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12. Reading "The Some People" Story and a Trip North
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211 12 Reading “The Some People” Story and a Trip North February–April 1967 On a pitch dark and cold, muddy night, February 10, 1967, an elections meeting was held in a large, paint-peeling, wooden church building. I had been asked to write a short piece, something that would take ten or fifteen minutes to read to the group. Its purpose was to set a mood— to call up a feeling in the people gathered—that would help them continue in their work and become more united in their strength. Some of the leaders thought such a piece could help, for this was a meeting that brought together the new coalition committee and the longtime movement members. The leaders felt that the old movement people were tired of the struggle. They needed something to boost them up, remind them of their accomplishments, and help them feel the way to continue. The new people needed something to give them respect for those who seemed slower, to introduce them to some of the things the movement people had done. And the whole group needed something to remind them that they all needed each other; they had to work together. The piece I wrote, “The Some People of That Place,” grew much longer than I intended. Several leaders who read drafts said, “Just start and read until people get tired.” So, on the night of the meeting, I carried my papers into the stark, bare-bulbed, nearly empty church and sat warming myself by the orange flame of the open gas heater while people slowly congregated. Despite the bitter cold and the forecast for rain, nearly one hundred 212 BUILDING POLITICAL STRATEGIES people turned out for the meeting. They filled the space on the wooden, front-facing benches, the side pews usually reserved for church deacons, and the various straight-backed and folding chairs up on the platform facing outward toward the congregation. More stood along the bare side and back walls, and a few sat crowded around the rickety table in the back corner. The opening song was followed by a long prayerful invocation that was followed by another song. Finally, after some announcements and several incidental remarks, I was presented to the body and began to read. It grew very quiet in the church, and although the people seemed attentive , there were few of the usual “Amens” and “That’s Rights.” I was worried, because my rough narrative was a story about them. I realized how bold it was to write down recent history and, even more so, to read it to the main history makers, whom I referred to as “The Some People.” Although I had used no names or specific places and had not Singing was essential to building the movement and inspired people in the struggle . Every meeting, including this Countywide Meeting at the community center at Mileston, began and ended with song. [3.83.87.94] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 01:01 GMT) Reading “The Some People” Story and a Trip North 213 even referred specifically to the black civil rights movement, it was obvious to all what I was describing. I knew that many of them knew better than I what had happened and that each had his or her own version. My darting glances up from the page gave me a view of only a few rows of faces directly in front of me. The silence told me nothing. Anxiously, I read on for more than an hour. When I finally stopped at the end of the second year of the four-year tale, I looked up slowly into their intense silence. I noticed one deeply wrinkled old man in midcenter with slumped shoulders and head nodding forward and a large woman way on the end of the front row leaning heavily to one side. But I had no time to study on them before a loud voice from the platform behind me broke the silence. A man jumped to his feet. He was shouting in a clear, booming voice: “That there is no story!” he stated. It was Hartman Turnbow, and his opinion was important. I could envision the violence with which he was capable of tearing the story, or me, apart. He lifted his muscular arms up toward his chest and his broad, farm-hardened fingers wrestled with the air as they usually did when he was beginning to warm to his subject. “No, sir!” he shouted. “That there’s no...