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Women of the Civil Rights Era

By Charles Rush

January 18, 2009

[ Audio (mp3, 7.4Mb) ]

st week, if you read the New Yorker, you probably learned something new. David Remnick was reflecting on the significance of an African-American being sworn into the office of the President of the United States. This is what he said. “Slaves – men of West African origin branded with Christian monikers like Tom, Peter, Ben, Harry and Daniel – helped build the White House. Three (of them) were on loan from its chief architect, James Hoban. Construction began in 1792, and slaves worked as sawyers, quarrymen, carpenters, stonemasons, brickmakers. Such was the fabric of the new republic; twelve American Presidents owned slaves, eight of them while in office.

“After emancipation and the Civil War, a handful of black men won seats in Congress, but, as the spirit of Jim Crow overwhelmed the promise of Reconstruction, white supremacy regained its hold. On January 29, 1901, the last of those black congressmen, George H. White, of North Carolina, stood in the well of the House and prophesied the miracle of reconciliation and justice:

“‘This, Mr. Chairman, is perhaps the Negroes' temporary farewell to the American Congress but let me say Phoenix-like he will rise up some day and come again. These parting words are on behalf of an outraged, heart-broken, bruised and bleeding, but God-fearing people… The only apology I have for the earnestness with which I have spoken is that I am pleading for the life, the liberty, the future happiness, the manhood, the suffrage for one-eighth of the entire population of the United States.'”[i]

Mr. Remnick goes on to point out that The First Lady, Michele Obama's, great-great grandfather Jim Robinson worked as a slave on the Friendfield Plantation in Georgetown, South Carolina. It is a great moment in American History that this part of our past is being re-claimed and transcended in the inauguration next Tuesday.

By the way, I was interested in Mr. White's speech and I went back to read it in full. Most of us do not really appreciate just how many strides were made by African-Americans right after the end of the Civil War. Neither to they really appreciate just how virulent the imposition of Jim Crow really was.

Mr. White complains in that speech about the overt injustice of elections in the South, citing evidence in his own state of North Carolina. There, he noted, in the town of Halifax…the registered Republican vote was 345, and the total registered vote of the township was 539, but when the count was announced it stood 990 Democrats to 41 Republicans, or 492 more Democratic votes counted than were registered votes in the township. Comment here is unnecessary…” [ii]On and on went that obvious chicanery until blacks were voted out of even congressional districts with a majority of blacks.

I want to quote just a little bit more because Mr. White reminds his colleagues of just how much transformation had taken place in the short 32 years after the end of the Civil War and Emancipation.

“Since that time we have reduced the illiteracy of the race at least 45 percent. We have written and published nearly 500 books. We have nearly 800 newspapers, three of which are dailies. We have now in practice over 2,000 lawyers, and a corresponding number of doctors. We have accumulated over $12,000,000 worth of school property and about $40,000,000 worth of church property. We have about 140,000 farms and homes… We have raised about $11,000,000 for educational purposes. We are operating successfully several banks, commercial enterprises among our people in the South land, including one silk mill and one cotton factory. We have 32,000 teachers in the schools of the country; we have built, with the aid of our friends, about 20,000 churches, and support 7 colleges, 17 academies, 50 high schools, 5 law schools, 5 medical schools and 25 theological seminaries…
We have done it in the face of lynching, burning at the stake, with the humiliation of "Jim Crow" laws, the disfranchisement of our male citizens, slander and degradation of our women, with the factories closed against us, no Negro permitted to be conductor on the railway cars…no Negro permitted to run as engineer on a locomotive, most of the mines closed against us. Labor unions--carpenters, painters, brick masons, machinists, hackmen and those supplying nearly every conceivable avocation for livelihood--have banded themselves together to better their condition, but, with few exceptions, the black face has been left out. The Negroes are seldom employed in our mercantile stores… With all these odds against us, we are forging our way ahead, slowly, perhaps, but surely… You may use our labor for two and a half centuries and then taunt us for our poverty, but let me remind you we will not always remain poor! You may withhold even the knowledge of how to read God's word and…then taunt us for our ignorance, but we would remind you that there is plenty of room at the top, and we are climbing...!”

