The Road to Civil Rights 

Table of Contents 

Introduction 

Dred Scott vs. Sandford

Underground Railroad 

Introducing Jim Crow 

The League of American Wheelmen

Marshall “Major” Taylor

Plessy v. Ferguson

William A. Grant

Woodrow Wilson 

The Black Migration

Pullman Porters

The International Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters 

The Davis-Bacon Act

Adapting Transportation to Jim Crow 

The 1941 March on Washington 

World War II – The Alaska Highway 

World War II – The Red Ball Express

The Family Vacation

Journey of Reconciliation

President Harry S. Truman and Civil Rights 

South of Freedom 

Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka 

Too Tired to Move 

When Rulings Don’t Count 

Boynton v. Virginia (1960) 

Freedom Riders

Completing the Freedom Ride 

A Night of Fear 

Justice in Jackson 

Waiting for the ICC

The ICC Ruling 

End of a Transition Year 

Getting to the March on Washington 

The Civil Rights Act of 1964 

The Voting Rights March 

The Pettus Bridge 

Across the Bridge 

The Voting Rights Act of 1965 

March Against Fear

The Poor People’s Campaign
Assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. 

Completing the Poor People’s Campaign 

Bureau of Public Roads – Transition

Disadvantaged Business Enterprises 

Rodney E. Slater – Beyond the Dreams

References
1 

The Road to Civil Rights 

By

Richard F. Weingroff 

Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of 

segregation to say, "Wait." But when . . . you take a cross country drive 

and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable 

corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you . . . then you 

will understand why we find it difficult to wait.

Letter from a Birmingham Jail 

Martin Luther King, Jr. 

April 16, 1963 

Introduction

The Bureau of Public Roads officials who conceived and planned the Interstate System 

saw it as the savior of the cities—a way to reverse suburbanization and revitalize 

decaying portions of the city. The 1939 report to Congress, Toll Roads and Free Roads, 

described the process after noting “the leapfrog like movement of traffic from the 

periphery of the cities over intervening areas to their centers”:

The motor vehicle itself is the primary cause of this phenomenon. It made 

possible the outward transfer of the homes of citizens with adequate income from 

the inner city to the suburbs and it now conveys these citizens daily back and 

forth to their city offices and places of business. 

The former homes of the transferred population have descended by stages to 

lower and lower income groups, and some of them (each year an increasing 

number, and generally those nearest the center of the city) have now run the entire 

gamut. Almost untenable, occupied by the humblest citizens, they fringe the 

business district, and form the city’s slums—a blight nears its very core! . . . And 

now—the Federal Government is beginning to acquire them in batches in 

connection with its slum-clearance projects. Heralds of a better future though 

they are, these acquisitions comprise one of the reasons for avoidance of delay in 

dealing with the problem of transcity highway connections and express highways. 

[Toll Roads, p. 94] 

The plan outlined in Toll Roads and Free Roads and its 1944 successor Interregional 

Highways was to replace the ring of decaying homes around the central business district 

of the large cities with an inner belt highway. Radial arterials would connect the inner 

belt with an outer belt designed to allow interstate traffic to bypass the city and let local 

traffic drive among the radials. [Weingroff, Richard F., “The Genie in the Bottle,” Public 

Roads, September/October 2000, p. 2] 

 
2 

The report did not characterize “the humblest citizens” who occupied the inner ring. 

When the two reports were drafted, the residents would have been a mix of poor whites, 

immigrants, and migrants, including many African-Americans from the rural South. By 

the 1960s, the decayed housing stock left to them by the suburban migration was referred 

to as the ghetto, a source of so much turmoil that cities appeared to be ungovernable. 

Many African-Americans had escaped the ghetto, often to live in the original set of 

suburban housing stock that the white population was fleeing to new stock further out, 

including beyond the city limits. 

By the time construction began to replace the homes of “the humblest citizens” with 

Interstate highways in the mid-1950s, a different world than the one the authors of the 

1939 and 1944 reports to Congress lived in would confront the Nation’s road builders. In 

1930s, even the 1940s, the highway plan seemed logical, even visionary—replace the 

lowest priced housing stock that generated limited tax revenue with highways that would 

not only carry traffic efficiently but inspire development, and increased tax revenue, in 

the corridors. However, Supreme Court rulings, marches and protests, and new Federal 

laws toppled the laws segregating the races in the South and gave African-Americans 

political power and economic opportunity. 

Historian Mark H. Rose explained some of the effects of the change on the urban vision 

conceived along with the Interstate System: 

In many instances, engineers and local planners and politicians had sketched those 

routes years before, often as far back as 1939 when the neighborhoods were 

populated mostly by white householders . . . . By the early 1950s, however, urban 

America was in the middle of a vast movement of population in which black 

householders took up residence in the areas near downtown and whites relocated 

to the urban periphery. In short, black families and businesses now resided along 

potential Interstate corridors—areas of dense traffic flow and cheap land and thus 

the most likely corridors for great express highways. As neighborhoods changed 

from white to black, then, class as well as race conflict became embedded in that 

engineering logic.

During the 1960s, these demographic changes began to affect route selection and 

construction in the nation’s cities. Up to the mid-1960s, the presence of a large 

black population failed to influence the politics of route selection as state 

engineers constructed Interstate roads through black neighborhoods in cities such 

as Chicago, Columbus, Miami, and New York. After the mid-1960s, however, 

confrontation with imminent highway construction encouraged formation of 

business and neighborhood groups dedicated to stopping the construction process. 

Protesters decried “institutionalized racism” in the road program, which sought to build 

“white men’s roads through black men’s bedrooms.” The battles of the Civil Rights 

Movement had not only emboldened African-Americans to fight for justice, but had 

taught them the tactics that worked:
3 

By the late 1960s, moreover, leaders of many of those groups had become 

sophisticated about deploying legal and administrative procedures that were 

prerequisite in delaying highway construction. [Rose, Mark H., Interstate 

Express Highway Politics: 1939-1989 (Revised edition), The University of 

Tennessee Press, 1979, p. 107-108] 

Howard Gillette, Jr., who studied the impacts of highway and urban development on the 

African-American neighborhoods of Southwest Washington, D.C., said that political 

compromise was not possible because “the debate had become too polarized to resolve.” 

[Interstate Express, p. 108] The “humblest citizens” no longer were humble, and the 

fight against the Interstates became one element of a broad transformation of racial 

relations. 

The link between transportation and civil rights had been forged decades earlier. 

Dred Scott vs. Sandford

One of the Supreme Court’s most critical rulings on slavery, Dred Scott vs. Sandford 

(1857), began with transportation. Dred Scott was born into slavery in Virginia in 1799. 

He moved with his owner’s family to Huntsville, Alabama, and St. Louis, Missouri, 

where he was sold to Dr. John Emerson of the U.S. Army. Dr. Emerson took Scott along 

on 2-year assignments in Illinois and the Wisconsin Territories (Fort Snelling in what is 

now Minnesota), where slavery was illegal. 

After marrying Irene Sandford, Dr. Emerson returned to Missouri in 1842 and was 

transferred to Louisiana. Dr. Emerson summoned Scott and his wife Harriet, who 

traveled over 1,200 miles down the Mississippi River, apparently unaccompanied, to join 

their owners. Upon the death of Dr. Emerson in 1843, Mrs. Emerson’s brother, John F. 

A. Sandford, became executor of the Emerson estate, including Dred and Harriet Scott. 

After being rented to an Army Captain, Scott attempted to buy freedom for himself and 

his wife for $300. When the offer was refused, he took to the courts in 1847. 

The March 1857 ruling written by Chief Justice Roger B. Taney in Dred Scott v. 

Sandford has long been considered one of the darkest moments in the history of the 

Supreme Court. It found that descendents of black Africans—whether free or slave—

could not be citizens of a State under the Constitution. Neither the Northwest Ordinance 

of 1787 nor the Missouri Compromise legislation of 1820 could confer citizenship. 

Slaves had no right to freedom or to pursue freedom in the courts; they were property 

subject only to the conditions of sale. 

(In 1850, Mrs. Emerson married an abolitionist, Calvin Chaffee. After the Supreme 

Court ruling, he directed the return of Scott to his original owner’s family, the Blow 

Family. They freed Dred and Harriet Scott on May 26, 1857. Dred Scott died in 

September 1858; Harriet survived him by 18 years, dying in 1876.) 
4 

Underground Railroad 

One of the most controversial issues of the slave era was the right of slave owners to the 

return of runaway slaves who reached free States. The Fugitive Slave Act of 1850, 

approved by President Millard Fillmore on September 18, required all runaway slaves to 

be returned to their owners. A bounty for the return ensured that slave catchers would be 

aggressive in pursuit of profit. The law was part of the “Compromise of 1850” in which 

Members of Congress from the slave States and anti-slavery States agreed to measures 

that kept the southern States from attempting to secede from the Union. 

The Underground Railroad, beginning in the 1820s, was an informal network of 

abolitionists who helped slaves reach Canada. Although the network employed railroad 

terminology (for example, “conductors” moved the runaway slaves from post to post, 

“stations” were safe locations where runaways could hide until the next stage of their 

journey could begin, and financial contributors were “stockholders”), transportation was 

largely along the Nation’s primitive road network, on foot or in wagons, and mostly at 

night in 10-20 mile leaps. Along the East Coast, the railroad might include a journey 

north by ship. 

Professor John Michael Vlach explained that the Underground Railroad grew into an 

established network: 

The range of places and pathways used by fugitive slaves might suggest a 

random, haphazard effort, but all of these locations and routes did coalesce, over 

time, into a coherent network. This “upper-ground railroad” emerged 

incrementally through the collective experience of numerous runaways. Slaves, 

being ever watchful for anything they might use to improve their lives, routinely 

noted the places where they could hide themselves should they ever decide to 

escape. With the lure of freedom as a powerful motivation, they paid careful 

attention to reports of preferred trails they might follow and of possible places 

where they could find shelter . . . . 

Runaway slaves did not just wander aimlessly, hoping to meet up with a 

charitable person who would help them. Rather, they knew a good deal about 

how to get away and how to survive on their own. 

He referred to the Underground Railroad as a “multi-pronged attack on the system of 

chattel slavery carried out over a period of more than half a century.” The courage of the 

runaway slaves is undercut, he states, by the historical emphasis on the “conductors” and 

“stages”:

The Underground Railroad of popular legend casts blacks mainly as the passive 

“customers” who were fortunate enough to receive a “ticket” allowing them to 

ride on the “Liberty Line.” [Vlack, John Michael, “Above Ground on the 

Underground Railroad,” Passages to Freedom: The Underground Railroad in 

History and Memory, Blight, David W., ed., Smithsonian Books, 2004, p. 96-98] 
5 

Simply leaving the South was dangerous for conductors and slaves alike, but the northern 

part of the journey was equally dangerous, especially after enactment of the Fugitive 

Slave Act. Slave catchers roamed the northern States in search of runaways.

Harriet Tubman, a runaway slave from Maryland’s Eastern Shore, earned a reputation as 

the Moses of the Underground Railroad. Having escaped her own enslavement in 1849, 

she returned to the South 20 times beginning in 1850 to guide more than 300 slaves to 

freedom. She initially returned to rescue family members, but gradually began to 

engineer mass escapes, guiding the fugitives along the “stations” to freedom. She often 

used disguises, appearing as an elderly woman on several occasions, or in other outfits as 

she traveled through the South. 

In a biography of Tubman, Beverly Lowry described one of Tubman’s trips: 

The Underground Railroad was, as its name implies, a secret organization, a web 

of guerrilla fighters dedicated to the cause of freedom for the enslaved people of 

the South. 

Fugitives were hidden in root cellars and attics. They were disguised and, in 

unfamiliar clothing, were taken from one safe house to the next by any means 

available, including boats, trains, wagons, carts, and of course on foot down secret 

paths and unmarked trails. 

Reaching Philadelphia, they continued their journey: 

However she travels, she is setting off into new territory, beyond Philadelphia, 

toward New York, and eventually across the Niagara River to present-day 

Ontario, which at that time was called Canada West.

Slave catchers are good at their job, and they are everywhere. They watch freight 

and passenger trains to the north with exceeding care, as do federal agents, who 

also hope to collect a bounty. Any black person boarding a northbound train will 

be searched and questioned. Most will be kidnapped and taken away. 

But Harriet has made her arrangements with people who will hide all twelve of 

them safely along the route, sometimes in freight cars among hay bales and boxes 

of goods. There will be someone to meet her and her group when they arrive at 

the next stop, and the next. 

In Rochester, they stay in the home of Frederick Douglass, who will not speak of 

their visit until long after emancipation, in 1881, when he writes: 

On one occasion I had eleven fugitives at the same time under my roof, 

and it was necessary for them to remain with me until I could collect 

sufficient money to get [them] on to Canada. It was the largest number I 
6 

ever had at any one time, and I had some difficulty in providing so many 

with food and shelter, but as may well be imagined, they were not very 

fastidious in either direction, and were well content with very plain food, 

and a strip of carpet on the floor for a bed, or a place on the straw in the 

barn lot. 

Having safely crossed the Niagara to gather under what she calls “the protection 

of the British lion’s paw,” the fugitives find their way to the nearby town of St. 

Catharines. There, in time, Harriet will rent a home located on North Street, in a 

district where black people have established a community. 

Lowry added that:

Usually, on these longer trips, she “proceeded by steam railroad to New York, and 

from there she took the train to Albany,” where she boarded a train for Rochester. 

There, Frederick Douglass often saw that she “got on the train for the Suspension 

Bridge and St. Catharines in Canada.” [Lowry, Beverly, Harriet Tubman: 

Imagining a Life, Doubleday, 2007, p. 169-170] 

The number of slaves who reached Canada is impossible to know, but estimates range 

from 30,000 to 100,000. In Canada, they found freedom but were subject to the type of 

discrimination that would become common in the United States after the Civil War. 

Introducing Jim Crow 

In the post-Civil War United States, prejudice against the freed slaves would grow 

throughout the second half of the 19th century and into the middle years of the 20th. 

Prejudice had been held in check somewhat after the war by the presence of Federal 

troops in the former Confederate States. However, in resolving the disputed presidential 

election of 1876, Rutherford B. Hayes, the Republican Governor of Ohio, agreed to 

withdraw the troops in exchange for the southern electoral votes he needed to secure 

victory despite the fact that Governor Samuel J. Tilden of New York had won the popular 

vote. The Democratic Party agreed to this compromise because it gave their southern 

counterparts control of the levers of State government (the Republican Party of Abraham 

Lincoln was hated throughout the southern States until the late 1960s). 

Historian C. Vann Woodward wrote in the mid-1950s:

The phase that began in 1877 was inaugurated by the withdrawal of federal troops 

from the South, the abandonment of the Negro as a ward of the nation, the giving 

up of the attempt to guarantee the freedman his civil and political equality, and 

the acquiescence of the rest of the country in the South’s demand that the whole 

problem be left to the disposition of the dominant Southern white people. What 

the new status of the Negro would be was not at once apparent, nor were the 

Southern white people themselves so united on that subject at first as has been 
7 

generally assumed . . . . 

The public symbols and constant reminders of his inferior position were the 

segregation statutes, or “Jim Crow” laws. They constituted the most elaborate 

and formal expression of sovereign white opinion upon the subject. In bulk and 

detail as well as in effectiveness of enforcement the segregation codes were 

comparable with the black codes of the old regime, though the laxity that 

mitigated the harshness of the black codes was replaced by a rigidity that was 

more typical of the segregation code. That code lent the sanction of law to a 

racial ostracism that extended to churches and schools, to housing and jobs, to 

eating and drinking, Whether by law or by custom, that ostracism eventually 

extended to virtually all forms of public transportation, to sports and recreations, 

to hospitals, orphanages, prisons, and asylums, and ultimately to funeral homes, 

morgues, and cemeteries. [Woodward, C. Vann, The Strange Career of Jim 

Crow, A Galaxy Book, Oxford University Press, 14th Printing, 1965, p. 6-8] 

(Professor Peter Irons explained the origins of the term “Jim Crow”: 

The term itself had it origins in the 1830s, beginning with the minstrel show of 

Thomas “Daddy” Rice, a white man who blackened his face with burnt cork, 

dressed in rags, and danced and sang in a caricature of blacks. He called this part 

of his show “Jump Jim Crow,” after a crippled black slave who belonged to a 

white man named Crow. White audiences loved the demeaning portrayal of a 

grinning, shuffling black man, and the term quickly entered the language. During 

the 1840s, abolitionist newspapers adopted the term to describe the segregated 

railroad cars in northern states. [Irons, Peter, Jim Crow’s Children: The Broken 

Promise of the Brown Decision, Penguin Books, 2004, p. 12]) 

Fighting against the Jim Crow public transportation rules would be a key element in 

fighting for the civil rights of African-Americans:

After the fall of the Confederacy many white people of the South, and some in the 

North as well, showed a strong disposition to regard the newly liberated freedmen 

in the same way they had the despised free Negro before the war and to subject 

them to the same treatment. One result was that railroads, steamboats, and other 

carriers in the South began to deny Negroes the use of first-class 

accommodations. Passenger trains of that period, even the better ones, commonly 

had only two coaches, one usually called the “ladies’ car,” to which white men 

who paid the price were also admitted, and the other the “smoking car” or 

“gentlemen’s car.” They were in effect first and second-class accommodations. 

On the smaller railroads the second car was likely to be an old car or even a 

freight car. Smoke, tobacco juice, and profanity did not increase the 

attractiveness of second-class travel. The great bulk of freedmen and the majority 

of whites could rarely afford first-class accommodations anyway, but those 

Negroes who could were regularly denied them. [Strange Career, p. xiv] 
8 

Immediately after the war, Mississippi, Florida, and Texas tried to limit racial mixing. In 

Mississippi, African-Americans were not allowed to ride in first-class passenger cars. 

Florida excluded African-Americans from cars reserved for whites, while also prohibiting 

whites from accommodations set aside for African-Americans. It did not require the 

railroads to provide separate cars, and allowed the races to mix in the smoking car. Texas 

required separate cars for freedmen. 

Reconstruction legislatures that took office shortly after the war quickly repealed these

laws, although common practice continued to limit racial mixing. [Strange Career, p. 

xv]

Following the departure of Federal troops in 1877, segregationists regained control of 

State legislatures. In what Woodward considered one of the earliest Jim Crow laws, 

Tennessee enacted a law in 1881 that required railroad companies in the State “to ‘furnish 

separate cars, or portions of cars cut off by partitioned walls’ in which Negro passengers 

who paid for first-class accommodations could have the same facilities enjoyed by whites 

who paid the same fare.” This law was seen by white legislators as a concession because 

many railroads were informally segregating the races with separate “colored” cars. 

[Strange Career, p. xvi] 

Although racial mixing was common as late as the 1870s, a series of Supreme Court 

rulings beginning in the 1870s further undermined Federal legal protections for AfricanAmericans. In rulings from 1873 to 1875, the Supreme Court “drastically curtailed the 

privileges and immunities recognized as being under federal protection.” In 1883, the 

court concluded that the 14th Amendment gave Congress power to restrain the States, but 

not individuals from acts of racial discrimination and segregation. (The 14th Amendment 

prohibited the States from infringing on the right of any citizen to the pursuit of life, 

liberty, and property, without due process of law, or the equal protection of its laws.) 

[Strange Career, p. 53] 

The extent of the change in direction was reflected in rulings on common carriers, such as 

railroads:

Having ruled in a previous case (Hall v. de Cuir, 1877) that a state could not 

prohibit segregation, the Court in 1890 (Louisville, New Orleans, and Texas 

Railroad v. Mississippi) ruled that a state could constitutionally require

segregation on carriers. [Strange Career, p. 54, italics in original] 

As these legal changes occurred, the States acted:

The first genuine Jim Crow law requiring railroads to carry Negroes in separate 

cars or behind partitions was adopted by Florida in 1887. Mississippi followed 

this example in 1888; Texas in 1889; Louisiana in 1890; Alabama, Arkansas, 

Georgia, and Tennessee in 1891; and Kentucky in 1892. The Carolinas and 

Virginia did not fall into line until the last three years of the century. 
9 

Negroes watched with despair while the legal foundations for the Jim Crow 

system were laid and the walls of segregation mounted around them. [Woodward, 

C. Vann, “The Birth of Jim Crow,” American Heritage, April 1964, p. 52] 

The League of American Wheelmen

Beginning in the 1870s, the Nation was swept by what highway historians call the 

Bicycle Craze. The craze began with the “ordinary” or “Penny farthing” (the bicycle 

with the large front wheel and a smaller rear wheel), but became even more widespread 

with introduction of the “safety” bicycle in the 1880s (two wheels of equal size with 

pneumatic tires) that could be operated by virtually anyone. Millions of riders rode 

around the Nation’s cities, wore bicycle clothes purchased at bicycle shops, read bicycle 

publications, attended bicycle training academies, watched bicycle races, formed bicycle 

clubs, rode in urban velodromes, and agitated for legislation to promote bicycling. 

