Selma 5150
By Chris Pruitt
Published on March 7, 2017 Exactly one year since I completed this journey and the 52nd anniversary of a very dark day in American history; Bloody Sunday in Selma.
It was a frigid and blustery Texas morning in late January of 2016. A cold front had just blown in. I was doing what I do most Saturday mornings if I am in Waco. Sitting at the table in my home away from home (A.K.A. the RV down by the river or camp 1) doing some work on my computer. On this particular morning, I was working on a project from The List; I was researching the news that took place on the day I was born. The headlines from July 22, 1966, looked pretty much like the headlines today; 11 year old Negro boy shot by police and MLK calls for peace, Dean Foods agrees to hire 45 more Negroes.
Even though I was working on the computer, I had the TV on in the background. It was tuned to PBS. I enjoy watching PBS because most of the time they have programming that makes me think. I also don’t have cable. I guess PBS was getting a head start on Black History Month because this morning they had a program on about the civil rights marches that took place in Alabama during the early and mid 60’s. I remember hearing the commentator say the phrase “Eye on the Prize” over and over. As I worked on my computer I saw something out of the corner of my eye that caught my attention. What I saw was a black and white photo of a cop just about to hit a black lady with a club. Over my life, I have seen that kind of image a million times, but for some reason, it got my attention. The next image I saw was a video of the police beating down the people crossing a bridge in a town called Selma. That particular clip of video they showed several times over the next few minutes. Each time I watched it I became sadder for the people being beaten. Maybe that is what drew me into what I was seeing. After a few minutes of concentrating on the TV, I was no longer focused on the work I was doing on the computer. I was now 100% fully focused on the TV program.
As I said earlier, I had seen stuff like this before. I even knew a little bit about what happened in Selma. That day, though, I was looking at it from a different angle. All that these people were trying to do was get the opportunity to vote. I then thought to myself, “But if this was 1965, didn’t everybody already have the right to vote. I thought they did?” Another thing that occurred to me is that 1965 was just one year before I was born.
Most of the time when you hear things about Black History it involves slavery, the Underground Railroad, and famous slavery-era figures like Harriet Tubman. What I was watching pretty much happened in my lifetime. This was real. It wasn’t ancient history. I remember the next thought I had was about my adopted niece and nephews who are black. I thought to myself, “I sure am glad they didn’t have to go through this.” By this point, I had moved from my table to my favorite chair and was intently watching the program. The more I watched the program, the more engrossed I became in what was taking place in the south in mid-1960. I spent the remainder of the morning watching show after show on PBS about civil rights.
At some point that morning, something inside of me said that I had to learn more. I had to understand this bit of history, and for some odd reason, I felt the need to see where this all happened with my own eyes. No, I couldn’t go back and change the past. But if I saw this all firsthand maybe I would be better equipped to deal with the race relation issues of today. About then, PBS did what they do often and they reran the program about Selma and the incident at the bridge. This time I watched it from start to finish. Again, I asked myself the question, “How was this allowed to take place in my lifetime?” Before the program was finished I had made up my mind that I was going to go to Selma.
My actual planning for my Selma trip started out just like that; a trip to Selma. I had learned from watching the program that the incident referred to as Bloody Sunday had happened on March 7th. I looked at the calendar and March 7, 2016, was a Monday. I thought to myself, “Hey I can fly into Selma and check things out on the weekend that coincides with the 51st anniversary.” I then started researching flights. As I was doing that, it occurred to me that this story was not so much just about the bridge and the unspeakable beatings that had taken place. It was about the march, or rather the walk the Alabama Capitol in Montgomery. It took 3 attempts to leave Selma and make the journey. The goal? They wanted their voices to be heard at the highest level in Alabama state government. Suddenly my educational quest had changed from taking a flight to Selma to walking from Selma to Montgomery. I felt that if I was truly going to understand and feel the significance of what happened, I had to make the walk. I then started researching the route the marchers had taken on the Internet. The route between Selma and Montgomery is now officially sanctioned as a National Historic Trail. What a coincidence! I love to hike. I then jumped in headfirst to discovering everything I could about the trail. I learned about the camps they made while they walked as well as the significant points and markers along the route. I also learned the actual distance I would need to cover if I was to make this a reality. It is 54-miles. The official trail begins at Brown Chapel A.M.E. Church in Selma. It then winds its way through Selma and over the Alabama River via the Edmund Pettus Bridge. From there it takes old Highway 80 to Montgomery. By this point, I was ready to officially add this adventure onto what I call The List.
Now that I knew I was going to walk the trail, and I knew the approximate dates, all I needed to do was work out a plan and some logistics. Over the following 24-hours that is exactly what I did.
The following morning I got a spiral notebook and a pen and started to craft my adventure. Almost immediately I decided to flip the script. In 1985, the marchers walked from Selma to Montgomery. Since my initial goal was to see and walk across the bridge where all of those people were beat, my plan was to walk from Montgomery to Selma and arrive in Selma on Sunday, March 6th, the day before the actual anniversary of Bloody Sunday. I thought that maybe perhaps there would be something going on in Selma that would give me better insight into history. When I was satisfied that I had everything worked out, I believe I made a post on Facebook that went something like this; “Just finished planning my next adventure. It’s big.”
To make sure that I was not just caught up in the heat of the moment, I gave myself a 24-hour cooling off period so I could completely process what I was going to take on. After all, the plan I had just built called for me leaving Dallas around mid-day on Friday, flying to Montgomery, getting a taxi to take me to the steps of the Alabama Capitol, walking about 7-miles on day one out to Highway 80 to a hotel, and then spend the next two days walking to Selma. As I researched the route more, I found out that there were no hotels anywhere close to the halfway point on my walk. This meant I was going to need to camp or find someplace, or somebody to put me up. I tried a couple of churches along the route, but I could not get anyone to call me back. I thought, “No big deal. It’s a trail so I will just camp in my tent.” When my lodging problem was solved, another problem popped up; Selma doesn’t have an airport. This meant that I now had to find a way back to Montgomery on Monday after I the walk to Selma. A quick Google search revealed they did have a car rental company in Selma, so I now had that problem solved. I would just rent a one-way car and drive back to Montgomery.
Now with logistic issues solved, it was time to put some real skin in the game. I bought a plane ticket to and from Montgomery. I also booked a one-way car for Monday so I could drive back to Montgomery to catch my return flight. Lastly, I booked some hotel rooms. The first hotel was out by the highway that leads from Montgomery to Selma. This is where I would stay on the first night. I also booked a hotel in Selma for Sunday night. I was now all set for my next grand adventure.
Life has a wild and weird way of working. In order to honestly tell you this story, I have to give you some more insight on my life. Although my work has me living most of the time in Waco, Texas. I actually live 2,000 miles away in Idaho. To be more specific, I live in a town called Twin Falls. I go to my Idaho home to see my family about every 3 weeks. Yes, it’s odd, but quite frankly I am odd. I guess it fits. About 2-weeks before I was to leave for Alabama, I went home for a visit. While I was there, I was asked if I wanted to go to a symposium being hosted by the local community college. The topic was civil rights in the 60’s and 70’s. At this point the only person on the face of the Earth that knew of my Selma plans was me. Personally, I am not really religious, but I do think of myself as being spiritual. My belief goes something like this; The Universe is constantly working in my favor and it is continually delivering signs to let me know the correct path that I should follow. I began to think this way after reading a book called The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho. Me having the opportunity to go to this event was no accident. The event was put in my path to reinforce my decision to go to Alabama. The main speaker at the event was a professor at the college. His name is Russ. Russ is both a friend and golfing buddy. The focus of the event was the Black Panther Party and the impact this organization had on race relations. After the event, I went up to Russ and thanked him. I told him that I learned a lot, and it made me think. I then told him to expect an email from me in a few weeks as I was working on something he might find of interest.
