Note: Some of this was written before the term Negro was replaced by the term black.
Sam Smith, 2010 - There was a story that wound its way across the pages of The Idler - forerunner of the Progressive Review. It was first expressed in a moving fashion in letters written from Mississippi in the summer of 1964 by my college roommate, ex-wrestler and ex-paratrooper Gren Whitman. From Biloxi on August 8, 1964 he wrote:
|||| Fear cannot be described, only felt. I have been frightened many times In my life in varying degrees, in varying circumstances. And courage is not the absence of fear. Fear is the essence of courage. What are your emotions now, driving with us along a lonely highway in rural Mississippi, in an integrated car? It you are frightened, you are with friends, and you are sane. If you are not afraid, you know nothing about Mississippi. You have never heard of the Freedom Rides and how they ended in Jack-son. You have never heard of Herbert Lee and Louis Allen, and countless others. You have not heard of Neshoba County. You have never talked with a Mississippi Negro or a civil rights veteran.
And if your fear has overcome your convictions, you have no business with us. Go home. Our three colored companions are profoundly aware that two whites are in the car with them and what this will mean if we are stopped for any reason. The two of us, likewise, know that though we are white, we become as black as tar once we are known to be CR types. White Mississippians make no distinctions. There is a strange and wonderful and, for you, a new bond between us, compounded of fear, and dedication and brotherhood. . . .
In January 1966, I got a chance to help plant the seed. The notorious DC Transit wanted to raise its fares and the local chapter of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee had organized to stop it. They urged citizens with cars to drive bus passengers during a one-day boycott. I joined the volunteers. On the morning of January 24, 1966, I hauled myself out of bed, swallowed a cup of coffee, warmed up my '54 Chrysler, and made my way to Sixth and H Streets Northeast, one of the assembly points for volunteer jitneys. A boycott organizer filled my car with three high school girls and a middle-aged and rather fat woman.
If both the fat lady and her husband worked, the five cent fare increase Chalk
was seeking would cost them two week's worth of groceries over the course of a
year.
I let my passengers off and headed back to Sixth and H. At Florida and New
York, I counted five empty or near-empty buses. It wasn't even nine o'clock in
the morning and the boycott was working,
"It's beautiful," the man in the slightly frayed brown overcoat said
after he told me he was headed for Seventeenth Street. "It's working and
it's beautiful. Hey, you see those two there. Let's try and get them."
I pulled over to the right lane by a stop where two men stood.
"Hey man, why spend thirty cents? Get in," my rider called to the
pair.
"You headed downtown?"
"Yeah, get in."
"Great. It's working, huh? Great!"
At the delicatessen at Twenty-fourth and Benning, one of the assembly points, a
young black who worked with SNCC greeted me: "Been waiting all morning for
a car to work from here; said they were going to have one, but they didn't send
it. Want a cup of coffee?"
"Thanks."
"I'm tired, man. Been up all night down at the office. We got some
threats. One bunch said they were going to bomb us, but they didn't."
We got into my car and continued east on Benning. Lots of empty buses.
"We've got to live together, man. You're white and you can't help it. I'm
Negro and I can't help it. But we still can get along. That's the way I feel
about it." I agreed.
"You ever worked with SNCC before?" "Nope," I said.
'Well, I'll tell you man, you hear a lot of things. But they're a good group.
They stick together. You know, like if you get in trouble, you know they're
going to be in there with you. If you get threatened they'll have people around
you all the time. They stick together. That's good, man."
Later, I picked up a man at a downtown bus stop. The woman in the back seat
asked him, "You weren't waiting for a bus, were you?"
"No. I just figured someone would come along and pick me up."
"That's good, 'cause if you were waiting for a bus I was going to bop you
upside your head."
We all laughed and the man reassured her again.
"You know," the woman in back continued, "there were some of the
girls at work who said they were going to ride the bus and they really made me
mad. I thought I'd go get a big stick and stand at the bus stop and bop 'em one
if they got on Mr. Chalk's buses. Some people just don't know how to cooperate.
And you know, you don't have nothing in this world until you get people
together. Hey, lookit over there, let's see if that guy's going out
northeast."
People stuck together that Monday, I carried seventy-one people, only five of
them white. SNCC estimated that DC Transit lost 130,000 to 150,000 fares during
the boycott. Two days later, the transit commission, in a unanimous but only
temporary decision, denied DC Transit the fare hike. The commission's executive
director dryly told reporters that the boycott played no part in the decision.
He was probably right. The commission worried about such things as cash
dividends, investor's equity, rate of return, depreciated value, and company
base. The boycotters worried about a nickel more a ride. And in the end, the
commission was to approve the fare hike and then more; a few years later the
fare was up to forty cents.
But the boycott was important, anyway. Never had so many Washingtonians done
anything so irregular and contrary to official wishes. The assumption that DC
residents would passively accept the injustices of their city was shattered.
SNCC and the Free DC Movement had laid the groundwork for future action.
