April 1965 – Jackson, Mississippi
I’d served seventeen days for breaking the injunction against demonstrations put into place by Jackson’s mayor after the murder of civil rights leader Medgar Evers in 1963. I was sleeping in, following a night of partying, because I’d been bailed out of Hinds County Jail.
My jailhouse buddy, Ben Brown woke me up.
“Mike, I just heard you’re headed for Natchez. A SNCC car will pick you up Friday morning.”
That evening a bunch of us volunteers living in the Jackson freedom house wandered down to the COFO office, about 10 blocks away, to check out the latest news from the front and see who was in town. We were just about to head out to Edie’s Chicken shack to have some gumbo and ribs when the office manager pigeonholed us.
“Hey, guys, we need someone to work the midnight shift on the WATS line.” I volunteered.
The WATS line was a lifeline for the folks spread across Mississippi in the projects and riding in SNCC cars equipped with radios. Someone sat in front of a receiver twenty-four hours a day, accepting reports on troublesome incidents and urgent calls for help. We had the numbers for the SNCC office in Atlanta, the FBI, local police departments, sympathetic press, northern bail possibilities, and lawyers. The name of the game was to shine as many lights as possible on a dangerous spot to let the bad guys know they were being watched. We wanted to minimize our losses and save lives.
While I was in the office, I thought I might as well use the time to get a better picture of what I would be heading into in Natchez. I began by checking the files for information about my new assignment.
The first document I encountered was a mind-blowing statement Bill Ware submitted to one of SNCC’s beleaguered volunteer lawyers. It was a record of the beatings he’d received from the Natchez police while on a short visit home from a college in 1963.
“Thirty stitches were required in my mouth and gums my front tooth was broken, two others were deadened, and two lowers were jarred loose and knocked in. I spent the night nude from the waist up on an iron frame with no mattress or pillow or blanket where I remained for the rest of the night in pain. I was found guilty and spent 30 days in jail before I could get an appeal not having any money for bail.” His crime, refusing to buy gas after a pissed-off gas station attendant prevented him from using the whites only bathroom. The police supported his beating, saying to him, “You’re a difficult nigger.”
A year later, in February of 1964, Arthur Curtis, a highly successful Funeral director, active NAACP member, and one of few Negros registered to vote in Natchez, was tricked into picking up a nonexistent heart attack victim in a deserted part of town. He was gun-whipped and severely beaten by white-hooded men who demanded to see his NAACP card and wanted the names of other NAACP members.
Three churches burned in Natchez that summer. In August, a tavern and grocery store next to the freedom house, where three civil rights workers stayed, were firebombed and burned to the ground.
The chief of police told one of the workers, “This was meant for you, George. If you don’t get out of here, you and your friends are going to get killed. I can’t protect you.”
The bombing, beatings, and death threats didn’t scare SNCC away. The courage of my SNCC brothers and sisters and the spirit of the people spoke to me. Natchez felt like the place to be. It wasn’t that I didn’t have fears about bombs or bullets. It just seemed that it was in my blood to be on the front lines. My mother taught me when push comes to shove, “stand up to bullies no matter how big they are.”
May 1965 – Natchez, Mississippi
It was a steamy night in Natchez. I was wiped out from too much drinking and dancing at the local juke joint, but my mind wouldn’t shut down.
I finally fell into a restless sleep when the sound of someone knocking on the front door woke me up. I was tempted to go back to sleep, but I thought someone in the community might need help. The knocking grew louder as I stumbled down the stairs.
I opened the door. An overweight, middle-aged, white guy in a wrinkled suit, oozing booze, swayed drunkenly in front of me with a belligerent look on his sweaty face.
“Hey, boy, I’m going to shoot your commie ass off if you don’t get out of town and stop messing with my niggers.”
I felt like telling him to get fucked and get his fat ass off the porch before he fell on it.
“Take it easy.” I said, “We don’t want any trouble. Why don’t you calm down? Go home. Get some sleep and come back tomorrow if you want to talk.”