The week before I left for Alabama, I spent a good amount of time compiling a list of all of the things I would need to put in my backpack to accompany me on my trip. I needed camping stuff like my sleeping bag, my tent, and my little camp stove burner for heating up water for food. Since it was March, I should also pack some bad weather gear. I thought about other things like books to keep me occupied, both in written form and on my I-phone. I packed my adventure camera that not only shoots great pictures but video too. Lastly, a gun. It seemed odd to be taking a gun on a trip like this, but common sense told me it was for the best.
Go day, March 4th, was finally here. My flight was leaving out of Dallas, and coincidentally my boss was needing to have a meeting with me at our corporate headquarters in Dallas. My flight was set to take off around 1pm. This meant that as long as I was walking out of our corporate offices by 1130am I would be A-OK to make my flight. The office where I would have the meeting was only 10-minutes from the airport. I can’t remember if I had told my boss, Julie, about my plans before that morning. I think I did. Anyway, our meeting that morning started slowly. I remember that when we sat down to meet the first few minutes was spent talking about my trip and not business. Eventually, we got to business and had everything wrapped up in short order. It was a little after 11am and I was excited. As I walked out of Julie’s office her last words to me were to be careful. I smiled and gave one of my standard responses like “piece of cake” or “it’s all cool.” Although this is something I say to sound reassuring, those who know me understand that this is really code-talk for me saying, “Oh shit. I think I’m in over my head, but I am going to do it anyway.” With that, I raced downstairs and changed out of my formal business suit and into something more fitting for walking 60-miles down the road with a 30-pound backpack. I then raced over to the airport.
I checked my bags, and my gun, and made my way over to the gate for my flight. At that point, the only people who knew about my adventure were my boss and a guy that I worked with named Marc. Outside of that, no one knew my plans. This included my family back in Idaho. A few minutes before I got on the plane I posted a Facebook message saying what I was doing and why I was doing it. After I hit post, it did not take long before my phone was buzzing. I don’t think I called my wife until after I saw that she had read my Facebook post. I was actually sitting on the plane. Our conversation was brief and I told her that I would keep her updated. I told her not to worry, but I knew she had stopped worrying about me a long time ago. We’ve been separated for several years.
The plane took off, and in nothing flat, I was in Montgomery. When I walked down the jetway into the airport, I had an odd feeling like, okay, now what? Even though I had a plan, I was not prepared for that moment. I followed the crowd to the area where you collect your luggage. After a wait of about 5-minutes, I became concerned that my backpack was not coming out. If my backpack did not make it here I was screwed. A minute or so later a guy walked out of the door and said, “Is Chris Pruitt here?” I said, “I’m Chris.” He said, “Follow me.” We walked into a small area in the backroom of the airport and he said, “Is this your bag?” It was in fact my backpack with tons of crap attached to it. I said, “Yes it is.” He said, “Can I see you claim check?” I showed it to him and said, “Is there a problem?” He said, “No, but you have a gun in there so we have to treat your bag differently.” Felling a bit captive I said, “Ok, am I free to go?” He nodded yes, and with that, I picked up my backpack for the next step of my adventure.
With my backpack over my shoulders and a ton of enthusiasm in my heart, I walked out of the airport. I looked left and didn’t see any taxi cabs. I then looked right, and way down at the end of the sidewalk I saw a guy standing beside a minivan. We made eye contact. He could tell I was looking for a ride so he motioned for me to walk his way. I did. Little did I know that I was not only meeting my taxi driver, but I was meeting someone who would be my guardian angel and help me complete my adventure.
I remember walking up to the minivan. It was blue, I think. Maybe grey. It wasn’t new, but it wasn’t old either. The driver had already got into his position behind the steering wheel. He said, “Where ya headed?” I said, “To the Capitol.” He said, “Not a problem. Hop in.” I tossed my backpack in the back and I hopped up front. About then the driver said, “My name is Nicky.” I said, “I’m Chris. Nice to meet you.” Nicky then said, “What brings you to town?” I said, “I got a little hike planned.” He smiled and said, “In Downtown Montgomery?” I said, “Well, that’s where I’m starting. I’m going to walk to Selma.” With that Nicky again smiled and laughed a little. He said, “That’s a long way for a big boy like you. You sure you can make it.” I said, “Yeah, I think I can, but it is possible I might have out-kicked my coverage on this one.” He was wearing a Dallas Cowboy hat. He laughed as did I. About then I remembered I needed some fuel for my camping stove so I asked Nicky to run me by a sporting goods store before he drops me off at the Capitol. We stopped at Dick’s Sports and I ran in and got my fuel. We then headed downtown to the Capitol. On the way over Nicky said, “Where at by the Capitol do you want out.” Wanting to look like I knew what I was talking about I said, “By the steps will be fine.” I didn’t know the capitol in Alabama has steps on all sides. Again, Nicky smiled. A couple of minutes later we were there. Nicky said, “Okay Chris, here you go.” I asked him what I owed him. He replied and I gave him the money. About then Nicky said, “Chris, I feel like I need to tell you that the route you are going to take out of Montgomery is not safe, especially after dark.” I said, “It’s no big deal. I’ll be fine. Besides I am only planning on walking about 7 or so miles to a hotel back out by the airport.” He then said, “No I don’t think you understand. If you’re going to walk The Trail, you are going to have to cross through some pretty rough parts of Montgomery.” I replied again with, “I’ll be okay, but I do appreciate the concern.” With that Nicky said, “Chris, do me a favor. You take my card. If you need anything you call me, okay?” I said, “You bet Nicky.” I got out and Nicky drove off.
I was now, in earnest, at the true beginning my educational adventure. I pulled out my camera and shot a few pictures and rolled on some video. Once content that I had properly captured the moment, I set off on my 54-mile march to Selma.
It was about 4pm. I only needed to cover about 7-miles to make it to the hotel, and the end of day one. At my walking pace, that’s about somewhere between one and a half to two hours. The trail leading away from Montgomery was fairly well marked. I had no problem at all, for about 3-miles. I am not really sure where I went wrong, but at some point, I zigged when I should have zagged. Next thing I know I was lost in Montgomery’s inner city. Sure, I was in an area most would call bad, but I was just fine. Besides, I was not worried. I had a gun in the bottom of my pack; in a small container that was locked and the key to the lock was somewhere in one of the 27 pockets on my backpack. Provided the attacker afforded me about four to six minutes to actually get my gun in hand, I would give them a fight to the death! About then, a man on a porch called out to me. It sounded friendly, but I knew it wasn’t. I smiled and waved and continued to walk. Convinced that I was way off of the trail, I then summoned Google Maps on my phone. Unfortunately, the walking map that Google gave me resulted in me getting further off of the trail. By this point, I had already covered something like 8 miles. All I wanted to do was get to the safety of my hotel.
