Tonight, STORYTIME PRESENTS is the final installment of kainah's Civil Rights Pilgrimage. The first two parts were great examples of storytelling while teaching some very important history. If you missed them go here for Part 1 and Part 2
kainah is a wonderful writer of long-time Daily Kos status. I became aware of her last spring when I read her brilliant and compelling series on Kent State.
Since the story of the deaths of Michael "Mickey" Schwerner, James Chaney, and Andrew Goodman is fairly well known, I considered giving just a brief overview. However, that wouldn’t honor them as they deserve. So I have given a full account of the killings although I have not covered the multiple, and lengthy, legal proceedings that followed. (I give you plenty of links, though, to do more research on your own.) If you know the story and would prefer to just read the account of our pilgrimage, skip down to * * * .
In 1964, the NAACP, Southern Christian Leadership Conference, Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and the Congress of Racial Equality worked together under the title of the Council of Federated Organizations (COFO) to organize Freedom Summer, a program to send a thousand volunteers down south to help register black voters, to establish "freedom schools" to teach reading and math, to operate community centers providing legal and medical assistance and to organize the "Freedom Democratic Party" to challenge the whites-only Mississippi Democratic Party at that summer’s national Democratic Convention. The plan targeted Mississippi where more than 45% of the population was black but only 5% were registered to vote and 86% of all non-white families lived in poverty.
The plan carried grave risks. Everyone expected Mississippians, unlikely to welcome a bunch of Yankee do-gooders, to respond with violence. Nevertheless, the organizers hoped that violence, directed at northern white college students, would finally draw attention to the plight of black Mississippians. Freedom Summer would begin with intensive training for the volunteers in nonviolent techniques. By spring, everything seemed set to go. Until the training site pulled out, afraid of being identified with the "radicals."
Suddenly, it seemed the whole plan might collapse. COFO called on their allies to contact any venue that might be willing to host the training session. All they needed was space. Nevertheless, multiple contacts came up empty. No one seemed willing to take the risk of an integrated training session. Finally, in late spring, a church group called with good news. A small liberal arts women’s college in Oxford, Ohio – the Western College for Women – had agreed to take the risk. And so, on Sunday, June 14, 1964, some 800 young people gathered in the theater at Western College’s Peabody Hall to listen to the soft-spoken Bob Moses, director of the Mississippi Freedom Summer Project and a SNCC field secretary, tell them what to expect in the months ahead:
Don’t come to Mississippi this summer to save the Mississippi Negro. Only come if you understand, really understand, that his freedom and yours are one.... Maybe we’re not going to get very many people registered this summer. Maybe, even, we’re not going to get very many people into freedom schools. Maybe all we’re going to do is live through this summer. In Mississippi, that will be so much.
R. Jess Brown, a black Mississippi attorney, added his own warnings:
They – the white folk, the police, the country sheriff, the state police – they are all watching for you. They are looking for you. They are ready and they are armed. They know some of your names and your descriptions even now, even before you get to Mississippi. They know you are coming and they are ready.
For anyone who still didn’t get it, SNCC executive secretary James Forman was blunt: "I may be killed, you may be killed." No one, however, realized how quickly that prediction would come true.
Mickey Schwerner, 24, along with his wife Rita, had been working with CORE in Mississippi since January 1964. Sent to Meridian to open a community center, the Schwerners had earned the trust of the locals. Working with James Chaney, a 21-year-old local black activist, they had also earned the enmity of the Ku Klux Klan who dubbed Mickey "Goatee." That May, Ku Klux Klan Imperial Wizard Sam Bowers had ordered Schwerner’s "elimination." Although they were already working in the field, Chaney and the Schwerners headed to Oxford that June for further training. There, they met a 20-year-old activist from New York named Andrew Goodman.
Shortly before leaving for Ohio, Schwerner and Chaney were invited to Mount Zion Methodist Church in Longdale, just west of Philadelphia, by Cornelius Steele, an activist who had first tried to vote in 1952. Steele thought his church would be an ideal location for a Freedom School. After Chaney and Schwerner made their presentation, the congregation agreed. Organizing the school would be one of the first tasks for the Meridian organizers once they got back from Ohio.
