police station, which didn't really compare to the stories being told
of real beatings, of terrified runs for one's life, of real arrests. But it was her
story to tell.
That evening, they ate rich southern food at Mercer's, the Negro-owned
restaurant near the One Man, One Vote office. They felt free and good even
living under such a clear threat from the police and the local whites. They
were watched, and they knew it. They were followed, and they were sneered
at on the streets. They stood in the pro-movement church and listened to
speakers and sang freedom songs until their throats went raw.
The day after the news hit about the three missing volunteers, mimeographed copies of new check-in procedures were posted on the bulletin
board, stuffed into every mail slot, and taped to both sides of the bathroom
door. A shrill quiet fell over the bustling One Man, One Vote office. After
less than a week of orientation, Margo told Celeste and Ramona they were
ready to go to their project cities. They hugged their goodbyes, waved their
copies of the new check-in procedures in the air, and tried to ride high over
their feelings of dread. With three of their volunteers already missing, the summer camp illusion was completely gone. Ramona left for Indianola in
the Delta and Margo for Aberdeen.
The Mississippi sun pounded Celeste and Matt Higgens as they loaded
her suitcase, along with two boxes of children's books for her freedom
school, into the trunk of his late model Dodge. Matt told her he was from
Kansas City. He had a round face and a stocky build, and was dark as live
oak bark. He wore his de rigueur movement overalls over a white dress shirt
with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Celeste felt her scoop necked tan
cotton dress would ignite if she didn't get into the shade. She'd dressed to
meet the woman who would be her hostess in Pineyville, and wanted to be
spiffy looking when she stepped out of that car.
They headed out, Matt crawling through Jackson. They picked up
Route 49, leaving Hinds County for Rankin. Route 49 would take them
south to Hattiesburg, where they'd pick up Route ii to Pineyville. It might
have been out of the way, but nobody in their right mind was going to take
any shortcuts over the back roads. Celeste had shoved her copy of the new
check-in procedures into her book bag along with a postcard from J.D. that
she'd taken from her mail slot in the One Man, One Vote office. She pulled
out the new rules, which were full of emphatic capitalizations: (1) If you
travel away from your project city, call before you leave, call the Jackson
office when you return. (2) Keep vehicles serviced by friendly mechanics.
(3) Drive UNDER the speed limit at ALL times. (4) If you blow a tire, ride
on the rim until you're in a safe place. (5) NO TRAVELING ALONE.
(6) Report any harassment or violence to this office first, the FBI second,
and the local authorities third. (7) STICK TO THE MAIN ROADS.
Celeste shoved the sheet back into her book-bag and turned off the
crackling radio, leaving the noise of the engine and the sound of the wind
whipping along the sides of the car.
"You don't look like the kind of girl whose parents would let her be a
civil rights worker. You down here looking for something to fill yo' hot
pussy, or you here to get these niggers off their asses and out to vote?" Matt
dipped his head twice and chuckled. If he'd been walking, it would have
been a dipping stroll, the words spoken out of the side of his mouth from a
face beneath a greasy do-rag holding the processed hair in place. He either
longed to be a thug or he'd already made it.
Celeste stared at him over the top of her black-framed sunglasses, which
continually slid down her nose on a river of sweat. Her forehead wrinkled in disbelief, and her neck stiffened like it was being held in a brace. "Jesus.
What kind of looks would qualify me to be down here, Matt?" She thought
he'd run the car into a ditch
of real beatings, of terrified runs for one's life, of real arrests. But it was her
story to tell.
That evening, they ate rich southern food at Mercer's, the Negro-owned
restaurant near the One Man, One Vote office. They felt free and good even
living under such a clear threat from the police and the local whites. They
were watched, and they knew it. They were followed, and they were sneered
at on the streets. They stood in the pro-movement church and listened to
speakers and sang freedom songs until their throats went raw.
The day after the news hit about the three missing volunteers, mimeographed copies of new check-in procedures were posted on the bulletin
board, stuffed into every mail slot, and taped to both sides of the bathroom
door. A shrill quiet fell over the bustling One Man, One Vote office. After
less than a week of orientation, Margo told Celeste and Ramona they were
ready to go to their project cities. They hugged their goodbyes, waved their
copies of the new check-in procedures in the air, and tried to ride high over
their feelings of dread. With three of their volunteers already missing, the summer camp illusion was completely gone. Ramona left for Indianola in
the Delta and Margo for Aberdeen.
The Mississippi sun pounded Celeste and Matt Higgens as they loaded
her suitcase, along with two boxes of children's books for her freedom
school, into the trunk of his late model Dodge. Matt told her he was from
Kansas City. He had a round face and a stocky build, and was dark as live
oak bark. He wore his de rigueur movement overalls over a white dress shirt
with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Celeste felt her scoop necked tan
cotton dress would ignite if she didn't get into the shade. She'd dressed to
meet the woman who would be her hostess in Pineyville, and wanted to be
spiffy looking when she stepped out of that car.
They headed out, Matt crawling through Jackson. They picked up
Route 49, leaving Hinds County for Rankin. Route 49 would take them
south to Hattiesburg, where they'd pick up Route ii to Pineyville. It might
have been out of the way, but nobody in their right mind was going to take
any shortcuts over the back roads. Celeste had shoved her copy of the new
check-in procedures into her book bag along with a postcard from J.D. that
she'd taken from her mail slot in the One Man, One Vote office. She pulled
out the new rules, which were full of emphatic capitalizations: (1) If you
travel away from your project city, call before you leave, call the Jackson
office when you return. (2) Keep vehicles serviced by friendly mechanics.
(3) Drive UNDER the speed limit at ALL times. (4) If you blow a tire, ride
on the rim until you're in a safe place. (5) NO TRAVELING ALONE.
(6) Report any harassment or violence to this office first, the FBI second,
and the local authorities third. (7) STICK TO THE MAIN ROADS.
Celeste shoved the sheet back into her book-bag and turned off the
crackling radio, leaving the noise of the engine and the sound of the wind
whipping along the sides of the car.
"You don't look like the kind of girl whose parents would let her be a
civil rights worker. You down here looking for something to fill yo' hot
pussy, or you here to get these niggers off their asses and out to vote?" Matt
dipped his head twice and chuckled. If he'd been walking, it would have
been a dipping stroll, the words spoken out of the side of his mouth from a
face beneath a greasy do-rag holding the processed hair in place. He either
longed to be a thug or he'd already made it.
Celeste stared at him over the top of her black-framed sunglasses, which
continually slid down her nose on a river of sweat. Her forehead wrinkled in disbelief, and her neck stiffened like it was being held in a brace. "Jesus.
What kind of looks would qualify me to be down here, Matt?" She thought
he'd run the car into a ditch
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