The sun was going down, and my activity of walking the streets with a backpack was beginning to draw attention. Over the next 15-minutes I had a couple of incidents, or rather encounters, that made me feel very uncomfortable. I looked over my shoulder, and about a block behind me, I noticed a guy following me. With that, I sped up a little. I looked back and he had sped up too. I was convinced he was set on catching up to me. I will admit, at this point I was scared. About then a young woman in a yard that seemed to be high on something said, “Hello.” She popped up out of nowhere and startled me. I said the same back and nervously I pulled out my phone only to find out that it was dead. All I could think was, “Oh crap. You’ve really F-d this one up, Chris.” Although I was in a neighborhood, I did see a convenience store about a block ahead. By this point, I had walked well over 2 hours and almost 9 miles. I darted into the convenience store and asked the clerk if I could plug my phone in to charge it. He said yes, so I handed him my phone and charger. I looked out the window of the store and the guy that was following me was standing out by the curb. I went to the back of the store and got a Dr. Pepper. I returned to the counter and paid for it. After about 15 minutes, I went back to the counter and asked the clerk for my phone. He handed it to me. I had remembered that the cab driver, Nicky, had given me his card. I reached into my pocket and pulled it out and dialed the number. A voice on the other end of the phone said, “This is Nicky.” I said, “Nicky, this is Chris. The guy you picked up at the airport and dropped off downtown.” With that Nicky said, “Chris, where in the hell are you. I have been looking everywhere for you.” I said, “What?” He said, “I was following you from a distance for about 30 minutes after I let you out, but I lost you. You got off of the trail man.” I said, “I know, and now I’m lost.” He said, “Where are you.” I looked out the window and saw a street sign and told him the name of the convenience store. With that Nicky said, “Chris, it’s going to take me about 15-minutes to get over there. You stay in that store and don’t go outside. I mean it. You’re in a bad place.” I told him thanks and hung up. About 15 minutes later Nicky pulled up. I walked out to his minivan. I was embarrassed. Nicky could tell I was embarrassed, so he smiled real big and said, “Get on in here you crazy fool. I’m taking you to your hotel.” I smiled too and got in. I asked Nicky how far off of the trail I was and he said, “Here let me show you.” Come to find out I was WAY off of the trail. By at least 3 or 4 miles. I told Nicky, “I think it is important that I walk the whole trail. Maybe you can let me out up here?” He said, “Chris it’s dark. I just can’t let you do that. You have over a mile of the worst area to walk through in order to get to the place you are staying tonight. Hell, you probably walked twice as far as you should have today. How about instead of you getting out I’ll just drive real slow. You can take it all in.” We both kind of laughed, and drove the 2 or so miles over to my hotel.
When we got to the hotel, I told Nicky that I really appreciated what he had done for me. I asked him how much I owed him. He said, “Don’t worry about it, Chris.” I was not going to accept his offer. He very well may have saved my life. So I just handed him some cash, and told him the I really appreciated him looking out for me. He then said something along the lines of, “If I needed anything else while I in Montgomery to give him a call.” I smiled, nodded okay and Nicky drove away.
For the record, a few paragraphs ago I said the word Hotel. The place where I would stay on my first night in Alabama was more of a Motel. It was the Montgomery Airport Comfort Inn. As they say, when the H becomes an M, the price goes down as well as the amenities. Sure, it was a kind of questionable place, but it was clean, mostly, I think. I checked in, went to my room, and unpacked my gear. I sat around for a while thinking about the day’s events. The thoughts made me laugh. After an hour or so I had a new problem; I was hungry. I had not eaten since earlier that morning on my way to Dallas. I remembered when I walked into the hotel, or rather motel, some restaurants about a half-mile down the road. I slipped on my boots and set out to get some dinner. I had a choice of a Hardees, a Sonic, a truck stop, or a Waffle House. Waffle House it was. After a fantastic breakfast-dinner including smothered hash browns, I walked back to the hotel. Once back in the room, I was ready to call it a day. As I lay in bed, I thought about everything that had happened that day. Within a couple of minutes I was asleep.
I woke the next morning around 6am. The sun was just coming up, and I felt great. The day before when I checked in, the person at the front desk said breakfast was included with my stay. I slipped on some clothes and made my way to the dining area. The food selection was just fine. I found a few things and ate them while I watched some news on a TV located in the corner of the dining room. When I finished eating I went back to my room, showered, packed, and checked out. It was a cool morning, but not cold. I am a person who generally tends to stay cold nowadays, so I went ahead and put on my jacket. Although I was wearing shorts, the jacket instantly warmed me up. Across from the hotel was a convenience store. Since I would need some water for my trip, I crossed the street and picked some up. Also, I had forgotten to pack my deodorant so I paid something like $3 for a little travel size container. I paid for my items and went outside. I put the water in the pack and the deodorant in the pits. Hydrated and smelling fresh, I had about a 2-mile walk to get back to the trail.
My goal that day was a point a little past the half-way mark to Selma. 27-miles from the hotel was the Lowndes Interpretive Center. It is located in the town of Whitehall. The center was built and operated by the National Park Service. My hope was that somewhere around there I could find a place to camp for the night. I covered the 2-miles from the Comfort Inn to the trail the ran along Highway 80 quickly. A sign had arrows instructing me that if I wanted to go to Mobile I should proceed straight ahead. However, if I wanted to go to Selma I needed to turn right. I turned right. There was a lot of dew on the ground, so the tips of my boots were a little wet. It made my feet cold. The coldness would not last long because as soon as the sun was overhead, it heated up nicely.
It was not hot at any point throughout the day. The weather was perfect. A clear sky and a high temperature of about 75. Quickly, I could see that this trail hike was going to be different than my past trail hikes. This hike was not through the wilderness where the only noise was nature and wildlife. It was alongside a four-lane highway where cars were whizzing by at high-speed within feet of where I was walking. You see, roads in Alabama don’t for the most part have wide shoulders like in Texas; or at least this one didn’t. Most of the time, I had about two to four feet between me and traffic. Of course, I walked against traffic. Not that it made a difference, but at least this way I would be able to see the car that hit me. From time to time I tried walking off of the pavement and on the grass and dirt. This idea was a no-go because tall grass provided a pathway for the Fire ants to climb aboard and sting the crap out of my bare legs. If you have ever been bitten by a Fire Ant you will understand my decision to take my chances with getting hit by oncoming traffic.
The first 8-miles went by quickly. I passed the airport and a military installation of some type. I stopped for a few minutes and took a rest on a bridge guardrail that crossed a creek. I was not really hungry or thirsty, but I went ahead and pulled out a snack and a bottle of water from my backpack. As I sat there, I watched the people driving by. For the most part they were intent on watching the road. Every now and then someone would wave and I would return the wave back. I finished up the snack and hit the road.
As I walked, I had a lot of thoughts running through my head. On this day I did a self-examination. My question was this; am I a racist?