Author Fred C. Kelly said of the craze:

When a craze of any kind really catches on in this republic, restraint does not 

characterize its reception. The great bicycle craze of the Gay Nineties offers a 

fairly good example. Listen to the editor of the New York Tribune in 1895: “The 

discovery and progressive improvement of the bicycle is of more importance to 

mankind than all the victories and defeats of Napoleon, with the First and Second 

Punic Wars . . . thrown in.” Hear also the official voice of the United States 

Census, at the end of the same decade: “Few articles ever used by man have ever 

created so great a revolution in social conditions.” 

. . . The craze hit all ages. It led to a change in women’s styles—skirts became 

shorter—and it started the movement toward decent roads. It was the great 

leveler, too, demonstrating as never before the American principle that every man 

is as good as any other and maybe better. [Kelly, Fred C., “The Great Bicycle 

Craze,” American Heritage, December 1956, p. 69] 

The craze would affect coming transportation revolutions. Several early automobile 

innovators emerged from the bicycle industry, including the Duryea Brothers (who in 

1893 built the first American automobile with an internal combustion engine), Alexander 

Winton, Alexander Pope, and the Apperson Brothers. Orville and Wilbur Wright, who 

would launch the aviation industry, began their careers in the bicycle and repair business 

in Dayton, Ohio. 

Bicycle clubs came together to form the League of American Wheelmen (L.A.W.) in 

1880 and it quickly became the country’s premier bicycling association. It provided 

assistance to its members, held conventions, worked to change State and local laws that 

inhibited bicycling, and enticed the Federal Government into rudimentary efforts to 

improve the Nation’s country roads. The L.A.W. sponsored the agitation that prompted 

Congress to appropriate $10,000 for a road inquiry in the Department of Agriculture. 

Secretary of Agriculture J. Sterling Morton launched the inquiry in 1893 with the opening 
10 

of the U.S. Office of Road Inquiry (forerunner of the Federal Highway Administration), 

which was limited initially to educational, technical, and promotional activities. 

 

The L.A.W. had to address the racial issue in its early years. Professor Robert A. Smith, 

in his book on the impacts of the Bicycle Craze, was not able to find information on when 

African-Americans began bicycling. He speculated that African-Americans took to the 

bicycle later than whites, “if for no other reason than that the early bicycles were so 

expensive.” He added:

Nevertheless, Negroes took to the machine like everyone else, and there is reason 

to believe that the old ordinaries found their final homes in the South. 

The color line was first drawn when it came to membership in the League of 

American Wheelmen and participation in league-sponsored racing meets. In the 

early years, when the cycle was expensive, the question of Negro membership in 

the league did not really come up, but by 1890 it had become an issue that the 

organization tried to solve by ignoring it. However, the problem did not go away, 

and two years later some LAW members were arguing that the league was a 

voluntary social organization and that each local unit had the right to exclude 

whomever it wanted. The larger question raised by this debate was what would 

happen if a local unit of the league voted to accept Negroes as members. Did 

membership in the local club also carry membership in the national organization, 

and if so, did this mean that black members could attend league conventions? 

The issue could be delayed only so long. During the L.A.W.’s 1893 convention in 

Louisville, a Louisville attorney named Colonel William W. Watts proposed a motion 

that would change the group’s constitution to limit membership to white people: 

The motion, which had to be carried by a majority of two thirds, split the 

convention almost exactly, 108 votes for and 101 against. The foes of 

discrimination had good reason to be discouraged, because in the year following, 

when the matter came before the convention again, the lily-whites won the day. 

The constitution was amended, and Negroes were excluded from membership in 

the League of American Wheelmen.

The New York Tribune condemned the action (“wheelmen generally must look with 

disfavor upon the outcome of the convention . . . . Fair-minded men will condemn the 

exclusion of colored men.”), while the Chicago Record asked, “Does the desirability of 

securing a few thousand more white wheelmen justify the gratuitous exclusion of a 

worthy race?” [Smith, Robert A., A Social History of the Bicycle, American Heritage 

Press, 1972, p. 162-163] 

In reaction to the decision, the L.A.W.’s magazine, Good Roads, carried an editorial in 

the April 1894 issue titled “The Colored Man and the League.” The author began: 

The principal thing which most people know about the above subject is that by a 
11 

vote of the National Assembly at Louisville, the “colored brother” was prohibited 

in future from becoming a member of the L.A.W. Like all radical measures this 

action was hissed and applauded by the public according to the various shades of 

belief. 

The author had opposed the “white” amendment a year earlier, but had changed his mind 

by the time of the vote in 1894. The issue was whether the L.A.W. was a political 

organization: 

It will some day come to be considered purely a political party and when that time 

comes there can be no doubt as to the advisability of admitting to membership any 

respectable person of whatever race. At present the League contains a number of 

young men who feel and not without reason, that the L.A.W. is a sort of fraternity, 

the different members of which are in some way definitely positioned with 

relation to each other. The existence of this feeling especially in the South, where 

the race prejudice is very strong, made the Southern white wheelman indifferent if 

not actually antagonistic to the organization so long as the black man was 

permitted to enjoy the same privileges as himself, while it does not appear that 

any considerable number of colored wheelmen really availed themselves of the 

advantages of membership. 

Many of the men who do the thinking for the League came to believe that by his 

exclusion the negro would suffer but little while the League as a whole might be 

greatly benefitted. It was represented that many white wheelmen at [sic] the 

South would at once come in if the change were made, who certainly would not 

otherwise. It was known that a few at the North would withdraw, but it was 

hoped that after a complete readjustment had taken place the L.A.W would find 

itself stronger than before. 

Many members, the editorial stated, believed that “the average colored man does not 

come up to the standard of intelligence which we would like to see him attain.” 

Education, particularly “in so far as related to his conduct on the road,” was one reason 

the editorial offered for encouraging their participation in the movement, if not 

membership in the L.A.W. Given the importance of the L.A.W.’s publications in the 

cause of education, the editor offered a subscription to the monthly Good Roads, 

normally $1 a year (50 cents to members), to “any colored wheelman who would join the 

League if he could” for the membership price of 50 cents “on receipt of his written 

statement as to the above facts.” The editorial concluded:

We would especially like to hear from any League member who sees an objection 

to our making this concession to the “colored brother.” 

Not all clubs excluded African-Americans, as Smith illustrated:

Some local clubs already had black members. One was the Post Office Cyclers of 

Newark, New Jersey. The postal riders had been invited to participate in a bicycle 
12 

run sponsored by another club, but when the latter organization discovered the 

postal crew had a black member, Mr. L. A. Sears, it withdrew its invitation. The 

Post Office Cyclers in turn unanimously elected Mr. Sears club president. But 

incidents like this did not stop discrimination, and the usual result was that 

Negroes organized their own cycling clubs. To point a moral, a Brunswick, 

Georgia, cycle club for black women ceremoniously excluded their white sisters 

from membership. [Social History, p. 162-163] 

Some bicycle clubs and some African-Americans ignored the racial bias: 

Apparently the amendment was ignored by some. Miss Kitty Knox from the allblack Riverside Cycle Club of Boston showed up at the LAW’s meet in Asbury 

Park [New Jersey] in 1895. She was the focus of all attention when she did a 

“few fancy cuts” in front of the clubhouse, and that night Miss Knox seems to 

have been the belle of the ball. The next day the newspapers said that local 

grumblers were going to get the LAW to look into the fact that Miss Knox had 

held a membership card for the last six years.

Not all cycling groups followed the LAW’s lead, however. The Illinois branch of 

the American Cycling Road Association, an independent group, did not draw the 

color line, and when some members insisted that the organization do so, the 

officers said that such a position would be a violation of the Constitution. In 

1896, when several riders threatened to pull out of the Pullman Road Race if the 

all-black Douglass Club sent a racer, officials responded that they would not only 

allow the man to enter, but that they would see that he got fair treatment. In 1897 

a black man finished the race, so obviously the color line was not drawn. [Social 

History, p. 163-164] 

(The Pullman Road Race began in 1883, and changed formats and courses over the years. 

In general, as in 1896-97, it featured hundreds of racers on an 18-mile course that began 

in Chicago at the corner of Michigan Avenue and Jackson Street, continued through 

Washington Park, the Midway Plaisance, and Jackson Park, then on to the village of 

Pullman.) 

In part, the debate arose because of bicycle racing. Virtually from the introduction of the 

ordinary in the 1870s, bicyclists began racing. Harper’s Weekly magazine reported that 

in 1878, Will Pitman won the first 1-mile bicycle race in the United States. Bicycle 

racing—road races and track competitions—would become one of the country’s most 

popular sports, with extensive coverage in newspapers helping to make the top racers 

national celebrities.

Initially, the racers were amateurs. For a race to be fair, each competitor had to be on 

even footing, but the term “amateur” quickly became blurred as the popularity of the 

sport grew. Claiming a racer was an amateur became more difficult when prizes were 

awarded, racers were sponsored by clubs or bicycle manufacturers, and racers began 

touring the country to compete in races. 
13 

The L.A.W. took on the role of determining who was, and wasn’t, an amateur. Over 

time, the L.A.W. found the task of overseeing the rules of bicycle racing more 

challenging with increases in the popularity of the sport, the notoriety of the racers, and 

the size of the prizes. In 1893, the L.A.W.’s racing committee tried to resolve the issues 

by dividing racers into three categories: Class A, Class B, and Professional: 

• The Class A was a true amateur who could accept nothing in return for his efforts, 

not even a token prize. 

• The Class B amateur could accept pay from sponsors, such as bicycle 

manufacturers, who paid his expenses as he traveled to races around the country. 

• Professionals were full competitors in it for the money and fame. 

Controversies over the fairness of the races, including the participation of AfricanAmericans, would continue for years, even after the L.A.W., diminished in membership 

and authority, abandoned its role in racing in 1900. [Social History, p. 144, 151-155] 

Marshall “Major” Taylor 

One of the greatest professional racers was an African-American named Marshall 

“Major” Taylor, born in Indianapolis in 1878. He rode his first bicycle, borrowed from a 

white friend, at the age of 8. When he was 12, Taylor took a job cleaning a bicycle shop. 

Soon, he was giving trick-riding exhibitions to earn money on the side. The military 

uniform he wore during the exhibitions earned him the nickname “Major,” and it stayed 

with him throughout his life. 

A bicycle salesman, H. T. Hearsey, entered Taylor in the 75-mile Indianapolis-Mathews 

Road Race in 1893. His entry was kept secret because Taylor had previously 

antagonized white bicyclists, as Smith explained:

A few months before, one of the cracks [fast riders] of the day, Walter Sanger, 

had set a new record of two minutes and eighteen seconds for the mile. 

Encouraged and paced by his white friends, Taylor had followed this by lowering 

the time to two minutes and eleven seconds, a feat that apparently caused him to 

be barred from racing in Indianapolis. As a result, the manager of the 

Indianapolis-Mathews Race was afraid the white riders would not race if they 

knew Taylor was entered. 

Further to avoid problems, Taylor let the other contestants start while he remained on the 

sidelines. They were miles ahead before he crossed the starting point. Despite jeers from 

some observers, he soon caught and passed the white contestants and won first prize. 

Taking white racer turned manufacturer Birdie Munger as his manager, Major Taylor 

moved to Worcester, Massachusetts, to get away from the prejudices of Indianapolis. He 

soon won first prize, a gold watch, in an L.A.W.-sponsored race in New Haven: 
14 

It must be pointed out that the LAW’s attitude toward blacks at this time was 

ambivalent; it would not allow them to join, but it would allow them to race, an 

act of hypocrisy that was frequently pointed out to the organization. 

Despite his skill, Taylor found that prejudice would hinder his efforts. In a New Jersey 

race from Irvington to Milburn, he was pacing the leader, a white man whose manager 

came out of the crowd and threw a bucketful of cold water in Taylor’s face. He soon 

learned to stay in the pack for much of the race, then take the lead near the end with a last 

burst of speed. In New York City, Taylor turned professional in 1896 at Madison Square 

Garden, capturing fans’ attention by beating better known competitors in the Half-Mile 

Handicap. 

Through the remainder of his racing career, Taylor would face racial obstacles:

Taylor was subject to more than his share of roughneck riding. His competitors 

pocketed him at every opportunity, ran him wide on the curves, and fouled him 

repeatedly. He placed second in a race at Trenton, New Jersey, in 1897, only to 

have the third-place rider come up afterward and start strangling him. The police 

interfered, but Taylor remained unconscious for a quarter of an hour and was 

unable to finish the day’s racing. The New York Times roundly condemned the 

culprit, who claimed that Taylor had ridden him into the fence. The Times also 

contended that while the majority of the white riders deplored the assault on 

Taylor, they “had approached the limits of fair riding in attempting to get an 

advantage over the colored lad.” A Boston paper was more direct, saying that the 

other riders had deliberately tried to “throw” Taylor, that “the same dirty tactics 

have following the plucky little colored rider all around the circuit,” and that it 

was “to the everlasting discredit of the men who are in on the schemes.”

At times, his life was threatened before races. He tried to get out of these races, but if he 

could not, he would stay behind the pack out of the competition. 

In 1897, he was competing head-to-head with the white racer, Eddie “Cannon” Bald, for 

first place in the national rankings, but was kept out of late races in St. Louis and 

Baltimore as a result of an apparent conspiracy against him. He came in second in the 

national rankings. 

In 1898, he started the season under the sponsorship of the Iver Johnson Cycle Company. 

He was ranked 10th nationally when he won the 1-mile sprint at Asbury Park. To his 

surprise, many of the top white racers congratulated him, something they had never done. 

However, when he swept the professional races in Green Bay, Wisconsin, the local 

papers acknowledged the prejudice against him: 

“If it were possible to make him all white,” the paper commented, “all the boys 

would gladly assist in the job.” However, it was predicted that it would be almost 

impossible to keep “this little negro boy who came into the cycling world entirely 
15 

unheralded from winning the cycle championship of America in the season of 

1898.” 

Later that year, Taylor participated in a match race at the Manhattan Beach Race Track 

on August 28 against one of the most celebrated middle-distance racers of the day, 

Jimmy “Midget” Michael. Before thousands of spectators, the two racers split the 

sprints, meaning that the $5,000 prize would go to the winner of the final heat. When 

Taylor easily won against his winded opponent, The New York Times called him the 

premier sprint racer in the world. The L.A.W. declared Taylor the national champion in 

1898. 

Taylor dominated races throughout 1899, setting records for many of the sprint distances 

up to 2 miles. In August, he entered his first international race in Montreal. He won the 

1-mile and 2-mile opens, and would probably have won the 5-mile open but someone 

punctured one of his tires before the race. He was the first African-American bicycle 

racer to become an international champion. 

His acceptance on the international stage did not mean he would be accepted in the 

United States:

Four days later he was in Boston to race in the LAW championship races. The 

field ganged up on the black rider and kept him in a pocket most of the time, and 

Taylor was beaten by Tom Butler in the One-Third-Mile Sprint and again by 

Butler in the One Mile for Professionals. 

Because of such tactics, Taylor would not win the national championship in 1899, but in 

1900, no one could stop him from dominating. “Taylor was proclaimed the national 

cycling champion with no conflicting claims from anybody.” [Social History, p. 164-

168] 

Taylor toured Europe in 1901, then raced almost continuously in the United States, 

Europe, and Australia through 1904 as the popularity of the sport and bicycling in general 

declined. During this period, he was treated as an international celebrity in other 

countries, one of the most famous African-Americans in the world. Biographer Andrew 

Ritchie said of Taylor:

During those . . . years, Taylor engaged in a practically uninterrupted epic journey 

as the most celebrated, best-paid sprinter in the hotly contested hugely popular 

sport of professional bicycle racing. Paris was his adopted European home, and 

he was one of the brightest stars of the flood-lit races regularly promoted . . . on 

weekday evenings at the famous Buffalo velodrome in Paris. [The Vélodrome 

Buffalo was named after Buffalo Bill Cody, whose Wild West and Congress of 

Rough Riders of the World performed there.] 

He spent brief periods at home in Worcester to rest and recuperate, but for much 

of the time he lived in luxury hotels and fine boarding houses in Paris and the 
16 

other cities he visited. He slept frequently in first-class accommodations on trains 

and boats, raced wherever his promoters scheduled him, and performed in a 

grueling succession of top-class races against all the world’s best sprinters.

His color, which stood in his way in America, was the foundation of his appeal 

and attraction all over the world, and his speed and style continued to thrill 

spectators in every country he visited. During these . . . years, Taylor was 

probably the world’s most sought-after athlete and almost certainly the most 

traveled sportsman in the world. He was, without a doubt, the world’s most 

illustrious black athlete . . . . 

Wherever Taylor traveled abroad, he was treated as an international celebrity. As 

he was leaving New York on March 25, 1902, he was visited by a delegation of 

black students headed by Booker T. Washington, who came to wish him well on 

behalf of black Americans. On board the Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse on that trip, 

he kept company with Henri Fournier, the famous French racing driver, and 

Albert Clement, the automobile pioneer. His fame as a racing cyclist preceded 

him, and there were always crowds to welcome him and cheer him on. 

Everywhere he visited, civic dignitaries gave him the red-carpet treatment. 

[Ritchie, Andrew, Major Taylor: “The Fastest Bicycle Rider in the World,”

Cycle Publishing, 2nd edition, 2010, p. 136] 

Even in Australia, which had legislated a “white Australia” policy that rendered nonwhite people (mainly the aborigine population) as outcasts, Taylor was hailed during his 

first visit in 1902. As his ship arrived, people on hundreds of boats greeted him by 

chanting through megaphones: “Taylor, Taylor! Welcome Major Taylor!” He and his 

wife were treated like royalty, able to break the color bar because of the popularity of his 

sport and the renown of his skills: 

The racing during this first Australian tour was a spectacular athletic and 

commercial success. As in Europe, even Taylor’s training sessions were attended 

by fans avid for a chance to see the champion at work. Crowds of twenty 

thousand people crammed into tracks in Sydney, Melbourne, and Adelaide to 

greet “the Worcester Whirlwind” with rapturous applause. 

He was the idol, the hero of the moment, as he took on the leading Australian 

champions . . . . Spectators paid a shilling each for the privilege of seeing him 

race. To most observers it was obvious that, in a straight sprint, unhampered by 

unfair opposition and teaming, Taylor simply outclassed his rivals. Everywhere 

in Australia people who met him were impressed by his gentlemanly behavior. 

[Major Taylor, p. 138] 

By then, he had practically abandoned racing in the United States, where the leading 

white racers regularly worked together against him. In 1901, as he competed for the 

American championship, they were determined to dethrone the man who had beaten the 

best Europe had to offer: 
17 

More than ever before, they collaborated tactically to prevent him from winning. 

They pocketed him, fouled him, and worked together in every possible way to 

defeat him. It was a return to the same athletic and racial hostility he had 

encountered in America before.

It was Major Taylor against the rest. Only in two-man match races could he be 

guaranteed a race without a combination working against him. Nonetheless, with 

his expert tactical sense and his extraordinary agility and speed, he continued to 

win. The supercharged atmosphere of the racing that reason made it all the more 

exciting for the spectators, of course, based as it was on such genuine and evident 

bad feelings between Taylor and his white opponents . . . . The abuse directed at 

Taylor was coarse and unrelenting. It would undoubtedly have resulted in 

brawling and fighting had Taylor not been a determined pacifist. [Major Taylor, 

p. 133] 

 

Despite his status as a champion racer, Taylor was always aware that he was subject to 

the prejudices of the day. In 1898, for example, he had raced in Savannah, Georgia, a 

city selected as potentially the safest place in the South because African-Americans 

outnumbered whites. His arrival almost immediately caused a problem when he entered 

the boarding house where a room had been reserved for him: 

Discovering that the newly arrived guest was black, the other boarders threatened 

to leave in a body if he was permitted to stay. Other lodgings were found with a 

black family on Lincoln Street. 