But on June 16, the Klan stormed the church and savagely beat three trustees. Later that night, they firebombed the church. A 40-year-old bell, and nothing more, survived. When word of what had occurred reached Schwerner and Chaney in Ohio, they decided they had to return right away. They were looking for another volunteer for Meridian and, impressed by Goodman’s poise, they asked him to join them. He agreed. And so, at 3:00 AM on June 20, Chaney, Schwerner, and Goodman set off for Mississippi. Rita Schwerner, who planned to return to Meridian later, remembered "nothing very special" about her husband’s departure. "(H)e kissed me goodbye and left and I didn’t go down to the car. I rolled over and went back to sleep."
They reached Meridian at 5:30 PM that evening. At Chaney’s house, they enjoyed the lemon pie Chaney’s mother had made especially for Schwerner, knowing it was his favorite. The next morning, after Schwerner reminded his Meridian co-worker to call every sheriff’s office and jail along the proposed route along with the federal authorities if they had not returned by 4PM, the trio headed for Longdale. Their trip was uneventful. At the church, they took statements from witnesses to events the preceding Tuesday. By 3:00 PM, having accomplished all they could, they set off to return to Meridian, heading west to Philadelphia on Route 16 and then south on Route 19. They expected to be back in Meridian well before their 4:00 PM deadline.
As they drove towards Philadelphia, they passed Neshoba County Deputy Sheriff Cecil Price heading towards Longdale. Price, recognizing the civil rights workers' station wagon, made an immediate u-turn. Just inside the Philadelphia city limits, he pulled the three over, claiming Chaney had been speeding, and took them to the Neshoba County Jail. When Schwerner asked on what charges he and Goodman were being held, Price replied that they were suspected of firebombing the Longdale church. As the three sat in jail – Schwerner and Goodman in one cell, Chaney in another – Price went to tell Edgar Ray Killen, a 38-year-old ordained Baptist minister and "kleagle" for the White Knights of Mississippi, that he had arrested Goatee and his buddies. Killen, who would later brag that the Klan had burned Mount Zion to lure Schwerner to Longdale, began gathering compatriots to take care of the three civil rights workers. Meanwhile, Billy Wayne Posey arranged for a place to dispose of the bodies. When everything was in place, Killen sent word to Price.
Back in Meridian, frantic volunteers and staff, including Chaney’s mother, desperately tried to find their friends. When their phone calls turned up nothing, they called the FBI. "Keep me informed," was all the help H. F. Helgesen, FBI field agent in Jackson, offered. At 1:30 AM, someone called Justice Department civil rights attorney John Doar, a sympathetic official who had attended the training session in Ohio. Doar, concerned but wary of using federal power in a state situation, could only suggest calling the Mississippi Highway Patrol. Ten minutes later, Andrew Goodman’s parents were notified and encouraged to contact their U.S. representative. About the same time, Rita Schwerner was awakened at Western College for a long distance call.
Meanwhile, the Neshoba County jailer’s wife fed the three civil rights workers who, according to another inmate, remained "calm and collected." Around 5:30, a COFO worker called the Neshoba County Jail but whoever answered denied knowing anything about the missing three. (Neshoba County jailers later denied receiving any such call.) At 10:00 PM, Price offered to let them go if Chaney would pay a $20 fine. Although they knew traveling at night could be dangerous, they apparently agreed. (To this day, however, many believe Chaney and Schwerner must have been somehow coerced into leaving the jail before morning.) Price accompanied them out of the jail and to their car, apparently preventing them from using the clearly visible pay phone across the street. Price’s parting remark, before getting into his car to follow them to the town limits: "Now, let’s see how quick y’all can get out of Neshoba County."
The trio must have been breathed a sigh of relief when Price finally stopped tailing them. But that feeling would be short-lived. About ten miles south of town, shortly before the county line, Price reappeared behind them. Chaney, grasping the peril, tried to lose him by turning onto Route 492, a small side road. Unfortunately, Price also knew the back roads. As the two cars careened down the narrow road, Price flipped on the red light on his dashboard. Chaney finally stopped and Price, along with another carload of Klansmen, pulled up behind him. According to the Klan witnesses, the three surrendered peacefully.