I was born and raised in Wichita Falls, Texas. A town that sits on the Red River. The state of Oklahoma is only about 15-miles north. My dad was in the Army and my mom was a nurse. We were not poor, but we were not rich. I was raised in a small 3-bedroom house. I have two sisters and a brother. My dad had enlisted in the Army in World War Two. Although he never talked about it, I learned after he had died he had seen a lot of combat. Maybe this is why he didn’t talk about it. It was common growing up for my dad and his friends to use words like nigger and chink (By the way, a Chink was anybody who was Asian). Because of that, the word nigger was a common word. It was also common among my friends. In Wichita Falls, most of the black people lived “across the tracks” on the east side. It was common knowledge that white people should never venture beyond East Side Drive. The most notorious street though the east side was called Flood Street. It was thought that for a white person to go down Flood after dark would certainly lead to death. Of course, this was not true. I also believed that hobos lived in the woods across from my house. A story is told about me that on my first day of school at Sam Houston Elementary I got into a fight with a black kid. We were sitting at the lunchroom table and he took my regular milk and gave me his opened and partially drank, chocolate milk. He then said, “I’m going to drink your white milk to make me white and you can drink my chocolate milk so you can be black.” I supposedly then attacked the kid. The fight resulted in me getting sent to the office and my parents summoned to school. I use the word supposedly because I honestly do not remember the fight. It must have happened because I heard the story probably a hundred times growing up, but I honestly do not remember it. If it did actually happen, most likely I did not attack the kid because he was black. I did it because he took my milk and gave me his that had been opened. If you know me, then you know I don’t drink or eat after anyone. In fact, my sisters used to send me into fits of extreme rage at the supper table by doing things like blowing on my food. Enough about my life when I was young. The question remains, who am I now, and am I a racist? I am a typical white, middle-aged guy. Most would describe my political leanings as being Social Conservative. When it comes to household income I don’t see myself as being rich, but I don’t need to use a calculator to pay my bills. I only mention money because I have been broke, and when you have money in the bank a lot of life’s problems disappear. A sentence or two ago I mentioned politics. I am a Republican. In all of my years of voting, I have only voted for one Democrat and that was because I was pissed off about the incumbents vote on a matter I really cared about (If you ever read this, sorry Steve. You shouldn’t have restricted the press with the Ag Gag. I did vote for you again the next time though). I have also voted for Independents or “Other” twice in Presidential elections.
So why did I tell you all of this? I want you to truly know and understand who I am. Most times when I have read stories like this it is being told by a person with liberal views. I was not motivated to take this journey out of what the mainstream media calls White Guilt or because I was on a quest to bring justice to something being overlooked. I’m just a regular person who has a streak of curiosity.
So, returning back to the question that started this line of thought; am I a racist? I first needed to make sure I knew the definition of the word Racist. The Google told me that a racist is a person who thinks they are superior to others due to their race. By that definition, I concluded that when I was younger I probably was a racist. I didn’t know better. Now, though, I am 100% sure that I am not a racist. I really could care much less about any of the things that set people off today like race, religion, or who you have sex with. I’m indifferent. I really have no feelings about these things because it does not matter to me. With this issue now settled in my mind, I allowed my thoughts to wander on to other things and continued my walk.
I had walked about 15-miles when I saw a small row of convenience stores. They were not like modern or nice convenience stores, but rather small wooden framed stores on the side of the road. If you know the roads in Alabama, I was close to the spot where Highway 21 intersects Highway 80. I went into the store I deemed as being “the nicest” with a goal of getting some lunch. It was now around noon.
When I walked in, I could smell good stuff cookin’ in the back. I made my way to the back of the store and the man behind the counter was dumping a fresh basket of fried chicken into the glass-enclosed warmer counter. I had planned on just getting some chips and a drink, but the fresh fried chicken was calling my name. I asked the guy for a thigh and he boxed it right up. Knowing that this would not be enough food to get me through the day, I also bought a sack of pork skins, a Dr. Pepper and a King Size Reese’s Peanut Buttercup for dessert. Outside by the gas pumps was a wooden picnic table. I sat for about 20-minutes and enjoyed lunch. I ate the chicken and the candy but decided to save the pork skins for a snack later on. When I was done, I saw a sign on the outside of the building that said “Restrooms” along with an arrow pointing around the corner of the building. After using the facilities and washing off all of the chicken grease, I continued my journey.
I had walked no more than a couple of miles when I was on the outskirts of a town called Lowndesboro. Lowndesboro is a small town of about 100 people. I knew from my research that this was where the marchers from Selma had camped as they made their way to Montgomery. The site is officially known as Campsite 3. There are four official campsites that the marchers used as they traveled to Montgomery. Campsite 4 was back in Montgomery, and I will talk about it later. I kind of missed it on my first day when I got lost.
To put things into perspective, there were somewhere between 300 and 600 people who marched the trail from Selma to Montgomery. Finding a place for these people to camp overnight was tough. You have to remember that the people in Alabama back then were not real happy about what was taking place. On March 23rd, 1965, the marchers had stopped here in this small town for the night. The land where they camped was on a farm owned by Robert Gardner, or at least that is what I gathered because the sign said Robert Gardner Farm. The sign at this campsite, as with the others I would later see along the trail, is about 8 feet wide and 3 feet high. Campsite 3 is kind of in the middle of nowhere. If I remember correctly, I think there was a trailer house sitting off to one side. Past that, Campsite 3 is just a spot on the road. Right before I left the site, I did notice something ironic. About 10-feet in front of the sign marking the location of Campsite 3 was another sign. It was a typical plastic political sign asking all the people who passed to vote for Karl Bell. The sign said he was running for County Commissioner District 5. His slogan was, “The One for Change.” Change? Seems like that has been a common theme around here for quite some time. I checked later on and Karl lost his election bid. I guess the folks in Lowndes County didn’t want to change. That too seems like another common theme.
I still had several miles to reach that day’s endpoint. I was starting to feel the miles and the weight of the pack in both my feet and legs. A few miles later, I remembered those pork skins. I busted them open and enjoyed them with some water as I continued my walk.
The terrain along this stretch of road is best described as rolling. It was a beautiful day. Even though it was March, the grass was already green. I guess they had a mild winter. I was enjoying being in this moment of my life.
After a while, I noticed a town coming into view. I was now only a few miles short of my intended destination for the day. This was great news. The bad news though, was that I could see nowhere to set up my tent and camp for the night. All of the land was fenced and occupied. There were no safe places like tree thickets where I could squat for the night. I walked past another sign marking the location of Campsite 2. It was much like Campsite 3. Just a sign in the middle of nowhere. The sign said that on March 22, 1965, the land belonged to a person named Rosie Steele. Rosie took a real chance and risked her life letting those people camp on her land that night. She must have been a very brave woman.
Things then turned from wide-open farmland to city as I entered the town of Whitehall. Whitehall is where the Lowndes Interpretive Center was located. This was the official end of the road for day one.
In the town of Whitehall, there was not one, but two casinos. You would think that a town with two casinos would have a hotel, but it didn’t. It appeared to me that one of the casinos at some point in the past had a small hotel attached, but it was now closed. With nowhere to camp, I thought about asking if I could camp behind one of the casinos. In the end, I wouldn’t because this would probably result in #1 a No and #2 not be safe. Unfortunately, the National Park Service did not allow for campers on their grounds. I found this as being ludicrous considering the National Park Service is built on the bedrock of getting out and exploring nature. It was now 4pm, and the Interpretive Center closed at 5pm. I wanted to see the center, but if I was going to find a suitable campsite I would need to skip the center and make my way out of town. About then I remembered my taxi driver friend Nicky.
