“But one day they will,” I said.
“I hope I’ll be around when they do. I’ve updated my will just in case. I want Rachel and the children to be taken care of.”
“Ah, Man,” sighed Christopher-John.
“You bound to take that ride,” said Stacey, “don’t worry about anything here. We’ll watch out for Rachel and the children and take care of the gas station, your houses too.” He looked across at Christopher-John, who, without a word, nodded in affirmation. Then we all looked at Man, knowing what could happen.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
We made a plan. Man would go on the bus ride, but Stacey, Christopher-John, and I would follow him all the way; others were doing the same to give some protection to the riders. I put Clayton in contact with Solomon Bradley, and the two of them made arrangements to ride together. Since that first ride, which had brought so much national attention, a number of rides had taken place, originating from different cities with destinations throughout the South. Clayton Chester and Solomon were assigned to a bus going from Nashville to Jackson. They knew they would be jailed once they reached the bus terminal in Jackson. They would not post bail. Not posting bail and staying in jail brought continued media attention both nationwide and around the world, and that international attention was important. Communist countries were now using the injustices here against the United States in their international dealings, and emerging African nations were turning a skeptical eye on the so-called democracy preached by a United States that denied equal rights to black people within its own borders. With every civil rights stand we took—every sit-in, every bus ride, every kneel-in, every demonstration—the white backlash of terror that followed gave a black eye to America and embarrassed the government.
The Kennedy administration was up against it. It was politics. Most black folks thought of John and Robert Kennedy with affection and as being friendly to the movement, but in reality the Kennedy administration was concerned with how the protests made the United States look, both at home and abroad. The Kennedys also needed the white Democratic vote that dominated the political South. They were caught in the middle.
In June, Stacey, Christopher-John, Clayton Chester, and I drove to Nashville. We arrived early enough before the ride so that Man could meet with the other riders and be briefed on what to expect and how to react. There were both black and white riders. Solomon was already there. He greeted Stacey, met Clayton and Christopher-John, and said to me, “So, you’re not making the ride this time.”
“No, not this time. We’ll be following along though.”
“Good. We’ll need witnesses.”
“You’ll have plenty. How are you doing?”
Solomon smiled. “I’m scared, like everybody else. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.”
“I know the feeling. I’m not even going to be on the bus and already I’ve got a knot in the pit of my stomach.”
After the meeting we went to a motel, where we got little sleep. The next day we all met at the bus station. Before getting on the bus, Man said, “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you next month sometime.”
“You be careful,” cautioned Christopher-John. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Man smiled. “Just watch out for Rachel and the children.”
“Anything they need, we’ll take care of,” Stacey assured him, “and soon as you’re out of jail, we’ll be down to pick you up.”
Man looked at me. “Guess by the time I get out, Cassie, you’ll be back home doing the voter registration.”
“More than likely,” I said as I put my arms around him and hugged him tight. “You be careful.” I heard myself repeating what Christopher-John had said. I didn’t want to let him go. I was more afraid for him now than when I had said good-bye to him as he headed overseas to fight in the war. The world war had been far away, fighting against a massive, faceless enemy for whom I had felt nothing. Now this war was at home and we were fighting an adversary we knew all too well.
Little Man hugged all of us and got on the bus. We watched as he gave his ticket to the driver, walked down the aisle, and sat beside one of the white riders right up front. Stacey, Christopher-John, and I went to our car parked on the street. We waited as the bus pulled from the station. Then we followed.
The ride from Nashville to Jackson was uneventful. When the bus reached the terminal, all was quiet. There were no crowds, no boisterous demonstrators protesting the arrival of the Freedom Riders. Stacey parked the car and we hurried to the terminal. Standing outside where the bus was parked, we waited. The riders were still on the bus. Finally, the bus door opened. We saw Solomon step out, and then Clayton Chester. The riders had been instructed that if they made it to the terminal, they were to go immediately to the white waiting room. Doing this, they would surely be arrested. The riders never got the opportunity to go to the white waiting room. As soon as they stepped off the bus, the police lined up on either side, creating an aisle for them to walk through straight to waiting police paddy wagons. They were being taken directly to jail. Stacey, Christopher-John, and I watched Man go, then made our own decision to protest. We sat down at the lunch counter. Several other people joined us.
We were all arrested.
VOTER REGISTRATION DRIVE
(1961)
I arrived back in Mississippi in late July to teach in the voter registration drive. Man was out of Parchman prison and in Toledo. Stacey, Christopher-John, and I were released from Hinds County jail located in Jackson after an overnight stay. The jail was overflowing with protesters. I went home first to see about Mama, Papa, and Big Ma. All three were worried about the boys and me, but they did not try to dissuade us from what we were doing. I had already told them I would be staying at Great Faith with the other registration workers. One building would house the men working in the drive, another the women, and the third would be used for the classes. Mama, Papa, and Big Ma did not like the idea of my not staying at the house with them, but I pointed out it was better for all of us who were teaching to be together so that we could drive to the different farms to contact people for classes and, if needed, take them to and from the classes. Also, teachers needed to be in one place for training and planning. I did not mention I was concerned for their safety and that was the main reason I was not staying at home, but I think they knew that anyway.
“You just be careful out there, Cassie,” Papa said when Morris came to get me, “and you call if you need us.”
“And you make sho you get here for Sunday dinner,” ordered Big Ma.
I smiled and hugged them all. “See you at church.”
Morris had already laid the groundwork for the voter registration classes. He had made announcements not only at Great Faith Church but at the other local black churches in the area. He, along with a few others, had visited many of the families working the farms, many of them still living on the Granger and Montier and Harrison plantations. Some of the people still sharecropped, although not as many as when I was a child. The plantations over the years had mechanized and now needed fewer workers to produce crops, especially cotton, for market. Some of the smaller farms had mechanized as well. Also, since the war, many of the younger people had left their farms for better lives in Jackson or cities in the North and West. Still, those who remained on the plantations were dependent on their white landlords for their livelihood and for being able to keep their homes.