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An EPFP Coordinator's Reflection: Civil Rights Bus Tour Themes

Posted By Sarah McCann, Wednesday, August 9, 2017

Written by MA EPFP Coordinator Laura Dziorny, based on her participation in the Civil Rights Bus Tour in 2016.
To attend the EPFP Alumni Bus Tour on January 21-24, 2018, learn more and register here: http://epfp.iel.org/page/civilrightstour

As a co-coordinator of the Massachusetts Education Policy Fellowship Program for the past few years, I’ve been interested in thinking more critically about how we can integrate a focus on civil rights into our program. As a result—and because of my deep interest in experiencing first-hand historical sites I had only read about—I was eager to participate in the Civil Rights Bus Tour last year. Going into the experience, I felt myself quite far removed (by age, race, and geography) from the key moments that unfolded during the civil rights movement. But one of the major takeaways for me was to realize that there are no distant observers when it comes to the movement for civil rights. It is not just for heroes, for other communities, or merely a part of our history. We all have a role to play.

            For me, one major theme of the tour was courage. Namely, I realized that the civil rights movement was made of ordinary people. This isn’t to say that the people involved don’t deserve our admiration and respect. Of course they do. But when we label people as “heroes” we shouldn’t forget that these were people just like us. In particular, two memories from the tour have stuck with me because of the way they demonstrate the courage of those involved with the movement.

            On the first day of our tour, we heard from a woman named Jewel at the Mt. Zion United Methodist Church in Philadelphia, Mississippi. Her mother and brother were brutally beaten by Klansmen as they left a church meeting during the summer of 1964, the same summer that Mickey Schwerner, James Chaney, and Andrew Goodman were killed in Philadelphia for their involvement in efforts to register black voters. Hearing Jewel talk about the Klan activity and the constant threat of violence that black residents faced, it was impossible not to reflect on the deep, abiding, resilient spirit and courage of Jewel, her family, and so many others like them. Sometimes the most courageous thing is daring to live your life the way you want to. I was so impressed by the quiet courage of all those who lived under the threat of violence during these fraught times, when just carrying out basic day-to-day tasks like going to school or church was a dangerous act.

            Another striking moment—for me and the whole group—came as we toured the Dexter Avenue Parsonage, where Martin Luther King lived with his young family when he was pastor of the Dexter Ave. Church in Montgomery from 1954-1960. The contents of the parsonage are well-preserved, reflecting the daily life of a family in the 1950s. It’s incredible to think that as you walk next to the couch and coffee table, the beds and dressers, that such a great hero of our history lived and worked here. We have a tendency to deify King and other leaders of the movement, to put them on a pedestal. The truth is that he was a human who faced doubts and fear and crises of confidence, who ate at that kitchen table and slept in that bed. He became one of our heroes by rising to the occasion in an extraordinary moment in time, but it’s important to remember that any of us could call upon the same sources of courage in our lives if we choose.

            A second major theme I took away from my experience is the incredible power of community—that is, people pulling together in support of a larger movement. A prime example came at the Rosa Parks Library and Museum, when we learned about the Montgomery bus boycott that lasted 382 days from 1955-56. We saw pictures and learned about the measures that community members took to continue on with their lives despite the disruption, including organizing covert carpool pick-up points. It’s incredible to think about the unity and sense of purpose that inspired those participating in the boycott, and to reflect on how they pulled together and used their creativity to reinforce community bonds.

            On the first night of the bus tour, we heard from a fascinating and inspirational speaker, Flonzie Brown Wright, who told us a number of stories about her past. She shared her attempts to register to vote and her later successful campaign to win elected office, supervising the Registrar of Voters. During the march from Selma to Montgomery in the summer of 1965, she received a call from Martin Luther King, Jr., asking her to feed and house the marchers as they passed. With no time to waste, she mobilized her neighbors, utilized every available pair of hands, every nook and cranny in the town, and managed to provide for thousands of marchers. It’s hard to imagine this level of community engagement, unity, and mobilization in today’s fractured times—and it offers a powerful opportunity to reflect on whether we’ve lost some of that spirit of community even as we continually encounter new methods of “connecting.”