In retrospect, many wondered why the trio didn’t try to outrun Price. But Rita Schwerner understood: "Even after all our talk of danger, Mickey Schwerner was incapable of believing that a police officer in the United States would arrest him on a highway for the purpose of murdering him, then and there, in the dark."
Seth Cagin and Philip Dray, authors of the excellent book We Are Not Afraid, put it even better:
Their calling was to take unimaginable risks and to test the intention and resolve of their enemy, drawing his measure and bringing him out into the open where his true nature would be exposed to all Mississippians and all Americans. "The moral arc of the universe is long," Martin Luther King, Jr., had often said, "but bends toward justice." Such were the demands of their commitment to a nonviolent faith founded on the premise that men are fundamentally good, that all men – even evil men – can be converted by the power of love.
Price ordered them into the backseat of his car. When Chaney hesitated, Price struck him on the back of the head with a blackjack. Then the caravan, with a Klansman driving the workers’ station wagon, headed back towards Philadelphia. After a few miles, Price turned off Highway 19 onto the unlit, unmarked Rock Cut Road. When they got to the "cut" between steep banks of clay in the deep piney woods, Price stopped. One of the Klansman, Wayne Roberts, walked up to Price’s car, yanked open the rear door, grabbed Mickey by the shirt, pulled him out of the car, and spun him around. "Are you that nigger lover?" Roberts asked. Schwerner replied, "Sir, I know just how you feel..." Roberts put his gun to Schwerner’s chest and pulled the trigger. He then went back to the car, pulled out Goodman, and shot him. Another Klansmen, James Jordan, then yelled, "Save one for me!" Jordan pulled Chaney from the car and shot him in the chest as Roberts shot him in the back. For good measure, Roberts then shot him in the head. Jordan declared, "Well, you didn’t leave me nothing but a nigger but at least I killed me a nigger."
For the next six weeks, federal agents swarmed over Neshoba County looking for the missing workers. Mississippi’s good ol’ boys insisted the three were just in hiding, seeking the publicity their disappearance generated. But, six weeks after they went missing, and after the discovery of several other long-missing black bodies, the three were finally found buried in an earthen dam southwest of Philadelphia.
Even in death, segregation prevailed. When Mickey Schwerner’s family sought to bury him next to his colleague, James Chaney, they discovered no cemetery would accommodate the request. Thus, Goodman and Schwerner were buried separately in New York while Chaney, the Meridian native, would be buried there.
Justice came sporadically and slowly in the case. But on the 41st anniversary of the killings -- June 21, 2005 -- Edgar Ray Killen was convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to 60 years in prison, 20 years for each victim, to be served consecutively. The 80-year-old Killen, who suffers multiple health problems, will certainly die in custody. Nonetheless, that's small comfort considering he enjoyed 41 years of freedom while three young idealists lay in their graves.
(For some great photos of Freedom Summer, do check this out. This has always been one of my favorites while this one is chilling in its callous deception.)
<center>* * *</center>
From the beginning of our Southern pilgrimage, I knew the sites associated with Mississippi Freedom Summer and the Ku Klux Klan murders of Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner would be emotional ones. Those events had been a touchstone for me since the fall of 1969 when I entered the freshman class at Western College for Women and learned about its role in Freedom Summer. Walking across campus could be humbling, thinking about those who had – literally – walked that way before me. Our Dean of Students, Phyllis Hoyt, carried herself with the same resolve, commitment, and compassion that she had employed in agreeing to host the conference, despite enormous abuse hurled at her and the college. Having always been immensely proud of the small role my alma mater played in that summer’s events, I was anxious to visit the associated sites.
