MISSISSIPPI 90

MISSISSIPPI 90 In 1971, around this time of year , October-November election season, 90 students from Howard University had traveled by bus from Washington, DC, all the way down to northwestern Mississippi. We were traveling South , deeper South, shonuff South, in order to poll watch for Charles Evers. He was the brother of the late Medgar Evers, civil rights martyr, who was running for governor . We knew that Charles Evers had very little chance of winning. But the utter audacity of his having run was to us, and to me, most irresistible! Just the year before, in 1970, certain ones of us had made a similar bus trip to Birmingham, Alabama, to campaign for John Cashen, a black dentist and activist. Cashen was running for governor against George Wallace. We were the "Alabama 86." I was among those sojourners as well. Why did we do it? Why did we go? We went because we could go. We went because we were Howard University and that--helping--is who we were and what we did each year, ritualistically, as part of iconic heritage , homage, and struggle. In addition, I went because I was born in Mississippi in 1951. Thus, I was going home, "Deep Home" to see my people, who still lived there. I thought family reunion was a cute collateral benefit to my excursion , but as events turned out it was the central, if ventral, reason for going. There were several memorable experiences in Mississippi in which I was directly involved. The first time was in Itta Bena. While poll watching there, a black female from Howard, who was garbed in African clothing, head to toe, got into a verbal altercation with some white female poll workers. As they were away from me, across the room, I could not hear the dispute. Shortly thereafter, though , in walked the sheriff. He glanced in that black female's direction, and paused . Then he turned his head and saw me. Instead of going to where the dispute simmered, he came to my section, where all was calm, without any controversy! He walked up to me with two big pistols on his hips, sporting a big Stetson hat, dark sunglasses, while chomping down on a cigar . "Here we go!" I said to myself! He looked so much like that caricature on the old "Dodge" TV commercial that I almost laughed. Then he said "Boy ! You better leave these white women alone!" as he pushed me in my chest. How unjust! I stepped back into the face of that itty-bitty, Itta Bena sheriff and unleashed such a voluble string of curses and imprecations, that were mediated by references to Mississippi and federal law that it arrested him in his tracks! He looked at me for a moment more . Then, he looked around the room then left. That was experience number one. Later that evening me and my good friend, Bill Lightfoot, were sent to a place called Money , Mississippi , to poll watch. We later learned that it was where Emmett Till had been lynched in 1955, in the very cotton gin, whose office we occupied. For a time, there was hardly any activity at that location . Then, shortly before closing, we heard a truck pull up. Billy looked at me and I looked him, but did not speak. At this moment, a white guy with a shotgun broke down over his arm, walked in and stood on one side of the door. Then , another white guy armed with a switchblade knife, entered and stood on the other side of the door. Following him, a troupe (coffle) of brothers entered . They trudged toward the table on which the ballots lay on display (no voting booths and no privacy), voted and trudged back out. Not one word was spoken by anyone. When the last of these brothers had voted and exited, then the armed men left with the truck. Shorty thereafter me and Billy booked too! We got the heck away! That was the second experience . Next day, I went down to the bus station to get on a bus to go to "home," Canton, Madison County, Mississippi, where my maternal grandmother lived and I was born. I arrived safely. At the exit bus stop , I caught the only cab visible and gave the driver the address. He looked back at me and said "You must be Miss Ora Bell's relative. She ain't home now. She's at a funeral. But Mr. Frank is there." I was utterly blown away by his knack of knowing so much about my people ! But this was Canton! Events turned out as he said, and after greetings from grandma and dining on her inimitable delectable dinner, we talked and talked. Then came a knock on the door. In walked my Uncle Earl, who looked just like my daddy . He had gotten the word that I was in town from the cab driver. Uncle Earl stated he had come to take me out in the country to spend the night with my grandfather , Toney Mitchell Coleman . When we left, Uncle Earl made two or three stops at hidden juke-joints, where we'd spend two or three minutes, and swoosh, away we went flying in his truck. When we finally got home, Uncle Earl got out of the truck and said to Father Mitch, "Daddy, who is this that I've got with me?" It was dark, Mississippi dark! But he replied, "I believe that's Bro Larry!" I wept. The next day Father Mitchell carried me "into town," to a dry goods store. He said to the owner, "This is my grandson, Larry. He's a student up at Howard University in Washington, D.C. " then grandpa told me to get whatever I wanted. I selected a pair of jeans and sweat shirt and socks , and thanked grandfather profusely for his kindness. I had been taught not to be greedy nor overbearing coming up; so, I resisted the temptation to get me a solid blue or black suit, that I then lacked and would need later. Looking back that was my only regret; not getting me a suit. My grandpa died a week later, but at least I had spent time with him! Such precious memories are never forgotten. Amen 🙏