Selma Revisited
n March of 1965, Martin Luther King led demonstrations in Selma, Alabama, a
continuation of the civil rights struggles in the southern United States begun ten
years earlier when a black woman named Rosa Parks refused to surrender her
bus seat to a white passenger and, as a consequence, was arrested for violating
the city's segregation law.
The bus moved through the midwestern night, the hiss of tires on the wet pavement audible above the throb of motor and other sounds coming through the slightly open window. Sam sat at the back so the wind would not bother anyone. He was going back for a reunion of old college friends, something he thought that he would never do. If his old roommate had not repeatedly called and badgered him, he would not be here . He would be holed up in the small Montana town where he ran a small sporting goods store. He had not been back to the college town, or east of the Mississippi even, since the year he had finished grad school, the spring he had joined the civil rights marches in Alabama. That was long years ago.
The busses they had ridden in then were much different, old dilapidated school busses, hot with everybody all crowded together. The feeling of togetherness, the singing, the feeling of doing something important was strong enough to overcome the discomfort. He had felt a little strange. He was a loner, not a joiner, but he had felt strongly about the color blind principle they were advocating. He had free time before starting his fall job, and a small windfall of cash meant that he didn't have to work for a change. So, he had joined the group heading south.
His tongue ran across the bridge that replaced the teeth that he had lost that spring in Selma. Four young men, kids really, had caught him alone after one of the marches and left him bleeding and bruised, with a broken leg and missing three teeth on the right side. His own fault. He hadn't been paying attention to where he was going. He had just wanted to get away from crowds for a little while. He was mad at Martin Luther King for turning back at the barricades, and wanted time to think about it. He had regretted that inattentiveness many times since. It had cut his trip in the south short, and it had taken the rest of the summer to recover, at least as much as he ever would. The leg still ached sometimes, and he favored it at the end of hiking trips. The scars he did not mind, he had acquired a wide variety of those in his lifetime, but the bridge was a nuisance
While the bus moved through the wet night, he thought about that summer and the things they had marched for. The battle cry was for a color blind society. He had believed in that principle. He still did, although the movement had abandoned that principle in favor of special treatment based on race. They called him a racist now because he still adhered to that principle, but to him, any decision based on race is a racist decision. It was an odd world. In 1963 he was called a liberal for this belief. Now he was called conservative, and a racist to boot, for that same belief. Actually, he cared not what they called him, as long as they left him alone to read his books, walk in the mountains, and live his quiet life in Montana.
The book in his lap remained unread as he watched the night. In the distance he could see the lights of a city grow larger as the bus sped down the highway.
When the bus pulled into the depot, the driver announced a two hour layover, and Sam got off the bus and stood on the sidewalk, stretching his back and savoring the warm damp air of the evening. Checking his watch, he decided to walk around before finding someplace to eat.
He had been walking for thirty minutes, enjoying the movement. The neighborhoods were mixed, but after a while began to be predominately black. Choosing a small diner, he went inside to eat. A pretty black waitress took his order and brought him coffee while he waited on his dinner. He looked around the diner.
It was old but clean. The customers appeared to be working class blacks.
In an opening in the wall behind the counter was a wheel with orders. Beyond, he could see a busy cook, sweat glistening on his bald head. The wall in back of the counter was filled with pictures. As he idly gazed at them, he realized they were all of various civil rights marches and demonstrations. He looked closer now, scanning for the famous picture of the first Selma march, the one that included him. There it was, just to the right of the opening. From where he was seated, he could clearly see the youthful face beneath the distinctive hat. How odd it was to see that picture again, so soon after all his thoughts during the bus ride.
His thoughts now were interrupted by the young waitress offering to refill his coffee cup.
"Thanks," he said quietly. "I see you've got my picture up on your wall."
"What?" she said. "What do you mean?"
"There. The picture over there. I'm in it."
She turned and looked at the picture and back at him and turned away.
Why don't I keep my mouth shut, he thought, angry at himself. He had just wanted to make some contact but had succeeded in something else. He could see the waitress talking to the cook. Just eat and get out of here, go get back on the bus. He stared at his cup as he stirred in the cream.
