While the World Watched (2 page)

Chapter 1

Too Great a Burden to Bear

* * *

Hate is too great a burden to bear. . . . I have decided to love. . . . If you are seeking the highest good, I think you can find it through love. And the beautiful thing is that we aren't moving wrong when we do it, because John was right, God is love.

Martin Luther King Jr.,
“Where Do We Go from Here?
”
[1]

In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.

Martin Luther King Jr.

I woke up on Sunday morning, September 15, 1963, and looked out my bedroom window. The sky was slightly overcast, but the sun was trying hard to shine through the clouds. It was a warm, beautiful September day in Birmingham, Alabama—an ordinary busy Sunday morning at the Maull home.

I laid out my white Sunday dress. I had starched and ironed it before I went to bed the night before. At age fourteen, I didn't own a lot of clothes because there were six children to clothe in our household. But I had several special church dresses and one pair of black patent leather shoes I saved just for Sunday church.

Today was Youth Sunday at Sixteenth Street Baptist Church. On the fourth Sunday of each month, Reverend John H. Cross asked the church's youth to lead the service, teach the Sunday school classes, and take over jobs the adult members usually did. It proved an exciting day for us each month. The boys wore dark pants and white shirts on those Sundays, and the girls wore their prettiest white dresses.

I had been an active member of Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama, for as far back as I could remember. In 1950, when I was two years old, my parents registered me in the cradle-roll Sunday school class. My church served as the center of my life. I worshiped there. I socialized there. I even worked there part-time as a church secretary. Sixteenth Street Baptist Church was the first black church built in Birmingham. Since its construction in 1911, the church had become a worship home and meeting place for most of the city's black community. A host of Civil Rights leaders, including Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., had recently met there and, along with other community pastors and leaders, had planned nonviolent protests and marches. Dr. King called the Birmingham campaign Project C, with the
C
standing for “confrontation.” Dr. King—and the entire black community—yearned for equal rights for blacks. Birmingham was considered the most segregated city in the South. If we could break the back of segregation in our city, it would send a strong message to the rest of the nation. But it would prove to be an extremely difficult fight.

Several responsibilities awaited me at home before I could leave for church. One of them included combing my younger sister's hair. Little Agnes had a lot of it, always uncooperative to the comb, and she had a sensitive, tender scalp. Mama herself was never good at fixing hair. At ten years of age, I started washing and pressing my own hair. I'd heat up the metal comb and run it again and again through my tangles. After Agnes came along, Mama gave me the assignment of combing her hair too. I loved taking care of Agnes and her hair, and I loved making her look pretty. It was like having my own live baby doll.

In the mornings before I left for school, Agnes usually held still and allowed me to comb and braid her hair. Even though I tried to be gentle, it usually hurt her to get the kinks out. Sometimes she'd cry. That Sunday she refused to hold still. Restless and not wanting to be bothered, she kept pushing me away.

“Please, Agnes,” I begged. “Be still. I've got to be on time for Sunday school. It's Youth Sunday. I have my reports to do, and I've got to get there and count the money. I need to be on time this morning.”

But my sister refused to cooperate.

“Mama,” I called in desperation. “Agnes won't let me comb her hair, and I'm going to be late for Sunday school. I need to go.”

“Well, just leave her here this morning,” Mama told me. “You go on to church. Agnes can stay home with me.”

Thank goodness!
I thought. The last thing I wanted was to be late and upset Mrs. Shorter, the church secretary. She would have been working in the office and answering the phone all that morning. Mrs. Shorter and I worked side by side in the church office on Sundays.

“Come on, Wendell, Kirk!” I called to my younger brothers. “We've got to go!”

Now that my oldest brother, Samuel, was a freshman at Bradley University in Peoria, Illinois, that left my sixteen-year-old brother, Chester, as the oldest child at home. He had just gotten his driver's license, and Mama asked him to drive us to church. Chester was excited to have permission to drive the family car that morning. He sat up straight and proud behind the steering wheel of our 1960 royal blue Chevrolet Impala.

