We Had Sneakers, They Had Guns: The Kids Who Fought for Civil Rights in Mississippi

Seven. Drew

56 s e v e n Drew we’re going to Drew.” McLaurin’s voice was tight as he looked around the group of us gathered under Mrs. Hamer’s pecan tree. “We’ll pull off the highway next to the school and park near the church. Go in twos, and fan out through the neighborhood on that side of the tracks. I’ll work on the far side of town. At seven, sharp, we’ll meet back at the cars and head out of town together.” His dark glasses scanned the group, and his voice was solemn. “We don’t want to be in Drew after dark.” An almost gut-wrenching fear of imminent, hair-trigger violence was what we all felt every time we ventured into the ugly mill town of Drew. Linda Davis, who came to know the Delta so intimately, always said it was the scariest town she ever saw. And it was a town where we almost always struck out. It was never for lack of trying. At five, we parked our three cars beside the church’s vacant lot, and tension moved into the streets as we stepped from the cars. Mills and businesses had just closed, and a stream of workers drove down the dirt road toward the highway beyond. As they drove slowly by, one could read the shock and indignation on their faces. “Okay,” said Mac briskly, “get goin’.” Many of the workers, spotting our integrated group, had apparently abandoned all thought of driving directly home. Instead, they circled slowly through the Negro quarter. When they would come alongside a student, they would lean from the window, spitting curses and abuse. We were Drew’s first “invaders,” and they lost no time in reviling the volunteers as they made their way through the broken fences and up the dirt paths that led to the Negro homes. Drew   |   57 A pickup truck moved nervously down the roads, driven by the Drew chief of police. McLaurin had notified Sheriff Hollowell that we planned to go to Drew that night. Hollowell said that peaceful canvassing would be tolerated, and had passed the word to the local police. The presence of the chief seemed to restrain the circling whites whose fury was clearly building. At any moment, I felt, they would climb from their cars. By six thirty I started walking slowly back to our parked cars. A gas truck turned the corner as I approached. The driver viciously swung the wheel as I moved to the side of the road to let him pass. Startled, I leaped back as the high fender grazed my thigh. The face in the cab was livid as he shouted, “Sonuvabitch!” I was too astonished and breathless to even notice his license number. The students started to congregate as the minutes dragged slowly past. The stream of cars continued to edge by us. Suddenly, a green Plymouth stopped dead in the middle of the road, blocking the exit to the highway . In moments, a half-dozen cars were lined along the road. I glanced 14. Charles McLaurin addressing group. “You don’t want to be in Drew after dark.” • ~' 58   |   The Long, Hot Summer, 1964 nervously at my watch. Six forty-five. The cars idled their motors, and the angry faces stared through the settling cloud of dust. A woman sat impassively as her husband leaned from the green Plymouth. “You chicken bastards!” His voice sliced the silence, a ragged, grating yell. “You goddamn nigger-lovin’ sonsuvbitches! What are you doin’ here?” The southern singsong cadence of his speech rose to a scream, and his face was florid. “I said: What are you white niggers doin’ down here?” The students stood silent, turning from the strident rantings of the infuriated man, or shifting nervously, watching with mounting alarm as the string of halted cars grew larger. The face of the woman in the Plymouth was pale and shut as her husband continued his torrent of abuse. Larry Archibald, a gangling, lanky, suddenly tall youngster, stepped from our knot of civil rights workers. A tentative, struggling red mustache made Larry appear even younger, and his voice cracked as he spoke in a sudden silence. “But, sir, we’re just down here to help these people to register to vote!” I saw the raging man in the Plymouth reach for his door handle as his incredulous face stared at...