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3 o n e Charles McLaurin in 1963, Charles McLaurin walked warily into our lives, pushing through the lilacs that crowded the entrance to our yard. He stepped out of the shrubbery and paused for a beat. The brilliant May sun reflected on his dark glasses as he carefully surveyed the old, red colonial house, the green sweep of the lawn, and the pool that sparkled beyond. The Connecticut section of the New York Times was scattered around us on the lawn, and the giggles and shouts of Laurie and her friends in the pool were all that broke the comfortable silence. Our friend Oliver followed him into the yard, smiling as he shepherded the young Negro man to meet us. “Hi, Sugarmans. This is the young fellow I called you about. Charles McLaurin, meet Tracy and June.” Oliver’s call had come very early for a Sunday morning. The architect’s usually cool voice had sounded constrained and husky. “You remember I told you about the New York doctors who were bringing those civil rights workers north for medical attention and a little breathing time? Well, four of those SNCC fieldworkers got here late last night, Tracy.” He had paused, and his voice had lowered. “They’re in the next room. We’ve been talking all morning, particularly with this kid, McLaurin. Listening, mostly. Christ, it’s unreal, Tracy. Fucking Mississippi is unreal! Betty and I just look at each other and then look at these kids. McLaurin is nineteen! A year older than your son, Richard!” The phone had become silent, and then Oliver had said quietly, “I think you and June should hear him. Can I bring him over after lunch?” We rose to welcome them. June smiled and extended her hand to the young, watchful Negro. “Pull up those chairs and join us. We’re just soaking up the sun. It’s the first warm Sunday we’ve had.” She nodded 4   |   The Long, Hot Summer, 1964 to McLaurin. “You’re probably used to a lot more sun than we get up here!” “Let me get us all a drink,” I said. “How about you, Charles? Can I get you a Coke?” When he hesitated, I said, “A beer? Anything?” His eyes scanned the sun-drenched yard, and then held mine. A small smile revealed very white teeth, warming the serious young face that had seemed so immobile. “Yeah,” he said. “Bourbon.” It started simply enough. A relaxed Sunday afternoon, talking quietly with this stranger from a strange land. It was the Sunday that we learned a little about Mississippi, the Sunday a friendship with Charles McLaurin was born that has lasted for more than forty-five years. When he left we gave him a “liberated” German camera I had brought home from the war. “Try and get some pictures of what is really going on with the beatings,” I urged, “and send them to the Justice Department in Washington. Maybe they can help.” He took off the dark glasses that he had worn from the moment of his arrival and shook his head, studying me closely. “No,” he said firmly, “they won’t help. The FBI has watched us get arrested and beaten, and instead of intervening they simply take notes.” He smiled wryly. “Must be warehouses full of notes in Washington.” He picked up the camera and thanked us. “We’ll find lots of uses for this during the summer.” The friendship born that day deepened when we met on the March on Washington later that summer. McLaurin grinned and held up the German camera. “Got lots of pictures of Martin Luther King, John Lewis, Bayard Rustin, A. Philip Randolph . . . the whole march! And when I get back to the Delta, everybody is going to see them!” In all the arrests, the endless days and weeks of outlasting time in Ruleville, Greenville, Greenwood, he had never been hit. The afternoon I had met him when he was visiting in Connecticut in 1963, McLaurin had joked about it: “Not me. I’m lucky, man!” But now, in the spring of 1964, the highway patrol had beaten him. The SNCC staff workers had been forced off the road by the patrol as they headed for SNCC headquarters in Atlanta. They had beaten the driver and then herded the five young men to jail. The patrol had known the civil rights workers were heading east on the highway, and they had [18.223.172.252] Project MUSE...

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