He looked up to see the cook towering over him.
"Thelma said that you say you're in a picture up there," indicating the wall.
"Yeah," Sam said, a little exasperated now. "I'm there. In the picture of the Selma March. There in the lower right, wearing the stupid looking hat."
The cook turned back and studied the picture, looked back at him and then again at the picture. After a few seconds, he came back over and stood in front of Sam.
"Don't think the hat's so stupid. Got one just like it. I didn't make the picture, I was about fifty yards back. The name's Arnie," he said as he stuck out his hand.
For the next half hour they talked, talked as old friends do about past times. They talked about the Selma marches and about that spring and summer. Sam told of his experiences with the young locals and the aftermath. Arnie told of following the demonstrations throughout the summer. Thelma was called upon to perform double duty, do the cooking as well as cover the counter. She did not look particularly pleased.
While Sam and Arnie sat talking and drinking coffee, two black youths entered the diner. They moved the counter and sat.
"Yo, Thelma," called the taller youth, "How 'bout couple cokes over here." As Thelma responded to his request, he looked around the diner, his eyes settling on Sam.
"Hey." He addressed no one in particular. "Who the honky motherfucker." The diner got quiet. Sam and Arnie looked up from their conversation. "What the fuck you think you doin down here. We don' need no white satans down here in our 'hood. Go eat with your own." He got up and walked toward Sam, the shorter youth followed in his wake. "I don' want to have t' eat with no fuckin honky devil. Why don' you get the fuck out of here."
Arnie rose to his feet. They were about the same height but the youth was small by comparison.
"Roy," Arnie said, "you shut your mouth. I don't want to hear any of that kind of bullshit in here. This man was at Selma. He earned the right to eat any where he please."
"What's Thelma have to do with this. I don' have to eat with no honky."
"Roy," Arnie said with exasperation as well as anger, "you get your ignorant ass out of here or I'll throw you out."
The smaller youth tugged on Roy's arm. "C'mon Roy. They told us to leave Arnie be. C'mon." The taller youth stood his ground for a couple seconds and then turned and sauntered out of the diner, followed by the second youth.
"Sam," Arnie said as he turned to Sam. "I sorry about that. These young gang bangers are just plain ignorant. Never even heard of Selma. Some of our so called leaders trade in this racist shit cause it's easy and they got nothing else going for them. These kids fall for all this racist bullshit the hate mongers put out. They.."
Sam put up a hand and stopped him. "Arnie, you don't need to apologize to me for them any more than I need to apologize to you for white skinheads. Hey, we are just two men, and we don't have to answer for everybody who might look like us." Sam did not feel as calm inside as he sounded. How he detested all this racial hate. He also hated confrontation. He looked at his watch. "However I do have to go and catch my bus. It leaves in twenty minutes."
"Thelma," hollered Arnie, "call Sam a cab."
While they waited of the cab, they exchanged addresses and phone numbers. Sam invited Arnie to come up for the next hunting season. The tension following the confrontation with Roy eased away. A cab pulled to a stop in front of the diner and honked his horn.
"I'm sorry you had to have that run-in with the 'bangers," said Arnie.
"That's ok, I've met their type before," he said and rubbed his jaw.
"Yes we have," said Arnie. They smiled at each other as they shook hands.
Sam turned and opened the door to leave. As he stepped through the door the 9mm bullet hit him in the shoulder, turning him around. As he turned, another tore into the back of his head, throwing him against the door jamb. He collapsed in the doorway. The rest of the bullets from the Mac 10 went through the open doorway, three catching Thelma in the right breast and neck, while others shattered the pictures on the wall. Outside, two black youths ran, disappearing down the street.
After the 9:30 commercial, the media reported with typical accuracy:
This is a KYMS News Bulletin. We have just received word of a driveby shooting in the southside district. Our reporter on the scene tells us that two people are dead. One is an innocent bystander: a customer at a local diner who was hit by a stray bullet. The other is a white male transient. The incident is an apparent drug related gang shooting, the result of a drug deal gone bad. Details at eleven.