“Bring the car right back after you drop off your sister and brothers,” Mama called to Chester. “Your dad needs it to drive to work.”

* * *

My dad was well educated. He had earned a master's degree in applied sciences, and he taught physics and chemistry during the weekdays at the all-black George Washington Carver High School in North Birmingham. Prior to that, Daddy had taught at Industrial High School, which later became A. H. Parker High School—the first high school in Birmingham built specifically for black students. In the evenings and on weekends, in spite of his intelligence and education, he worked a menial job. He waited tables at the elite, white-members-only Birmingham Country Club in prestigious Mountain Brook, a city with old money and deeply ingrained segregated ways. It proved a lowly position for Daddy, but he did what he needed to do to feed his family and keep the roof over our heads. He couldn't eat at the Birmingham Country Club, of course—people of color couldn't. But they worked there cooking, serving, and cleaning up. My parents had dreams that each of their children would graduate from college, so Dad earmarked the money from this job for college savings for the six of us kids.

Before Daddy left home in the evenings and on weekends, he'd slip into the club's waiter uniform, a short white jacket trimmed in green cord around the sleeves and neck, with
BCC
embroidered on the front. After he arrived, he would pull on freshly bleached waiter's gloves and begin his work. My father would occasionally speak to us about his experiences and interactions with the customers at the BCC. He did his job well, responded with the mandatory “Yes, Sir” to diners' demands, and pretty much just kept his mouth shut. He never spoke about his education or teaching position while he was there, not wanting his employers or customers to call him uppity and take away his job.

Daddy never told us what he overheard around the country club tables he served. I guess he didn't want to frighten us—he always tried hard to protect us. He wasn't alone in his approach. In those days, adults in the black community didn't talk to their children about painful happenings. They just kept quiet about those things and tried to move on, in spite of all that was going on around them. But I have no doubt that during the thirty years he worked there, he learned much about racist Birmingham. I suspect he occasionally heard conversations from Klan club members that caused his heart to miss a beat. But when such remarks caused him additional fears and concerns, he just enforced new rules upon his children—hard-to-follow, strict rules. He was very much a disciplinarian, and he regimented our coming and going. He expected complete obedience to whatever rules he laid down at home. We understood, and we usually obeyed to the letter. If we decided not to listen, we knew harsh punishment would follow. It was years before we realized that his unwieldy rules were designed to protect us from the evil possibilities of the mean-spirited world around us.

“You children aren't to go near the railroad tracks going toward the pipe company,” Daddy ordered us. He gave no reason. He didn't have to. As strict as he was, we knew Daddy was just and fair. We knew he loved us and wanted what was best for us.

Daddy often warned my older brothers, “Samuel and Chester, you protect our ‘girl-child' and walk to school together.” Daddy rarely called me by my name, Carolyn. He referred to me as the family's “girl-child” or “Caroline.” It wasn't uncommon to hear Daddy demand, “If three children leave this house together, then three children must return to this house together!” We had to know where each sibling was at all times. We were definitely our “brothers' keepers.”

As Birmingham grew increasingly violent in the 1960s, Daddy's list of nonnegotiable rules grew longer from year to year. We knew he meant business, and we knew better than to question him. I sulked when Daddy insisted that I, his girl-child, be escorted almost everywhere I went. I didn't mind so much when my older brothers walked with me down the streets of Birmingham or accompanied me to neighborhood parties. But I felt terribly embarrassed when Daddy made my two younger brothers go with me. Because of Daddy's tight leash, I also wasn't allowed to spend the night at any of my friends' homes or babysit for children in the community. About the only place he permitted me to go alone, unescorted by my brothers, was church. It was a safe place, and I had certain responsibilities there. I escaped to the church as often as I could.

