The Movie Selma

I am not much of a moviegoer, but on occasion I will make the effort to see a film.  This Saturday I had the opportunity to see the movie Selma at a local theatre.   I found the film moving and well done.  The music finale was unbelievably beautiful too.

The movie chronicles the civil rights struggle of the 1960’s, specifically the right to vote.  Although, Black Americans already had the right to vote, many southern states and local agencies employed a variety of subterfuges to prevent Blacks from voting. 

The late Dr. Martin Luther King led the march to Selma to show the nation the urgent need for the federal government to step in and pass the Voting Rights Act.  It was difficult to watch the physical and mental violence unleashed on the predominant Black demonstrators: intimidation, humiliation, beatings, and even killings by racist white southerners.  It was comforting to see that many white Americans from the North joined the struggle and supported the movement to their own peril. 

So the thought came to my mind.  Where was I during that time?  What were my thoughts about the struggle? Why didn’t I join the march? 

Flashback

I arrived in Augusta, Georgia in May 1957 after completing basic training in Fort Dix, New Jersey.  I had enrolled in the U.S. Army Reserves in 1956, and I was serving my six months of active duty.  I was 19 years old, in the country slightly over a year, with poor language skills, but gung-ho about serving my adopted land. 

I arrived at the bus depot from Raleigh, South Carolina.  I inquired about the next bus to Fort Gordon, where I was deployed for specialized training.  I was told that the next bus would come an hour later.  I was very tired.  The trip from New London, Connecticut to Raleigh by train was an adventure.  I believe that I changed trains several times in order to get to Raleigh some 26 hours later.  

I entered the coffee shop at the depot and ordered a sandwich at the counter.  On my way out I saw two water fountains.  One was labeled “White” and the other “Colored”.  I had not seen colored water before so I approached naively the colored faucet and opened it.  The water that came out was not colored, as I expected, but colorless. Suddenly, the coffee shop manager started to yell at me: “What in hell are you doing?  That faucet is for color people." I apologized and started to walk out. I then noticed that Blacks were being served meals through a side window.   They obviously were not allowed to come in and eat inside.  I found the situation uncomfortable and embarrassing. 

The bus finally came.  I entered with my heavy duffel bag in tow and proceeded to the back of the bus where I thought I could be more comfortable and possibly catch a few winks.  No sooner I sat down the bus driver came over screaming. “Why are you sitting there, soldier?” I answered so that I could sleep a bit.  “Don’t you know that the back of the bus is for coloreds?  Move forward, soldier!”  Reluctantly I obeyed his command and moved forward.  The bus was empty.  I was the only passenger on board. 

These images remain indelibly sculpted in my memory banks.  Suddenly I realized that I was in the Deep South, the segregated south about which I had heard so little back home in New England, but as an abstract concept, I admit now. 

On one of the weekend passes, during my assignment to Fort Gordon, a couple fellow soldiers and I decided to go to Savannah, Georgia for an overnight stay.  We had heard that it was a nice beach town.  We got there by bus from Augusta.  After a quick lunch at a fast food joint we decided to go to a nearby bar for a beer.  Once inside, we sat at a table and waited for the bartender to come take our order.  When he asked me what I wanted, I told him that I wanted a bottle of dark beer.  He noticed immediately my accent and he asked me if I was a “Spic.”  I answered politely: “No sir, I am Italian.”  To which he said: “Then you are a Spic!”  “No, sir, I am Italian!”  “Do you know who is a spic?”  “No, sir, I do not.”  He then explained that Spic is an acronym for “Spanish, Porto Rican, Italian, and Colored.”  To which, I said:  “I guess I am a spic after all.” “Come with me, soldier!”  I reluctantly followed him to the front door.  He then asked me if I had read the sign on the door when I entered.  I had not.  “What does it say, soldier?” I read the sign out loud: No Spics or Dogs Allowed. 

My fellow soldiers did not passively stand by, they wanted to do mayhem.  I asked them to leave quietly with me and find a friendlier place.  Reluctantly they followed my advice.  We did not look for another bar, disconsolate we returned to base.   I found the experience humiliating and profoundly troubling.  Southerners did not just dislike Blacks; they apparently also disliked Latinos and Southern Europeans. 

Back to the Present

I was living in sunny California during the civil right march, busy raising a family, and anxious to get my budding career off the ground.  I would watch the nightly news with Walter Cronkite and see the disturbing scenes.  They were abstract and distant.  

I wondered out loud why such hate and violence, but I rationalized that there was little or nothing I could do about it.  The only tool at my disposal was my vote as a newly minted U.S. citizen, and I vowed to use it to support more enlightened politicians.   After the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, I chose not to vote in silent protest for over two decades. 

To this day, I regret that I did not have the means or the opportunity to march in support of the civil rights movement.  Many folks, Black and White, suffered, persevered, and a few died so that Spics like me would also be able to eat at any establishment, be treated with respect, benefit from equal employment opportunities, and be permitted to live our lives happily and safely.  

I owe much to Dr. King and the many who followed his campaign for equality and social justice.  Their sacrifice was not in vain.  They made it possible for all of us, regardless of race, national origin, gender, age or handicap to enjoy life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Where were you during the 1960’s?  What are your thoughts about the civil right movement?  How might we advance equality under law and social justice?