After the bus boycott, I wrote a letter to its leader congratulating him and
offering to help in the future. Not long after the leader, Marion S. Barry, and
his colleague, L. D. Pratt, were sitting in my living room talking about how I
could help in SNCC's public relations. I readily agreed; for the first time in
my life I had joined a movement.
Three years earlier Barry had quit his $5,500 a-year post teaching chemistry at
Knoxville College in Tennessee and joined SNCC. He was the group's first chair.
He then showed up in Washington to head the local office. Barry early formed an
improbable and ultimately nearly explosive partnership with an erstwhile farm
implements manufacturer, salesman, self-styled nutrition expert, and economic
theoretician named L. D. Pratt. Barry was lean, black, soft-spoken,
self-contained, and given to wearing a straw plantation style hat; Pratt was
husky, white, excitable, demonstrative, and covered his baldness with a felt
fedora that made him appear a character out of a one-column cut in a forties
edition of Time magazine.
Together they designed the boycott and a drive to win self-government for the
colony of Washington. Barry and Pratt both worked themselves to the marrow and
it was during those months that Barry first gained a long-lingering reputation
for always being late for appointments, news conferences, and actions. "I
work on CPT-- colored people's time," explained Barry. Part of my job was
to stand on the street-corner and convince the press that Marion really would
show up if they just waited a bit longer. The reporters would bitch, but since
Barry was shaking up the city, they mostly waited anyhow.
Barry's subsequent moves in his drive for passage of right-to-vote legislation
in Congress included an effort to get businessmen in downtown stores and along
H Street (a black shopping area second only to downtown in commercial
importance) to support the movement by displaying its sticker in their windows.
Hundreds of orange and black stickers with the slogan "Free DC" below
a shattered chain went up in store windows; but the threat of a business
boycott led other merchants to cry blackmail, and some of the more traditional
civil rights and home rule leaders began to back away from Barry's tough
tactics.
In the coming months, Barry and his organization would disrupt the calm of the
city with increasing frequency. A number of Free DC supporters were arrested at
the annual Cherry Blossom Festival. By the following fall, Barry would have
been arrested three times, for failing to "move on," for disorderly
conduct, and for holding a Free DC block party without official sanction.
Barry used his arrests to make points. After being arrested for failing to move
on at a policeman's order, Barry said, "It is a bad law that gives
policemen the sole discretion in such matters. Especially in Washington where
the cops are so uneducated and awful. They use the law as a harassing device
against Negroes." And he warned, less than two years before the 1968 riot,
that the attitude of police might lead to an outbreak of racial violence.
While Barry was on the streets, on the tube, in court, and in jail, his
associate, L. D. Pratt, was developing a reputation as the mystery man behind
the operation disturbing the tranquility of the colonial capital. Pratt
refused to be interviewed by reporters and, although it was known that he was
closely involved in designing the bus boycott, few knew who be was or what he
was up to.
The pair belied their public images. In person. Barry, the mortal threat to
peace and order, was personally a gentle and quiet individual and Pratt, the
mystery man, was, out of range of the press, open and loquacious.
Marion was leading a movement, but it had some of the intensity, closeness and
spirit of a rebellion. Barry enlisted into the cause anyone he could find. You
would be talking on the phone and a friendly special operator would break in
with an "emergency call" and it would be Barry or Pratt or someone
else with the latest crisis or plan. There were black cops who had been
spiritually seconded to the movement and ministers who served as a link between
the radical Barry and the more moderate civil rights movement and friendly
reporters who still believed there was an objective difference between justice
and injustice,. And through it all was movement, excitement and hope, not even
dampened by the thirtieth chorus of "We Shall Overcome" sung in a
church hall while waiting for Marion finally to show up.
Pratt described his relationship with Barry this way: "I am the
theoretician and Marion is the practitioner. I just give suggestions and he
makes the decisions. I re-spect his opinions more than my own."
Barry and Pratt not only upset policemen and government officials; they
perturbed the established civil rights and home rule leadership in the city. It was not just the Free DC's
militancy and independence that upset the old leaders. They also were
profoundly disturbed by the rise of the black power idea; Coalition co-chairman
Channing Phillips stated, "The black nationalist stand of SNCC is inconsistent
with the Coalition's philosophy."
Still, while the 20-something Barry was an anathema to the white business
leaders and considered a rogue by the local civil rights establishment, as
early as 1966 a poll found him ranked fifth by black residents as the person
who had done the most for blacks in DC.
In SNCC and elsewhere, the spirit of black nationalism was indeed awakening.
Black power had its roots in the deep frustration of the civil rights movement
with the progress towards some sustainable form of equality. In 1963, Howard
Zinn, then a professor at Spellman College, told a SNCC conference that the
ballot box would not give blacks much power. Zinn said SNCC should build up
"centers of power outside the official political mechanism."
