feeling an open rage at Mississippi’s segregated system. But she didn’t direct her anger at the white power structure. She blamed the Negro president of a Negro college who wrote the letter that killed her dreams of studying music. It wasn’t until she met Medgar Evers that she learned whom and what to blame.
After they started dating, Medgar took Myrlie to Millsaps College, a white Methodist school in Jackson, to take part in an interracial discussion group. It was a terribly daring, even frightening thing to do. Myrlie was learning, but her politics were still unformed. She did what she did to please Medgar. This man was all business. He wanted to discuss current events; she hungrily read the newspaper every morning to have something to talk about.
He wanted her to argue with him, challenge him. She might breezily mention, “The sky was blue; it was a beautiful day,” and he would say, “No, Myrlie, the sky was gray, and it was a terrible day.” He did it just to get her going, to make her debate him. He was already shaping her, forcing her to take a stand when she had always been taught to back off from fights, smooth the waters, go along.
He was clear about what he wanted in a girlfriend: he liked her long hair, her looks, her manners. When they got more serious, he told her, “I want you to be the mother of my children.” He told her he wanted her to be smart but innocent. She would be pliable, like clay for him to mold.
“How romantic,” she wanted to say sarcastically, because she had that tart side of her too. But she said nothing.
This serious, mysterious older man was exactly what Myrlie Beasley wanted. She had imagined him when she was fourteen years old, not what he would look like, but the way he would be. The man she would marry would be an athlete, and he would be brilliant and educated and fun to be around. Her father was like that, witty and smart and charming. But most important, she wanted a man who would be responsible, who would meet his obligations to his family. In that way she wanted someone very much unlike her father. She could sense right away that Medgar would keep his word, that he would make a commitment.
Mama and Aunt Myrlie did not see this side of Medgar Evers. All they saw was a sophisticated veteran out to plunder their precious girl. Myrlie’s upbringing had been almost Victorian. Aunt Myrlie went along on her eighth-grade prom date. She’d had a formal “coming out” party when she was sixteen, and Mama carefully screened her suitors. They forbade her to see Medgar Evers. He was too old and too experienced, and he would make her quit school.
Naturally the couple became engaged. It was the summer before her sophomore year.
Myrlie and Medgar headed north to Chicago — separately — to earn money over the summer of 1951. Myrlie was closely chaperoned by the relatives she was staying with. But sometimes she and Medgar would slip away for a ride along Lake Shore Drive. Medgar cruised down the wide, peaceful, tree-lined streets in the rich white neighborhoods, and he talked about his dreams.
He showed her one special place, a neat suburban house with a landscaped lawn.
What he wanted, he told her, was to live in a house like this some day.
Myrlie broke the news of their engagement to her distraught grandmother at the end of the summer. They were married on Christmas Eve.
It was a hapless, almost comical wedding night, where everything seemed to go wrong. Medgar dropped the ring under the stairs and had to break into the house because the key was locked inside; Myrlie erupted in a painful rash; Mama would barely speak to them.
Charles Evers, who should have been Medgar’s best man, did not attend the wedding. The Korean War had begun, and Charles had been called back to his Army Reserve unit. But he would have sulked at the ceremony, even if he could have been there. To Charles, this wedding was a betrayal. He just couldn’t understand why Medgar would go and
After they started dating, Medgar took Myrlie to Millsaps College, a white Methodist school in Jackson, to take part in an interracial discussion group. It was a terribly daring, even frightening thing to do. Myrlie was learning, but her politics were still unformed. She did what she did to please Medgar. This man was all business. He wanted to discuss current events; she hungrily read the newspaper every morning to have something to talk about.
He wanted her to argue with him, challenge him. She might breezily mention, “The sky was blue; it was a beautiful day,” and he would say, “No, Myrlie, the sky was gray, and it was a terrible day.” He did it just to get her going, to make her debate him. He was already shaping her, forcing her to take a stand when she had always been taught to back off from fights, smooth the waters, go along.
He was clear about what he wanted in a girlfriend: he liked her long hair, her looks, her manners. When they got more serious, he told her, “I want you to be the mother of my children.” He told her he wanted her to be smart but innocent. She would be pliable, like clay for him to mold.
“How romantic,” she wanted to say sarcastically, because she had that tart side of her too. But she said nothing.
This serious, mysterious older man was exactly what Myrlie Beasley wanted. She had imagined him when she was fourteen years old, not what he would look like, but the way he would be. The man she would marry would be an athlete, and he would be brilliant and educated and fun to be around. Her father was like that, witty and smart and charming. But most important, she wanted a man who would be responsible, who would meet his obligations to his family. In that way she wanted someone very much unlike her father. She could sense right away that Medgar would keep his word, that he would make a commitment.
Mama and Aunt Myrlie did not see this side of Medgar Evers. All they saw was a sophisticated veteran out to plunder their precious girl. Myrlie’s upbringing had been almost Victorian. Aunt Myrlie went along on her eighth-grade prom date. She’d had a formal “coming out” party when she was sixteen, and Mama carefully screened her suitors. They forbade her to see Medgar Evers. He was too old and too experienced, and he would make her quit school.
Naturally the couple became engaged. It was the summer before her sophomore year.
Myrlie and Medgar headed north to Chicago — separately — to earn money over the summer of 1951. Myrlie was closely chaperoned by the relatives she was staying with. But sometimes she and Medgar would slip away for a ride along Lake Shore Drive. Medgar cruised down the wide, peaceful, tree-lined streets in the rich white neighborhoods, and he talked about his dreams.
He showed her one special place, a neat suburban house with a landscaped lawn.
What he wanted, he told her, was to live in a house like this some day.
Myrlie broke the news of their engagement to her distraught grandmother at the end of the summer. They were married on Christmas Eve.
It was a hapless, almost comical wedding night, where everything seemed to go wrong. Medgar dropped the ring under the stairs and had to break into the house because the key was locked inside; Myrlie erupted in a painful rash; Mama would barely speak to them.
Charles Evers, who should have been Medgar’s best man, did not attend the wedding. The Korean War had begun, and Charles had been called back to his Army Reserve unit. But he would have sulked at the ceremony, even if he could have been there. To Charles, this wedding was a betrayal. He just couldn’t understand why Medgar would go and
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