He blinked his eyes and started mumbling something about blowing us up. Then he suddenly turned around and careened down the stairs. I slammed the door and collapsed on the living room couch. I was a little shook up. I tended to do well in rough situations and then get shaky afterward.
I dozed off for a moment. More banging and pounding on the door startled me awake. Pissed off, I jumped up and opened the door. Before I could say anything, the drunk stuck a revolver in my face.
“Well, boy, you’re not so smart now, are you, you commie punk? I’m going blow your head off.”
I was tempted to throw a quick left hook, but I knew better. I just stood there and let him ramble on about the Klan’s plans to wipe us off the face of the earth. Suddenly he belched, lowered his gun, swung around and vomited down the steps.
I turned around. Pete and Pat, the two other white volunteers, were standing behind me.
“Mike, what’s going on?” Pat stood on the stairs with a blanket wrapped around her.
My heart was pounding. Sweat dripped down my face.
“A crazy cracker just threatened to blow my head off with his thirty-eight. I think his puking saved my ass.”
“Did you get his license plate?” Pete asked.
“No, but he was driving a ‘63 Oldsmobile. He was by himself.
“We better call the cops.” Pat went to the phone.
It took them two hours to show up, and only after our second phone call telling them we’d contacted the FBI, the Council of Federated Organizations office in Jackson, Mississippi and the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee national office in Atlanta.
The cops didn’t give a shit.
“We know the guy. Don’t worry.” The Sargent said, “The boy’s name is Mr. Felter. He lives on 531 Duncan if you want to follow up. We’re not planning to get involved. No one got hurt.”
“He’s harmless,” his partner joined in. “He’s just a drunk.”
“Everybody knows him. He goes around the neighborhood trying to pick up the little nigger girls.”
We were all shaken up.
“We need to talk,” Pam said when they left.
Pete made coffee and we sat on the couch, gathering our thoughts.
“I think we’ve done everything we can,” Pat said. “We might as well cross our fingers and get back to bed.”
“We should take turns staying awake so we can call the cops if he comes back,” Pete said.
Oh, great, I thought, give him another chance.
“I’m too wired to go back to sleep. I’ll take the first shift. I’m all for posting a sentry, but there’s no sense standing guard without a weapon. I’m going to wake up Peter Rabbit and borrow his 22 just in case Mr. Felter decides to wave his 38 in my face again.”
Both Pat and Pete freaked out.
“Mike, you know SNCC staff and volunteers can’t use guns,” Pete said.
“Let’s be real,” I said. “Didn’t you see what was going on at Steptoe’s picnic. There were 45’s and shotguns in every corner.”
“It’s one thing for community members in the delta to defend themselves. That’s their choice. It’s their culture, but it’s not ours. We’re committed to nonviolence, philosophically and practically. You can’t just do what you want to do.” Pat said.
“This isn’t a game. When it comes to people pulling guns on me, I’m going to defend myself. I’m not alone. George Greene told me at the picnic last August that all three SNCC staff members had pistols stashed in the freedom house after the Klan blew up the building next store.”
I got up from the couch to check out the front window and break the tension.
“Look,” I said. “I accept nonviolence as a strategy for demonstrations and organizing in the community, but when it comes to someone showing up on my porch waving a pistol in my face, I draw the line. Look, folks, let’s get real. Policy is one thing. Survival is another.”
I crossed the room and stormed out the back door.
Scrawny chickens scattered and a skinny mutt growled then slunk under the sagging porch as I rushed by them. Peter was a faithful supporter and our mechanic who lived with his large family in one of the shotgun shacks in the back. I knocked loudly on his battered door. A few moments later, he appeared, blinking in the rising sun.
“Brother, what’s coming down? Must be sumpin’ big to wake me up so early.
He listened patiently and shook his head.
“Sounds like Natchez,” he said. “Man, I don’t blame you. This ain’t no game. You’re welcome to my rifle as long as you want.”
I spent the early hours dozing on the living room couch with a well oiled, single-shot 22 cradled in my arms. Over a light breakfast, we decided to compromise. I stored the 22 under my bed wrapped in my sleeping bag. We didn’t include our discussion or my decision when we called the Jackson office that morning. We agreed to disagree.