Finally, he makes gives voice to what Black people want. “He asks no special favors, but simply demands that he be given the same chance for existence, for earning a livelihood, for raising himself in the scales of manhood and womanhood, that are accorded to kindred nationalities. Treat him as a man…open the doors of industry to him… Help him to overcome his weaknesses, punish the crime-committing class by the courts of the land, measure the standard of the race by its best material, cease to mold prejudicial and unjust public sentiment against him, and…he will learn to support…and join in with that political party, that institution, whether secular or religious, in every community where he lives, which is destined to do the greatest good for the greatest number. Obliterate race hatred, party prejudice, and help us to achieve nobler ends, greater results and become satisfactory citizens to our brother in white.”

I would hope that the soul of Congressman George White, wherever he is, would be able to watch the Mall this week and witness the transformation of the world in a healing direction that he hoped for lo, 107 years ago…

I happened on a speech that I gave on ML King anniversary about 20 years ago at Princeton on the change in race relations. At the outset I asked the audience a simple question, “How many of you earnest, integrationists actually had dinner with someone from another ethnic group in the last month?” A few hands went up, but not many. Not nearly enough. That is still our challenge today.

I admire people that are willing to get outside of their comfort zone and grow and I know how difficult that is. Many years ago, one of my students invited to hear the Minister Louis Farrakhan in Brooklyn. There were probably 5,000 people there that night. I believe that I was the only white guy. And tens of thousands more were watching via satellite... And let me tell you, I never felt so conspicuous, as when 500 black guys were watching me watch Farrakhan talking about white oppression. I'm glad I did it but it was not comfortable.

Thank God, we don't have to be the only one in the room these days… But I have to tell you that over the years, I've sat in too many meetings with only one… And too many times I've said a prayer for those brave souls, nameless to history, but without them, we would not be here today.

I was influenced by these unsung heroes when I was just a child. One of them was my teacher in the 4th grade. Her name was Mrs. Fowler and she is the only elementary teacher I can clearly recall probably because of that.

This was Little Rock, Arkansas in 1965, kicking and screaming against the end of the era of segregation. Our elementary school, on the whitest part of the white part of town was chosen to have the first black teacher in a white classroom.

When the announcement was made, it caused quite a stir in the white community. I don't remember specific conversations but I do remember parents gathering for discussions about it. I do remember that the neighbors were alarmed when my mother told them that I would actually be in her class. I do remember that my mother was advised to take me out of school to be enrolled in private school until this all blew over. I remember a lot of fretting, a lot of worry… a lot of ‘isn't this a pity'.

I didn't care much about school but I was glad I was in this class. I was hoping to be right in the middle of the fracas. There were lots of parents there for opening day, more than usual. The days of bitter protest were over but they were there just to see what was happening. And I was on the front row.

I have a vague memory that she wasn't there when we got there. But the bell rang and we sat down. This was back in the era when kids actually sat down when the bell rang. And in she walked, erect, great posture, in professional attire. She was kind, courteous, laid out the rules, and she spoke the most beautiful, elevated English. She was neat beyond neat. Her desk was perfectly organized. And, like most of my elementary school teachers, her letters drawn on the chalk board were lovely and exact in a way I would never be able to copy.

It is hard for me to explain to young people today but back then, by the perverse logic of the legacy of Jim Crow, if white kids ever saw Black women, they were almost all in uniforms going to work or in Sunday clothes going to church. Mrs. Fowler came to us as a vision from the future. She was not only dressed like a teacher, she was like the teacher for the photo in the Teacher magazine. She was… a professional black woman. It was a break through moment, in the way that history often catches up with us in an ordinary way. She was a break-through woman.

We would learn that her husband was the superintendent of the Black schools in Little Rock, wherever they were. We would learn that she was educated, very educated and proud of it. She rose through the black college system in the South.

Mr. Nelson would have loved her. She ran an absolutely ‘no-nonsense' class. She was very big on deportment. No shirt tails hanging out. She was all over us with ‘respect' for each other and she outdid my Grandmother on manners which was not easy to do. She called on us in class and made us recite in front of the class, and explained to us that there was nothing like standing in front of a bunch of people to make you do your best.