            Along with courage and community, the Civil Rights Bus Tour caused me to reflect on the theme of continuity—how the civil rights movement and the events we learned about on the bus tour are connected to all of our lives and experiences to this day. I saw this in a couple of ways, first by contemplating the role of allies to the movement. I was especially struck to learn about James Reeb, a White Unitarian Universalist preacher who joined the marchers in Selma, where he was beaten and killed by segregationists. James Reeb came to Selma from the same city where I live today, Boston. Hearing his story, I felt surprised that I hadn’t heard anything about him before the trip—but also proud to know that he had joined the march for a cause he believed in. His example made me think about how I can be an ally to movements for justice, especially those that are taking place far away from my own lived experiences.

            Finally, the trip helped me reflect on how struggles for justice have impacted every part of the country, including my own. Boston has certainly faced—and continues to face—significant challenges with racial inequity, particularly during the 1970s when protests over busing led to violence and simmering racial tensions. Coming out of this trip, I’m interested in thinking about how we can engage our Policy Fellows in discussions about the history of the struggle for equal rights in Massachusetts. We must not ignore challenges or accept the status quo in our own communities by focusing on problems elsewhere.

            Throughout the tour (which took place at the end of November 2016), it was impossible not to contemplate the impact of the recent presidential election, given the divisive and nasty rhetoric that emerged during that campaign. It made clear that the issues we were discussing are not just in the past, but that ignorance and fear of others persists in very real ways to this day, all across our country. The Civil Rights Bus Tour emphasized to me that there are no bystanders in the movement for equality and justice, but that this is all of our fight, and it continues to this day. It’s possible for all of us to seek the courage to participate, play our part in community efforts for justice, and recognize the continuity with what’s gone on before.

            I’ll close by sharing the inspirational words from the tombstone of James Chaney, one of the three young activists killed in Philadelphia, Mississippi in the summer of 1964: “There are those who are alive yet who will never live. There are those who are dead yet who will live forever. Great deeds inspire and encourage the living.” Participating in the Civil Rights bus tour to learn about Mr. Chaney and others like him was truly an honor and an inspiration, and I hope everyone has the chance to participate in this experience.

Tags:  alumni  civil rights  equity 

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The Fragility of Justice and the Ordinary Heroes Who Must Uphold It

Posted By Sarah McCann, Tuesday, January 3, 2017

Mary Kingston Roche

DC EPFP 10-11

The Fragility of Justice and the Ordinary Heroes Who Must Uphold It
Cross-posted from http://www.huffingtonpost.com/martin-j-blank/the-fragility-of-justice_b_13789526.html

 

Would you ever fear that your own tombstone would be vandalized out of hate?
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This is the reality for James Earl Chaney, one of three slain civil rights workers killed on June 21, 1964 by members of the Ku Klux Klan. Chaney’s story has come to epitomize the malice of this era in our history. He is buried on the side of the road in rural Meridian, Mississippi, not far from where he was brutally murdered and buried in a ditch by the Klan, undiscovered for 44 days. Chaney lies next to his slain brothers, Andrew Goodman and Mickey Schwerner.

All burial places should be sacred, but not James’. Over the years his tombstone has been knocked over or defaced half a dozen times, leading his family to attach steel bars to the back of the stone to keep it in place. And the image of his face on the stone has been marred or even shot at as seen by bullet holes on the tombstone.

We could not witness clearer evidence that hate and racism persist in our society fifty years after the civil rights movement. James Chaney’s tombstone represents this fragility of justice, and how we must call upon the strength in our hearts to stand up for ourselves and others every day.

