Three or four years ago, I heard stories about college students traveling through Anniston on Civil Rights "tours." Finally, I've now been privileged to be part of such a group, which included 30 Ohio University students and a few faculty members. Half of the students are journalism majors from the E.W. Scripps School of Journalism, which I serve as director.
The trip brought me full circle, having been born in Anniston nearly 60 years ago. I didn't exactly grow up in Anniston, though I spent some interesting years here during my youth. As noted elsewhere in this blog, my family spent most of my years until college in Thailand, where my folks were missionaries. But we'd furlough for a year at a time every few years in Anniston, which meant I was here for kindergarten, sixth grade, and eleventh grades. But for two years of college in Birmingham, I've spent my entire adult life "up north," in NYC, Seattle, and for the last 30 years Ohio.
In the photo above, I'm talking to my Ohio students in the alley where the Greyhound bus with Freedom Riders was attacked on Mother's Day 1961. Today, an impressive mural explains in graphic detail the events of that horrific day, when folks in their Sunday best stalked the wounded Greyhound on its way toward Birmingham, attacking it in full measure about six miles west of Anniston. The burning of the bus took place roughly a mile from the home I lived in until we left the U.S. just three years prior to the attack.
Just after the above photo was taken (by journalism major Demari Muff), we boarded our tour bus and headed for Sunday morning worship at the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham.
Just after the above photo was taken (by journalism major Demari Muff), we boarded our tour bus and headed for Sunday morning worship at the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham.
Never once in my two years of college in Birmingham in the mid-1970s did I contemplate attending a service there. It would have been only about a dozen years after Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson and Carol Denise McNair were killed when 15 sticks of dynamite tore through the church on a Sunday morning in 1963. I wish it hadn't taken so long to show up for a service.
I was grateful to be able to share my story with our students and my colleagues. I'm not exactly sure why. All I know is that my students needed to be in Anniston, to understand what hate, and courage, can do. Anniston isn't really my story. But it's a story I know.
I was grateful to be able to share my story with our students and my colleagues. I'm not exactly sure why. All I know is that my students needed to be in Anniston, to understand what hate, and courage, can do. Anniston isn't really my story. But it's a story I know.
Epilogue
This week was also amazing because my wife and I were back in Anniston later in the week, when the students at Oxford High School performed "Freedom Riders" by Tom Quinn of Philadelphia. The evening certainly was remarkable on any number of fronts, especially given the proximity of the evening's performance to "ground zero" of the 1961 attack on the Freedom Riders. Even more remarkable was that the performance by a diverse collection of 30 or so high school students was not atypical of many high school theatrical performances. The high school actors were earnest in their on-stage performances, whether playing the role of Malcolm X or racist white students. Together, they sang the songs of the movement. And together they celebrated their drama teacher, who is retiring at the end of the school year after 30 years at Oxford. The evening was made even more remarkable by the diversity of the 200+ audience members, and the fact that the playwright himself was in the auditorium, sitting directly across the aisle from me.
This week was also amazing because my wife and I were back in Anniston later in the week, when the students at Oxford High School performed "Freedom Riders" by Tom Quinn of Philadelphia. The evening certainly was remarkable on any number of fronts, especially given the proximity of the evening's performance to "ground zero" of the 1961 attack on the Freedom Riders. Even more remarkable was that the performance by a diverse collection of 30 or so high school students was not atypical of many high school theatrical performances. The high school actors were earnest in their on-stage performances, whether playing the role of Malcolm X or racist white students. Together, they sang the songs of the movement. And together they celebrated their drama teacher, who is retiring at the end of the school year after 30 years at Oxford. The evening was made even more remarkable by the diversity of the 200+ audience members, and the fact that the playwright himself was in the auditorium, sitting directly across the aisle from me.
My mother was a teacher at Oxford for a year, from fall 1946 through spring 1947, some 70 years ago. Which brings this story back around to what this week means to me.
In the end, it's some kind of closure. Or maybe a new stage. For several years, I've been meaning to stop by my old elementary school on 10th Street. I'd heard about it briefly from my friend David Rice, the former pastor of Anniston First Presbyterian Church, located directly across the street from the school. When I attended the school back in 1968-69, I recall two African American students in the 5th grade. I think the rest of us were white. Today, the school demographics are pretty much flipped.
I decided it was very important to stop by the school on this trip, to meet the principal and "see how it's going." I went into the same office I'd visited only a time or two back in the sixth grade, to find Mr. Dexter Copeland. He agreed to show me my old classroom, now occupied by second graders busy at work. It was great to be back, finally, and tell Mr. Copeland a few stories I remembered about my days in his school, nearly 50 years ago.
I also learned this week that my parent's neighbor, Charlie Whatley, would have been a high school classmate of mine in 1973 had he transferred to Anniston from the black school, Cobb, the same time many other African American students made the move. Neither of us was sure why some students transferred in 1973 and others a year later, but I wish I could have met Charlie those 40+ years ago. He's a great neighbor to my Dad, and I'm sure he'd have been a great classmate.
In the end, it's some kind of closure. Or maybe a new stage. For several years, I've been meaning to stop by my old elementary school on 10th Street. I'd heard about it briefly from my friend David Rice, the former pastor of Anniston First Presbyterian Church, located directly across the street from the school. When I attended the school back in 1968-69, I recall two African American students in the 5th grade. I think the rest of us were white. Today, the school demographics are pretty much flipped.
I decided it was very important to stop by the school on this trip, to meet the principal and "see how it's going." I went into the same office I'd visited only a time or two back in the sixth grade, to find Mr. Dexter Copeland. He agreed to show me my old classroom, now occupied by second graders busy at work. It was great to be back, finally, and tell Mr. Copeland a few stories I remembered about my days in his school, nearly 50 years ago.
I also learned this week that my parent's neighbor, Charlie Whatley, would have been a high school classmate of mine in 1973 had he transferred to Anniston from the black school, Cobb, the same time many other African American students made the move. Neither of us was sure why some students transferred in 1973 and others a year later, but I wish I could have met Charlie those 40+ years ago. He's a great neighbor to my Dad, and I'm sure he'd have been a great classmate.
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