But Taylor’s troubles were just beginning. When he arrived at the track at 

Wheelmen’s Park, the owners and other cyclists would not permit him or his 

white pacemakers to ride. The problems [his manager Willis] Troy had 

anticipated were not to be overcome easily.

With the track unavailable to him and his fitness for the coming season at stake[,] 

Taylor began to train on the road. Here, too, he soon discovered, he was 

unwelcome. Local cyclists began to complain, especially because Taylor had no 

trouble leaving them all behind. It was one thing to see a well-equipped “Negro” 

on a fine racing bicycle with his white pacemakers training on “their” roads; it 

was another when this nineteen-year-old upstart “mingled” with them, beat them 

on their home ground, and threw dust in their eyes. What began as a curious 

rivalry became, in the racial climate of the time, an effrontery. Taylor’s presence 

became a provocation the white riders found impossible to ignore. 

One day, training alone on the Louisville Road, he saw three white riders up ahead. He 

fell in behind them, but they told him they would not “pace” an African-American (using 

a different term, of course). “Alright then,” Taylor told them, “if you won’t pace me, I’ll 

pace you.” He sprinted around them and led them on a chase back to town and through 

Savannah’s principal streets. The next day, Taylor received a letter warning him to get 
18 

out of town in 48 hours, signed “White Riders.” Taylor knew he had provoked the white 

population with his actions at a time when African-Americans had few protections in the 

South. Moreover, southern feelings were already on edge because in February, President 

William McKinley had appointed an African-American, Savannah Tribune publisher 

John H. Deveaux, to the office of Collector of the Port of Savannah. Taylor and Troy 

returned to New York. [Major Taylor, p. 63-64] 

Now, in 1901, Taylor still faced racial tension even after his European triumphs: 

Finding a hotel room while touring [in the United States] was still not always 

easy, in spite of Taylor’s prestige. 

A bitter experience at the Vanderbilt Hotel in Syracuse, New York, brought the 

difficulties home to him. He entered the hotel but before going to the front desk to 

register, took a few moments to write a letter. A bellboy asked him to leave, but when 

Taylor did not do so, a clerk appeared. “What are you doing there at that desk? Get out 

of here!” Taylor tried to explain who he was, but the clerk responded, “Get out of here or 

you’ll be kicked out.” Taylor left, but also was refused a room at the Yates House. He 

finally found a room at the St. Cloud Hotel: 

In all his travels in America and Europe he had never been hurt more personally 

than by his treatment in Syracuse. Coming so soon after he had been idolized in 

Europe, such treatment was especially shocking and jarring to his sophisticated, 

expanded awareness. [Major Taylor, p. 134] 

His world tours were a relief from some of the problems of Jim Crow America.

By 1902 and 1903, Taylor was thinking of retiring even as the sport was declining in 

popularity. However, he agreed to a second lucrative Australian tour in 1904. This time, 

promoters invited his primary white rivals from the United States to make the 

competition more interesting. They used their typical tactics to block Taylor, while 

Australian racers saw no reason to cooperate with him to block some of these efforts 

since they would not share in Taylor’s pay. In a match race in Melbourne, one of the 

rivals caused Taylor to crash, leaving him stunned, bruised, and lacerated. 

These activities made Taylor all the more popular with the Australian public, which 

attended his events in great numbers. Over 32,000 people attended a race at the Sydney 

Cricket Ground. However, the experience left Taylor bitter. Not only were his 

competitors blocking him, but officials’ decisions were frustrating him. Many of the 

races were “inconclusive, spoiled as they were by bad judges’ decisions, refusals to 

appear, and the muddle of frequent official inquiries and the withholding of prize 

money.” By the time Taylor left Australia, he had decided never to return:

Ultimately, the public were deeply disappointed by the disputes, the confusion, 

and the chaos that spoiled Australian bicycle racing that year and often made it 
19 

impossible for Taylor to give the stunning performances for which he was noted. 

[Major Taylor, 143-144] 

Taylor would retire for several years, prompting a lawsuit for breach of contract and 

suspension for life by the National Cycling Association. He would return in 1908 for the 

French racing season. He had some success, but when he returned in 1909, he realized 

that after his years of grueling competition, his body would no longer let him race as in 

the past. He retired in 1910. 

His later years were difficult, as his fame and fortune declined. He was eclipsed by other 

athletes, including John Arthur “Jack” Johnson, the first African-American boxing 

champion (1908-1915). Major Taylor wrote an autobiography, The Fastest Bicycle Rider 

in the World: The Story of a Colored Boy’s Indomitable Courage and Success Against 

Great Odds. When he could not find a publisher, he published it himself, then traveled 

around the country selling copies. 

In 1930, estranged from his wife and daughter, Taylor moved to Chicago with unsold 

copies of his autobiography in the car. He fell into the city’s impoverished AfricanAmerican neighborhood and died there on June 21, 1932, at the age of 53. He was 

buried in the welfare section of the Mount Glenwood Cemetery, a Jim Crow cemetery 30 

miles from Chicago. (In 1948, his remains were moved a more prominent location in the 

cemetery.) 

Today, Major Taylor is little known outside bicycle racing circles, but Ritchie’s book is 

one of several about his life. A 4-hour television mini-series, Tracks of Glory, made in 

1991, told the story of his life, with Phil Morris (best known at the time for his role as 

Grant Collier in the TV series “Mission: Impossible”) portraying Taylor.

Plessy v. Ferguson

In 1890, Governor Francis T. Nicholls of Louisiana approved the Separate Car Act, 

which required white passengers to travel in white rail cars, while African-Americans 

were restricted to “Colored Only” cars. Governor Nicholls was one of many southern 

Democratic leaders who had pledged to maintain civil rights policies after the departure 

of Federal troops as part of the presidential compromise of 1876. During his first term 

(1877-1880), Nicholls had fostered good feelings among the races. By the time of his 

second term (1888-1892), he no longer felt bound by his pledge as the Supreme Court 

eroded protections for African-Americans and public attitudes changed. 

A critical test of the Separate Car Act occurred on June 7, 1892, when 30-year old Homer 

Plessy, an African-American, walked to the Press Street railroad depot in New Orleans. 

He bought a first class ticket to Covington on the train that would depart at 4:15 p.m., 

cross Lake Pontchartrain, and arrive in Covington 2 hours later. Plessy took a seat in the 

car reserved for whites. 

As the train began moving, the conductor informed Plessy that he would have to move to 
20 

the “colored” car. Plessy refused, indicating he had bought his ticket and expected to be 

taken to Covington. 

The incident was not random. A group of New Orleans citizens had decided to challenge 

the law. Plessy had been selected because his light skin probably would have let him ride 

in the “whites only” car without challenge. By agreement with the East Louisiana 

Railroad, after the conductor and Plessy had completed their planned interaction, the 

conductor signaled to stop the train. A private detective hired by the citizens group 

warned Plessy that he was subject to arrest. When Plessy refused to move, he was taken 

to Elysian Fields Avenue for booking at the 5th Precinct Station. He was soon released on 

bond to assure he would appear for trial. The bond was $500, paid by a member of the 

citizens group. 

At the trial, Judge John Howard Ferguson ruled that the State had a legal right to regulate 

railroad companies operating solely within its borders. He also denied that Plessy had 

been deprived of his liberty. “He was simply deprived of the liberty of doing as he 

pleased, and of violating a penal statute with impunity.” The State Supreme Court 

concurred in Judge Ferguson’s decision. 

By the time Plessy v. Ferguson reached the Supreme Court in 1896, seven Justices from 

the Reconstruction era had been replaced in the preceding decade. African-Americans 

were increasingly pessimistic that their rights would be upheld, prompting some 

prominent leaders, including Booker T. Washington, to focus on finding ways to succeed 

within the constraints of Jim Crow restrictions. 

The Supreme Court ruled, 7 to 1 (one Justice did not participate in the ruling), on May 

18, 1896, that laws segregating the races on a separate-but-equal basis were 

constitutional. In a ruling written by Justice Henry Billings Brown, a Massachusetts 

native who lived in Michigan, the court rejected the view that the State law violated the 

14th Amendment. The test of constitutionality was the “reasonableness” of segregation 

laws. In determining reasonableness, legislators were “at liberty to act with reference to 

the established usages, customs, and traditions of the people, and with a view to the 

promotion of their comfort, and the preservation of the public peace and good order.” 

Justice Brown rejected the argument that the Separate Car Act implied that AfricanAmericans were an inferior race. “If this be so, it is not by reason of anything found in 

the act, but solely because the colored race chooses to put that construction upon it.” He 

also disagreed that “social prejudices may be overcome by legislation, and that equal 

rights cannot be secured by the negro except by an enforced commingling of the two 

races.” He added that legislation “is powerless to eradicate racial instincts or to abolish 

distinctions based upon physical differences.” 

Justice John Marshall Harlan of Kentucky cast the lone dissenting vote. A one-time 

slave-owner, Harlan had opposed secession and fought in the Union Army during the 

Civil War, but also opposed emancipation of the slaves and the civil rights protections 

accorded the freedmen after the war. However, he renounced these views in reaction to 
21 

the excesses of the Ku Klux Klan, and became a Republican in 1869. President Hayes 

appointed Harlan to the Supreme Court in 1877. Woodward said of him: 

After his conversion Harlan became one of the most outspoken champions of 

Negro rights of his time, and during his thirty-four years on the bench he lifted his 

voice repeatedly against denial of those rights by the dominant opinion of the 

Court. [Birth, p. 102] 

In his dissent, Justice Harlan argued that the Separate Car Act discriminated against 

African-Americans in violation of the 13th and 14th amendments: 

But in view of the constitution, in the eye of the law, there is in this country no 

superior, dominant, ruling class of citizens. There is no caste here. Our 

constitution is color-blind, and neither knows nor tolerates classes among citizens. 

In respect of civil rights, all citizens are equal before the law . . . . We boast of 

the freedom enjoyed by our people above all other peoples. But it is difficult to 

reconcile that boast with a state of law which, practically, puts the brand of 

servitude and degradation upon a large class of our fellow citizens,-our equals 

before the law. The thin disguise of “equal” accommodations for passengers in 

railroad coaches will not mislead any one, nor atone for the wrong this day done. 

Justice Harlan predicted that the court’s ruling “will not only stimulate aggressions, more 

or less brutal and irritating, upon the admitted rights of colored citizens, but will 

encourage the belief that it is possible, by means of state enactments, to defeat the 

beneficent purposes which the people of the United States had in view when they adopted 

the recent amendments of the constitution . . . .” If separate-but-equal was acceptable on 

railroads, he asked, what would keep States from enacting laws that required white 

citizens and African-Americans to walk only on alternative sides of the street, or apply 

similar restrictions to streetcars and other vehicles, and to courtrooms, juries, or 

legislatures? “In my opinion, the judgment this day rendered will, in time, prove to be 

quite as pernicious as the decision by this tribunal in the Dred Scott Case.” 

Having found that equal but separate facilities were acceptable, the Supreme Court 

returned the case to the lower court for sentencing. On January 11, 1897, Judge Joshua 

Baker (Ferguson had stepped down in 1896) accepted Plessy’s guilty plea and fined him 

$25. As author Keith Weldon Medley put it, Plessy “walked out into the brave new 

world of a segregated Louisiana.” [Medley, Keith Weldon, “The Sad Story of how 

‘Separate But Equal’ Was Born,” Smithsonian, February 1994, p. 105-117] 

Although Plessy v. Ferguson is now viewed as one of the Supreme Court’s most 

disgraceful rulings, contemporary observers took little notice of it, in part because of the 

series of earlier rulings on civil rights issues. Woodward summarized the reaction: 

[The] country as a whole received the news of its momentous decision upholding 

the “separate but equal” doctrine in relative silence and apparent indifference. 

Thirteen years earlier the Civil Rights Cases had precipitated pages of news 
22 

reports, hundreds of editorials, indignant rallies, congressional bills, a Senate 

report, and much general debate. In striking contrast, the Plessy decision was 

accorded only short, inconspicuous news reports and virtually no editorial 

comment outside the Negro press. A great change had taken place, and the Court 

evidently now gave voice to the dominant mood of the country. [Birth, p. 103] 

Professor Harvey Fireside, in a book about Plessy v. Ferguson, agreed that the decision 

“caused scarcely a ripple when it was announced.” He explained:

The next day’s New York Times relegated it to page 3 of its second section, where 

it was in company with the railroad news. The Times briefly reported the Court’s 

validation of the Louisiana segregation law for railroad travel, noting merely two 

of the grounds on which the opinion was based: that the law applied only to a 

railroad operating entirely within the state (so did not involve the interstate 

commerce powers of Congress), and that the cited precedents included federal and 

state laws permitting the establishment of “separate schools for children of the 

two races.” [Fireside, Harvey, Separate and Unequal: Homer Plessy and the 

Supreme Court Decision that Legalized Racism, Carroll and Graf Publishers, 

2004, p. 224-225] 

Justice Harlan’s prediction of the consequences of the ruling proved accurate. Prior to 

Plessy v. Ferguson, separation of passengers on railroads had been the most common 

form of segregation, but it was not universal in the South. Woodward explained: 

South Carolina did not adopt that until 1898, North Carolina in 1899, and 

Virginia, the last, in 1900. Only three states had required or authorized the Jim 

Crow waiting room in railway stations before 1899, but in the next decade nearly 

all of the other Southern states fell in line. The adoption of laws applying to new 

subjects tended to take place in waves of popularity. Street cars had been 

common in Southern cities since the ‘eighties, but only Georgia had a segregation 

law applying to them before the end of the century. Then in quick succession 

North Carolina and Virginia adopted such a law in 1901, Louisiana in 1902, 

Arkansas, South Carolina, and Tennessee in 1903, Mississippi and Maryland in 

1904, Florida in 1905, and Oklahoma in 1907. These laws referred to separation 

within cars, but a Montgomery city ordinance of 1906 was the first to require a 

completely separate Jim Crow street car. During these years the older seaboard 

states of the South also extended the segregation laws to steamboats . . . . Only a 

sampling is possible here. For up and down the avenues and byways of Southern 

life appeared with increasing profusion the little signs: “Whites Only” or 

“Colored.” [Strange Career, p. 81-82] 

As Fireside illustrated, “Plessy was seen throughout the South as an invitation to treat 

African Americans virtually as lepers.” [p. 224] The races would be kept “separate,” 
23 

but “equal” was another matter:

In transportation most trains would not admit black passengers to Pullman 

sleeping cars, dining cars, or club cars. When baggage and mail cars were added 

behind the locomotive, a Jim Crow car invariably followed (or was de facto half 

of the baggage car). Its dingy interior, lack of heat or carpeting, and filthy toilet 

were a far cry from the quality coaches designed for whites. Nor was there 

complete racial separation, since whites who smoked or drank, as well as shackled 

prisoners accompanied by guards, were routinely found in the Jim Crow car. 

[Separate and Unequal, p. 230] 

William A. Grant

On February 25, 1904, the U.S. Office of Public Road Inquiries hired William Alphonso 

Grant as a Student Assistant in the Bureau of Chemistry’s Road Material Laboratory. He 

was 19 years old, having been born on November 26, 1885. Grant would earn $25 per 

month or $300 annually. 

The second line on the personal-statement sheet for all new employees of the U.S. 

Department of Agriculture was: “White or colored?” Grant wrote in the blank: 

“Colored.” Grant may have been the agency’s first African-American employee, but that 

cannot be determined. If not the first, he was one of the first. 

At the time, Grant was a legal resident of Cincinnati, Ohio, although he graduated from 

Armstrong High School in Washington. He had taken technical courses in high school 

and lived at 1220 Niagara Street in Ft. Stevens, in the Brightwood area of northwest 

Washington. (Brightwood had been known as Vinegar Hill when it was founded in the 

early 19th century by free African-Americans.) His father Edward was a florist. 

Grant became a permanent employee on July 1, 1905, though still with a salary of $300 

per year in the Bureau of Chemistry. In June 1907, he received a promotion to $40 per 

month ($480 per year). 

At the time, the laboratory offered free testing of rock samples submitted by officials 

around the country to determine their adequacy as a road material – one of the agency’s 

most popular functions. According to an article in the agency’s inhouse newsletter years 

later:

His first assignment was as a student assistant testing cement and aggregates for 

concrete under Dr. Alton B. Cushman, assistant to Logan Waller Page who was in 

charge of the laboratory. [Page would head the agency from 1905 until his death 

in 1918.] The entire office [of Public Road Inquiries] comprised some 20 people . 

. . . The laboratory was located at 14th and B Street, S.W., across the street from 

the old Bureau of Printing and Engraving Building. 
24 

Soon after Mr. Grant’s entry into the service, Mr. Page arranged for him to 

receive special training in the Office of the Geological Survey where he learned 

the technique of making, polishing, and mounting thin sections of mineral and 

rock specimens for petrographic study and classification. The preparation of 

these slides and other types of special rock specimens has been his responsibility 

since that time.

Throughout his career, Grant held such titles as Laboratory Helper, Laboratory Aid, 

Assistant Scientific Aid, and Scientific Helper. By the 1940s, his work had shifted to the 

agency’s Abingdon Research Station in Arlington, Virginia. He lived at 1740 13th Street, 

NW., with his wife Maude E. Ross Grant. They had four daughters. In a form he filled 

out around this time, he listed his height as 5 feet 3 inches, weight as 137 pounds, and 

hair color as gray. 

In approximately 1950, he filled out an Experience and Qualifications Sheet. At the time, 

he was a GS-5 earning $3,850 a year working in the Research Lab at Gravelly Point, 

Virginia (essentially where Ronald Reagan National Airport is located). His work was 

described in the language of personnel forms, leaving the first person pronoun out: 

Under general supervision of professional employees, prepare test specimens and 

makes physical tests of rock. These tests include abrasion, hardness, 

compression, specific gravity, absorption and soundness. Specimens for 

compression and toughness are prepared by drilling cores from a sample of ledge 

rock, using a diamond drill; sawing the ends with a diamond saw in order to 

provide the cylindrical specimens of the required length and grinding the ends of 

the specimens in order to insure smooth surfaces. Tests are conducted in 

accordance with established procedures.

Employee is also required to prepare microscopic rock slides for the use of the 

Petrographer. This is done by selecting an area representing an average part of 

the sample. This area is then ground on one side until the surface is entirely free 

from scratches, after which the sample is mounted on a glass surface coated with 

balsam. The other side of the specimen is then ground to a transparent thickness, 

after which it is also covered with a glass.

Due to long service in the laboratory, is frequently called upon to make minor 

repairs on the apparatus used in the laboratory. 

Computations are all checked by superior for mathematical accuracy and 

conformity to procedures before reporting on the results. 

Guides followed are laboratory practices, established methods of procedures and 

oral instructions. 

Contacts are confined to employees of the laboratory.
25 

By 1955, Grant’s title was Engineering Aid (Civil), with a salary of $4,750 per year. On 

November 26, 1955, he reached the mandatory government retirement age of 70. Under 

the provisions of the Retirement Act, his employment terminated on November 30, 1955, 

by which point he had served with the agency for 51 years, 9 months, and 6 days 

(counting from his permanent employment beginning in July 1905). 

The inhouse article, cited earlier, about his retirement appeared on page 1 of The News in 

Public Roads. With a “record of service exceeding that of anyone in the Bureau,” the 

article said, Grant had performed with distinction: 

His patience and skill in [his] work have contributed materially to the quality and 

value of the research that has been done by the Bureau on the description and 

classification of road-building rocks. 

Mr. Grant holds a unique place in the respect and affection of his associates. The 

importance of doing his work conscientiously and with pride in the result has 

always been his principal concern. [“51 Years of Service,” The News in Public 

Roads, November 1955] 

Grant’s coworkers staged a farewell ceremony for Grant in one of the Bureau of Public 

Roads’ laboratories west of the airport. 

Commissioner of Public Roads C. D. Curtiss had personally commended Grant upon his 

50th anniversary. Secretary of Commerce Sinclair Weeks, whose department housed the 

Bureau, sent Grant a congratulatory letter dated December 31, 1955: 

It is indeed heartwarming to me to hear of such a splendid record as yours. I want 

you to know that your many years of faithful service are deeply appreciated. 

Your constant diligence in performing the duties assigned to you and your steady 

attention to your work have been most beneficial to the Bureau of Public Roads. 