Only years later, did it really settle in on me, just how much pressure there was on her. She wasn't allowed to be just her, she wouldn't allow herself to do that. She was a living embodiment of the best of her people, an ambassador to the White world, and she would never let herself slip up. I certainly never remember her slipping.

I do remember her collecting herself. I have a vague memory of parents talking with her in the hallway. Again, this is difficult to convey, but back in that era, by the perverse logic of Jim Crow laws, almost all white people (in my world) felt entitled to address black people like they were talking to the hired help. I suspect that this is what happened. I have a vague memory of her returning to the classroom fuming to herself. And then she looked out the window, collected herself, and went on. What stayed with me was this amazing discipline and strength.

Only years later, did it really occur to me, just how lonely it must have been to be Mrs. Fowler. I have no idea what her collegial relationships were like but I'm almost positive that they were respectful and only that. I wonder if she ever had any other teachers that she could relax with, cut up with, whine with? I wonder how she was able to negotiate faculty meetings? Back to school night with the parents?

I've thought about her so many times during the course of my life, not because I've wanted to but I couldn't help but do it. I thought about it every time some well meaning professor in college and graduate school would turn and ask the lone black student, ‘Ms. Johnson, how does this text resonate with you as a black woman?' In that awkward silence that follows these race laden guffaws, Mrs. Fowler would appear to me again. Every time I heard someone casually ask my black fraternity brothers, ‘what sport do you play?' In that awkward silence that follows one of these race laden guffaws, Mrs. Fowler would appear. Every time I heard a well-meaning politician ask a black clergyman or laywoman, ‘what can we do to get your people involved?' in that awkward silence that follows these race laden guffaws, Mrs. Fowler would appear.

And over the years, my appreciation for the paths that they forged, almost always alone, almost always without support, has grown. That first, very long chapter of integration was almost exclusively one way. In the 60's we dropped the barriers of race and allowed blacks into the white world but very, very few whites ventured substantively into the black world. That first chapter was largely defined around allowing black people entrée.

So much of the time, we had these model citizens, most of them women, who were willing to serve on committees as a majority of one, maybe two. They were willing to get out of their comfort zone and make the way forward because this is how it was going to be done. It was as far as the majority of us were willing to go. Those of us who are old enough can picture some of them from our town right now. And I'm privileged to say, that those of us who are old enough can picture some of them from our congregation as well.

And you know what? the world did change and we are all going to get the blessing. We can laugh easy because they were always on point. We can be personal because they never stopped being professional.

That generation has been passing and a new and bright day is dawning. I know last September I went to visit Helen Sims and say a final prayer for her just before she died. I was holding her hand as her breathing had become labored and she was sleeping all the time, thinking about the times that I had described for her some situation on one of our committees devoted to race relations in town. She had been involved in so many of them herself. She had laid down so much of the important ground work, quietly, persistently, with such dignity- keeping the issue of an inclusive community before our town leaders so that it would not be ignored.

She would have loved to vote for the first African-American president. She would have loved to watch the inauguration. It is indeed an inspiring moment for our nation, really an answer to prayer that we are finally here.

It is one of those moments, when you wish that we could reconvene the great cloud of witnesses that have gone before us that paved the way that we might enjoy the blessing. You wish, that just for a moment, you could see the victims of racial injustice, the martyr's that died for the cause, the prophets that raised the moral question for us all to see, the ordinary men and women that braved ignominy with quiet dignity and resolve. You wish you could see all those first ambassadors of integration who crossed the line and put themselves out there with precious little support. This moment of celebration and inter-racial community is for them.

This week, may we stop and remember how we got here, how socially and spiritually expensive that arduous trip really was. May we pray for our nation that we might be oriented by the higher ideals that Lady Liberty illumines for us all. May we answer the call of Congressman George H. White, from 1901 that we help develop each other that the noblest part of us might shine forth. In gratitude and humility, let's open a new chapter, a new day. Amen.

[i] The Joshua Generation - Race and the campaign of Barack Obama, by David Remnick. The New Yorker, January 12, 2009, p. 17.

[ii] www.blackpast.org/?q=1901-george-h-whites-farewell-address-congress