Although camping out one night was part of the plan, it was not something I was married to. What if I could get Nicky to drive out here and pick me up. It’s only about 25 miles or so. He could then drive me back to the hotel where I stayed the night before in Montgomery, and then drive me back out here in the morning. Then, I could pick up where I left off? I figured it was a long shot, but hey why not give it a try. Since I had called Nicky the day prior, I didn’t need to find his card. His number was still in my phone. I called it and a familiar voice said, “Hello. This is Nicky.” I said, “Nicky, this is Chris. The guy walking to Selma.” Nicky said, “Hey Chris! How’s it going?” I said, “Well, I have a problem. I can’t find a place to camp for the night.” Without me even asking he said, “Would you like for me to come and pick you up?” I said, “That would be great, but would you bring me back out here early tomorrow?” Nicky said, “Sure, no problem. I have a lady that is a regular. I have to take to the airport in the morning. She has to be there around 5am so I will pick you up in the morning right after that. Will that work?” I told him it would. He then asked where I was. I told him the Interpretive Center in Whitehall. He knew right where it was because of the casinos I think. He told me it would take him about 45-minutes to get there. I told him that was perfect because that would give me plenty of time to check out the center.
Now having 45 minutes on my hands, I made my way into the Interpretive Center. Not knowing what to expect, I have to admit I didn’t have high expectations. Quite frankly, I had drunk almost all of my water and I really needed to use the restroom so badly that the center had a restroom I would call it a win.
After hitting the can, I made my way into the museum part of the building. To my surprise, this was one very unique government facility. First of all, almost as soon as I walked in I was greeted by a Park Ranger. He was enthusiastic, knowledgeable, and very proud of the facility. He briefed me on the center and then said that regrettably, the center would close at 5pm. The building was not that big. I had 40-minutes left. I had plenty of time, or so I thought. Realistically, I could have spent a couple of hours here. I’ll not go into detail, but the people who put this center and the exhibits together did an outstanding job. There were two displays that stuck with me. The first was very simple. It showed the outline of a man, life-size. Inside of the outline, it said, “I just don’t want to be called Boy no more.” If the purpose of that exhibit was to put you in the right state of mind, they accomplished their mission with me. How demeaning it must have been to be a black person in Alabama during that time. Towards the back of the museum was a scene composed of life-size bronze statues. The idea was to show the diversity of the people who marched. At the front was a young black man carrying a flag, but second, was a white man that looked to be about thirty and he had only one leg. Not really sure why this one guy stood out, but he did. Maybe it was because he had one leg. I did a little research on this statue later and it was in fact a real person who marched all 54-miles from Selma to Montgomery on crutches. His name was Jim Letherer. Jim had lost his leg to cancer when he was 10. He was born in Michigan and went on to become a civil rights activist. What I read about him said he was a real joker. When he noticed the mood of the marchers starting to turn south, Jim would raise everyone’s spirt by shouting the cadence, “Left, Left, Your Left, Left, Left.” Get it? One leg. Regarding the march and the “Movement” in general, Martin Luther King Jr. is quoted as saying, “If you can’t fly then run if you can’t run then walk if you can’t walk then crawl, but whatever you do keep moving forward.” This is what Jim Letherer. He died in 2001. “The Interpretive Center will be closing in 5-minutes,” said the voice over the speaker system. With that, I made my way to the door. Being among all of those artifacts and history drew me even closer to the history that was within my adventure. It was at this moment that an unrecognized feeling swept over me. I knew that something inside of me had changed and from that moment on I would never be the same person.
I waited outside for Nicky to show up, and right on schedule, I saw the familiar minivan enter the driveway. Still with a smile on his face Nicky’s first words were, “You surprised me.” I opened the minivans sliding door, tossed my backpack in, and again climbed into the front seat. I said, “Surprised?” He said, “I didn’t think you would make it this far.” I just smiled and said, “Well, I did.”
We didn’t talk much on the way back to town. I was tired and I think Nicky was too. He asked me if I wanted him to drive me somewhere for dinner. I said, “Thanks, but no thanks. My feet are tired and the weight of this pack has taken its toll on my legs.” On the drive back over to Montgomery, I called the hotel where I had stayed the night before to confirm they had a room available. They did. We pulled up to the hotel, and like the two times prior, I asked Nicky what I owed him? He gave me a number and I paid him. Although we had already discussed it, I reaffirmed that he would pick me back up in the morning. I then grabbed my backpack and told him to have a good night. I got out and watched him drive away. As I turned around, a woman had approached me from behind. This was the second time this had happened to me on this trip. She was about 3 feet from me and way inside of my personal space. A bit freaked out I said, “Well hello there. Something I can help you with?” She replied with her own question, “Hitchhiking?” I said, “Kind of.” She then proceeded to tell me that she was going to be in the area for the night and if I was interested in getting together she was open to it. As I said before, the Montgomery Airport Comfort Inn was kind of questionable. I told her I would keep that in mind and would get back with her if needed. I then walked around the woman and went into the hotel. I checked-in, made my way to my room, and locked myself inside. Later that night, I shared the hooker story on Facebook. Jokingly, I said that if I was not so afraid of germs and communicable diseases, I would have paid her $100 to come in and rub my legs. I laid down on the bed for a moment to rest my legs and woke up about 2 hours later. Hungry, I thought about walking down the road again to Waffle House for dinner. I grabbed my boots, but before I left I looked out the window to see if the lady was still out there. Not only was she still out there, but a couple of her friends had shown up as well. I am not sure they were all hookers, but the scene kind of reminded me of the show Walking Dead. Not wanting to run the gauntlet of prostitutes that night, I opted for Domino’s instead. I order my pizza and hopped into the shower. By the time I was done showering, the pizza guy was knocking on the door. I spent the rest of the night eating pizza in my underwear watching TV. Life was good! About 11pm I finally shut off the TV. I fell asleep thinking about all of the history I had seen that day. Now, fully aware of the significance of the struggle black people faced in the early and mid 60’s I was looking at my adventure in an entirely different light.
Day three. “I’m awake, and I want to get out of bed, but my legs won’t move.” This was my first thought. I guess the weight of the pack and the asphalt had hit my body hard. It was a little before 5am and I was in real pain. I walked into the bathroom and grabbed several ibuprofen and then headed out the door of my room and down the hallway for coffee. I was surprised to find that breakfast was already being served so I sat down, took my pills, and ate. Just like the day prior, breakfast was pretty good, but today they had homemade biscuits and gravy. When I finished eating, I went back to the room and took a shower. I set the water temperature to as hot as I could stand. By the time I was done, the medicine was kicking in and the heat from the shower had gotten me loosened up. Since today’s agenda called for me going the last 23-miles on into Selma and sleeping in a hotel, I decided to lighten my pack. To make things easier on me, I got rid of every single ounce of weight that was not absolutely necessary. I had a big plastic trash bag in my pack just in case of rain and to pack out trash. I used it to hold all of the things I purged from my pack. Luckily, the folks at the front desk were nice enough to hold everything for me overnight.
As promised, Nicky showed up well before 6am. As quickly as he arrived we were off and headed back out of town. On the drive out, Nicky and I talked and laughed about the events of the first day. He told me that when he picked me up at the convenience store on day one I looked terrified. I laughed and said, “Probably because I was.” I was truly indebted to Nicky for taking care of me. At some point during the trip, I had told Nicky how sore I was. He said something about the size of my legs and that they looked like tree trunks. When we came up to the town of Whitehall, we drove right past the Lowndes Interpretive Center. Nicky said, “I know that is where I picked you up, but I really need to go a little further to a spot where there is a crossover in the middle of the road.” I looked at him and smiled. I knew he was just trying to help me out. A couple of miles later there was a crossover in the median and Nicky said, “How about here?” I shook my head okay and said, “This will work great.” When we stopped, I handed Nicky some cash and told him thank you. I asked Nicky if I could shoot his picture and he said okay. When I got out I grabbed my camera and snapped a shot. I then fetched my pack from the backseat and just like that Nicky was gone.
