We helped ourselves to a late breakfast and Reverend Filburn walked into the room as I sat down on one of the wooden chairs to eat.
“Ah.” He smiled at us, taking a seat on the corner of one of the metal desks. “Looks like all of our freedom fighters are here now and accounted for.” The chatter in the room ceased. “I’m Greg Filburn, your SCOPE field director here in Derby County.” He had the same deep voice, the same horn-rimmed glasses, but he seemed different from the distrustful minister I’d met in the AME church. He was relaxed now, dressed in casual slacks and a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Let’s have some introductions,” he said.
We went around the room, introducing ourselves. There were twelve of us, ten from the Atlanta orientation and two local residents who would canvass with us. I recognized one of them—Rosemary—but couldn’t place where I’d seen her before. She was the only one among us who looked well-rested, since she hadn’t just made the overnight trip from Atlanta. I was glad to have another girl in the group with all that testosterone floating around. Rosemary had an engaging smile and it took me all of two seconds to see that she was aiming it at Win, who didn’t seem to notice.
The other local person was Curry. He looked older than the rest of us, late twenties at least, and Greg said he’d be our primary driver. Curry looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. He gave us a wave and a smile, and he chain-smoked cigarettes throughout the meeting.
When I introduced myself, Reverend Filburn—Greg—said, “Glad to see you, Eleanor,” and I was relieved to feel his acceptance, even though I knew he probably still had reservations about my participation.
“This school will be our headquarters,” Greg told us as we sipped our coffee. “Since it’s Sunday, we don’t want to disturb the folks you’ll be staying with, so you’ll spend tonight here and tomorrow you’ll move in with your families. Do you all have sleeping bags?”
I nodded. A few of the guys groaned, but we all had them.
“Good.” Greg’s expression sobered. “Tonight, you men will sleep in this room. Rosemary and Curry will be staying with their own families here in Flint. Jocelyn and Eleanor—we’ll put you in an interior room.” He glanced at the double doors, then looked back at us. “You probably noticed the bullet holes when you came in,” he said. “That happened last night. Our welcoming committee. I’m sure they were disappointed to realize that no one was here yet, so don’t be surprised if we have a repeat performance tonight. I’m going to ask some of you fellas to board up the broken windows.”
“Was that the Klan?” one of the guys asked. I’d already forgotten his name.
“Most likely just a few disgruntled Flint residents,” Greg said. “They’re known more for intimidation than actual physical violence, but it’s happened, so be careful. More dangerous are the lone white men who want to take matters into their own hands,” he said, repeating the warning we’d heard all week. “Be aware of your surroundings at all times. Stay out of white neighborhoods. You see a car or truck with a white driver, you hide. There’s nothing cowardly about saving your life. And don’t get caught white and Negro acting like equals by any white folk. That’s how James Chaney and the other two men got themselves killed last summer. Especially be careful, male and female together.” He looked at me, then Jocelyn, then Rosemary, who nodded in a way that said she understood what he meant. Understood it better than Jocelyn or I ever could.
“You might’ve been led to believe the Klan is farther south,” Greg said, “but the United Klan of America has a stronghold here in North Carolina. Nearly twelve thousand members in two hundred Klaverns led by Bob Jones, their racist, bigoted, dangerous so-called Grand Dragon. He holds rallies just about every night. It’s like a county fair for these people. Thousands of them. Mothers, fathers, children. Food and fun for all.” Greg had a rhythm going. He reminded me of Dr. King in that moment. “They listen to speeches designed to fuel hatred. And for a finale, they burn a massive cross to symbolize their unity against people who aren’t just like them. People like us.”
I was perspiring in the airless room and the conversation wasn’t making it any better. I lifted my hair off the back of my neck, my fingers grazing my slick skin. Someone had passed around a sign-up sheet for the two showers in the school’s locker room. I was seventh on the list and couldn’t wait to stand under a spray of water.
“I’ll be here for you most of the time except Saturday nights when I go home to see my family, and Sunday morning, when I’m usually ministering to my AME congregation in a little town called Turner’s Bend.”
I turned at the sound of a sudden thud to see that Chip had fallen asleep and slid off his chair. He laughed. We all laughed. Except Win, who only smiled.
“Back in the chair, Chip,” Greg said, but he was laughing, too. I liked him much better than I had when I’d met him in his Turner’s Bend church. Of course, then he worried that I might plant a bomb in the pews.
“I do have a major bit of unfortunate news, though,” Greg said, as Chip got into his chair, and we all fell silent. “Looks like we aren’t going to be able to register voters in Derby County right away, folks. Probably not for a few weeks.”
I thought every one of us gasped. If we didn’t help people register, what were we going to do here?
“They closed the registrar’s office,” Greg said. “Shut it down. They’re waiting until LBJ gets around to signing the voting rights bill into law. Then they’ll have to open. So for now, we’ll still canvass, educating folks, getting their commitment to register when the time comes. And we’ll focus on political education and the other parts of our job as SCOPE workers.”
I was disappointed. I’d pictured lines of people at the courthouse, finally getting their turn to add their names to the voting rolls. But in a way, this might be better. If people tried to register now, before we had the Voting Rights Act in place, they might have to pass the trumped-up literacy test or get turned away just because the clerk got out of bed on the wrong side that morning.
When the meeting was over, Rosemary showed Jocelyn and me to the very small windowless art room where we would sleep. The room smelled of paint and library paste. We pushed the handful of desks against the wall and dumped our rolled-up sleeping bags in the middle of the wood floor.
“You look so familiar,” I said to Rosemary as I slid my camera case from my shoulder.
She nodded. “You’re Buddy Hockley’s sister,” she said.
“How do you know Buddy?” I asked, surprised.
“My cousin Ronnie works at the car shop with him. I’ve seen you there a time or two.”
“Oh, right!” I said. Ronnie’d been working at the car shop since Buddy opened it four years ago. “Buddy couldn’t run that place without Ronnie,” I added.
Rosemary smiled. “I’ll tell him to ask for a raise,” she said, and I laughed.
Rosemary left us, and Jocelyn and I rolled out our sleeping bags. It was nearly one in the afternoon. I lay down on top of my sleeping bag, trying to stay awake so I didn’t miss my turn in the shower, but the pull of sleep was too great. My turn came and went while I slept.