The Evening Star newspaper also noted the retirement of “William A. Grant, colored,” 

saying of him:

The engineering aide seldom let the passage of years slow him down or keep him 

from his work. When the day of his retirement arrives, he will have accumulated 

more than 1,000 hours of sick leave which, he said, “I just never needed.” 

Mr. Grant, a frugal man, raised four daughters, two of them District school 

teachers, one a mother of four children and the other, Miss Thelma Grant, his 

housekeeper. Mr. Grant’s wife died in 1948. 

Retirement will not mean the end of Mr. Grant’s active life. He hopes to devote 

his time to his favorite hobbies, which he lists as his grandchildren, gardening and 

baseball, in that order. [“Bureau of Roads Aide Retiring After 50 Years,” The 

Evening Star, November 26, 1955] 
26 

William Alphonso Grant, 80 years old, died on August 20, 1966, at Freedmen’s Hospital 

in Washington, D.C., after a brief illness. At the time, he had eight grandchildren and 

five great-grandchildren. 

Woodrow Wilson 

As Jim Crow laws mushroomed in the wake of Plessy v. Ferguson, African-Americans 

saw hope in the presidential campaign of Governor Woodrow Wilson of New Jersey in 

1912. According to Wilson biographer Arthur S. Link, African-Americans strongly 

supported Wilson for President in the hope that he would treat them with compassion. In 

supporting Wilson, African-Americans had to overlook the fears raised by his Virginia 

birth. They also had to overlook the fact that as president of Princeton University he had 

prevented African-Americans from enrolling and that as a professor, university president, 

and Governor of New Jersey, he had never “lifted his voice in defense of the minority 

race,” as Link put it. 

At one point, he released a statement to the National Colored Democratic League 

assuring the members that he opposed “unfair discriminating laws against any class or 

race” and believed “that the qualifications for voting should be the same for all men.” He 

added: 

I want to assure them through you that should I become President of the United 

States, they may count upon me for absolute fair dealing and for everything by 

which I could assist in advancing the interests of their race in the United States.

When Oswald Garrison Villard, one of the founders of the National Association for the 

Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), visited Wilson shortly after the inauguration, 

the President seemed interested in Villard’s idea of a National Race Commission to study 

race relations. A few months later, however, Wilson tried to avoid meeting with Villard 

again, but finally wrote to him. Link summarized: 

Wilson had to tell him that the political situation was too delicate for any such 

action, that the appointment of the Commission would incite the resentment of 

Southerners in Congress, whose votes he needed for the success of his legislative 

program. 

Villard’s disappointment over Wilson’s abandonment of the Race Commission was 

nothing, however, compared with his consternation at the way in which Southern race 

concepts gained ascendancy in Congress and in the administration. Southerners were 

riding high in Washington for the first time since the Civil War, demanding segregation 

in the government departments and public services and the dismissal or down-grading of 

Negro civil servants.

In 1913, Wilson took no action to stop his departments from segregating AfricanAmericans from their white counterparts, dismissing those who objected, and 
27 

downgrading others. Link quoted the Collector of Internal Revenue in Georgia as 

announcing, “There are no Government positions for Negroes in the South.” 

Here is Link’s view of Wilson: 

The truth is that, although he never shared the extreme anti-Negro sentiments of 

many of his contemporaries, Wilson remained throughout his life largely a 

southerner on the race question. He had an extravagant and romantic love for the 

South, which increased in direct ratio to his absence from the region . . . . As a 

matter of fact, [the first] Mrs. Wilson [who died in August 1914] felt much more 

strongly about drawing the color line than did her husband, but both were opposed 

to social relations between the races

Link offered a limited defense of Wilson: 

Throughout his incumbency, Wilson stood firm against the cruder demands of the 

white supremacists, but he and probably all of his Cabinet believed in segregation, 

social and official.

Citing some of Wilson’s writings on the subject before he became President, Link said: 

This is not to argue that Wilson during this period was an ardent champion of 

civil and political rights for the Negro. It is only to say that he held views very 

advanced in the South at this time and that he absorbed these views, not from the 

South, but from the nonsouthern academic environment in which he matured. 

And again: 

The last area in which southern influence was decisive in determining the policies 

of the Wilson administration was the federal government’s policy toward 

Negroes. Here the southern contribution was definitely retrogressive and proved 

that it was impossible for white southerners of all shades of opinion to get much 

beyond the rationale of slavery. Suffice it to say that Wilson practically sacrificed 

the Negroes on the altar of political expediency, by allowing segregation in the 

government departments, dismissal and downgrading of Negro civil servants in 

the South, and the like, in order to win southern support for his program. [Link, 

Arthur S., “The Negro as a Factor in the Campaign of 1912,” The Higher Realism 

of Woodrow Wilson and Other Essays, Vanderbilt University Press, 1971, and 

Woodrow Wilson and the Progressive Era 1910-1917, Harper and Brothers, 1954, 

pages 64-66.] 

 

Author Jerrold M. Packard provided a less measured view of Wilson. He “wasn’t a 

particularly vicious racist, but rather an intellectually convinced white supremacist who 

practiced the racial mores of his upbringing.” Although he had courted the AfricanAmerican vote and received more than any previous Democrat, he brought with him “not 

racial justice but instead Southern power and with it Southern racial mores.” His 
28 

segregation of the Federal workforce “resulted in weakening this exceptionally hard-won 

black presence in government.” He appointed racist southerners to his Cabinet who 

“zealously followed their boss’s lead.” The entire workplace—work stations, cafeterias, 

rest rooms—was segregated. [Packard, Jerrold M., American Nightmare: The History 

of Jim Crow, St. Martins Griffin, 2002, p. 124] 

President Wilson would sign the Federal Aid Road Act of 1916 on January 11, 1916, 

launching the Federal-aid highway program. The bill illustrated the dominance of 

southern officials. The draft of the bill had been crafted by a committee of the American 

Association of State Highway Officials meeting in Oakland, California, on September 11, 

1915. The members were 

George P. Coleman, Chairman, Virginia. 

W. D. Sohier, Massachusetts. 

Thomas H. MacDonald, Iowa. 

E. A. Stevens, New Jersey. 

Lamar Cobb, Arizona. 

Joseph Hyde Pratt, North Carolina 

Henry G. Shirley, Maryland. 

(President Wilson was a friend of Stevens and, while serving as Governor, had appointed 

him State Highway Commissioner.)

Logan Page, a Virginia native who headed the U.S. Office of Public Roads in the 

Department of Agriculture, brought the bill to Senator John H. Bankhead of Alabama, 

who was Chairman of the Committee on Post Offices and Post Roads. Bankhead, with 

Page allowed on the Senate floor to answer questions from other Senators, secured 

approval of the bill. In conference with the House to reconcile differences in their 

approved bills, Bankhead prevailed in securing passage of his bill, with some 

modifications.

The Black Migration

In 1910, 89 percent of all African-Americans lived in the South. Their departure from 

the South – from separate but equal laws, the Jim Crow restrictions, and the lack of 

opportunity—gradually picked up speed. The percentage of African-Americans in the 

South had declined to 85 percent in 1920, 77 percent in 1940, and 53 percent in 1970. 

[Taeuber, Karl E., and Taueber, Alma F., “The Black Population in the United States,” 

The Black American Reference Book, Smythe, Mable M., editor, Prentice-Hall, Inc., 

1976, p. 165] 

World War I gave African-Americans a glimpse of possibilities outside the South. In a 

book issued by the Smithsonian Institution in conjunction with an exhibit on the 
29 

migration, Spencer R. Crew explained the origin of the movement: 

The start of World War I opened up new economic opportunities for black 

workers. Before the war northern industrialists primarily relied upon the labor of 

native-born whites and European immigrants. Prejudice against black workers 

and limited demand for their labor made it difficult for Afro-Americans to find 

work. The fighting in Europe [which began in August 1914] changed things. 

Demands on American firms to provide munitions and food for European 

customers increased as the fighting spread. At the same time, many European 

workers who might have come to the United States chose instead to stay home 

and defend their homelands. Furthermore, in this country, the accelerating war 

effort siphoned off more of the industrial work force as men volunteered or were 

drafted into military service. [In April 1917, the United States entered the war, 

which ended in November 1918.] 

Faced with a shrinking work force, northern companies . . . quickly began to seek 

out Afro-Americans living in the South, whom industrialists had occasionally 

used as strikebreakers in the past . . . . As managers and company owners 

suppressed open prejudice against blacks to attract the workers they needed, news 

of the willingness of northern companies to hire black workers spread across the 

South. [Crew, Spencer R., Field to Factory: Afro-American Migration 1915-

1940, Smithsonian Institution, 1987, p. 5-6] 

By the end of World War I, about 500,000 black Southerners had moved north. Crew 

discussed their destinations: 

A migrant’s place of residence in the South often influenced where he or she 

settled in the North. Since most migrants had little money, they used the cheapest 

and most direct route north. Afro-Americans living along the Atlantic seaboard 

usually traveled up the East Coast to live in cities like Philadelphia, New York, 

and sometimes Boston. Many residents of Georgia and Alabama settled in 

Cleveland, Pittsburgh, and Detroit. Mississippi and Louisiana residents 

frequently relocated to Chicago. [Field to Factory, p. 28] 

The migrants used all means of transportation, especially railroads: 

Railroads like the Illinois Central, the Pennsylvania, and the New York Central 

carried many migrants north. Train travel was relatively inexpensive if migrants 

took advantage of the special promotions railroad companies offered. Because 

many companies gave special fares to groups of people riding together, migrants 

often formed “clubs” that capitalized on these group rates. [Field to Factory, p. 

28-29] 

Rail travel, while inexpensive, carried the same disadvantages as always:

[Black] railroad passengers traveled in segregated cars in the South. Since these 
30 

cars were located near the locomotive, passengers who opened their windows for 

fresh air received a shower of soot and cinders. In addition, people in these 

“special” sections received little or no service. On overnight trips they were 

barred from sleeping cars and had to rest as best they could in their seats. Unable 

to buy food on the train, they purchased quick meals during stops or brought their 

own food in a basket or cardboard box. 

The railroads were not the only option: 

Thousands of migrants also traveled north on buses, automobiles, and trucks. 

Along the East Coast, many migrants sailed on ships between southern ports and 

cities like New York and Washington, D.C. Traveling by water was less 

expensive than train travel and included sleeping quarters in the price of the 

ticket. [Field to Factory, p. 29-30] 

This migration is one of the largest movements of population in the history of the United 

States, comparable to the better known western migration along the Oregon, California, 

and Santa Fe Trails. About 1.6 million people joined the Black Migration through World 

War II. 

A more widely dispersed migration took place after World War II, spurred by defense 

industry jobs, and changing Civil Rights laws. Crew wrote: 

From 1940 to 1960, nearly three million Afro-Americans left the South. Many of 

them traveled to West Coast cities, though Midwestern and eastern cities received 

their share of new residents. Afro-American communities in Los Angeles, 

Seattle, and Portland more than tripled in size as a result of this new wave of 

migrants. [Field to Factory, p. 73] 

Just as remarkable was the migration of southern blacks within the South. Hundreds of 

thousands living in rural areas moved into southern cities; hundreds of thousands living 

in the “core” South moved to the rim southern States, especially Florida, Louisiana, and 

Virginia.

Writing in 1941, one of the pre-World War II migrants, the author Richard Wright, said, 

“Perhaps never in history has a more utterly unprepared folk wanted to go to the city; we 

were barely born as a folk when we headed for the tall and sprawling centers of steel and 

stone.” [Wright, Richard, 12 Million Black Voices: A Folk History of the Negro in the 

United States, Viking Press, 1941, p. 93] 

Although the northern States had not adopted Jim Crow laws, the migrants “found social 

conditions in the North sometimes a mirror image of what they were fleeing in the 

South.” As Packard explained, the “etiquette” of Jim Crow was absent, but, “many facets 

of Northern life involved a high degree of discrimination aimed at blacks, discrimination 

that was just as humiliating, and often just as brutal as anything they had known in their 

former homes.” 
31 

The small number of African-Americans in the north prior to the war tended to be 

relatively educated and had been subject to “a kind of truce that had for many years kept 

racial disharmony at a mere simmer.” Shifting demographics changed the balance:

Sadly, if predictably, the blacks who surged into the North’s cities changed white 

Northerners’ perceptions of these communities’ racial equations, leading whites to 

see what had before been a “stable” situation as now a “problem.” Not only were 

the new black migrants dramatically less educated than those who had long lived 

in the North, they were also suddenly viewed as rivals for the low-paying jobs 

held by poorly educated whites and, even more dangerously, were sometimes 

suspect as potential strikebreakers. The result was vastly increased racial tension 

in the North, more discrimination and racism, and all too often racial disturbances 

leading to rioting and mass murder. [American Nightmare, p. 112] 

African-Americans were crowded into substandard housing, often with the connivance of 

real estate agents and loan officers at banks. In the north, the migrants did not see 

separate water fountains or segregated transportation as in the South, but individual 

whites could still refuse service, whether in a restaurant or theater. These were actions by 

white individuals, with no recourse for African-Americans to remedy the discrimination. 

“White Americans everywhere were free in those years—free to practice racism as they 

were free to reap the enormous benefits that were the birthright of their white skin.” 

[American Nightmare, p. 112-113] 

The mass exodus of African-Americans from the South to northern jobs during World 

War I began to raise their hopes. These hopes were dashed shortly after the war as 25 

race riots took place in the last 6 months of 1919 around the country, not just in the 

South. Woodward described this period: 

In the postwar era there were new indications that the Southern Way was 

spreading as the American Way in race relations. The great migration of Negroes 

into the residential slum areas and the industrial plants of the big Northern cities 

increased tension between races. Northern labor was jealous of its status and 

resentful of the competition of Negroes, who were excluded from unions. 

Negroes were pushed out of the more desirable jobs in industries that they had 

succeeded in invading during the manpower shortage of the war years. They were 

squeezed out of federal employment more and more. [Strange Career, p. 101] 

Journalist Nicholas Lemann, in his book on the Black Migration, quoted Wright’s 

comment, but said of the changes in society during the two migration periods: 

The lives of the millions of participants in the great black migration to the cities 

have been limned by sweeping historical trends: the mechanization of the cotton 

fields, the end of legal segregation, World War II and the booming labor market it 

created in the urban North, the death of consensus liberalism as America’s 

reigning creed, and the collapse of our manufacturing economy. [Lemann, 
32 

Nicholas, The Promised Land: The Great Black Migration and How it Changed 

America, Vintage Books, 1992, p, 345; Wright quoted on p. 52] 

The new residents, many not accustomed to city life, put a drain on public services that 

exceeded their tax contribution. The 1954 Supreme Court ruling in Brown vs. the Board 

of Education, and subsequent Civil Rights legislation (to be discussed later) accelerated 

the trend of “White Flight” that began after World War II. Middle and lower class white 

residents sought new housing in suburban areas, in part to leave minorities behind and 

escape the desegregation of urban schools. The urban riots of the mid-1960s added to the 

racial divide between city and suburb. Often, these trends were accelerated by real estate 

interests that used such tactics as blockbusting to “churn” neighborhoods from white to 

black.

In the days of Toll Roads and Free Roads and Interregional Highways, Federal highway 

officials were trying to get their new program up and running in cities even as other 

Federal officials were touting a new housing concept for revitalizing the urban core. 

Within cities, public housing had begun in the early 1950s to move minorities and low 

income groups from aging housing stock into high rise apartments. 

The “projects,” as they were often called, did not provide the benefits their idealistic 

proponents had expected, and have been discredited long after they had reshaped the 

urban core in negative ways. Lemann described the result: 

The one government program that can fairly be accused of having gone wrong . . . 

is public housing, especially the deadly effect of having no tenant screening in 

massive high rises that are segregated and filled with large families. Living in 

public housing doesn’t absolutely doom people . . . . But the atmosphere of these 

federally funded projects—the rampant crime, the drugs, the emphasis on an 

exaggerated and misguided version of masculinity that glorifies gang membership 

and sexual conquest—clearly helped to cause the troubles . . . . [Promised Land, 

p. 346] 

(In recent years, many of the “projects” built with the idea of instilling pride in their 

occupants have been torn down to considerable public applause.) 

Pullman Porters

With the rise of railroad in the 1830s, they replaced the stagecoaches that had been the 

primary means of interstate surface transportation. Although a marvel of the age, 

railroads were primitive in accommodations for passengers. Writer Larry Tye quoted a 

rider describing a night trip to Wheeling: 

Without a proper place to stow away one’s hat, with no convenience even to 

repose the head or back except to the ordinary height of a chair, with a current of 

cold air continually streaming in and rendered necessary by the sulphurous heat of 

the furnace, and with the constant slamming of the doors at either end of the car 
33 

as the conductor goes in or out, or some weary passenger steps onto the platform 

to have a smoke, the passenger must indeed be dead beat who can sleep or even 

doze in a railroad car. [Tye, Larry, Rising from the Rails: Pullman Porters and 

the Making of the Black Middle Class, Henry Holt and Company, 2004, p. 6-7] 

In 1838, the Cumberland Valley Railroad added sleeper cars to its line between 

Chambersburg and Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Tye said of the new service:

Calling those primitive cars sleepers did not make them such. Beds typically 

consisted of bunks stacked three high, with cast-iron platforms and no sheets. 

There was no fresh air either, and about as much privacy as in an army barracks. 

[Rising, p. 7] 

Rail companies tried to improve the service, but initial efforts were lacking:

Innovations over the next twenty years, from swivel couches to cane-bottomed 

berths, were insufficient to induce grumbling men to shed pants or even muddy 

boots as they bunked down for the night. Or to entice any but the bravest women 

to venture in at all. Most who did remained fully clothed, clutching hatpins 

through the night to repel wayward men. [Rising, p. 8] 

One traveler who had experienced these cars was George M. Pullman, who took his 

experiences as a challenge. One 58-mile trip between Buffalo and Westfield, New York, 

was particularly influential, as Tye explained:

Pullman paid the extra dollar for a berth, intending merely to examine the 

accommodations, not test them. What he found when he did were ceilings so low 

a long-legged man like him had to stoop, ventilation so lacking it was difficult to 

draw a breath, and bedding so uninviting he felt obligated to keep on his pants and 

shoes. As for his triple-tiered bunk, he slept not a wink. [Rising, p. 9] 

Pullman, a native of Albion, New York, had moved to Chicago in 1859 at the age of 29. 

He had worked in his father’s business as a cabinetmaker and building-mover, but was 

looking for different challenges. In Chicago, he applied his father’s building-moving 

technique to lifting the Matteson House hotel 8 feet so a sewer system could be installed. 

His new business did not give him the success he hoped for, so he turned to the idea of 

putting a hotel on rails. 

His initial efforts involved two passenger cars that went into service on the Chicago, 

Alton, and St. Louis Railroad on September 1, 1859. 

They . . . introduced a magnificently clever upper berth whose sleight-of-hand 

construction allowed it to be closed and lifted to the ceiling during daylight, when 

it stored the mattress and blanket, then dropped halfway to the floor at night. 

Heat came from box stoves, light from candles, and small toilet rooms with tin 

washbasins were situated at either end of the car. There were no sheets to start 
34 

with. The nightly fare was fifty cents for the upper berth, one dollar for the lower, 

and passengers had to be instructed to remove their boots and spurs before 

climbing into bed. One early rider—a lanky lawyer with whiskers from 

Springfield named Abraham Lincoln—was intrigued by the conveyance and, after 

quizzing George on its features, curled himself into an upper berth for the night. 

[Rising, p. 9] 

After the Civil War, demand for sleeping cars increased. The railroad companies adopted 

a standard width, or gauge, between their rails of 4 feet, 81⁄2 inches – replacing the 

varying gauges that limited the distance a company’s trains could travel. Despite 

President Lincoln’s recommendation that the builders of the transcontinental railroad 

employ a 5-foot gauge, they adopted what was becoming the standard gauge. With 

longer distance travel increasingly common, the companies had to improve sleeping 

accommodations. 

The sleeping cars were typically convertible, with seating for the day, beds for the night. 

