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Blowing in the Wind – A Selma Pilgrimage

Posted on April 16, 2015 by Sonoma Valley Sun

 Mike Smith | Special to The Sun

They came from everywhere.

Unitarians, a huge contingency of identical T-shirts, row after row standing in the sun inching forward towards the bridge.  “We’re here from all over the world. You know, Viola Liuzzo, who was killed by a sniper on the highway, and Reverend  Reeb who was beaten to death 50 years ago by the Klan just a few blocks away, were Unitarians. We were here then and were back again today.”

Gwendolyn, a retired businesswoman and mother of two boys. “I’ll never forget Selma. I watched it on TV when I was four. It’s imprinted on my brain. I came by myself from Denver, just for one night, and my motel is 50 miles away, I don’t want my sons gunned down for being black”

A New York Teamster official: “Over 500 of us are here today. Our members are being hassled by the cops   This is our community.”

I noticed some cops talking with a group of black men. The cops left. I asked, “What’s up?”

The president of the Montgomery RV club told me that their group had a barbecue and some music last night, and woke up to this. He handed me a leaflet with a big KKK and we’re watching you. “Some things never change.”

When I walked away I thought, the more things change the more they stay the same. The Klan may be reduced to slinking around at night and not lynching anymore, but their progeny are on the public payroll wearing badges and uniforms and shooting unarmed black and brown men across the country.

The 2015 March was starting from Brown’s Chapel where dignitaries were speaking. The chapel was barricaded and only a handful of people were admitted inside.  The physical scene hadn’t changed much, but the circumstances had.

I thought back 50 years: Images of bloodied bandages, bruised faces, broken bones, mounted posse riding into the chapel, I remembered waking up the next morning on a pew in the chapel, to the ringing voice of Martin Luther King. We were surrounded by hostile cops and crowds trapping us in, not police keeping us out, like today.

I looked around.  Thousands of people were gathered in the sun waiting for the March to start. A mixture of joy and solidarity, anger and sadness, hung in the air. T-shirts and signs linked the issues together: “I Can’t Breathe”, “Stop Black Incarceration”, “Federalize The Police”, “Remember Ferguson”, “Say No To Voter Suppression.”

An energetic older black man wearing an SCLC shirt used a bullhorn to lead cheers and encourage the growing crowds to cooperate. A giant television had been set up so we could hear the speakers. Attorney General Holder got huge applause when he said, “Felons should have the vote.”  He chanted the names of yesteryears martyrs, Jimmy Lee Jackson shot gunned for trying to protect to his mother, along with recent victims.  Dr. King’s son preached, “I’m not here to talk about my father. I’m here to speak as he would and call on the people of America to take a stand.”

The crowd was growing restless. They came to march not listen to speeches.

The people God bless them seized the time. The ordinary folks who made history pushed past the cops and barricades, and started marching across the bridge.  By the time the official March reached the bridge, it was packed with so many thousands of us that it took an hour, rather than ten minutes to cross.

The tenacity and determination of the marchers was amazing.  People with canes, in wheelchairs, moms with young babies, all sizes, shapes and colors inching forward in the sweltering sun caught on the bridge for over an hour. My killer flu, stinging sciatica, and worn-out ankle screamed “ no. “

I waited until sunset to walk slowly across the bridge, lost in reverie.  I gazed at the rippling waters of the river as images of black bodies lying on the bottom seared my senses.  I floated back in time to when I had been out in front of Martin Luther King and the 1965 March, a combination of medic and scout, with my heart pounding and my stomach churning.  Off in the distance I could see the menacing line of state troopers blocking the road ahead. I looked back and saw our people marching into the jaws of danger.

I snapped back into the present and what I saw in the distance was a crowd of thousands, listening to music. I picked up my step.  For a moment it was a surrealistic jarring of realities. Then I heard the pure tones and harmony of the Blind Boys of Alabama singing:  “People Get Ready There’s A Train A Coming.” A smile crossed my face. Yes, the train is still a coming — 90,000 of us marched today and we’re going to keep on marching.

I joined the throngs, one of the few white faces. It was like a massive high school reunion with hours of hip-hop music.  People were coming alive to the sounds of their youth, breaking out of the crowd doing steps. I danced with them joyfully.

Suddenly I felt tired and I headed back, stopping for a catfish sandwich and piece of sweet potato pie. I heard a familiar voice, “I’m Peter from Peter Paul and Mary. We were here 50 years ago I’m going to sing a song that touched our souls, ‘Blowing In The Wind.’” A warmth, a sadness, a sense of hope filled me as I sang along.

“Yes and how many lives will it take till he knows that too many people have died” brought tears to my eyes and a surge of anger. I thought of 13-year-old, Andy Lopez of Santa Rosa, blown away by institutionalized police violence for having a toy gun in his hand, and Trayvon Martin, 15, of Florida, gunned down by a trigger-happy vigilante, a bag of candy his only weapon.

How many more, America?  How many more?




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