I am guessing that I started walking that morning around 615am. The sun was up, but it was cold. I could see my breath. I had a couple of shirts on underneath my heavy jacket, but I still could not get warm. I started jogging to get my blood moving and sure enough that did the trick. On the drive over Nicky told me that there was going to be a big event that day in Selma. I asked him if he knew any details and he said, “No.” Curious about the “Big Event” I hit The Google and sure enough Nicky was right. It all kicked off around noon. Using my high-level map reading skills, as well as triangulation to figure out my exact position, The Google told me that I would be getting to Selma around 1 or 130pm. Well, that was not good enough. I looked at the day’s event schedule and I wanted to be there earlier. I then started to jog again.
Today’s walk, or rather jog, would be much more memorable than the day prior. I was only about 2-miles into my journey when I spotted an old license plate down in a ditch. It took a bit of maneuvering, but I went down the steep embankment and got that license plate. It was painted in the colors of America; Red, White and Blue. It was old, or at least appeared to be. It featured an American flag and the words, “Beautiful Progressive Selma Alabama.” As you can guess, finding this license plate and what I mentioned earlier about how life works in your favor and puts things in your path from which to learn, my mind was buzzing with thoughts. I guess my eyes were all tuned up for license plate hunting because about a mile later I found another one. This was a state-issued 1972 plate. It was green and said, “The Heart of Dixie.” I put this in my pack along with the other license plate I had found earlier.
As I walked down the road that day, the traffic was heavy. Luckily it was on the other side of the road. I guess folks were heading to Selma for the festivities. As cars passed, people would wave at me. Some would even tap their horn and wave. I even got a few truckers to blast their air horns by giving them the international sign of pumping my fist up and down. I get bored easily.
I can’t remember the town, but I was still about 8 miles from Selma when a voice about 100-yards away said, “Hello!” It was a man calling to me from his front porch. I smiled and waved big. He said, “Would you like a bottle of water?” I replied back, “No thanks, but I do appreciate the offer.” I kept walking. I had only gone a few hundred feet when I began to regret my decision. I had just missed an opportunity to meet another person on my adventure. What if that guy was a young man in 1965, and was one of the marchers? Could I have just missed my chance to get a firsthand account of what took place? Yeah, that’s a long shot, but you never know. I thought about the Universe putting things in my path and so right then I resolved to accept anything that is offered to me whenever I am on future adventures.
A while later I found a long piece of yellow plastic “Caution” tape. I picked it up and tied it on my backpack. As I walked I saw the shadow of the tape flapping in the wind. I thought, “I guess I literally threw caution to the wind.”
It wasn’t long before I came across my next roadside find. It was a vinyl record. The record must have been there for years as it was partially covered by dirt. The label on the album was barely visible and read Donovan’s Greatest Hits. I was not familiar with the band. A brushed back a bit of the dirt so I could read the label and I didn’t recognize the name of any of the songs on Side One. I completed unearthing the record and flipped it over to the other side. I did recognize the title of one song on Side 2; “Mellow Yellow.” I started singing the tune in my head. “I’m just mad about Saffron. Saffron’s mad about me. I’m just mad about my Saffron, and she’s just mad about me. They call me Mello Yellow.” This was a real find. Since I had been lucky enough to find the cool license plates earlier, I left this for some other trail walker to perhaps stumble upon one day.
Eventually, I came to the proverbial fork in the road. I was about 5-miles outside of Selma. I didn’t know whether to go left or right, and the map I had was not clear. I went left, but had only gone about a block or so when I realized I should have gone right. I backtracked and got on the correct road.
With about 4-miles to go, I came across a small group of people who were gathered around some cars and a bus on the side of the road. As I passed a guy said, “Hey there! We saw you earlier on the road. How far have you been walking?” As I continued to walk I said, “I started in Montgomery at the Capitol.” There were several younger men in the group and I heard one of them say to the others inside the bus, “I told you so. He did walk from Montgomery!” About then another person said, “Would you like some water?” I stopped dead in my tracks, smiled, turned around, and remembering my vow earlier I said, “I would love some water.” At this point, I was about 50-feet past the gathering, so I walked back to the group of people.
The conversation started off just as you would expect, with lots of questions about me. I quickly turned the conversation back to them. As it turns out, they were all part of a religious rap group from Louisiana. They too were heading to Selma to perform. I spent about 10-minutes visiting with them and then I said, “Well guys, I need to hit the road. Thanks a ton for the water. I needed that.” Truth be told I had four bottles of water in my backpack that at this point was dead weight since I was back in a populated area.
As I walked, I saw some vultures circling overhead. I figure they saw a fat boy walking and they were waiting for me to drop. I passed a grouping of streets in a neighborhood that had names like Unity Lane and Hope Street. Sounded to me like this was a city with both regrets and aspirations for the future.
I was just about to cross over into Selma when I got one of the biggest lessons I would receive on this adventure. When you walk down the road with a backpack, you get attention. Most of the time it is friendly waves from people passing by. However, on three different occasions since leaving Montgomery two days prior, I got a little more than a friendly wave from law enforcement. The first time was back in Montgomery. A city cop gave me a solid second look. The cop circled the block so he could come back around and check me out. I didn’t give it two thoughts as the policeman was just doing his job. White guy in a predominantly black inner-city neighborhood wearing a backpack. Yes, that is out of the norm. The next time was from a State Trooper out on the highway. Again, he slowed a little, but he was just doing his job. Heck, he might have thought I needed some help. But this third guy, he really pissed me off. I was standing at the crossing of a four-lane highway. I was waiting for the light to change so I could cross. I saw him approaching to my left. I saw the front end of his car lower from braking when the two of us made eye contact. He went from a speed of about 35 to a speed of about 15 or 20 in the blink of an eye. As he got closer, it was apparent that this guy wanted to make damn sure that I knew that he was checking me out. I saw the markings on his car. He was a county deputy. When he went past me he slowed even more. He’s lucky traffic was not heavy because as slow as he was driving he could have caused an accident. So as I looked at him, he looked right back at me. For a brief moment I was nervous. But then I felt this anger instantly build inside of me. I am sure the look on my face matched his; F-U. I wanted to give him the double-bird just to dare him to mess with me, but I didn’t. He passed and I crossed the street. I thought about what had just happened. In my mind, I thought things like; I make more money in two months than he makes all year. Fat ass punk, I’d kick his ass. If only he knew who he was about to mess with. About then it hit me; I was just profiled! Heck, you would have thought I just won $10 from a scratch-off lottery ticket! I was kind of excited. I was just singled out by law enforcement because of the way I looked. I then started to think, “What if I was black and this kind of thing happened often? How would that affect my self-image? How would that shape the way I feel about law enforcement? I had just received another big lesson on this adventure.
The walk on into Selma was uneventful. As soon as I turned the corner on the street leading to the Edmund T. Pettus bridge, there was a guy selling T-shirts. I bought one and stuffed it in my backpack. A few hundred feet up the road, I saw a sign for the Selma Voter Rights Monument and Park. Although there was a sign saying there was a monument, there was another sign saying that the monument would not be unveiled until March 5th of 2017. Perhaps there were plans to put another monument here because around back and to my right, I saw something else that looked like it could be a monument. Content I had seen everything here, I then started walking towards the bridge.