The British novelist Anthony Trollope described the sleeping cars he encountered during 

his tour of the United States in 1861: 

In making this journey at night we introduced ourselves to the thoroughly 

American institution of sleeping-cars; – that is, of cars in which beds are made up 

for travelers. The traveler may have a whole bed, or half a bed, or no bed at all as 

he pleases, paying a dollar or half a dollar extra should he choose the partial or 

full fruition of a couch. I confess I have always taken a delight in seeing these 

beds made up, and consider that the operations of the change are generally as well 

executed as the maneuvers of any pantomime at Drury Lane. The work is usually 

done by negroes or coloured men; and the domestic negroes of America are 

always light-handed and adroit . . . . For every four seats the negro builds up four 

beds, – that is, four half-beds or accommodation for four persons. Two are 

supposed to be below on the level of the ordinary four seats, and two up above on 

shelves which are let down from the roof. Mattresses slip out from one nook and 

pillows from another. Blankets are added, and the bed is ready . . . . I cannot say 

that it is in all respects perfect. But distances are long in America; and he who 

declines to travel by night will lose very much time. He who does so travel will 

find the railway bed a great relief. [Trollope, Anthony, North America (editors 

Smalley, Donald, and Booth, Bradford Allen), Alfred A. Knopf, 1951, p. 119-

121] 

Many entrepreneurs were ready to meet the new demand, but Pullman would come to 

dominate the market beginning in 1865 with the introduction of the luxurious Pioneer: 

He . . . kept a father’s prideful watch over the installation of every shag or 

Brussels carpeting, French plate mirror, ceiling mural, marble washbasin, and 

carefully encased upper berth. Gone were the flea-ridden, paper-thin cushions of 

old, replaced by mattresses stuffed with soft animal hair, sheets of silky linen, and 

enough plush blankets to warm the Pioneer’s fifty-two passengers. Heaters were 
35 

hidden under the floor. Windows in the clerestory roof ensured endless fresh air. 

[Rising, p. 10] 

Pullman and his Pullman Palace Car Company would outdistance rivals for several 

reasons:

What he was was sharper and shrewder than his nearly three dozen rivals, 

building more sleepers than they did, standardizing them, and striking lucrative 

deals with rail lines to lease his cars and crews. He bought out competitors who 

were open to wooing and busted the rest. [Rising, p. 11] 

His concept was that each car would be a hotel on wheels. In keeping with this concept, 

Pullman employed white conductors, who functioned as hotel managers, but as Tye put 

it: “where could he find a single worker willing and able to act as hotelier and waiter,

chambermaid, butler, electrician, entertainer, and all the other things required for his fivestar rolling hotels?” [Rising, p. 18] Pullman adopted the term “porter” for what he 

wanted. The term had long been used by railroads for the men who carried passengers’ 

luggage and performed other minor tasks. Now, the term took on a new meaning that 

“made porter synonymous with Negro.” [Rising, p. 23] 

As Trollope had observed in 1861, African-Americans had worked on railroads for years, 

but the rail companies saw them mainly as cheap laborers in construction or shoveling 

coal into the engines. Pullman saw them as ideal for a different type of task, namely 

porters serving passengers throughout their trip. 

According to Tye, Pullman preferred African-Americans from the South to be porters. 

Price was one factor, since they were willing to work for low wages in return for a steady 

job. In addition, he wanted his porters to serve his customers without question: 

Negro porters seemed the ideal choice to deliver the obedience bordering on 

obsequiousness. Who better to anticipate and cater to passengers’ every caprice, 

from fetching a sandwich at sunup to mending torn trousers in the middle of the 

night, than men whose entire upbringing had been a long lesson in vassalage? 

How better to sell white riders on the slavish service on a Pullman car than to 

greet them with a smiling ex-slave? 

Another factor influenced Pullman’s choice: 

George Pullman’s most compelling motivation for hiring only Negroes, however, 

had to do with his conviction that for passengers to truly feel comfortable on his 

sleepers, they had to see the porter as someone safe. Ideally it would be a man 

you could look at but not notice, as if he did not exist. An invisible man. Which, 

given the social divide between Negroes and whites in those years after slavery, 

meant an ex-slave. To underline that otherness, Pullman managers favored 

swarthy-skinned applicants over those with creamier complexions. No danger, 

then, of a porter ever being mistaken for a passenger. [Rising, p. 24-25] 
36 

Although Pullman’s motives were driven by profits, not humanitarianism, the effect was 

stark:

Whatever the reason, the results were arresting: thousands of Negro men freed 

from the dead-end choice of farm or factory, riding the nation’s most ornate 

railroad carriages and relishing their adventure. He was the first northern 

industrialist to employ large numbers of Negros—and his porters, in turn, helped 

prod the northward migration of tens of thousands of other southern Negroes as 

the nineteenth century drew to a close. [Rising, p. 28] 

Pullman was a perfectionist who wanted his instructions carried out precisely. Gradually, 

the preparation of Pullman porters was regimented. Potential porters were carefully 

selected, their characters assessed, and then trained meticulously. Training included 

studying what grew into an inch-thick rulebook, as well as physical training. Author 

Stewart Holbrook explained the training in his history of American railroads:

The rookie porter is sent to school in one of the larger railroad centers where the 

Pullman Company has a car sidetracked for a schoolroom. Here in charge of a 

veteran the rookie learns the proper method of folding and putting away blankets, 

of making berths. He is taught that a sheet, towel, or pillow slip once unfolded 

cannot be used again; it may be clean, yet technically it is soiled and must go to 

the laundry. He goes through the motions of making up and making down the 

beds. He is shown how the heating, lighting, and air-conditioning controls 

operate. He is taught how to wake passengers—no noise, not even a knock on the 

edge of the berth, but merely a gentle shake of the curtains from the outside. 

Meanwhile, from the wise old heads who instruct him, the rookie learns a good 

deal about the habits of passengers whom he will meet.

Now comes an actual trip, though still under the eye of an experienced porter. 

The rookie will doubtless make several of these trial trips, and then, one night, he 

makes the trip out alone. If all goes well, or even pretty well, he is on his way to 

being a Pullman porter, and once he is such, he is more often than not set in the 

occupation he will follow the rest of his life. [Holbrook, Stewart H., The Story of 

American Railroads, Bonanza Books, 1957, p. 330-331] 

It was a demanding job that as Tye put it, “would swallow up their lives, in hours and 

attitude,” with new hires “cut loose from home and family.” 

Thousands of men hired in Georgia, the Carolinas, and Alabama were made to 

work out of railroad hubs like Chicago, New York, and Boston. The climates 

were icy, the accents hard to decipher, and there was a whole set of racial rules to 

absorb. [Rising, p. 35] 
37 

The Pullman porter had many responsibilities, sometimes occupying 400 hours a month 

in the early years. Converting the passenger cars into a sleeper was a key task:

Or, as they said, made down beds, since the most taxing part was popping the 

upper berth from the ceiling. The lower was formed by folding down opposing 

seats, fastening curtains, affixing the headboard, and adding blankets, pillows, and 

linen. 

The porter was alert throughout the night to help passengers who needed to get down 

from their upper berths. He shined the passengers’ shoes, black and tan only, one pair at 

a time to avoid mixing them up. In the morning, he had to be sure to wake the passengers 

on time:

Berth attendant was one among many hats worn by the Pullman porter. He was 

official greeter, helping passengers climb aboard and lugging up their baggage, 

then doing the reverse when they left. He was a chambermaid, endlessly dusting 

cinders from window ledges and seats, always with a wet cloth to keep embers 

down, then using mop and whisk broom to sweep grime off washrooms, 

passageways, and platforms. Spittoons had to be polished, ladies’ hats boxed, 

letters mailed and telegrams wired, heaters stoked, lights lit, and extinguished, 

“Quiet” signs posted then removed, card tables set up and broken down, and 

coolers stocked with ice . . . . He was a flesh-and-blood lost-and-found, helping 

passengers retrieve misplaced dentures, diamond bracelets and wedding rings, 

mink coats and golf bags, and children. He brought food and drinks from dining 

and hotel cars, and sold cigarettes, candy, and playing cards everywhere Pullmans 

ran. [Rising, p. 38] 

The Pullman company kept salaries low, so the porters depended on tips from their 

passengers. This circumstance made the porters eager to please, which was a 

characteristic the company encouraged:

Giving shoes a lasting shine was what porters called their “hustle,” the 

ministration most likely to elicit a reward. Next were delivering a telegram, 

mailing a letter during a station stop, running a bath, serving food or drink, 

delivering a card table or aspirin, and carting baggage . . . . A plea to “take care 

of my child” always came with a sawbuck or two, with another tip likely upon 

safely handing her or him off to grandparents down the line. [Rising, P. 46] 

Passengers called the porters “boy,” “uncle,” “Sam,” “Joe,” and frequently, the “Nword.” However, the most common name used was “George,” after the company’s 

founder. The porters resented this nickname, but the company required them to respond 

to it if used. By the 1920s, the company posted the names of the porters in the cars as a 

way of ending the “George” nickname, although its use continued for many years. In his 

1947 book, Holbrook observed that by then, only the “pseudo-sophisticated male” 

addressed porters as “George,” adding, “Today, only congenital hicks use ‘George.’” 

[Rising, p. 94-96, American Railroads, p. 333] 
38 

In return for this hard work, Pullman porters were seen as leaders in their communities: 

[The] porters were fully aware they had one of the best jobs in the Negro 

community, putting them on a social par with teachers, funeral directors, and even 

doctors and lawyers, many of whom worked their way through school as porters 

and a surprising number of whom came back after graduation for the easy money. 

Porters owned their own homes and were thought to be catches as husbands. 

They were racial diplomats, mediating between their all-Negro, mainly poor 

world and their riders’ all-white, mainly middle-class one . . . . 

Pullman porters also climbed near the top of the Negro social ladder, to the same 

rung as head waiters in restaurants and barbers. Porters had dipped their toes in 

the Pacific and Atlantic, walked the promenades in New York City and Chicago, 

and traveled to fifty states with Wall Street barons and baseball gods [the latter 

uniformly reviled as disruptive, horse-playing, rowdy, low- or non-tippers]. They 

were men with stories to tell, and everyone listened. No matter that the Pullman 

Company sold their services on the basis of their old South obsequiousness. What 

mattered back home was that many porters owned homes and cars, while most 

stayed groomed and sober, voted Republican, and were beacons of the church. 

Their skin remained black, but their tastes grew increasingly white and bourgeois, 

which in pre-World War I America was a measure of success. [Rising, p. 73, 77] 

Their children and, in turn, grandchildren were often recruited for porter jobs, almost 

inheriting their parent’s occupation. 

Relations between the porters and the company were sometimes rough. For example, in 

1893, the country went into one of its worst panics – railroad over-expansion with shaky 

financing created an economic bubble that collapsed and resulted in bank failures. Tye 

described the effect on Pullman’s company and the town he had built for his factory 

workers:

George slashed workers’ wages by nearly a third and pared back thousands of 

jobs, but rents went untouched, as did salaries of managers and dividends to 

stockholders. Workers were outraged, and in May of 1894 they declared a strike. 

It started locally but spread across the country as members of the American 

Railway Union refused to haul Pullman cars. It also started peacefully but ended 

with brick-throwing mobs overturning freight trains and turning Chicago into a 

flaming inferno. Calm was eventually restored, but not until twelve people were 

killed and two thousand federal troops called up, along with four thousand Illinois 

militia, five thousand deputy marshals, and the entire Chicago police force. 

A racial divided was evident. The union’s constitution required members to be “born of 

white parents,” so the porters had not been recruited for the strike. The strike also 

exposed the racial restrictions of Pullman’s company town, which admitted few AfricanAmericans and no porters. Although Pullman had broken the strike, he was now seen as 
39 

“a pompous autocrat, industrial tyrant, and modern-day King Lear,” as Tye summarized

the contemporary commentary. [Rising, p. 70-71] 

George M. Pullman died in Chicago on October 19, 1897, after a heart attack. Robert 

Todd Lincoln, the former President’s son, became president of the Pullman Company, a 

role he would hold until 1911. Much of his term would involve defending the company’s 

labor practices, including the low salaries paid to the porters. 

The International Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters

During this period of fierce union activism, African-Americans were cautious, especially 

since most unions excluded members of their race. Moreover, many companies fought 

openly and in secret to block union recruiting. Pullman, like many other companies, 

employed spies among the workers to identify union activists who would then be fired. 

In 1915, the company took a step that other companies had tried to channel worker 

concerns by establishing its own union for workers: 

Recognizing the inevitably of porters banding together in some way, the company 

tried to set the form, control the function, and guarantee that the organization 

stayed friendly. The Pullman Porters Benefit Association got things started. It 

was supposed to be independent, but its first chairman was Arthur A. Wells, 

George Pullman’s longtime private car attendant and personal assistant, and its 

expenses came from company coffers. [Rising, p. 105-106] 

In 1920, the company established the Employee Representation Plan, a porters’ union to 

handle grievances and advise on wages. 

In 1925, the attitude of the porters toward union activism began to change. Five veteran 

porters created the International Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters that summer. They 

selected A. Philip Randolph to lead the union and the crusade to build it. One of his 

qualifications was that he could not be fired – he had never been a porter and had never 

ridden in a Pullman sleeper. He was, however, notorious. He was a socialist, an atheist, 

union activist, and a pacifist during World War I, earning himself the title, “most 

dangerous Negro in America.” 

A native of Jacksonville, Florida, Randolph had grown up in poverty. Jacksonville had 

been open to African-Americans in the 19th century, but early in the 20th century the city 

began to implement the Jim Crow restrictions that were increasingly common throughout 

the South. His father was minister at the impoverished African Methodist Episcopal 

Church: 

Not long after the Randolphs moved in, Negroes were dislodged politically and 

given their own, second-rate sections at schools and hospitals, in theaters, jails, 

and saloons, on streetcars, and in government itself. [Rising, p. 117] 
40 

Their parents prohibited young Asa and his brother from using the segregated streetcars 

or reading room at the public library, but emphasized the importance of reading and 

speaking articulately and precisely, like the Shakespearean actors their father admired. 

The brothers attended Cookman Institute, the State’s first high school for AfricanAmericans. Asa did well in English, public speaking, and drama, and sang baritone in 

the choir and was a standout baseball player. Financial considerations meant that college 

was out of the question, so Asa took odd jobs around Jacksonville after graduation until 

he moved to New York City in April 1911. 

While working at menial jobs, he attended City College, which was free to students, and 

began his shift to radical beliefs. He also found a wife, Lucille Green, a teacher who had 

found lucrative work in a beauty salon after her first husband had died. Her income 

helped the young couple survive as her husband became more involved in radical politics 

and union activities. [Rising, p. 116-130] 

With his fortunes sinking by the mid-1920s, Randolph was just what the five union 

organizers were looking for: 

Randolph needed a job, a salary, and a new focus for his crusade to unionize 

Negro workers. The five lonely Pullman porters plotting to launch a union in 

1925 needed a crusader capable of waging holy war, for that is what it would take 

to defy porters’ twenty-five year history of organizing fiascoes. Both were 

desperate. Both found what they were looking for. [Rising, p. 131] 

On August 25, 1925, the Brotherhood held its first large meeting. The auditorium of the 

Imperial Lodge of Elks in Harlem was packed with porters, as well as company spies. 

Randolph addressed them with the articulation of a Shakespearean actor: 

Aware that many porters were distressed by his street-corner evangelizing against 

the church, he opened the meeting with a prayer and a tribute to his preacherfather. Knowing how timid previous union-building bids had been, he was direct. 

“What this is about is making you master of your economic fate,” Randolph 

intoned, explaining that he would demand a minimum monthly wage of $150, a 

limit of 240 hours, and, in a statement sure to waken anyone snoozing in the heat, 

an end to the sacred practice of tipping. He acknowledged never having ridden a 

Pullman car but called that a testament to his poverty and a sign that “the price is 

too high.” [Rising, p. 114] 

He promised gains that those in attendance could achieve – if they were not fired.

The next few years, the union struggled to gain members, but could not secure 

certification as the union of the porters. These struggles became even more dire during 

the Depression of the 1930s when job security was paramount. The company continued 

to work against union activists.
41 

The election of New York Governor Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1932 to be President gave 

new hope to union leaders. In 1934, they helped secure approval of the National Labor 

Relations Act. It prohibited company unions and required companies to negotiate with 

unions chosen by a majority of its workers – and that explicitly included Pullman porters 

among the groups covered. 

The Pullman Company tried to establish its own Pullman Porters and Maids Protective 

Association, but by secret ballot, the porters chose the Brotherhood to represent them. 

The company began negotiating in 1935 on a new contract that would take 2 years to 

complete. Despite its continued resistance to union power, the company finally conceded 

that times had changed:

Most ominous, the five big railroad unions were stuck in contracts disputes and, 

on August 25, 1937, announced plans for a nationwide strike of 250,000 railroad 

workers. Pullman porters said they might walk out with them. 

Still, what happened that same morning in the Chicago conference room where 

the Brotherhood was negotiating with Pullman representatives shocked everyone 

on the union’s side of the table. The Pullman Company vice president, Champ 

Carry, entered the session and announced, “Gentlemen, the Pullman Company is 

ready to sign.” He then circled the long bargaining table, shaking hands with each 

of the eight Brotherhood negotiators. Twelve years to the day after Randolph had 

launched the Brotherhood in Harlem’s steamy Elks hall, the union of Pullman 

porters had its first contract with the powerful Pullman Company. [Rising, p. 

162] 

The agreement delivered major gains to the porters, including an increase in minimum 

pay from $77.50 to $89.50, a monthly schedule of nor more than 240 hours, and pay for 

preparing cars. The union’s success propelled it to a leadership role within the AfricanAmerican community. [Rising, p. 165] 

The prominent position of the union also made Randolph a leader in the evolving Civil 

Rights Movement. As will be discussed later, he worked to end discrimination by 

defense contractors and segregation in the military and went on to lead many other 

landmark efforts, including the 1963 March on Washington. 

The era of the Pullman porter began to fade in the 1940s as America shifted away from 

passenger rail. From a peak of 40 million passengers in 1920, ridership had declined to 

15 million in 1940. Following a wartime boom, declines resumed: 16 million in 1950; 

11 million in 1955, and only 21⁄2 million in 1965. Like passenger service overall, the 

Pullman Company was losing money. The decline reflected a general increase in options 

for the traveling public: 

Automobile production had started to skyrocket during the First World War, with 

assembly lines turning out nearly 2 million cars and trucks in 1917, ten times 

more than in 1910. Much the way the Iron Horse had symbolized American 
42 

progress in the late 1800s, so Henry Ford’s Tin Lizzie embodied an America on 

the move in the early 1900s. The federal government fueled the trend during the 

1950s when it began pumping billions of dollars into highway construction, 

laying down a true national network. By 1960, nearly 90 percent of Americans 

were traveling between cities by private car, with a patchwork of hastily 

constructed motels and inns displacing the old hotels on wheels. 

The remaining 10 percent of travelers chose a bus, train, or plane. That choice, 

too, was skewing against the sleeping cars. Buses were the cheapest alternative, 

and, with new highways to ride on and schedules rivaling the railroads, they lured 

away many of Pullman’s middle-class riders. Day trains ate into the sleeper 

businesses in two ways: modern locomotives got there fast enough to make some 

night travel unnecessary, while for economy-minded overnighters there were 

newly spacious coach seats with leg rests and reclining backs . . . . 

But it was planes that hurt most. Airlines let business travelers cross the country 

in six hours rather than the four days a sleeper took, and ensured honeymooners 

and other vacationers more time at their destination. Few seemed to mind 

sacrificing the romance of getting there. In 1926, only 5,782 Americans flew on 

commercial airlines. In 1938, the number was up to 1,343,427, and by 1946, 

domestic flights had pulled even with Pullman in passenger loads. As for price, 

airlines were able to lower fares as technology improved and traffic increased, 

whereas Pullman had enormous labor costs that it could not shed. The sleeping 

car firm was left trying to market a service in the 1950s that was four times slower 

than its aerial rival and nearly twice as costly. By 1960, the company was back 

where it had been when George launched it nearly one hundred years before; as 

the domain of those so well heeled they could indulge in luxury and not trouble 

themselves about time or price. 

The effect on porters was inevitable. When the International Brotherhood of Sleeping 

Car Porters was formed in 1925, the company employed 12,000 porters. Only 7,500 

porters remained in 1939, when the company stopped hiring porters. In 1960, only 2,852 

porters were still working, and only 1,151 in 1968. The wage increases that the union 

had secured with its first contract when the company was profitable, were tempered as 

the company’s profits declined. 