This visit to James Chaney’s tombstone was part of a 3-day civil rights bus tour for education leaders, organized by the John C. Stennis Institute of Government at Mississippi State University and the Education Policy Center at The University of Alabama. Those who attended the tour participate in theEducation Policy Fellowship Programrun by theInstitute for Educational Leadership. Every aspect of our three-day bus tour was equally sobering yet inspiring; painful but hopeful. Here are a few key themes that emerged for me as we made our way from Jackson to Birmingham, feeling each theme more acutely with each stop.

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Forgiveness

We were often left speechless by the forgiveness and grace people displayed who were affected by heinous acts of racism. Jewel, whose brother and mother were brutally beaten by Klansmen upon leaving a church meeting in Philadelphia, Mississippi when members of the Klan were looking for civil rights activist Mickey Schwerner is one such person. She said, “You have to forgive, or else you can’t move on...but I still get teary-eyed about it.” This amazing level of forgiveness was even more powerful when juxtaposed with the utter lack of remorse or responsibility displayed by the men convicted decades later for the murders of African-Americans during this time. This characterization of the convicted men was illuminated by the first-person accounts of Doug Jones and Jerry Mitchell, an attorney and journalist, respectively, who came to know these men through their work in bringing them to justice.

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Remembrance

We cannot learn from our past unless we acknowledge and remember what happened. I was struck by how many of my peers on the tour, who were largely community college administrators in Mississippi and Alabama, said they didn’t even learn about civil rights history in school. One of my peers from East Mississippi Community College said “I didn’t learn about civil rights growing up-it wasn’t in our history textbooks. It was all hearsay. We’d see it in magazines like Ebony.” At our stop in Selma, we noticed a housing project and school right across from the church where thousands of people gathered in 1965 to start the march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge to Montgomery. When one of my peers stopped to ask a young girl if she had learned about this history in school, she had not. We must do better. Our civil rights history is too important, too raw, and too tenuous to be ignored.

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Courage

We were amazed by the courage that so many people involved in the civil rights movement displayed on a daily basis. We felt their courage in the story of Fred Shuttlesworth, a preacher and father who was brutally beaten simply for trying to integrate his children into his local school, three years after the Supreme Court ruled in Brown vs. Board of Education that “separate but unequal” was unconstitutional. We felt their courage when we walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in peace, but recalled the pictures of brutality from the Bloody Sunday march when the Alabama police unleashed their fists, bats, dogs and fire hoses on a peaceful gathering. What courage these leaders had to return to that bridge twice more, determined to make the journey to Montgomery. We felt their courage in picturing a 25-year old Martin Luther King, Jr. organize the year-plus long Montgomery bus boycott in 1955 in the basement of the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, just steps from where Governor Wallace had only recently vowed for “segregation now, tomorrow, and forever.” We learned that gathering in church the night before a march or protest and singing songs like “Aint Scared of Nobody” gave so many people the courage to do what they did the next day.

Unity

When Martin Luther King, Jr. made the call for people to join him in the march from Selma to Montgomery, all kinds of allies showed up: black, white, Jewish, Christian, Muslim, young and old. People were called to a movement that was fundamentally about human rights, and the belief that we all deserve the same rights and liberties. In a similar way, and without anticipating it, we realized on the last day of our bus tour that we as a group had unified around this common powerful experience, and pledged to support one another in our own work to advance civil and human rights.2016-12-22-1482418526-6041011-Chaneytombstone.png

So, where does this leave us today? How do we protect and uphold this fragile justice -whether it’s rights for African-Americans, Latino, LGBTQ, Muslims, immigrants, or any other targeted group? We must first recognize that we are the ordinary heroes that we’ve been waiting for: the people who will counter every hateful act with one of love, and put tombstones like James Chaney’s upright again and again when they are knocked over. We are not unlike the ordinary heroes of the civil rights movement: so many men, women, and young people whose names we’ll never know who carried the movement forward through their small acts for justice.


James Chaney was one of those ordinary heroes whom we honor and remember. His tombstone inscription leaves us with a guide for our way forward together: “There are those who are alive yet will never live/There are those who are dead yet will live forever/Great deeds inspire and encourage the living.”

Tags:  civil rights  education  justice  unity 

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