Heading to Philadelphia, Mississippi from Selma, we planned to keep a schedule that mirrored that of Chaney, Schwerner, and Goodman on June 21, 1964, including driving to Meridian in the dark. With Mt. Zion Methodist Church on the east side of Philadelphia, coming from Selma was perfect. We had plenty of time – since we didn’t plan to spend several hours in the Neshoba County Jail – which helped when the usually reliable Weary Feet, Rested Souls proved less than adequate for finding the church. Since the book was published, the area had grown, complicating our search for Route 747. But considering what would happen in Meridian, I later wondered if a crucial sign might have been intentionally removed. After an hour of false starts, we turned onto a small, windy, heavily wooded, rolling road that led to what, in West Virginia, they call a "holler." As we rounded a bend and crested a hill, a metal roadside marker appeared on the right in front of a church with three crosses, as we’d been told to expect. We’d found Mount Zion.
I had long imagined being in this place. Yet, within moments of arriving, before even getting out of the car, something unexpected swept over me. To my astonishment, I felt my heroes shifting. What Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner had done took such courage but, when I saw that little church, hidden in this isolated, wooded area, I was instantly struck by the courage of those I had previously never considered: the congregation of Mount Zion. The congregants who sought out the civil rights workers. The congregants who said yes to a freedom school. The congregants who knew their lives would still be here long after any outsiders had left. The congregants who had no white skin or middle class privilege to fall back on. The congregants who, understanding all that, did it all anyway. I was immediately in awe of people to whom, I am ashamed to admit, I had never before given much thought. And the point was driven home even more as I watched an old man and woman, in the cemetery off to the side, tending graves. Almost certainly, they had lived through those times and as I watched them humbly perform their simple tasks, I felt profoundly moved.
Even as we examined the only remnant -- the bell -- of the firebombed church:
and admired the beautiful memorial for Chaney, Schwerner and Goodman:
I kept thinking about the incredible courage of those ordinary, nameless, faceless, members of the Mount Zion congregation. The names of most will probably never be written except in that cemetery. Yet they changed our history. And they – certainly more than Goodman, probably more than Schwerner, and perhaps even more than Chaney – understood the risks. They saw their elders beaten, their church burned, their friends murdered. And still they persisted. Having spent my life trying, in small ways, within my small community, with modest skills, to effect positive change, it was perhaps the most profound message I could have received. In the end, it isn’t necessarily the known heroes who have done the most but, instead, it may be all those nameless, faceless "little people" who have done their best, with little recognition or acknowledgement.
The church is in its third iteration. After the 1964 burning, it was quickly rebuilt. In the 80s, it burned again but, this time, not from arson. Again they rebuilt. The brick church of today is nothing like the wood-frame church Chaney and Schwerner knew but the rebuilding stands as testament to the continuing fortitude of the congregation. The three crosses on the front – a common symbol, especially down South, for father, son & Holy Ghost – here memorializes Chaney, Goodman, & Schwerner. Appropriately, they seem to look over the marker. The roadside marker marks this as an official Mississippi Historic Site. But its placement doesn’t invite close inspection. With no place to park and a steep hillside separating it from the church, it’s unlikely many have read the text that fills both the back and front. Another instance where it appeared a government entity had acceded to requests to memorialize without making it exactly inviting for the public to remember.
As we left the church, I felt a ton of emotions swirling around me as we headed into Philadelphia. From this place where I felt I had again touched the innate goodness of the human spirit, we were heading to somewhere that, in my mind, had long represented the face of evil.
Philadelphia has changed considerably since 1964. These days, most visitors come to take advantage of the Choctaw-run casino, the only industry in town that appears to be thriving. Once again, as civil rights pilgrims, we stood out as we wandered around the town square with the old courthouse, scene of many of the related trials. Although the old jail is gone, the huge old Benwalt Hotel, now a home for the elderly, still stands across the street. The Benwalt housed the dozens of reporters who flooded into town following the disappearances. One could easily imagine the reporters hanging out on the upper porches, exchanging gossip and news as they tried to tease out the facts in a town of a million secrets. No doubt, their very visible presence right in the heart of town caused much resentment during that steamy summer.
