I breathed in the cool morning air with its mix of freshness and diesel fumes. Aside from the bus’s engine, there was no sound. Not even the birds were chirping. The morning was brisk; the June weather had not yet turned warm and stolid here in southwestern Ohio, but I knew that summer would soon bake the fertile, black soil of the Ohio River Valley. “The times they are a-changin’,” I hummed as I boarded the bus and found a seat next to a young black woman. We exchanged sleepy smiles. Not long after I had taken my seat, the bus slowly pulled away from campus, and we were on our way. I settled into my lumpy seat for the fifteen-hour drive to Mississippi and retrieved the book that I was reading from my dirty canvas bag. I leaned my head on the back of my seat and stared at the dismal ceiling. The bus was quiet around me. I sighed and began to read by the dim light of the early morning. The dark room. The streak of pale light through the transom. I woke to it several times, thinking it a long night. Then it occurred to me that there were no windows, that it might well be day outside…

The bus lurched. I glanced out the window. The sun was just peeking over the crest of the Ohio River bluffs. It was bright, such a contrast to the darkness of the predawn day and the book I had been reading. I shook my head and thought of the gloom that surely hung over Mississippi. Did the sun even shine there?

By the time I looked up again from my book, the sun was bright overhead. The book fascinated me; I could not put it down. It was great literature and excellent preparation for what I was about to do. I was somewhat hopeful about the situation, but a certain foreboding accompanied all on the bus. Things could change, I reminded myself. People will eventually realize that this is wrong. I glanced at the young woman next to me. She gazed out the window at the verdant hill country of Tennessee. The sunlight danced angelically on her chestnut face. Hope. There surely is hope, I convinced myself. I turned my attention back to my book. “But the situation is changing,” I said after a time. “The Negro may not understand exactly how, but he knows one thing— the only way out of this tragedy is education, training. Thousands of them sacrifice everything to get the education, to prove once and for all that the Negro’s capacity for learning, for accomplishment, is equal to that of any other man—that pigment has nothing to do with degrees of intelligence, talent or virtue. This isn’t just wishful thinking. It’s been proved conclusively in every field.”

The bus slowed to halt at an isolated gas station somewhere between Memphis and the Kentucky border. The bus driver yelled back, “Alright. Gotta fill up. We’ll stop for about fifteen minutes.” Several people scurried off the bus and headed for the restroom. I remained seated until the rush was over. I stretched. A song from a distant radio filtered into the bus through the open door. “The line it is drawn. The curse it is cast,” Bob Dylan’s voice sang over his acoustic guitar. I hummed along. “The slow one now will later be fast, as the present now will later be past. The order is rapidly fadin’. And the first one now will later be last. For the times they are a- changin’.”

Hours later, as the sun was setting, the bus driver informed us that we would be crossing the Mississippi state line in about ten minutes. Twilight sunk in around me. I squirmed in my seat. Soon it would be dark. So we would enter Mississippi in the dark, I thought candidly. I opened my book and read on until the night consumed me. I stepped from the booth to the night’s cooler air. The night was always a comfort. Most of the whites were in their homes. The threat was less. A Negro blended inconspicuously into the darkness. Night coming tenderly, Black like me. The page turned black. What was I getting myself into? If things where that bad for Griffin, how would it be for me five years later? Surely tensions were higher. I was for the black cause. And I was white…

A young black man, head high, shoulders back, stood in the street. Night had fallen and the street lamp showered golden light down upon him. It was his spotlight, his sun. The sheriff and his deputies pulled up just in time for his performance. They stood behind patrol car doors pointing gleaming guns at the young black man. I stood at the opening of the nearest alley with a few other CORE volunteers. The lights of the patrol cars flashed patriotically. The night was heavy. The black man held out his arms in the sultry air and looked up proudly. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he cried,

When he finished, he stepped out from under the warmth of the street lamp and turned his back toward the flashing lights. Soon blood seeped from his chest, crimson red on perfect white, and he tumbled forward. Those who had gathered to witness his plea now scattered like mice. This all seemed to happen in perfect silence, while his words still echoed loudly in our minds. I felt a tug on my sleeve. “Let’s get outta here,” a voice whispered harshly. I heard the padding of feet behind me. The sheriff yelled, “There’s nothing to see here. Get home you filthy n****** or you’ll end up the same way,” but everyone was already gone. Then I turned and ran down the long alley, cast in shadow, after my companions.

“Hey n****’ lova’,” the voice cracked down upon me like a billy club. I pulled my face out of my hands and squinted into the dim light of the bus station. The stale air smelled of diesel and cigarette smoke. Griffin had blatantly told the truth. Reading his book was like a slap in the face, yet it did not, could not, compare to the volatile mood of Mississippi. So this was the hate stare. A white-haired man glared fiercely in my direction. I pretended not to hear him. I shook my head, which was throbbing. Lack of sleep. Lack of food. Emotional distress. How could anyone live in these conditions?

The white-haired man, who looked as though he could have been my grandfather, approached me. But Grandpa would never have that look on his face. His mouth was twisted and it once again formed the ugly words. “N****’ lova’, can’ chou hear?” he drawled in his thick accent. I had grown up believing that accent to be courageous and genteel; now it was hostile and cutting. The rest of my group stood on the other side of the bus station. None of them looked over toward the abusive white man who was terrorizing me. I realized my error. I was sitting where the “good” white people were to sit. The CORE button pinned carelessly to my shirt was a dead giveaway. The rest of my group had moved, probably because several whites had arrived at the station, but I had continued to sit, deep in thought. I longed to feel the sun’s warmth on my face. This man exuded a cutting cold. The muscles in my neck tightened, and I rubbed my eyes.

He continued to move toward me. Time slowed to a stop. I grabbed my book and my bag, stood up slowly, stretched, and looked directly at him. “Move,” he said. His voice echoed in the empty station room. I stepped around him, tapped my CORE button, and whispered as I passed, “The times they are a changin’.” The second I said this I wished to take back my words. I grimaced, waiting for the blow to come. Then I quickly redirected my walk away from my fellow CORE volunteers for I did not want them to feel this man’s wrath. I listened carefully. The room was deathly silent aside from my quiet footsteps and rapid breaths. I turned back toward the man. He had not moved. He stood as though he were a statue of some proud Confederate general. He was fighting a war of his own now, but it was based on the same principles. It raged within him—the war between southern gentleman and avid racist. I could see it in the stiffness of his body as I leaned against the cold cement wall in the shadows. If I was lucky, the southern gentleman would win, and the man would forget about the incident.

The man’s shoulders tensed one more time and, to my relief, he walked toward the vinyl-covered bench and sat down. He glared at the other CORE volunteers. He glared at me but did nothing. Soon the rumble of a bus broke the silence and he stood up and headed toward the curb. He moved gracefully up the steps of the bus, greeted the driver cordially and assumed his seat, just behind the driver, at the front of the bus. I let out a sigh of relief. Then I opened my book and once again began reading. The light was dim and I strained my eyes to make out each horrifying word and phrase. If some spark does set the keg afire, it will be a senseless tragedy of ignorant against ignorant, injustice answering injustice—a holocaust that will drag down the innocent and right-thinking masses of human beings. Then we will all pay for not having cried for justice long ago.

Notes:

• The italicized sections of this piece are quotes from Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin. If you need more information about the book or if you would like the page numbers that these quotes appear on, please contact Kate Schaffer.
• The poem on page 3 is Langston Hughes’s “Dream Variations” which appears in Black Like Me (Kate Schaffer’s emphasis added with italics).

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