This was a time when the official symbol of the Alabama Democratic Party
included a banner reading "White Supremacy -- For the Right." The
SNCC-organized Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party had attempted to be seated
at the national Democratic convention and was rebuffed, offered only two
non-voting at-large seats to represent not just Mississippi all American
blacks. SNCC communications director Julian Bond twice won election to the
Georgia legislature, and twice that body refused to seat him. Jerry Demuth,
writing in The Idler in October 1966 asked: "After Julian Bond, Atlantic
City and the Alabama Democratic Party with its proclamation of white supremacy,
what is there except a Black Panther Party?"
The voices of black power of the time were varied. Two months after being
replaced as SNCC chair by the more militant Stokely Carmichael, John Lewis
explained:
"I support the concept of black power and I have tried repeatedly to
articulate it to people in terms they can understand, so that they will know it
is for civil rights, not against whites."
The National Committee of Negro Churchmen of the National Council of Churches
tried to combine black power and integration in an August 1965 newspaper ad:
"A more equal sharing of power is precisely what is required as the
precondition of authentic human interaction. We understand the growing demand
of Negro and white youth for a more honest kind of integration: one which
increases rather than decreases the capacity of the disinherited to participate
with power in all the structures of our common life. Without this capacity to
participate with power -- i.e. to have some organized political and economic
strength to really influence people with whom one interacts -- integration is
not meaningful. For the issue is not one of racial balance but of honest racial
interaction."
But this was a hope far from current reality and many more blacks listened to
the view of Carmichael: "Integration is an insidious subterfuge for white
supremacy." He told a crowd in Greenwood, MS, "We been saying
'freedom' for six years and we ain't got nothing. What we're gonna start saying
now is 'Black Power.'"
The most important white at SNCC, L. D. Pratt, continued to play a important
role for some time, but his ability to work with Barry declined sharply and,
and after receiving physical threats dropped out of the local scene. . .
But before it was over, Barry and Pratt had one more "good shot," as
L.D. liked to call them. Hauling an odd assortment of black and white activists
off to a weekend retreat, the pair organized a lecture, seminar, and planning
sessions to pave the way for a massive push against slum housing. In fact,
that's what it was going to be called - PUSH, People United against Slum
Housing. It would be no ordinary effort. Barry theorized that the reason
slumlords were invulnerable was because protests were usually directed against
only a small portion of their holdings. If you could uncover the full economic
interests of a slumlord, Including his commercial holdings, you could organize
an effective boycott against him.
From L. D.'s theoretical charts and Marion's discourse, the action moved to
strange places like a hall at a Catholic woman's college where volunteers
sorted out thousands of paper slips containing important information about DC
eviction cases over the past two years, and the basement of the Court of
General Sessions, where a friendly judge had permitted the group space to do
its research closer to the source material. The little slips of paper slowly
built up information concerning slumlords, lawyers, front corporations, and
their interconnections. From the long tables in the basement of the Court of
General Sessions, the slips went to the Recorder of Deeds office where more
volunteers began arduously sifting through official records. The project never
got much beyond that. Perhaps it fell of its own weight; the task of organizing
all those slips of paper without a computer was staggering, Perhaps the
separate directions in which various participants were rapidly going was a factor,
In any event, the days of the Free DC Movement were just about over.
And sometime later, I attended a meeting in the basemen to the SNCC office.
There were only a handful of whites there. Stokely Carmichael arrived and
announced that whites were no longer welcomed in the civil rights movement. My
time with SNCC was over
When people would write about Marion Barry years later, they wouldn't mention
the good part because they had never seen it. All they saw was the cynical,
corroded shell of a man they hadn't known and thought it had been that way all
along. Like an old car rusting in a pasture.
As Barry moved into politics, first on the school board, then the city council,
then the mayor's office I had moved my support and enthusiasm with him, and
without apologies. Once in the top job, however, his weaknesses quickly lost
their constraints and whatever greatness Marion might have possessed started to
disintegrate.
And yet I still think of the good years. The years in which Barry was one of a
handful of people who made self-determination for DC possible, the years in
which he was the voice of progress and sanity on the school board and city
council. I think of a man who was willing to risk his life for the freedom of
others, who was willing to go to jail on the chance it would help others gain a
measure of liberty. And like Jack Burden writing of Willie Stark, "I have
to believe he was a great man. What happened to his greatness is not the
question. Perhaps he spilled it on the ground the way you spill a liquid when
the bottle breaks. Perhaps he piled up his greatness and burnt it in one great
blaze in the dark like a bonfire and then there wasn't anything but dark and
the embers winking. Perhaps he could not tell his greatness from ungreatness
and so mixed them together that what was adulterated was lost. But he had it. I
must believe that."
On the wall of my office was an autographed bumper sticker from Marion's first
campaign for mayor. It read: "Barry -- the way things ought to be."
Our relationship deteriorated during the years he rose to power. But I still remember something he said about me that, given his nature, I still take as a compliment: “Sam’s a cynical cat.”
