twenty-five.
‘You talked to King for a long time,’ he said.
‘If he wasn’t a preacher, I’d say he was coming on to me,’ she said.
George was not sure how to respond to that. It would be no surprise to him if a preacher made a pass at a girl as enchanting as Maria. But she was naive about men, he thought. ‘I talked to King a bit.’
‘What did he say to you?’
George hesitated. It was King’s words that had scared George. He decided to tell Maria anyway: she had a right to know. ‘He says we’re not going to make it through Alabama.’
Maria blanched. ‘Did he really say that?’
‘He said exactly that.’
Now they were both scared.
The Greyhound pulled out of the bus station.
For the first few days George had feared that the Freedom Ride would be too peaceful. Regular bus passengers did not react to the black people sitting in the wrong seats, and sometimes joined in their songs. Nothing had happened when the Riders defied WHITES ONLY and COLORED notices in bus stations. Some towns had even painted over the signs. George feared the segregationists had devised the perfect strategy. There was no trouble and no publicity, and coloured Riders were served politely in the white restaurants. Every evening, they got off the buses and attended meetings unmolested, usually in churches, then stayed overnight with sympathizers. But George felt sure that as they left each town the signs would be restored, and segregation would return; and the Freedom Ride would have been a waste of time.
The irony was striking. For as long as he could remember, George had been wounded and infuriated by the repeated message, sometimes implicit but often spoken aloud, that he was inferior. It made no difference that he was smarter than 99 per cent of white Americans. Nor that he was hardworking, polite, and well dressed. He was looked down upon by ugly white people too stupid or too lazy to do anything harder than pour drinks or pump gas. He could not walk into a department store, sit down in a restaurant, or apply for a job without wondering whether he would be ignored, asked to leave, or rejected because of his colour. It made him burn with resentment. But now, paradoxically, he was disappointed that it was not happening.
Meanwhile, the White House dithered. On the third day of the Ride, the Attorney General, Robert Kennedy, had made a speech at the University of Georgia promising to enforce civil rights in the South. Then, three days later, his brother the President had backtracked, withdrawing support from two civil rights bills.
Was this how the segregationists would win? George had wondered. By avoiding confrontation then carrying on as usual?
It was not. Peace had lasted just four days.
On the fifth day of the Ride one of their number had been jailed for insisting on his right to a shoeshine.
Violence had broken out on the sixth.
The victim had been John Lewis, the theology student. He had been attacked by thugs in a white restroom in Rock Hill, South Carolina. Lewis had allowed himself to be punched and kicked without retaliation. George had not seen the incident, which was probably a good thing, for he was not sure he could have matched Lewis’s Gandhian self-restraint.
George had read short reports of the violence in the next day’s papers, but he was disappointed to see the story overshadowed by the rocket flight of Alan Shepard, the first American in space. Who cares? George thought sourly. The Soviet cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin had been the first man in space, less than a month ago. The Russians beat us to it. A white American can orbit the earth, but a black American can’t enter a restroom.
Then, in Atlanta, the Riders had been cheered by a welcoming crowd as they got off the bus, and George’s spirits had lifted again.
But that was Georgia, and now they were headed for Alabama.
‘Why did King say we’re not going to make it through Alabama?’ Maria asked.
‘There’s a rumour the Ku Klux Klan are
‘You talked to King for a long time,’ he said.
‘If he wasn’t a preacher, I’d say he was coming on to me,’ she said.
George was not sure how to respond to that. It would be no surprise to him if a preacher made a pass at a girl as enchanting as Maria. But she was naive about men, he thought. ‘I talked to King a bit.’
‘What did he say to you?’
George hesitated. It was King’s words that had scared George. He decided to tell Maria anyway: she had a right to know. ‘He says we’re not going to make it through Alabama.’
Maria blanched. ‘Did he really say that?’
‘He said exactly that.’
Now they were both scared.
The Greyhound pulled out of the bus station.
For the first few days George had feared that the Freedom Ride would be too peaceful. Regular bus passengers did not react to the black people sitting in the wrong seats, and sometimes joined in their songs. Nothing had happened when the Riders defied WHITES ONLY and COLORED notices in bus stations. Some towns had even painted over the signs. George feared the segregationists had devised the perfect strategy. There was no trouble and no publicity, and coloured Riders were served politely in the white restaurants. Every evening, they got off the buses and attended meetings unmolested, usually in churches, then stayed overnight with sympathizers. But George felt sure that as they left each town the signs would be restored, and segregation would return; and the Freedom Ride would have been a waste of time.
The irony was striking. For as long as he could remember, George had been wounded and infuriated by the repeated message, sometimes implicit but often spoken aloud, that he was inferior. It made no difference that he was smarter than 99 per cent of white Americans. Nor that he was hardworking, polite, and well dressed. He was looked down upon by ugly white people too stupid or too lazy to do anything harder than pour drinks or pump gas. He could not walk into a department store, sit down in a restaurant, or apply for a job without wondering whether he would be ignored, asked to leave, or rejected because of his colour. It made him burn with resentment. But now, paradoxically, he was disappointed that it was not happening.
Meanwhile, the White House dithered. On the third day of the Ride, the Attorney General, Robert Kennedy, had made a speech at the University of Georgia promising to enforce civil rights in the South. Then, three days later, his brother the President had backtracked, withdrawing support from two civil rights bills.
Was this how the segregationists would win? George had wondered. By avoiding confrontation then carrying on as usual?
It was not. Peace had lasted just four days.
On the fifth day of the Ride one of their number had been jailed for insisting on his right to a shoeshine.
Violence had broken out on the sixth.
The victim had been John Lewis, the theology student. He had been attacked by thugs in a white restroom in Rock Hill, South Carolina. Lewis had allowed himself to be punched and kicked without retaliation. George had not seen the incident, which was probably a good thing, for he was not sure he could have matched Lewis’s Gandhian self-restraint.
George had read short reports of the violence in the next day’s papers, but he was disappointed to see the story overshadowed by the rocket flight of Alan Shepard, the first American in space. Who cares? George thought sourly. The Soviet cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin had been the first man in space, less than a month ago. The Russians beat us to it. A white American can orbit the earth, but a black American can’t enter a restroom.
Then, in Atlanta, the Riders had been cheered by a welcoming crowd as they got off the bus, and George’s spirits had lifted again.
But that was Georgia, and now they were headed for Alabama.
‘Why did King say we’re not going to make it through Alabama?’ Maria asked.
‘There’s a rumour the Ku Klux Klan are
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