to Prince George. But every county in America is my home, and I have just as much right to march in Prince George County, Alabama, as I do in Washington, D.C., and I’m not going to let them take that right from me.