Another factor involved the prestige of the porters’ position in African-American 

communities: 

Porters also were seeing their status slip within the hierarchy of the black middle 

class, especially in cities like Chicago. Young black men moving there from the 

South in the 1920s and 1930s found they could earn a good living in factories and 

meatpacking plants, or as police officers and firemen, none of which carried the 

porter’s stigma of servitude or required being away from home. Add in the 

growing difficulty of landing a job as a Pullman porter, and it is no surprise that 

ambitious young blacks began looking elsewhere to build their future. 
43 

The Pullman Company ended its sleeping car service on January 1, 1969. It had been a 

good run – 103 years – but the company realized profits would never return. By then, the 

service was a shadow of itself, down from a peak of 10,000 sleeping cars to only 425. 

[Rising, p. 232-237] 

In October 1968, A. Philip Randolph stepped aside from his position as head of the 

union. By 1978, the union had fewer than 1,000 members and it was merged with the 

Brotherhood of Railway and Airline Clerks, which no longer prohibited AfricanAmerican members. 

The Nation’s railroads had all but abandoned interstate passenger service by the end of 

the 1960s. It simply wasn’t profitable, and no longer a public service worth subsidizing 

with profits from freight shipments. In 1971, legislation established the National 

Railroad Passenger Corporation to operate passenger rail under the name Amtrak. It 

continued to provide sleeper service on its long-distance routes. “But although Amtrak 

did its best to sustain sleeping car service, it was difficult to match the reality of Pullman 

service—and impossible to live up to the legend.” The company operates only 163 

sleepers, which are serviced by workers called “attendants,” not “porters,” and might be 

men or women of any race. 

By then, of course, African-Americans had many other opportunities in the railroad 

industry: 

While whites were breaking up the black monopoly among porters and waiters, 

blacks were making even greater inroads on the railroad. They were being hired 

in sales jobs and supervisory ones, and moving up from laborer and service posts 

to skilled ones. One train in December 1968 was reported to have been under the 

control of an all-black crew. “If any one 12-month period can be identified as the 

breakthrough for the Negro, 1969 would have to be it,” Trains magazine reported 

in August 1973. That timing is sad as well as ironic, since the breakthrough came 

precisely twelve months too late for it to affect the Pullman Company. [Rising, 

238-239] 

Lucille Randolph, who had encouraged her husband in days when she was the 

breadwinner, died in 1963 after arthritis and a broken hip had kept her confined to the 

family’s Harlem apartment for her last 10 years. A. Philip Randolph died on May 16, 

1979. 

The Davis-Bacon Act

In the 1920s, contractors found that they could pay African–American workers less than 

white employees, and thereby submit lower bids than contractors using white union 

workers. Many States passed laws that required contractors on public projects to pay 

workers the prevailing wage in that State as a way of reducing the prospect that 
44 

contractors with underpaid workers—often out-of-State contractors importing AfricanAmericans from the South—would secure contracts. 

An Alabama contractor won a contract in 1927 from the Veterans’ Bureau to construct a 

hospital in Long Island, New York, with his low bid aided by importation of AfricanAmerican workers from the South. Congressman Robert L. Bacon, a Republican who 

represented Long Island from March 1923 until his death on September 12, 1938, 

introduced a bill in the U.S. House of Representatives to require payment of prevailing 

wages on Federal projects. He said of the workers on the hospital project, “They were 

herded onto this job, they were housed in shacks, they were paid a very low wage, and . . 

. it seems to me that the federal government should not engage in construction work in 

any state and undermine the labor conditions and the labor wages paid in that state.” 

Bacon considered his proposal a matter of fairness. He wanted to give local contractors 

and labor a “fair break” in getting government contracts:

If the local contractor is successful in obtaining the bid, it means that local labor 

will be employed because that local contractor is going to continue in business in 

that community after the work is done. If an outside contractor gets the contract, 

and there is no discrimination against the honest contractor, it means that he will 

have to pay the prevailing wages, just like the local contractor. 

The bill did not pass, but Congressman Bacon would introduce variations of the bill in 

succeeding years. 

The Depression would create an atmosphere that would allow passage. In 1931, the 

Hoover Administration asked the Comptroller General if government contracts could 

include a prevailing wage provision. When the Comptroller General ruled on January 10, 

1931, that such a provision would undermine the current statutory requirement for 

competitive bidding, the Administration worked with Congress to provide a statutory 

basis for mandating prevailing wage restrictions.

Congressman Bacon partnered with Senator James J. Davis, a Republican from 

Pennsylvania who had served as Secretary of Labor under Presidents Harding, Coolidge, 

and Hoover (1921-1930) before resigning to take his seat in the Senate. They introduced 

the bill that would be known ever since as the Davis-Bacon Act. Senator Davis explained 

that “the least the Federal Government can do is comply with the local standards of 

wages and labor prevailing in the locality where the building construction is to take 

place.” He and Congressman Bacon argued that their bill was fair to workers because 

their wages would not have to be slashed so their contractors could compete against those 

willing to employ cheap labor. 

The House and Senate passed the bill as introduced. President Hoover signed the DavisBacon Act on March 31, 1931. It required payment of prevailing wages on projects 

awarded by the Federal Government. As a result, it did not apply to the Federal-aid 

highway program, a grant program that reimbursed State highway agencies for the 
45 

Federal share (50 percent) of eligible expenditures on Federal-aid contracts they awarded. 

(The Davis-Bacon Act did apply to Federal contracting by the Bureau of Public Roads in 

National Parks, National Forests, and other Federal reservations.) 

As soon as the law went into effect, supporters began to complain that it lacked an 

effective enforcement mechanism and did not provide for determination of prevailing 

wages before contracts were advertised. After extensive hearings and one vetoed bill, 

Congress passed amendments in 1935 to address the deficiencies in the original bill. The 

bill lowered the minimum contract amount to $2,000 for application of the prevailing 

wage law and provided for the Department of Labor to issue prevailing wage 

determinations that would apply to future contracts. President Franklin D. Roosevelt 

signed the legislation on April 30, 1935. [Ginsburg, Gilbert, A Practical Guide to the 

Davis-Bacon Act: Course Manual, Federal Publications, Inc., 1998, p 1-4] 

In 1955 and 1956, the Congress debated whether to apply the Davis-Bacon Act to 

construction of the Interstate System. During consideration of a bill introduced by 

Senator Albert Gore, Sr., the Tennessee Democrat who served as Chairman of the 

Subcommittee on Roads, the Public Works Committee had voted to apply the provision 

to the Interstate System at the request of Senator Richard L. Neuberger. The Senator, a 

Democrat who represented Oregon from 1953 until his death in 1960, argued, "We don't 

want coolie labor building our interstate highways." 

The provision was popular with unions, but unpopular with many Senators, including 

Senator Harry Flood Byrd, the Virginia Democrat who headed the Finance Committee 

and was known as a political penny pincher. He summarized his objection during the 

debate on the Senate floor: 

[It] would cause endless confusion and would increase the cost of highway 

construction, conceivably to a point where Federal appropriations practically 

twice their current size would build no more highways than are being built today. 

By voice vote, the Senate rejected the provision, but as final passage loomed in 1956, the 

House version applied the Davis-Bacon Act to Interstate projects. With most issues 

resolved, the Davis-Bacon Act was one of the few remaining subjects of controversy. 

Historian Mark Rose explained that although unions favored the provision, the traditional 

highway community tried to block it in the Senate: 

Contractors and state road engineers worked hard to eliminate the amendment. 

As early as January 19, members of a group of engineers and contractors had 

declared for local determination of wages, invoking mostly cost arguments. 

Beginning around March 1, through early June [1956], contractors and chamber 

of commerce officials joined the struggle against Davis-Bacon, sending letters 

and petitions to members of Congress. Usually, they spoke of efficiency, of lower 

costs, of states’ rights, all symbols, images, and commercial realities celebrated 

by men in contract road work. In April, administration leaders took up the antiDavis-Bacon cause, trying to find a way to cut it without angering labor leaders. 
46 

Rose summarized the final debate on the Senate version of the bill in 1956: 

Only Davis-Bacon provoked senators to real controversy. At one point, so great 

the confusion, so diverse the approaches, the Senate voted Davis-Bacon or a 

revision of it several times, achieving that many different results. [Interstate 

Express, p. 90-91] 

The Senate finally voted to accept the Davis-Bacon Act, but with an amendment 

providing for an appeal and judicial review by any aggrieved party. 

The Conference Committee formed to resolve differences between the House and Senate 

versions of the bill accepted application of the Davis-Bacon Act to the Interstate System, 

but rejected the appeals process in the Senate bill. The conferees were concerned that an 

appeal process might delay Interstate projects, and believed that cooperation in good faith 

between the State and Federal officials "will insure satisfactory results." 

As a result, a measure intended in 1931 to prevent low-paid African-Americans from 

taking jobs from white union workers on Federal projects became part of the Federal-Aid 

Highway Act of 1956 that President Eisenhower signed on June 29, 1956. (Section 12 of 

the Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1968 extended Davis-Bacon Act coverage to all Federalaid highway projects.) 

Adapting Transportation to Jim Crow 

African-Americans, wherever they lived, faced challenges every day as Jim Crow laws 

proliferated in the South and spread in practice to other parts of the country. 

Transportation was one such challenge, for the experience of travel was very different for 

African-Americans and white Americans. Plessy v. Ferguson was a ruling on separate 

rail cars in intra-State operation, but as Woodward pointed out, its impact soon spread to 

other modes of transportation as they evolved: 

Jim Crow kept step with the march of progress in transportation and industry, as 

well as with the changes in fashion. Mississippi brought her transportation laws 

abreast of the times in 1922 by passing a state-wide Jim Crow law applying to 

taxicabs. City ordinances requiring Jim Crow taxis were adopted by Jacksonville 

in 1929, by Birmingham in 1930, and by Atlanta in 1940 . . . . The advent of the 

cross-country buses as serious competitors of the railways was marked by the 

extension of the Jim Crow train law to the buses in all particulars, including 

seating arrangement, waiting rooms, toilets, and other accommodations. 

The growth of air transportation challenged separate-but-equal laws:

No Jim Crow law has been found that applies to passengers while they are in the 

air. So long as they were upon the ground, however, they were still subject to Jim 

Crow jurisdiction. The Virginia legislature empowered the State Corporation 
47 

Commission in 1944 to require separate waiting rooms and other facilities in 

airports. Air companies generally complied with custom without the compulsion 

of law – at least so far as activities on the ground were concerned. [Strange 

Career, p. 103-104] 

Fireside also discussed the spread of segregation in transportation: 

As if the Jim Crow car wasn’t demoralizing enough, there were the train stations . 

. . after four decades of segregation, with separate entrances and waiting rooms 

for Negroes and small, dirty toilets where there were any at all. By the 1940s 

second-rate quarters also waited intercity bus travelers, who were often seated in 

the back of the vehicle—if there was room after whites had occupied the front 

seats. Negroes could expect to wait outside, while whites were admitted into 

waiting rooms, often with segregated lunch counters. The enforcement of these 

laws varied somewhat from state to state and town to town. In Birmingham, for 

example, street cars had partitions clamped on the back of the seats to indicate the 

race of passengers for whom they were reserved. In New Orleans, steamboats 

and trains had “whites only” sections, as did, eventually, the front seats of 

streetcars. [Separate and Unequal, p. 230-231] 

Use of the highway also was restricted, as Packard discussed in his history of Jim Crow 

laws:

Where blacks had since slave days been expected to step off the sidewalk to allow 

white persons to pass unimpeded—failure to do so could result in being 

murdered—some communities with the new century began to require blacks to 

keep off the sidewalks altogether when any white children were occupying any 

part of them. Much the same held for the roadway, where blacks could expect to 

be stopped by police if they dared pass a white driver. So offensive to white 

sensibilities was a black driving an expensive car that even well-to-do AfricanAmericans kept to older models so as not to give the dangerous impression of 

being above themselves. [American Nightmare, p. 91] 

African-Americans were never prohibited from owning cars, but the highway “etiquette” 

of Jim Crow affected their operation: 

One requirement was to sometimes illogically cede the right-of-way to a white 

driver—or even to a black driver who was chauffeuring white passengers. At 

many four-way-stop intersections in the South, the right-of-way was determined 

not by who reached the intersection first, but rather by the race of the drivers. 

When confronting a white driver who was female, a black male driver in the 

South could and sometimes did face a life-or-death decision. Compounding the 

difficulty facing African-Americans was the lack of universality of any of these 

conventions. In some places whites did maintain normal driving rules. But in 

others, Jim Crow was more important than highway safety. [American 

Nightmare, p. 167] 
48 

Although the Jim Crow laws were confined mainly to the South, practices elsewhere 

resulted in similar restrictions that were tolerated by State and local laws. Gas stations 

would not allow African-Americans to use the rest rooms. George S. Schuyler, an 

African-American author and journalist, described the experience in the August 1930 of 

The American Mercury magazine:

Next to being strictly honest, there is no more trying state in this humdrum 

Republic than being simultaneously a Negro and a traveler. Indeed, the troubles 

of Job seem trivial in comparison with those that bedevil the poor Aframerican 

who ventures forth to see his country. No matter in what part of it he may reside 

he knows very well that the hotel and resort advertisements he reads in the 

newspapers and magazines are not intended for such as he . . . . 

When the Negro assumes that ninety-nine out of every one hundred American 

hotels are closed to folk of his ancestry he is not far wrong. Where he is given 

accommodation it is often done so grudgingly and with such obvious ill-will and 

annoyance that it is exceedingly difficult for him to enjoy his stay unless his 

feelings are tougher than a prison warden’s or he possesses a sense of humor like 

Jonathan Swift’s. 

Schuyler added: “In the few remaining places in the Land of the Free where he is not 

openly discriminated against because of his color, he can almost be sure that some 

touring member of the Superior Race will demand that something will be done about it.” 

Schuyler’s article was largely concerned with the humiliations of rail travel–from buying 

a ticket, using the dining car, securing a sleeping birth, and getting to and from the 

station. In reaction, he said, “all Negroes who can do so purchase an automobile as soon 

as possible in order to be free of discomfort, segregation, and insult.” The new car owner 

would be “accorded courteous treatment” at gas stations, and even in the South, might be 

“dumbfounded to hear that he can eat a quick lunch at a roadside lunchstand,” but when it 

came to tourist camps, “he is usually out of luck.” 

In 1930, whites in the South had grown accustomed to seeing African-Americans driving 

automobiles “so they are seldom molested nowadays.” In earlier days in the South, he 

said, they would be suspected of having stolen the vehicle. “Up until very recent times, it 

was unhealthy for a Negro motorist to whizz past a white automobilist in certain parts of 

Mississippi.” 

Although African-Americans had not yet taken to air travel, Schuyler predicted that “Mr. 

James Crow will be equal to the occasion” when they do: 

[Where] Negro passengers are not completely barred we can confidently expect to 

find them openly or subtly herded into whatever happens to be the dirtiest and 

most uncomfortable part of an airplane or dirigible. [Schuyler, George S., 

“Traveling Jim Crow,” The American Mercury, August 1930, p. 423-432] 
49 

Professor Neil R. McMillen, writing in 1989, recounted some of the tribulations facing 

African-American motorists in Mississippi during the Jim Crow era:

Black motorists apparently bought gasoline wherever it was sold, but few service 

stations maintained “colored” rest rooms, and none seem to have kept them clean. 

Inconvenience, humiliation, and uncertainty nearly always accompanied the black 

traveler. Overnight lodgers throughout the Jim Crow period depended largely on 

the hospitality of their race or the chance discovery of a Negro rooming house . . . 

. Early in the automobile age white opinion and the local constabulary in some 

communities arbitrarily denied black motorists access to the public streets. Many 

towns informally restricted parking to whites on principal thoroughfares; for a 

time following World War I, Jackson’s Capitol Street, portions of Greenwood, the 

entire city of Laurel, and doubtless all or parts of many other communities were 

known to be open only to white motor traffic. In the Delta, custom forbade black 

drivers to overtake vehicles driven by whites on unpaved roads. “Its [sic] against 

the law for a Negro to pass a white man,” a black Holmes Countian reported in 

1940, “because the black man might stir up dust that would get on the white 

folks.” [McMillen, Neil R., Dark Journey: Black Mississippians in the Age of 

Jim Crow, University of Illinois Press, 1989, p. 11] 

Celebrity status made little difference in the South, even when white audiences wanted to 

see their performances. Musicians, actors, and athletes lived the Jim Crow life, often 

forbidden to stay in hotels or patronize clubs where they performed. Cultural historian 

Harvey G. Cohen cited several examples in his biography of musician and composer 

Duke Ellington: 

In 1931, Earl Hines and his orchestra “were the first big Negro band to travel 

extensively through the South.” Hines referred to it as an “invasion” rather than a 

“tour.” Between a bomb exploding under their bandstand in Alabama (“we didn’t 

none of us get hurt, but we didn’t play so well after that, either”) and numerous 

threatening encounters with the police, the experience proved so harrowing that 

Hines in the 1960s recalled that “you could call us the first Freedom Riders.” . . . 

Louis Armstrong, who grew up in New Orleans, also endured numerous instances 

of trouble, the worst being when he and his band were thrown into a Memphis jail 

after a local bus driver, not knowing that the band he agreed to transport would be 

black, refused to transport them. Armstrong and his band, who were regularly 

involved in business relations with gangsters who ran jazz clubs in New York 

City and Chicago, did not meekly submit to the authority of the driver or the 

summoned police, a transgression which landed them in the slammer until the 

club they were scheduled to play that night freed them on the proviso that the 

band would perform a free radio broadcast for the club. Visiting black 

entertainers had endured such treatment in the South for decades. [Cohen, Harvey 

G., Duke Ellington’s America, The University of Chicago Press, 2010, p. 130] 
50 

African-American baseball players in the Negro Leagues traveled by bus and had to 

scramble to find food and lodging. Kansas City sports columnist Joe Posnanski described 

a recent visit by former Negro League players to an elementary school in the 2000s. One 

of the students asked Red Moore “what was the hardest part of playing in the Negro 

Leagues?” 

Moore said that he remembered restaurants would not let him eat. He said that 

was the hardest part. They were hungry. James Lee nodded. “We ate luncheon 

meat on the buses,” Lee told the kids. “We ate crackers on the buses. Sometimes 

we didn’t eat at all. It was hard. We were treated like we were . . . less than men. 

[Posnanski, Joe, The Soul of Baseball: A Road Trip Through Buck O’Neil’s 

America, Harper, 2008, p. 191] 

Even after Jackie Robinson had integrated the major leagues, African-American players 

joining the formerly white teams had to deal with racism in public accommodations. J. 

C. Hartman, a Negro League player who signed with the Houston .45s (now the Astros), 

recalled an incident involving Billy Williams. In 1959, Williams abandoned his 

integrated minor league team and went home. Hartman recalled the incident that 

prompted the departure after a day game in Victoria, Texas:

The game had gone late, and by the time Hartman and Williams finished getting 

dressed after the game, the one black restaurant in town was closed. 

So they went back to the Ambassador Hotel, where the team was staying. They 

saw teammates eating in the hotel restaurant. Hartman said it was the most 

familiar scene in the world—ballplayers laughing, drinking, telling stories, a 

waitress flirting—but on this night it left them cold. Williams and Hartman were 

black and were not allowed to eat in the hotel restaurant. This was a minor 

nuisance on most nights because they could eat somewhere else, but now it was 

late and they were hungry, and they felt humiliated. Hartman found the manager 

and said, “We need to eat. We’re hungry.” The manager called the hotel owner. 

A deal was struck. The manager took Williams and Hartman to the kitchen and 

set up a table for them.

“You can eat here,” he said, and he walked off.

Williams and Hartman sat in the kitchen. They heard their teammates talking 

about the game and Billy’s big hit [that won in the game in the ninth inning]. 

Nobody offered them food. A waitress rushed by and did not seem to hear their 

calls. This was seven years after Ralph Ellison’s book Invisible Man had been 

published. They felt invisible. (The Soul of Baseball, p. 86-87] 

Williams went home, but eventually returned. With Houston and the Chicago Cubs, he 

had a lifetime batting average of .290, hit 426 home runs, and accumulated 1,475 runs 

batted in. He was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1987; the Chicago Cubs retired 

his number 26 that same year. 
51 

Edward Kennedy “Duke” Ellington had been born in Washington, D.C., in 1899, at a 

time when African-Americans in the city were enjoying a vibrant cultural life:

It was a center of black musical and intellectual resistance to racism, and probably 

the best place to be an African American at the turn of the century, though 

certainly not without racial problems. The city was a bastion of the black middle 

class . . . . After the Civil War, Washington gained a reputation as a center of 

“respectable Negro society,” serving as a haven from exploitive sharecropping in 

the South designed to resemble slavery, most of the worst Jim Crow 

discrimination, and increased incidence of lynching and racial violence. It 

boasted the largest black urban community in the nation—31 percent of its 

inhabitants. Until the Woodrow Wilson administration ushered in an era of 

increased segregation in 1913, the federal government treated and hired local 

blacks with relative equality. [Duke Ellington’s America, p. 10] 

Ellington’s middle class family lived mainly in the Shaw neighborhood, the city’s main 

black business district. He attended segregated schools, but they had a strong reputation: 

Most importantly, race pride was emphasized in Washington’s black schools, and 

emerged as a major influence in the generation of black youngsters that came of 

age in the early twentieth century . . . . 

