Page 79 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
I’d been covering the international wire forThe Chicago Defendersince returning from Europe in ’53 as Jimi Ireland, a young and ambitious reporter with international experience and a talent for languages. In my last act as Tessa Thorpe, I’d written several letters of introduction and recommendation to other Black newspapers across the nation, along with samples of “Jimi’s” work. These letters, combined with the skills of an excellent and expensive forger, and a short new pixie haircut, helped me secure the new role and leave my life as Tessa Thorpe behind.
I could’ve retired to a house in the country—but then I’d be alone with my thoughts. Working and writing was far better for me. I’d been around various newspapers and news outfits for close to sixty years, andI liked the work—the act of losing yourself in someone else’s story a helpful way of forgetting your own.
At first glance, I hadn’t seen much of a story there—not enough to travel halfway across the country for a one-day boycott—but I was intrigued. I imagined that the type of people who participated in this fight would be the redeeming type. Once John Sengstacke, my editor atThe Chicago Defender, had given me the story, I’d booked the next flight out, connecting in Atlanta, stopping only to collect everything I could on Alabama from our research department.
I stepped outside, the thick morning heat sliding across my skin like a warm glove. Despite the winter, the South still never seemed to freeze. The coos of mourning doves and harsh caws of crows mingled with the hum of propellers and the roar of landing airplanes as I descended the short steps. I hadn’t been back to the South since I’d left New Orleans all those years ago, and the thought made my stomach queasy. It wasn’t like living in New York or Chicago had been smooth. Racial covenants, racism, discrimination—I’d experienced it all firsthand and had sat in the colored section in the front of the plane for the past two hours, living the segregation in travel that these people were trying to fight. I made the trip because I wanted to know what had inspired them to action in the face of violence.
I didn’t have long to wait, as my driver, Henry, gave me the scoop as soon as I hailed his cab. A former navy man, he helped me with my bags, jumping right into conversation and giving me his opinion of the planned boycott. His dark skin glistened with sweat as the scorching Alabama sun blazed through the car windows. “It’s about time they did something. It’s a shame how those drivers treat us. The whole city.”
I scribbled in my notebook to keep up. “What have they been doing?”
Henry snorted. “Bunch of different things built up over time. Some drivers are all right, but some are downright mean. We have to get on the front to pay, and then we have to get off again to get on through the back, the first ten rows reserved for whites. Sometimes the driverstake your money and drive off before you can return to the bus. Plus, if the bus is full, you can’t ever sit in those reserved seats, no matter if no whites are on. And don’t get me started on when it rains; the bus will drive right by, leaving you soaking and late for work.” Henry sneered. “Injustice after injustice.”
“Is that why you drive the cab?”
He nodded. “In here, I’m my own man. I get to choose who I take where.”
“How long have you been driving the cab?”
“Five years now. The rate is forty cents, while the bus is just a dime. I expect I’ll be busier if this boycott goes through.”
“Is everyone for it?”
He met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “It’s a mix. Some people are sick and tired of being sick and tired. Others think this is just the way things are.”
“How about you?”
He flicked the picture hanging from his visor—a snapshot of him, his wife, and two little girls, around seven and three. The older one had his wide, gap-toothed smile. “You see these girls here? I got to believe the world will be a better, kinder place for them than it was for me. They got just as much right to things as anybody else.”
The quiet assurance in his voice filled me. Progress wasn’t just for yourself. It was for whatever future you wished there would be. “Do you think it’ll work? The boycott, I mean?”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “They arrested a little girl back in March, just fifteen, for the same thing. This feels different. I know Ms. Parks. The people are riled up.”
“I certainly hope it brings the change you want.”
“We won’t know if we don’t try,” he said as he pulled to the curb, stopping at the Ben Moore Hotel, a four-story brick building on the corner of High Street, the only hotel for colored people in the city. A sign readingMalden Brothers Barbershophung over the doorway to my right.
Henry hopped out and helped me with my luggage. “I hope you get everything you need for the article.” He handed me a card. “Call me if you ever need a lift. I’d be happy to oblige.” He tipped his hat and sped away.
Thunder rumbled as heavy, gray clouds streaked the sky, threatening rain. With an eye on the weather, I hurried inside, glad to know the interview spot wasn’t far. The owner’s wife checked me in and showed me a tidy room on the third floor, above the barbershop and right under the Afro Club, the rooftop garden restaurant. I didn’t know it then, but the Ben Moore Hotel was like Civil Rights Central, where leaders came to plan, and even where Martin Luther King Jr. got his hair cut, since the church he pastored, Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, was right across the way and where I was headed next.
Thankfully, the gray skies withheld their torrent, and five minutes later, I arrived at the two-story redbrick church, a certified hive of activity.
Two rows of white wooden steps rose to the main sanctuary, but the basement was where the action was, the door scarcely having time to shut as people streamed in and out. I knew some form of organization would be involved, given the announcements that had gone out, reachingThe Defenderin Chicago, but this was another level. What I had imagined to be the grassroots effort of a few was the collective labor of many, run with military precision, the execution and efficiency palpable. Tables were arranged in rows, one with leaflets, others with phones ringing off the hook.
Within seconds, I was pointed to Jo Ann Robinson, a petite woman with short curls, a warm presence, and a refined demeanor, her brown skin expertly powdered against the heat and humidity. She stood and shook my hand, her assertiveness and open manner making me like her at once. “You got here so fast. I can’t believe the news made it to Chicago already.”
“It’s all thanks to you, from what I hear. You want to tell me about it?”
She nodded, brown curls bouncing. She glanced at her watch. “We have another Montgomery Improvement Association meeting in a bit, but I have to make time, especially after you’ve come all this way.”
In that hive of activity, I got lost in her story as she detailed the work of the Women’s Political Council and how, as president, the idea had started months ago. “I had the idea back when they arrested Claudette Colvin, a local fifteen-year-old, in March. We had already been working with other groups and leaders like E. D. Nixon, the head of the Progressive Democratic Association and a leader of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, and the Citizens’ Steering Committee, who had met with bus company representatives, to no avail. When they arrested Rosa, carting her off to jail, something just broke. I remembered how I had been treated by a driver, screaming at me because I happened to sit in a reserved seat. I’m a teacher at Alabama State University and, more importantly, a human being; no one should be treated like that. So, Thursday night, I talked to Freddy fromThe Montgomery Advertiserabout it and knew we had to do something. I drew up these flyers and got the word out.”
She gestured around the room. “I can’t believe all we’ve done in two days. As you can see, it’s going even better than I could have planned. We met with the ministers this morning and started all this this afternoon. It’s truly amazing.” The joy lit out of her like a candle, incandescent in its warmth, spilling over into me. She was a fixer, not content to let injustice be. The more we talked, the more inspired I became. I understood why John had thought this was more than a one-day thing. These people were not just fighting to sit on a bus. They were fighting for their dignity and their fundamental rights. I couldn’t have conceived of anything like this movement happening.
She glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to attend the next meeting. You’re staying, right?”
“I had planned to. How can I help?”