As it turned out, the trip was auspiciously timed. This was mid-December 2002, shortly after Sen. Trent Lott had made his notorious statements praising Sen. Strom Thurmond. Philadelphia "proper" contains not a single memorial to the events that made Philadelphia famous across the world. As Trent Lott did the talk show circuit that week, apologizing for his racial insensitivity and swearing he’d "do anything" to prove his sincerity, I could only think, "Well, Trent, you can start by putting a marker in Philadelphia!"
Leaving downtown, we crossed the tracks to enter the very different world of black Philadelphia. Immediately, the homes got smaller, the need for repairs became more obvious and, almost certainly, the annual income dropped significantly. At Mount Nebo Missionary Baptist Church, we found the town’s only remembrance to the three:
And to my delight, the marker had three photographs, all intact. On several other memorials, we had seen the photographs scratched out. Almost certainly, these survive only because of where the marker is located.
Down the street is the site of the old COFO/Missouri Freedom Democratic Party Office. As a former social worker, the large, plain, rather warehouse-looking building, seemed all too familiar. In the 1950s, Medgar Evers’s brother, Charles, ran a hotel here. But, on August 13, 1964 -- nine days after the three bodies had been pulled from the earthen dam – another previously unknown hero, Ralph Featherstone, opened a COFO office here to continue the work in Neshoba County. Despite regular harassment and constant surveillance, the group made no attempt to hide, mounting a large sign bearing linked black and white hands on the building’s side. Workers, who lived upstairs, called the nightly parade of drive-by insults the "Comedy of Terrors."
Lillie Jones, one of the movement’s earliest sparks, lived across the street. Her home offered a strategic position from which to watch for suspicious cars entering the neighborhood. Jones had traveled north in the 60s to raise money for the movement and was one of the key forces behind the push to create the memorial in front of Mt. Nebo in the 1970s. Her husband belonged to one of the black families that had owned land in Longdale since Reconstruction and donated part of it for the site of Mt. Zion. A member of that congregation, "Aunt Lil," was laid to rest there when she died in 1983.
To the southwest of Philadelphia, we wanted to see if we could find anything out at Olen Burrage’s Old Jolly Farm where the bodies had been dug from under fifteen feet of earth on August 4, 1964. A "NO TRESPASSING" sign is all that marks the spot.
After a long and deeply emotional day, we finally started on what we expected to be an exceedingly creepy drive, down a dark and lonely highway, to Meridian. Within five minutes, we both had the same thought: If the highway had been like this in 1964, the murders could never have happened. Suburbs now extend well south of Philadelphia and traffic is heavy on the two-lane road. We found Route 492, the small back-country road Chaney had taken in hopes of escaping Price, but even that could no longer be described as lonely. So, with no real sense of what that road would have felt like that night, we arrived in Meridian.
In the morning, we had one last stop: the grave of James Chaney in a small graveyard outside Meridian on a hill near Okatibbee Missionary Baptist Church. Our directions were quite good but I was very pleased to see little signs pointing the way to "James Chaney, Civil Rights, Grave." But when we reached the point of the last essential turn, the road that took you up the hill to the gravesite, the signs suddenly disappeared. Although we knew to make the turn, I imagined all those less fortunate seekers who decided to follow those signs but, with that last one missing, would never find the grave. Based on our experiences, I knew that was not just a coincidence.
At the top of the hill, the little cemetery sits off to the right, back from the road. Off to itself, next to the highway, stand the five foot marker for James Chaney’s grave. In addition to name and dates, the monument bears the COFO symbol of clasped hands. An eternal flame adorned the gravesite but, sadly, it is no longer lit. The grave bears multiple scars left by vandals, including a scratched out spot for a photo of Chaney and numerous gunshot traces on the granite slab covering the grave. Nowhere else had we seen this kind of protective covering, suggesting the family felt a special need to guarantee that Chaney’s body could finally rest in peace. Huge steel braces bolstered the headstone. Old photos show no sign of these, suggesting they are a new addition, an added protection to keep the headstone from being toppled.
Despite all the sadness I felt standing at the site, I found the message on Chaney’s grave deeply moving:
With that reverberating in my mind, it was time to say goodbye, to return to my life, carrying deep in my heart the inspiration of these heroes, especially those newly discovered, and continue on with my oh-so-meager efforts to create a better world.