What had got me to this point on my journey was the image I had saw on TV of police beating down the marchers right after they had crossed the bridge. I thought about that picture, and I wanted to get as close to that spot as I could, so I crossed the road. Right around where the attack on the marchers began on March 7, 1965, there now stands the National Voting Rights Museum. From the outside, the museum looks to be nothing special. It kind of looks like an old storefront. Inside though, was a real education just waiting to be learned.
I am going to suspend my story for a while because I want to share some history and tell you a brief overview of what was actually taking place in Alabama in the early 1960’s.
I will start out with The Constitution. In Alabama, and you might as well include all of the South while we are at it, folks really did not care for the 13th, 14th, and 15th Amendments to the Constitution. The 13th outlawed Slavery. The 14th Amendment addressed citizenship, equal protection under the laws and sought to limit state’s rights to make sure that everyone was treated equally. Because of this, I assume that is why the 2nd and 3rd clause of this amendment deals with things like rebellion. The 15th Amendment deals specifically with voting. In short, it says that if you are a citizen you get to vote. In the United States, in 1960, 29.1% of eligible black voters were registered to vote. In Alabama, only 13.7% of eligible black voters were registered to vote. In 1962, that number dropped to 13.4%. White folks in Alabama liked things this way. Why? Because that’s the way things had always been done in the South. You see, in the South, they had all kinds of crazy rules and laws specifically designed to keep the blacks in their place. They had this law called “separate, but equal.” This is how they got away with things like separate water fountains for blacks and whites and separate seats on a bus. This also came into play with education. Blacks had their schools, and whites had theirs. To keep people from voting, they used tactics like a Poll Tax. Basically, you had to pay $5 to vote. They had literacy tests too. Since a great deal of the white people couldn’t pass the test, they created a loophole that gave the person giving the test the last word on whether or not a person passed the test. When the blacks had their gut full of this, they started to stand up for themselves. Before long, national civil rights leaders like Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X took notice. Once they took notice, civil rights activists from all across the country started to flow into Alabama. There were several organizations that set up shop in Alabama. Well, the white people in Alabama didn’t like this at all. That is when the real atrocities began to take place. The worst part of all of this is that most, and I do mean most, of the police force and government officials were either actively involved in or complicit in relation to the crimes that were taking place against blacks and those that supported their movement. For example, in order to keep the black people from organizing their efforts, they made a law that outlawed more than three black people meting together at once. This is why black churches played such a critical role in civil rights because this was one of the few places that blacks could assemble without harassment. This kind of puts the separation of church and state in a new light doesn’t it. There were all kinds of murders, executions and lynching’s that took place in the late 50’s and 60’s. One incident involved four boys who were arrested and jailed only to be found dead a while later. This was one of the incidents that ignited the blacks in Alabama and then lead to the marches in February of 1965. One march took place on the 18th of February, in the town of Marion. It was a nighttime peaceful protest. Even though it was peaceful, any protest, especially one at night, was not going to take place in Alabama. When the protesters refused to stop protesting, the Alabama State Troopers became infuriated to the point that they began to systematically beat the black protesters. A young man, along with his mother and grandfather, sought shelter inside of a café to get away from troopers. This young man’s name was Jimmie Lee Jackson. The Jackson’s thought they would be safe inside of the café, but in walked some Alabama State Troopers. One of them was Corporal James Bonard Fowler. The troopers began to beat the Jacksons. Jimmie Lee was trying to protect his mother when Fowler walked up to Jimmie and shot him at point-blank range. Fowler died 8-days later. What happened to Trooper Fowler for murdering Jackson? The same thing that happened to all of the other people who committed crimes against blacks; nothing. Why? Well here lies the REAL reason why they wanted to keep blacks from voting. So, if I go and kill someone then I get arrested. My case then goes to trial and my fate is decided by a jury of my peers. What do all jurors have in common? They are registered voters. There you have it. If you want to keep a group of people suppressed, all you really need to do is keep them from voting. If they can’t vote, they can’t convict you of your crimes. That people is why we can never create laws that separates legally qualified voters from the ballot box. Regardless of how noble your intentions are, if you create a barrier to voting for a legally qualified candidate, you are no better than the white folks in Alabama circa 1965. So, that is what I learned when I toured The National Voting Rights Museum. A couple of other items of interest in the museum was a real KKK uniform they had on display, as well as the cattle prod that police commissioner Bull Connor used on blacks. One more thing. Before I forget, let me finish the story about that State Police Trooper who murdered Jimmie Lee Jackson. He was eventually indicted in 1997 and was found guilty of manslaughter.
Done with the museum, it was now time to finally cross the bridge. Although the official end of my journey was Brown Chapel A.M.E. Church, the bridge and the incidents that happened there was what originally got my attention. The Pettus Bridge is high arching in the middle. It is constructed of iron and concrete. It is comprised of four-lanes with no shoulder but had sidewalks on both sides. The lanes are divided by a one foot high and two-foot wide concrete divider in the middle. On the metal supports that stand over the bridge, it says “Edmund Pettus Bridge” in big letters. When I made it to the top of the arch on the bridge, I paused and looked down at the river and the structures that line the river’s shore. Being a dude, I had to spit a few times just to see if I could see it hit the water. I saw it hit the water. About that time a man was passing behind me. I asked him if he would shoot my picture. He laughed and said, “I was about to ask you the same thing.” I shot his picture, and then he shot my picture. I then walked on down the other side of the bridge and into the downtown area of Selma.
The first street you come to when you cross the bridge in Selma is called Water. Water street was packed with both people and vendors selling stuff. I walked through the crowds just to see what was going on. Everywhere I looked, people were cooking food. It all smelled great, but for some reason, I was not hungry. I turned around and went back to the main street that I came in on. By the way, this street is called Broad. As I walked down Broad, all of the little shops were full of people. Near the corner of Broad and Alabama, I saw an ice cream parlor. Ice cream! Now that sounded good. I had two scoops of vanilla. I licked on the ice cream cone as I walked the ¼ mile or so over to the official end of my adventure; Brown Chapel A.M.E. Church. When I got there, the scene was interesting. Only official members of the church were allowed inside of the church on this day. Everyone else was watching the action on a big Jumbo-tron made possible by the U.S. Parks Service. I watched the broadcast along with the others. This was the very first time that I had sat down since 615am that morning. I was tired. As I sat there several people came by and told me they saw me out on the highway. I thought that was kind of cool. I was asked by two local news crews if I would go on camera. I said no to one and yes to the other. It was a typical local news interview. I didn’t tell them I worked in the TV business. It was a real relief to sit and rest. I had felt a “hot spot” on my right foot earlier in the day. I knew it had made a blister. I decided to check it out. When I finally got my shoe off and looked at it, it was bigger than I thought. It ran along the edge of my heel for about 2 inches. Knowing better than to mess with it, I put my shoe back on and laced it uptight. About 1pm folks starting coming out of the church. I asked some people in the audience what was going to happen next. They said that a few speakers would speak to the crowd, and as soon as that was done everyone would get together and march across the bridge. March across the bridge! This sounded exciting, so of course, I was IN! For the next hour, I heard speaker after speaker preach from the steps of the church. A speaker system amplified their voices. Each one would talk about 2 to 3 minutes. Their messages were mixed. Some would talk about past history and some would talk about civil rights injustices that were going on today. You have to remember that this was March of 2016. The big news on the TV daily was police shootings. Because of this, I heard a lot that day about Black Lives Matter. Personally, I see both sides of this coin. There were several occasions where the speakers really got the crowd fired up. Being one of the few white people in the crowd, at times it got a little uncomfortable. Whenever I would see somebody looking at me in an unfriendly way, I would just smile and wave. After the speakers were finished, the people assembled for the march. I am not sure how many people marched that day, but it had to be a few thousand. This was to be my first official civil rights march and I was excited. Leading the march was U.S. Senator John Lewis. Lewis participated in the marches back in 1965. The march started off slow but built up steam steadily. As we marched, people would sing while others would chant things like no justice no peace. At one point a bunch of ladies was singing a song that had a chorus of “I ain’t gonna let, fill in the bank turn me around, turn me around.” They sang several versions and verses of the song. At one point, they sang, “I ain’t gonna let Donald Trump turn me around, turn me around, turn me around.” That made me laugh a little. I videotaped it and put it on YouTube in hopes Hillary might want to buy it for a campaign ad. Once I made it to the top of the bridge, things began to backup and the march came to a stop. I decided that it was time to call it a day, or so I thought.