Ellington reported in his autobiography that his teachers (and his father) taught 

him that African Americans needed to cultivate especially good manners and 

speech and that blacks in his neighborhood were careful not to mix with any 

below-average people—black or white. “At that time there was some kind of 

movement to desegregate the schools in Washington, D.C.,” Ellington explained. 

“Who do you think were the first to object? Nobody but the proud Negroes of 

Washington, who felt that the kind of white kids we would be thrown in with 

were not good enough.” [Duke Ellington’s America, p. 12] 

By the 1920s, the city’s reputation had changed: 

President Wilson’s 1913 purge of blacks from federal government work 

eliminated many prestigious jobs for them. The violence against blacks following 

World War I included a race riot that raged for five days, provoked by false 

reports of black men attacking white women. The attacks by whites inspired 

blacks to take up arms against them . . . . But the lowest moment of the era in 

D.C. race relations occurred at the dedication of the Lincoln Memorial in 1922, 

when blacks were segregated from the main audience by a rope and a dirt road, 

and a black speaker at the event honoring the president who freed the slaves could 

not even sit on the dais. Ellington and band members Sonny Greer and Otto 

Hardwicke left Washington for New York shortly after this event. [Duke 

Ellington’s America, p. 22] 
52 

(The African-American speaker was Dr. Robert R. Moton, president of Tuskegee 

Institute, who proudly represented 12 million African-Americans—“none more grateful, 

none more reverent” at this moment honoring the great President.) 

By the 1930s, Ellington was an international star whose orchestra enjoyed a triumphant 

European tour. He had always avoided playing the South, but fresh from Europe, he 

agreed to do so if the tour could be handled in a way that would minimize friction with 

Jim Crow restrictions. He and his manager hired three Pullman cars for the southern tour 

and had the name of the orchestra painted on the sides of each of them. “The band had 

hired out trains for nonstop cross-country trips before, but it usually used buses between 

gigs.” The Pullmans, with their sleeping arrangements and facilities added for cooking, 

avoided two of the great problems African-Americans experienced when touring the 

South, namely finding restaurants and lodgings that would accommodate them. 

“No band, black or white, had traveled through the South in that manner before,” setting 

an example of pride for African-Americans in the South: 

Blacks in the South could not hope to evade Jim Crow constrictions in the regal 

manner of the Ellington orchestra, but the mere presence of well-dressed, worldrenowned, and accomplished black men, who attracted white paying audiences as 

well as black, made a lasting impression on blacks living in the “beleaguered 

segregated communities” where Ellington, Armstrong, [Cab] Calloway, and 

Hines played and stayed. 

The group’s performances were segregated, but Ellington also performed shows for 

exclusively black audiences. They performed separate performances in Dallas (“A 

Special Dance for Colored Only”), the Houston Colored Junior College, and the 

Panhandle Theatre (the “first colored attraction”) in Amarillo, Texas. This last concert 

was a midnight performance for African-Americans who had never been allowed in the 

theater. 

Cohen summarized the successful Southern tour in the protective Pullman cocoon: 

. . . Ellington’s approach outlined a new, more urbane identity for African 

Americans, proud of both their postslavery urban roots as well as their preslavery 

African roots. Ellington’s American audiences, even in the South, began to 

realize that he and his band represented black artists who defined themselves on 

their own equal terms, and not as whites viewed them. The Ellington orchestra 

implicitly rejected the Jim Crow vision of blacks not through words (which would 

have been dangerous) but through deeds, images, and actions. [Duke Ellington’s 

America, p. 130-135] 

Ellington’s 1933 experience was possible because he could afford to insulate his 

orchestra from Jim Crow. For most other performers and athletes, the blues singer 
53 

and musician Leadbelly summarized the experience in “Jim Crow Blues”:

I’ve been traveling, 

I’ve been traveling

From coast to coast. 

Everywhere I have been

I find some old Jim Crow

One thing, people, 

I want everybody to know 

You’re going to find some Jim Crow 

Every place you go. 

The 1941 March on Washington 

In 1941, Germany’s war against America’s allies in Europe continued in the west even as 

Adolph Hitler sent his forces east into the Soviet Union. As the war spread across the 

Old World, President Roosevelt was rapidly moving the United States into position to 

support its allies. This meant increased industrial production of weapons and other goods 

needed for the war in Europe, as well as rationing, cutbacks in other activities, and an 

increased draft in the United States. 

Even before American entry into the war following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor 

on December 7, 1941, the President was rallying citizens for the cause. On May 27, 

1941, he declared in a radio address that “an unlimited national emergency exists,” a step 

that took the Nation as close as it could come to war with declaring war. The country, he 

said, would “take any steps necessary” to deliver goods to England and to ensure the 

ultimate defeat of the Axis powers of Germany, Italy, and Japan. With France under 

German control, he said, “The delivery of needed supplies to Britain is imperative. This 

can be done; it must be done; it will be done.” For this purpose, the country would fight 

to keep the seas open, while taking every step to block any efforts Hitler might make to 

move forces into the Western Hemisphere.

His formal proclamation of the emergency called on “all loyal citizens engaged in 

production for defense to give precedence to the needs of the nation to the end that a 

system of government that makes private enterprise possible may survive.” He called on 

labor and management to settle their differences to unify for the battle:

I call upon all loyal citizens to place the nation’s needs first in mind and in action 

to the end that we may mobilize and have ready for instant defensive use all of the 

physical powers, all of the moral strength and all of the material resources of this

nation. 

The call for unity and the setting aside of old disputes sounded different to AfricanAmericans than it did to whites. As Packard put it, African-Americans who had served 
54 

in the segregated army of World War I recalled their return to second class civilian status:

Most of those soldiers and sailors went back to their Southern homes and to the 

same torment of Jim Crow that had always been their lot. A few had returned to 

or resettled in the North, but there, too, employers and unions denied them jobs, 

real estate agents and politicians confined them to ghettoes, and vast numbers of 

whites treated them with deep-rooted racial antagonism and generally did their 

utmost to keep them from the riches that America had given to so many others. 

Hoping for the goodwill of white America after serving in a war that had changed 

much of the world, instead black Americans got the back of its hand. [American

Nightmare, p. 176] 

As President Roosevelt shifted the country to a war footing in 1941, the NAACP 

promoted its “Double-V” campaign of victory over the Axis and racism. This campaign 

aimed to eliminate segregation in the military as well as open access to the thousands of 

jobs in war-related industries around the country: 

Indeed many blacks believed at the beginning of World War II that the homefront 

battle against racism was fully as important, if not more so, than that against the 

Axis, a stance pointedly challenging the overwhelming white endorsement of 

segregation in both civilian and military life. Though African-Americans as a 

whole remained a long way from the cohesiveness that would in another 

generation play a critical role in civil rights gains, determined men and women, 

civilian and military, black and white (especially judges in this latter group), had 

by Pearl Harbor begun to dislodge Jim Crow from its position of unassailability. 

[American Nightmare, p. 177] 

Efforts to secure President Roosevelt’s support for these changes in racial relations met 

with little success. With the Nation increasing its mobilization, the U.S. Army had 

230,000 soldiers, but fewer than 5,000 African-Americans and only a dozen AfricanAmerican officers. [Rising, p. 206] 

On September 27, 1940, A. Philip Randolph met with the President, along with Walter 

White of the NAACP and Mary LcLeod Bethune, an African-American leader, to 

emphasize the need to include African-Americans in the war effort. As a result of this 

meeting, the War Department issued a “Policy in Regard to Negroes” on October 9, 

1940. The policy announced plans to establish “Negro organizations . . . in each major 

branch of the service, combatant as well as noncombatant.” This did not mean racial 

groups would be combined: 

The policy of the War Department is not to intermingle colored and white enlisted 

personnel in the same regimental organization. This policy has proven 

satisfactory over a long period of years and to make changes would produce 

situations destructive to morale and detrimental to the preparations for national 

defense . . . . It is the opinion of the War Department that no experiments should 

be tried with the organizational setup of these units at this critical time.
55 

The NAACP denounced the policy in a telegram to the President. “We are inexpressibly 

shocked that a president of the United States at a time of national peril should surrender 

so completely to enemies of democracy who would destroy national unity by advocating 

segregation.” The policy, the telegram stated, was “ a blow at the patriotism of twelve 

million Negro citizens.” Nevertheless, the policy remained in effect throughout the war. 

[Twichell, Heath, Northwest Epic: The Building of the Alaska Highway, St. Martin’s 

Press, 1992, p. 138] 

Around New Year’s, Randolph left by train for a southern tour of Brotherhood offices. 

He was still frustrated by the President’s response. Talking with an aide, he came up 

with an idea, as the aide recalled:

“I think we ought to get ten thousand Negroes and march down Pennsylvania 

Avenue, and protest. What do you think about it?” I said, “I think it’s all right. 

Where are you going to get the ten thousand Negroes?” he said, “I believe we can 

get them.”

Randolph began talking about the March on Washington in speeches during the southern 

tour, coming up with the slogan: 

We loyal Negro American citizens demand the right to work and fight for our 

country. 

He set up the March on Washington Committee in Harlem, established branches in 18 

cities, and brought the NAACP into the plan. As the idea was gaining interest in AfricanAmerican communities, he announced in March 1941 that he planned on bringing 

100,000 African-American marchers to the Nation’s capital. The campaign hired buses 

and chartered trains to take African-Americans to Washington for the march on July 1, 

1941. [Rising, p. 207-208] 

President Roosevelt opposed the march at a time when he was trying to rally Americans 

to work together in the national emergency. The Administration asked the President’s 

wife Eleanor, Mayor Fiorello La Guardia of New York City, and other representatives of 

the President to meet with Randolph and the NAACP but they could not reach an 

agreement that would cancel the march. 

In late June, Randolph and other march leaders were called to Washington, where they 

asked the President to end discrimination in defense industries. As Tye put it, Roosevelt 

planned to use “the one tried-and-true tactic left: his capacity to enchant.” Randolph saw 

through the attempt to charm him into giving up the march. He got right to the point: 

Mr. President, time is running on. You are quite busy, I know. But what we want 

to talk with you about is the problem of jobs for Negroes in defense industries. 

Our people are being turned away at factory gates because they are colored. They 

can’t live with this thing. Now, what are you going to do about it? 
56 

The President refused to issue an order barring discrimination, while Randolph would 

accept nothing less. Finally, Randolph agreed to work with White House staffers on a 

compromise. [Rising, p. 208] 

In return for Randolph’s pledge to call off the march, President Roosevelt approved 

Executive Order 8802 on June 25, 1941, titled: 

Reaffirming Policy of Full Participation in the Defense Program By All Persons, 

Regardless of Race, Creed, Color, or National Origin, and Directing Certain 

Action in Furtherance of Said Policy. 

The Nation’s policy was “to encourage full participation in the national defense program” 

by all citizens,” but “needed workers have been barred from employment . . . solely 

because of consideration of race, creed, color, or national origin, to the detriment of 

workers’ morale and of national unity.” Therefore, he reaffirmed the policy that “there 

shall be no discrimination in the employment of workers in defense industries or 

government.” Although the order did not desegregate the armed forces, President 

Roosevelt ordered all Federal Agencies involved in vocational and training activities to 

ensure that discrimination did not hinder participation. The order continued: 

All contracting agencies of the Government of the United States shall include in 

all defense contracts hereafter negotiated by them a provision obligating the 

contractor not to discriminate against any worker because of race, creed, color, or 

national origin. 

He established the Fair Employment Practices Committee to investigate complaints of 

discrimination in violation of the Executive order and recommend measures government 

officials could take to implement the order. 

Randolph had to endure criticism for calling off the March on Washington and for not 

securing desegregation of the armed forces. However, as Tye explained: 

Order 8802 generally was recognized as a milestone in racial reconciliation, 

maybe even the second Emancipation Proclamation that Randolph and his 

associates claimed. He had pried open the lucrative defense industries to admit 

black workers and pushed the U.S. government to its most decisive civil rights 

stance since Reconstruction. He had gone eyeball-to-eyeball with the most 

charismatic, powerful American president of that era, or any, and made him blink 

. . . . 

So successful was the Washington march, or rather the threat of one, that 

Randolph kept alive both the march and the movement around it. Even as he 

went on national radio to cancel the July 1 demonstration, he made clear that it 

was his aim “to broaden and strengthen the Negro March-on-Washington 
57 

committees all over the United States, to serve as watchdogs on the application of 

the President’s executive order.” [Rising, p. 209-210] 

Although the Fair Employment Practices Committee did not have an enforcement 

mechanism, it proved effective in using the threat of unfavorable publicity to open jobs 

for minorities. 

(President Roosevelt amended Executive Order 8802 on May 26, 1943. Executive Order 

9346 restated the concerns and directives of the earlier order, but established a new 

Committee on Fair Employment Practice with a broader role in accomplishing the order’s 

objectives.) 

The Executive order applied to Federal contracts. Because the bulk of the Federal-aid 

highway program involved contracts awarded by State highway agencies, the order 

initially had limited impact on the Public Roads Administration (PRA, as BPR was 

known in the 1940s). On December 6, 1941, Commissioner of Public Roads Thomas H. 

MacDonald issued General Administrative Memorandum No. 140 on “Nondiscrimination 

in Defense Contracts.” He reprinted the order and concluded: 

To give effect to the foregoing Executive Order, the special provisions for all 

defense contracts hereafter negotiated shall contain the following clause: 

In the performance of this contract, the contractor shall not discriminate 

against any worker because of race, creed, color, or national origin 

This application limited the provision to contracts awarded for defense highway and 

defense-related access projects. 

However, on March 4, 1942, MacDonald issued two General Administrative Memoranda, 

Nos. 152 and 153. In both, he reported that the Secretary of Labor had issued regulations 

covering a range of topics that applied to contractors and subcontractors on public works 

projects financed in whole or part by loans or grants from the United States. In view of 

the regulatory change, PRA had modified Pamphlet G (No. 152), which covered PRA 

contracts citing FP-41 (Specifications for Construction of Roads and Bridges in National 

Forests and Parks). PRA also amended Required Special Provisions (No. 153) for 

contracts awarded for all regular Federal-aid, grade crossing, and secondary highway 

projects, as well as projects developed under the Defense Highway Act of 1941. 

MacDonald noted in both memoranda that a clause had been added to Pamphlet G and 

Required Special Provisions pursuant to Executive Order 8802 prohibiting discrimination 

based on race, creed, color, or national origin. Under these two memoranda, therefore, 

PRA expanded Executive Order 8802 to all its projects, including those under State 

contracting authority. 

Packard described the President as signing the 1941 Executive order “unenthusiastically.” 

He did so to prevent a divisive March on Washington, but the President did not view the 
58 

practical considerations as extending to the military. The President’s first duty, as 

Packard put it, was “to win the war rather than to try to correct the nation’s social ills.” 

While calling this distinction tragic, Packard explained that Roosevelt, like Wilson, faced 

a basic problem: 

In fairness to Roosevelt, partisan politics largely shaped the president’s options on 

racial affairs. The president believed that in this area his hands were effectively 

tied by the South’s senators and representatives; if he were to press a social 

agenda that thwarted their regional interests, legislators from the old Confederacy, 

men perfectly ready to put their white supremacism ahead of the critical interests 

of a nation planning and preparing for world war, could and would block the 

White House’s most urgent defense needs. [American Nightmare, p. 177-178] 

World War II – The Alaska Highway 

The attack on Pearl Harbor in Hawaii on December 7, 1941, would bring the United 

States into the war, but it also raised a concern that the U.S. Territory of Alaska was 

vulnerable to Japanese attack. The Aleutian Islands off southwest Alaska were closer to 

Japan than any point in North America. Overland travel by car, truck, or train between 

the United States and Alaska through northwestern Canada was not possible; Canada did 

not have an incentive to build a connecting road north of Dawson Creek to Alaska across 

the rugged topography of its northwest to the American Territory. Construction of a land 

route to Alaska, long supported by Alaskan officials, now became a necessity – and the 

sooner the better. (Initially, the project was referred to as the Alcan Highway, but on July 

19, 1943, Canada and the United States exchanged diplomatic notes formally naming it 

the Alaska Highway.) 

Previous studies had focused on the best route, but disagreements on need and routing 

had held up the project. Now, speed was essential to military needs. President Roosevelt 

approved the project on February 11, 1942, and an agreement for U.S. construction of a 

road in Canada was reached on March 18. The Alaska Highway would stretch northwest 

from Dawson Creek through Fort Nelson and Whitehorse in Canada, and via Tok 

Junction to Big Delta southeast of Fairbanks, Alaska. At Big Delta, supply trucks and 

other traffic could connect with the Territory’s road network. 

In the interest of speed, officials decided to build the road in two phases. A pioneer road 

would be carved out of the difficult terrain in 1942 to open the route for supply trucks by 

year’s end. With military traffic flowing, officials would have time in 1943 to build a 

permanent road on the best alignment. 

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers was to build the pioneer road, with Army engineering 

units and contractors furnished and directed by the PRA. Initially, the Army divided the 

1,500-mile project into five segments, with PRA contractors responsible for the portion 

from Whitehorse to Big Delta, about 560 miles. After reconnaissance revealed the
59 

difficulties, PRA’s work was extended 100 miles east to Teslin. As the Federal Highway 

Administration’s Bicentennial history put it:

In actuality, however, it was a combined effort with overlapping work 

responsibility, shifts in priorities, and a great deal of truly cooperative effort from 

the time of the arrival of the first Army troops at Dawson Creek on March 10, 

1942, to the removal of all contractor personnel and supervisory engineers of 

Public Roads at the end of October 1943. [America’s Highways 1776-1976, 

Federal Highway Administration, 1976, p. 532] 

With so many soldiers needed to fight the war in the European and Pacific theaters of 

operation, the U.S. Army was in need of men for their half of the project. The units 

initially designated for the project would not be able to complete the job in the 8 months 

allotted for the pioneer road. African-American troops were the solution. Since approval 

of the Selective Service Act of 1940, they had been drafted into the Army on the same 

terms as whites, but as Heath Twichell explained in his book on the Alaska Highway, 

“Segregation’s legacy of bigotry and prejudice severely limited the possibilities” for the 

work they would do: 

As a result, relatively few black infantry, armor, or artillery units were organized 

during World War II . . . . In the end, black soldiers were assigned to more than 

their share of units engaged in low-tech, high-sweat duties in the Engineers and 

Quartermaster Corps. Although the Corps of Engineers put most of its new black 

soldiers into general-purpose construction battalions and regiments, shortages of 

heavy equipment sometimes resulted in the black units’ being issued fewer 

bulldozers and more shovels and wheelbarrows than the white units got. 

Another touchy issue was where to station the new black units. In the United 

States, military leaders felt they had to worry about the impact of large numbers 

of young black soldiers on nearby civilian communities. [Northwest, p. 97-98] 

Shipping young African-Americans in engineering units to Canada to build the Alaska 

Highway solved these problems. 

Three African-American units–the 93rd, 95th, and 97th Engineers—would be shipped to 

Canada to supplement the white units assigned to the job. All, white and black, faced 

training problems “in the face of equipment shortages, disruptive moves and changes, and 

the repeated loss of experienced men to provide cadres for newer units.” [Northwest, p. 

140-141] However, the African-Americans faced unique problems, as Professor Ken 

Coates discussed in his book on the highway: 

Many locals commented, with evident sympathy, on the plight of the black 

soldiers dispatched to work on the highway. These men had particular difficulty 

because so many were from the American South and had never before 

experienced a real winter. One army officer alleged that “Our colored boys are 

allergic to cold weather, and it’s going to be a problem to keep them well and 
60 

happy I fear.” Gordon Gibbs [a Vancouver truck driver who helped with 

transport of supplies] excoriated the U.S. Army for sending troops from the Deep 

South into the Far Northwest, and then housing them in bell tents. “Now the story 

was,” Gibbs says, “and this I saw, they all had good eiderdown sleeping bags, 

army issue sleeping bags. And they’d cut the bottom out and they’d wear them. 