When we occasionally disobeyed a rule, Daddy enforced punishment that we would long remember. Sometimes he grounded us or put us in temporary isolation if we got out of line. The boys got their share of spankings, but my father hardly ever spanked me. Instead, he'd take away Sunday afternoon movie privileges or not let me talk on the phone or tell me I couldn't go to club meetings with my friends. He believed discipline and rules were a must for children, especially young boys—and especially those growing up in Birmingham, Alabama.

Daddy also imposed a five-minute limit on the use of the bathroom and the telephone. If we exceeded our five minutes, particularly if someone else was waiting to use the phone, Daddy simply unplugged it. He also made strict rules about hitting a girl-child. My brothers knew not to hit me or my little sister because if they did, they could expect to be in a lot of trouble. Daddy believed in respecting and protecting women. We knew we needed to show Mama utmost respect—showing Mama disrespect always, without fail, meant severe punishment. If my dad thought we had even looked at my mother in a disrespectful way, we faced big trouble.

Sometimes we unwisely tested Daddy's rules. One day when Chester was fifteen, with a learner's permit but no license, he slipped away with the family car. According to reports from the neighbors, boys ran alongside the car, holding onto the door handles from the outside, while my brother drove really fast. But in the course of this showing off, one of his buddies fell to the ground and ended up scraped and scratched. Soon enough the boy's father paid Daddy a visit. My dad became really angry, and he not only whipped Chester but took away his learner's permit for three whole months. Chester learned his lesson. He never did that again!

Wendell, my mischievous brother, was always in trouble. Daddy enrolled Wendell in the ninth grade class at Carver High School, where he worked, even though it lay outside our school zone. For the sake of convenience, teachers were allowed to enroll their children where they taught. But Daddy had an additional reason for wanting him there.

“I can keep an eye on this boy if I take him with me,” Daddy said.

I remember when Wendell, shortly before his high school graduation, grew a little beard on the bottom of his chin—just a few hairs that formed a goatee. But Carver High School said it wouldn't graduate any student who had hair on his face.

On graduation morning Wendell decided to be clever. He put Band-Aids over his chin hair and told his teachers, “I cut my chin when I shaved off the hair.”

As far as the school was concerned, he had gotten away with it, and he graduated with his class—and his Band-Aids. But he didn't fool Daddy. Not a bit. Daddy was so upset with Wendell he wrote a letter to the dean at Knoxville College, where Wendell had been accepted for the coming fall.

“It appears that I have not yet taught my son the meaning of character and integrity,” Daddy wrote. “He has not learned to be a responsible member of society. For this reason, I am canceling Wendell's acceptance to attend your college in the fall semester.”

Wendell was shocked when he read the letter. He begged Daddy to reconsider, but my father refused. Wendell had to be punished.

Daddy never mailed the letter, even though he made Wendell believe he had. Later, a month before the fall semester was to begin, Daddy pretended to have changed his mind and told Wendell he could attend after all. But for most of the summer, my brother thought all his friends would go without him to Knoxville College, and he would have to get a job and stay home. It was quite a lesson.

When we entered high school, my father would make us take the same tests he prepared for his high school students. He worked us hard. If he didn't like our grades on his tests, he made us study and retake the tests until we made better grades. His rules proved a real source of aggravation for me. I thought we had the strictest father in town.

Daddy liked things organized and efficient—a place for everything and everything in its place. He knew where things were: socks in the top dresser drawers, toys in the bedroom closets, skates and bikes on the back porch, and pots and pans stacked neatly in the kitchen cabinet. He arranged the kitchen in a certain way, and he made sure we put things back in their designated places. No doubt these habits were a carryover from his mother, whose name was Sweet. She died when my dad was sixteen, but in that relatively short amount of time she taught him to cook, sew, iron, and make his bed. Sweet was not formally educated, but she trained Dad well in the practical aspects of life. Daddy's time in the U.S. Army no doubt influenced his orderly lifestyle too. As an Army cook, he'd learned to live a strictly regimented routine. It wasn't unusual for Daddy to wake us up at three or four in the morning after he got off work at the BCC and walk us to the kitchen to look at what we'd failed to clean properly before bedtime.