I turned and walked back down the same side of the bridge that I had come up with. I was ready to get off of my feet, get cleaned up, and have a real meal. I didn’t know exactly where my motel was that night, but I knew it was by the main highway. I pulled it up on The Google, and it was about 6-miles from my present location. I decided this was too far to walk, so I hit the Uber app. Well, crap! No Uber in Selma. I then called for a taxi. None of the taxi’s I called answered the phone. I thought, “You have got to be kidding me.” Oh well. I plotted a course on Google and began another 6-mile adventure.
It took me about an hour and a half of walking to make it to my motel. Maybe my having to walk an extra 6-miles was the Universe’s way of having me make up those couple of miles that Nicky had knocked off of my trip that morning by not letting me back out at the point he had picked me up the day before. Who knows.
I stayed that night at the Selma Comfort Inn. It was a very nice place to stay. No hookers. Best of all, there was a Chinese all you can eat next door. I took a 30-minute shower and then walked over to the buffet. I ate like a P-I-G pig. After dinner, I walked back to the hotel and got into bed. I went to sleep in nothing flat. This night I was so tired there would be no late-night parting thoughts like nights prior.
I woke up the next day at about 8am. I never sleep past 6am. To wake up at 8 meant I must have been exhausted. The beating I had taken the past few days had really taxed my body. My feet were so sore I could hardly put weight on them. My legs and back felt hurt as well. I was a wreck. I decided some coffee and Ibuprofen would get me back on track. The only problem is my feet were so sore and swollen I couldn’t get my boots on. I said, “screw it” and walked downstairs with bare feet.
Sure enough, once I got some coffee, pain killers and a hot shower I was good to go. I had rented my car from Enterprise. Luckily it was only about 2-miles from my hotel. I grabbed my backpack, checked out and hoofed it over to the Enterprise office.
When I got to Enterprise, they had my car all ready. The guy that worked there asked me what had brought me to town. I told him, and this led to a gentleman who was about 70 telling me about what it was really like in Selma in 1960. I wish I could tell you in detail what he said, but I was so worn out I was only half-listening to his story. Once I got my car, I took my time leaving Selma because there were a couple of sights I wanted to check out. When I was satisfied I had seen all I needed to see, it was time to depart Selma and head back to Montgomery. My flight was set to leave that evening at about 6pm.
On the way back to Selma, I stopped at Campsite 1 which was right outside of Selma. It, like the other campsites, was just open areas marked by a sign. Even still, I wanted to see each campsite with my own eyes. Once I made it back to Montgomery, I went to Campsite 4. This was more than an open field. It was something that looked to be a school campus enclosed by a fence. I read the sign, and it said that in 1965 this campus was known as City of St. Jude. It was a hospital, school, and church all in one. On the sign it said that the night before they completed the final leg of the march, they had a big musical rally to lift everyone’s spirits after the long journey. Since I was now downtown, I found a place to eat some lunch. I went to a Mexican food place in some upscale area. The food was expensive and sucked. On top of that, I got a parking ticket to boot. I then had to check back into my real life for a while at 2pm. It was the first Monday of the month, so that meant that I had to be on the monthly general manager’s call. The calls last one hour and ended around 3pm. I had an hour or so to blow so I went over and took a tour of the Alabama Capitol. It was nice, as far as state capitols go.
One little issue that happened had to do with my backpack. When I got out of my car, I grabbed my backpack. I did so just in case I decided to do some more exploring while out in the city. I walked through the doors of the Capitol and almost immediately there is a manned security checkpoint. I was just about to sit my backpack on the machine to scan my bag when I remembered, “Shit! My gun is in there.” As quick as I took it off of my shoulder, I tossed it back on and told the security guys, “I just remembered something. I’ll be right back.” I went and put my backpack in the trunk of my rental car and walked back over to the Capitol. When I walked in, the security guard said something like, “You’re back. Where’s your backpack?” I said, “Oh, I had to put it in my car.” He then said something like, “Was there a problem?” And I said, “There would have been if it would have been run through this machine.” All of the guards who were standing there laughed. I did too, albeit very nervously. One guard said, “Where are you from?” That lead into a 30-minute conversation about my walk as well as the hoops you now have to jump through in order to check a gun in your luggage when flying. Thanks a lot Osama.
When I left the Capitol, I decided to go on to the airport. Right before I got to the airport, I remembered I had to fill-up the rental car with gas. The card reader on the pump would not work, so I had to go in and pay. Since I was already in the store, I got a 32-ounce Miller. I paid and the guy put my beer in a little brown sack just like I like it. The airport was just across the street, so the second my ass hit the seat of the car, I popped the top. The beer was cold and went down smooth. I took about 4 big gulps and then made my way over to the airport. When I got there, I sat in the parking lot for a while enjoying my beer and thinking about the trip. When the beer was empty, I went inside and checked in.
At the Montgomery Airport, in addition to regular seats in the waiting area at the gate, they had nice wooden rocking chairs as well. I chose a rocking chair. It was still over an hour until my flight was to depart. As I sat there rocking, I thought about bits and pieces of my adventure. I thought about Nicky. I thought about the hooker offering her services. I thought about the county deputy that slow-rolled me in Selma and then I thought about Jimmie Lee Jackson. Had Jimmie chosen to stay home that night and not join the other peaceful protesters, I would have probably never come to Selma. It was, after all, the murder of Jimmie Lee Jackson that led to the marches in March of 1965. Too bad Jimmie never knew the role he would eventually play in righting so many wrongs. Because of this, I dedicate the words that I have written above to Mr. Jimmie Lee Jackson.
The End.
Selma 5150 – So why did I name my story Selma 5150? I started with Selma for obvious reasons. Selma was where the violence occurred that led to my adventure. The 51 comes from it being the 51st anniversary of the events and march that took place back in 1965. The 50 comes from my age. I was born in July of 1966. Since it is March 2016, I am closer to 50 than to 49. Then I put those two, 51 and 50 together. 5150 is a police code that originates from California Code 5150. Police say a person is “5150” when they are behaving in a mentally disturbed or crazy way. Since the police were so heavily involved in the craziness and terror taking place in the south in the 60’s, a police code that denotes crazy behavior seems to fill the bill perfectly.
I hope you enjoyed my story.