been taken to Forsyth. A very famous afternoon-television talk show with a witty black hostess had gone to Forsyth, and a program had been recorded in a local restaurant. Hosea, applying equal passion to the safe cause as he had to the brave one, had picketed this show, because only Forsyth residents were allowed to have a say, and they of course were all white.
Hosea had managed to be arrested, to add to that record of his—105 jailings at the time his
Who Is Hosea L. Williams?
pamphlet had gone to press. According to the Atlanta
Journal
, Hosea had shouted as he was being put into the police van, “This is Forsyth County! This is what you see!” And Hosea’s married daughter, who was with him, had shouted, “My daddy! I want to go with him!” And she too had been put in the van.
Tom Teepen hadn’t been able to arrange a meeting with Hosea when he had first told me about him, because Hosea at that time was in jail for a few days. And Tom couldn’t find Hosea when he came out of jail. But then, late one morning, Tom telephoned me with the news that if I hurried to a certain building I might see Hosea. He was being arraigned on another charge at a federal court at eleven-thirty. It was almost that already, but Tom said that these affairs usually ran a little late.
I took a taxi. It was driven by an African, a man from Ghana. It was a short run for him; in almost no time he had set me down again. An open paved forecourt, the big building set back; a security doorway; an elevator to the sixteenth floor. Hardwood doors, low ceilings,a brown-carpeted corridor, neat nameplates: formal, without drama, safe, even cozy. But the hearing was over. And in a room that was like a small lecture room or classroom there was a little group in one corner, like the subdued group that sometimes stays behind after a school examination to talk over the questions.
In the little group I recognized Dick Gregory, gray-bearded and white-suited, a man grown old in the wars, and now really looking quite saintlike. And there was a squatter man with a bigger beard who could be none other than Hosea himself. Even in this moment of stillness in the courtroom his eyes suggested bustle—a man with many things to do and little time to spare. He had a toothbrush in his top pocket—a man ready to go to jail.
He also had a press officer with him, a slender brown woman. She had a handout “for immediate release.” And it seemed from what she said that my chances of meeting Hosea and having a heart-to-heart talk with him were not good. Hosea and Dick Gregory were going to fly to Washington that afternoon to picket the CIA. After that they were going straight off to Europe, to London and the Vatican, to do some work about apartheid. The handout from the press officer was about drugs: Hosea was saying that certain recent incidents were being used “to defame black leaders,” and that the Mafia and the CIA were the ones most involved in the drug trade, which was “destroying our children and the future of our nation.” That, in fact, was why Hosea and Dick Gregory were going to picket the CIA.
And suddenly, before I could fully take in Hosea’s eyes and beard and toothbrush, the little group had gone.
Four or five minutes had passed since I had arrived, no more. And to add to the randomness of the occasion in Court No. I, there was my encounter with someone who, when the little group had gone away, had been left behind, like me. He was a reporter, quite young. He too had come too late for the arraignment. He too was new to Atlanta and didn’t know a great deal about the affairs of the city. In the courtroom, in the brown-carpeted corridor, and in the elevator, we talked about his time in England. He had gone there to study the ancient Roman walls, Hadrian’s Wall and the later Antonine wall. I had never seen those walls and was interested in what he had to say.
We separated downstairs. When I was going out of the front door of the building I
Hosea had managed to be arrested, to add to that record of his—105 jailings at the time his
Who Is Hosea L. Williams?
pamphlet had gone to press. According to the Atlanta
Journal
, Hosea had shouted as he was being put into the police van, “This is Forsyth County! This is what you see!” And Hosea’s married daughter, who was with him, had shouted, “My daddy! I want to go with him!” And she too had been put in the van.
Tom Teepen hadn’t been able to arrange a meeting with Hosea when he had first told me about him, because Hosea at that time was in jail for a few days. And Tom couldn’t find Hosea when he came out of jail. But then, late one morning, Tom telephoned me with the news that if I hurried to a certain building I might see Hosea. He was being arraigned on another charge at a federal court at eleven-thirty. It was almost that already, but Tom said that these affairs usually ran a little late.
I took a taxi. It was driven by an African, a man from Ghana. It was a short run for him; in almost no time he had set me down again. An open paved forecourt, the big building set back; a security doorway; an elevator to the sixteenth floor. Hardwood doors, low ceilings,a brown-carpeted corridor, neat nameplates: formal, without drama, safe, even cozy. But the hearing was over. And in a room that was like a small lecture room or classroom there was a little group in one corner, like the subdued group that sometimes stays behind after a school examination to talk over the questions.
In the little group I recognized Dick Gregory, gray-bearded and white-suited, a man grown old in the wars, and now really looking quite saintlike. And there was a squatter man with a bigger beard who could be none other than Hosea himself. Even in this moment of stillness in the courtroom his eyes suggested bustle—a man with many things to do and little time to spare. He had a toothbrush in his top pocket—a man ready to go to jail.
He also had a press officer with him, a slender brown woman. She had a handout “for immediate release.” And it seemed from what she said that my chances of meeting Hosea and having a heart-to-heart talk with him were not good. Hosea and Dick Gregory were going to fly to Washington that afternoon to picket the CIA. After that they were going straight off to Europe, to London and the Vatican, to do some work about apartheid. The handout from the press officer was about drugs: Hosea was saying that certain recent incidents were being used “to defame black leaders,” and that the Mafia and the CIA were the ones most involved in the drug trade, which was “destroying our children and the future of our nation.” That, in fact, was why Hosea and Dick Gregory were going to picket the CIA.
And suddenly, before I could fully take in Hosea’s eyes and beard and toothbrush, the little group had gone.
Four or five minutes had passed since I had arrived, no more. And to add to the randomness of the occasion in Court No. I, there was my encounter with someone who, when the little group had gone away, had been left behind, like me. He was a reporter, quite young. He too had come too late for the arraignment. He too was new to Atlanta and didn’t know a great deal about the affairs of the city. In the courtroom, in the brown-carpeted corridor, and in the elevator, we talked about his time in England. He had gone there to study the ancient Roman walls, Hadrian’s Wall and the later Antonine wall. I had never seen those walls and was interested in what he had to say.
We separated downstairs. When I was going out of the front door of the building I
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