Of course, the feathers kept dribbling out.” 

After struggling through long difficult trips to reach the site with their equipment, the 

African-American troops found that their best equipment would be shifted to the white 

units. The disparity was evident in many areas: 

Jim Sutton, an American [white] soldier, believes that the black troops got a dirty 

deal. He says, “They were up here when we got up here. We were put in 

barracks, wooden barracks, and we had stoves and everything. These poor black 

people were doing the same job as we were and they had them in tents. I didn’t 

think that was really fair.” 

Most of the tales about the black troops contain two elements – memories of men 

as excellent workers and references to their intense dislike of the cold. One 

officer wrote, “During the most severe weather encountered, it is believed that 

Negro troops, properly led, have accomplished more physical labour than other 

troops in the same area engaged in similar work.” Ruth Gruber, an official with 

the U.S. Department of the Interior, quoted the soldiers’ officers as saying, “The 

Negroes were better soldiers and builders than the whites. They put our goldbricks [slackers] to shame. We never had a bit of trouble with them; they policed 

themselves . . . .” Today, it is clear that the black soldiers managed to perform as 

well as the white soldiers, despite the disadvantages imposed by a racist and 

discriminatory age. [Coates, Ken, North to Alaska!, University of Alaska Press, 

1992, p. 104-105] 

The young African-Americans had attended the inadequate segregated schools of the Jim 

Crow South. Their white officers considered them not just uneducated but “slow 

learners.” In truth, as Twichell explained, the black units contained “relatively few men 

who had entered military service already possessing a technical skill.” The problem was 

compounded by “the lack of black leadership and the bigotry of white leaders.” Twichell 

summarized the attitude of white officers:

Most white officers, especially careerists conscious of the risks to their 

professional reputation, looked upon duty with black troops as an experience to be 

avoided if at all possible. Indeed, many officers given such assignments devoted 

considerable time and energy trying to get reassigned—an effort not lost on the 

men they were supposed to be leading. 

General William M. Hoge, the officer in charge of the project during most of the first 

year, had what Twichell described as “deep-seated doubts about the efficiency of 

Engineer units largely manned by unskilled blacks, particularly under arctic conditions.” 
61 

He wanted to keep them away from populated areas. Hoge “had no more interest in 

experimenting with equal opportunity in the middle of the war” than the President or 

other military leaders. [Northwest, p. 146] 

In practice, the African-Americans were involved in many phases of construction, often 

trailing the white troops:

[A]fter cutting an access road over Mentasta Pass from Slana to Tok, Colonel 

[Stephen C.] Whipple’s 97th Engineers would be used to speed the opening of the 

northernmost third of the Alaska Highway by helping the PRA and the 18th

Engineers close the gap between Whitehorse and Big Delta. Similarly, after 

opening a trail from Carcross to help the 340th Engineers reach Teslin, one 

battalion of Colonel [Frank M. S.] Johnson’s 93rd Engineers would start work on 

the pioneer road from that point toward Whitehorse, while the other began 

improving the 340th’s newly cut trail to Watson Lake. As for Colonel Newman’s 

95th Engineers, neither Hoge nor (subsequently) [his replacement, Colonel James 

A.] O’Connor could find anything more worthwhile for them to do than to 

upgrade the pioneer road to Fort Nelson behind the 341st. [Northwest, p. 146] 

With PRA contractors and Army engineering units working on segments of the Alaska 

Highway, gaps began to close in August. By the end of September, only the most 

difficult sections, through eastern Alaska and the southwest corner of the Yukon, 

remained to be completed. [North to Alaska, p. 130] 

The final gap was closed on October 29, 1942, south of Kluane Lake. Coates quoted 

Malcolm MacDonald, British high commissioner to Canada, on the final moments: 

The final meeting between men working from the south and men working from 

the north was dramatic. They met head on in the forest. Corporal Refines Sims, 

Jr., a negro from Philadelphia [of the 97th Engineers] . . . was driving south with a 

bulldozer when he saw trees starting to topple over on him. Slamming his big 

vehicle into reverse he backed out just as another bulldozer driven by private 

Alfred Jalufka of Kennedy, Texas, broke through the underbrush. Jalufka had 

been forcing his bulldozer through the bush with such speed that his face was 

bloody from scratches of overhanging branches and limbs. That historic meeting 

between a negro corporal and white private on their respective bulldozers 

occurred 20 miles east of the Alaska-Yukon Boundary at a place called Beaver 

Creek. [North to Alaska, p, 130-131] 

A wire-service photographer captured the image of the two men, one white, one black, 

standing on the bulldozers while shaking hands. The photograph would appear in 

newspapers around the country, and remains a staple of books and articles about the 

Alaska Highway.

Officials planned a ceremony on November 15, 1942, to mark completion of the pioneer 

trail. However, a sudden warming trend caused 1-foot thick ice on the area’s rivers and 
62 

streams to break up. Flood waters washed away or damaged several bridges. The 

ceremony was delayed until November 20, by which time all but the Peace River Bridge 

had been repaired. (Repair of the Peace River Bridge was completed on November 21.) 

Over 200 dignitaries, guests, and journalists from the United States and Canada arrived at 

scenic Soldiers’ Summit on the south end of Kluane Lake for the ceremony. The 

freezing temperature (-15 degrees farenheit) and falling snowflakes did not stop the 

speeches, but finally the time came for the ribbon cutting that would signal the opening of 

the Alaska Highway. Coates described the ceremony:

The formal ceremonies were, by all accounts, quite moving. Four enlisted men – 

Corporal Refines Sims and Private Alfred Jalufka (the two bulldozer operators 

who had finished the northern section), representing the Whitehose sector, and 

Master-Sergeant Andrew Doyle and [African-American] Corporal John Reilly, 

from the Fort St. John Sector – held the ceremonial ribbon. Captain Richard 

Neuberger described the highlight of the day’s gathering: “The ceremony moved 

toward a natural climax. At its end, [Canada’s Minister of Pensions and National 

Health Ian ] MacKenzie [representing Prime Minister Mackenzie King] and 

[Alaska’s Secretary of State E. L. “Bob”] Bartlett [representing Governor Ernest 

Gruening] were given a pair of scissors. These scissors had been especially 

engraved in Alaska gold by William Osborne, pioneer resident of Juneau . . . . 

Mackenzie took one blade of the scissors, Bartlett the other. The crowd became 

tense. Then the blades closed and the red, white and blue ribbon across the road 

was severed.” After the speeches, spirited if somewhat chilled renditions of “God 

Save the King” and “The Star Spangled Banner” and a benediction by Captain E. 

May, U.S. Army Chaplain, brought the ceremony to a close. [North to Alaska, p. 

132-133] 

 

Although trucks began using the Alaska Highway, winter shut down all but maintenance 

operations on the road. 

(in 1954, Captain Neuberger would win election to represent Oregon in the United States 

Senate. He served until his death on March 9, 1960. As noted earlier, he was 

instrumental in securing Davis-Bacon Act coverage for construction of the Interstate 

System.)

By the time the 1943 construction season began, PRA had its contractors ready to get to 

work on the permanent location of the Alaska Highway. The contractors kept the pioneer 

trail in service while building the permanent road, much of it on new location. By midJuly 1943, 81 contractors were on the job employing about 14,000 civilian workmen 

operating 6,000 heavy units of equipment, including scrapers, power shovels, elevating 

graders, trucks, motor graders, gravel plants, and sawmills. Forces included 1,850 PRA 

employees. Working two shifts of 10 hours each day, they completed the major portion 

of the work between mid-July and the end of October. [Annual Report of the Federal 

Works Agency, 1944, p. 26] 
63 

On October 13, the Utah Construction Company completed work on the last major gap. A 

stretch of permafrost northwest of Kluane Lake near the Alaska border. All the 

contractors had ceased operation by the end of the month and on October 31, PRA turned 

the Alaska Highway over to the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to maintain for the 

duration of the war. [Northwest, p. 251] 

Twichell summarized PRA’s contribution:

Of the 1,420 miles of highway across Canada to Alaska that were opened to the 

public after World War II, about two-thirds (970 miles) consisted of the original 

Army pioneer road, all of which had been substantially improved and upgraded 

by the PRA. Another 450 miles of the highway were new – and strictly PRAbuilt. Here the Army’s pioneer road had served its original purpose as an access 

route and was abandoned thereafter. The wartime cost of the Alaska Highway 

came to a seemingly modest $138 million—less than $100,000 per mile. 

[Northwest, p. 253] 

The three African-American regiments had left the road by the end of February 1943 

According to historian Douglas Brinkley, the Alaska Highway was “not only the greatest 

engineering feat of the Second World War; it is a triumph over racism.” He noted that 

“of the 10,670 troops assigned to fog-bound Alaska 3,695 of them were African 

Americans,” all with units trained in Alabama, Florida, and Georgia. They were, as he 

added, seldom mentioned in government press releases or featured in press coverage. 

Nevertheless, he says:

When Private Refines Simms, Jr., a bulldozer technician with the 97th Engineers, 

converged with Private Alfred Jalufka, lead driver of the white 18th Engineers, on 

25 October 1942 a major construction gap was closed. But the symbolism was 

even greater: blacks and whites working together for a common cause. Before 

long the U.S. Army would become integrated, a major step in the African 

American struggle for racial equality. [Brinkley, Douglas, “The Alcan Highway,” 

Introduction to Griggs, William E., The World War II Black Regiment That Built 

the Alaska Military Highway: A Photographic History, University Press of 

Mississippi, 2002, p. 9-10, 12] 

Over the years, as public attitudes changed, the African-Americans who helped build the 

pioneer trail received recognition for their accomplishment. Brinkley interviewed some 

of the veterans:

They all talked to me about duty for country and reminisced about their harsh 

living conditions, tasteless food, and bitter winters where frostbite was their 

primary foe. Stories about wading chest deep into freezing lakes to erect bridge 

trestles or having a finger fall off when the temperature hit a record -70o F or 

lowering the coffin of a comrade into the cold ground conjured bleak memories of 

Jack London’s most brutal tales like “To Build a Fire” or “Burning Sun.” 
64 

Snowdrifts were often twenty feet deep. “For months on end, I couldn’t get a real 

night’s sleep,” one veteran recalled. “I had nightmares I was freezing to death.” 

Although these black soldiers had at their disposal 11,107 pieces of equipment, 

trucks, tractors, crushers, graders, and bulldozers, breakdowns occurred hourly. 

The job was daunting. Never before, it seems, had so many survey sticks been 

hammered into the earth at a given time. To keep morale up they often chanted 

old southern work tunes like “Steel-Driving Song” and “Swing Low, Sweet 

Chariot.” With brawn and courage and valor they persevered, completing the 

Alcan Highway in just over eight months, with the official opening on 21 

November 1942. [Alcan, p. 10]

This recognition of the African-Americans was thanks in part to Professor Lael Morgan 

of the University of Alaska-Fairbanks. In 1989, National Geographic magazine 

contracted with her to write an article about the Alaska Highway. As she researched 

construction of the highway, she became interested in the role of the African-American

engineering units. An article by Bill Gifford in Washington City Paper described her 

research efforts:

As she researched the road, she became fascinated by its history, especially the 

Army’s use of black troops. But those black soldiers had scattered to the winds. 

The Pentagon could provide no troop lists or regimental directories. None of the 

three black regiments had ever held a reunion, although such events are common 

among white units. The 18th Engineers has held regular reunions since the war, 

and the 340th published a lavish picture book. The blacks had no group history; 

their memories of military service were undoubtedly less pleasant. 

She was frustrated by the lack of interest in the troops by contemporary sources or 

research by subsequent historians: 

Yet she felt the blacks deserved recognition, since they had been deleted from 

most accounts of the project. The Trail of ’42, the most popular history of the 

highway, includes only three grainy photos of blacks, with no close-ups. She 

found that the official U.S. Army history of the Corps of Engineers covers the 

contribution of blacks in a single footnote. 

Using a list of some of the men’s names and hometowns she found in an old issue of 

Stars & Stripes, she managed to located seven veterans to interview. 

National Geographic was not interested in Professsor Morgan’s approach to the article. 

The magazine canceled her article, but her contract forbid her from using the material 

gathered for the magazine in another publication. [Gifford, Bill, “The Great Black 

North,” Washington City Paper, October 8, 1993, p. 30-31] 

As she told the Associated Press in 1990: 

You go through all the souvenir books of the Alaska highway and all the old news 
65 

clippings, you never see a single black face. Nor did any historian know the 

whereabouts of these people. So I started looking. [Hallifax, Jackie, “Historians 

plan reunion for black soldiers who worked on Alaska road,” Associated Press, 

date unknown, but probably September 1990] 

The 50th anniversary in 1991 provided “the hook she needed,” as Gifford explained: 

Previous anniversaries had celebrated “the same old stuff, with white soldiers 

shaking hands,” says Morgan, a self-described “pushy broad.” “I decided, this 

time would be different. It would not go down in history as just these white 

soldiers who built it.” [City Paper, p. 32] 

Because many of the soldiers came from the South, she contacted James Eaton, curator of 

the Black Archives Research Center and Museum at Florida A&M University in 

Tallahassee. By combining their efforts, they located some of the men, interviewed 

them, and documented their accomplishments. Twichell, who had researched the subject 

for Northwest Epic, provided the names and addresses of six of the soldiers. Overall, 

they located 75 veterans.

In January 1992, Eaton and Morgan sponsored a reunion at the university, with 13 of the 

veterans participating. An article about the reunion in the student newspaper explained: 

There are over 2,000 different celebrations to commemorate the highway’s 50th

anniversity [sic] but none of them honored, and most hardly mentioned, the black 

units who represented one-third of the troops, according to Eaton . . . . [He] 

called the soldiers, “A lost page in history.” [Lindo, Tresha, “Troops re-united for 

highway’s 50th anniversary,” The Famuan, January 13, 1992] 

These efforts created interest in the subject, such that on July 4, 1992, the city of 

Anchorage invited several of the troops to participate in the city’s parade down Main 

Street. Two of them, Albert E. France and Donald W. Nolan, Sr., were from Baltimore. 

Ann LoLordo of The Baltimore Sun interviewed them before they departed for Alaska. 

France was a 75-year old retired railroad worker, while Nolan was a 72-year old retired 

postal worker. They both recalled, first and foremost, the cold: 

“It was awful cold and it snowed for days,” recalled Mr. France . . . . It was the 

coldest winder on record in the territory. 

“Leather would freeze,” recalled Mr. Nolan . . . . “We’d take galoshes, rubber 

galoshes – we called them ‘Arctics’ – and we’d wear three, four pairs of socks 

We would double up on pants. We slept on the ground in pup tents.” 

Food was never plentiful. C-rations, bittersweet chocolate and “hardcracks” 

might be all a soldier would get to eat after the harsh climate cut off supply 

routes. 
66 

“We’d kill a bear, a huge black bear,” said Mr. Nolan, “about 9, 10 feet high, and 

those chops were delicious.” 

When the snow stopped, the rains started and the rivers swelled. In summer, 

mosquitoes droned like airplanes and the “muskeg,” a uniquely Alaskan bog, 

swallowed tractors . . . . 

In that barren landscape, the off-work hours could seem exceptionally long. 

The commander, General Simon Bolivar Buckner, Jr., had accepted the regiments 

reluctantly and prohibited them from visiting towns and cities along the route: 

The men entertained themselves shooting craps and throwing horseshoes and 

playing ball when the weather broke. 

Looking back, Nolan said he was glad to have served on the project. “You have 

something to tell your kids.” [LoLordo, Ann, “Black GIs helped carve a road across 

frozen hell,” The Baltimore Sun, July 4, 1992] 

(The November 1991 issue of National Geographic contained Richard Olsenius’ article 

“Alaska Highway – Wilderness Escape Route.” The author described his trip along the 

highway, with only a brief reference to its construction during the war. Fifty years 

earlier, Olsenius explained, it “was hacked out of virtually trackless bush in a mere eight 

months.” A two-page map, with two construction photos, contained a brief explanation 

that the highway “was built at eight miles a day during World War II to counter any 

invasion by Japanese forces—who thanked workers in a propaganda broadcast for 

opening a way for their own troops.” The article did not mention the contribution of the 

African-American units to construction of the pioneer trail in 1942.) 

World War II – The Red Ball Express

In addition to construction jobs in engineering units, African-American troops often were

confined to service units, including trucking units, as journalist David P. Colley 

explained:

Although some trucking units consisted of all whites, about 70 percent of the 

transportation companies were manned by African Americans because most 

blacks were relegated to service units. It had been the Army’s attitude for years, 

dating back to the eighteenth century, that blacks lacked the intellectual capacity 

and the fortitude to fight in integrated combat units . . . . Of course, African 

Americans did more than drive trucks. They manned engineer units that kept 

open the supply routes, they served in ordnance companies that maintained trucks 

and depots, and they comprised 77 percent of the soldier-stevedores in port 

battalions who unloaded the ships bringing in supplies to the ETO [European 

Theater of Operations] from Britain and America.
67 

Blacks also served in a few segregated combat units. The largest of these were 

the 92d Infantry Division, which fought in Italy, and the 93d Infantry Division, 

which served in the South Pacific. The most famous of the black combat units 

was the 332d Fighter Group, better known as the “Tuskegee Airmen,” which 

consisted of the 99th, 100th, 31st, and 302d Fighter Squadrons. [Colley, David P. 

The Road to Victory: The Untold Story of World War II’s Red Ball Express, 

Brassey’s, 2000, p. 6-7] 

All armies depend on their service units for food and supplies. Adolph Hitler had learned 

this lesson by failing to heed it early in the war when Germany, severely lacking in 

trucks, could barely service its blitzkrieg forces. The German blitzkrieg or “lightning 

war,” involved the use of overwhelming force via tanks, infantry, artillery, and air 

support moving at high speed to break through enemy lines. After the initial 

breakthrough, the blitzkrieg forces continued forward without pausing to establish supply 

lines. In the early stages of the war, Germany employed the blitzkrieg to defeat Poland 

(1939), the Low Countries (Belgium, Luxembourg, and The Netherlands) and France 

(1940), and the Red Army (1941 and 1942), all of them unprepared for this tactic. 

The problem with racing beyond your supply lines was that the troops needed those 

supplies, as Colley described: 

To supply mechanized forces, particularly with gasoline, in a fast-moving war 

became a seemingly impossible task . . . . The bulk of the German army marched 

on foot and was supplied by horse and wagon. These slow-moving infantry and 

supply formations used the same roads as the trucks that supplied the forward 

mechanized units. The highways became congested by the marching troops and 

horse-drawn wagons. [Victory, p. 44-45] 

In 1944, this lesson was not lost on General Dwight D. Eisenhower and other allied 

leaders as they planned the D-Day invasion along a 50-mile stretch of German-fortified 

beach at Normandy in northern France on June 6, 1944. After airlifting 24,000 troops 

into the area, the Allies launched the largest amphibious invasion ever, with 175,000 

troops stepping foot on the beach under German attack. 

Supplying such a large force as it moved off the beach would not be easy under any 

circumstances. In this case, the difficulty was compounded because the Allies had been 

bombing the rail network in northern France to slow Germany’s supply efforts in the 

captured country. The Allies knew they would have to establish a supply line, and 

quickly, to support the plan to chase the Germans across northern France into Germany. 

Gasoline, necessarily, was at the heart of the Allied battle plan: 

Gasoline was the most critical commodity after the breakout. The Shermans 

[tanks] alone guzzled fuel at a rate of one gallon per 1-2 miles during combat. In 

the logistical calculations for the armies, a quarter of all supplies needed to sustain 

the drive into Germany was in the form of petroleum products, mostly gasoline. 

[Victory, p. 47] 
68 

As the First and Third American Armies pressured the German Seventh and Fifth Panzer 

Armies, trucks supplied huge amounts of gasoline to fuel the advance: 

“With thirty-six divisions in action we were faced with the problem of delivering 

from beaches and ports to the front lines some 20,000 tons of supplies every day,” 

Eisenhower wrote in Crusade in Europe. As more divisions poured into Europe, 

the need for supplies would only add to the strain of delivering them to the front. 

“When battling in a fixed position, most of this tonnage is represented in 

ammunition; on the march the bulk is devoted to gasoline and lubricants, called in 

the language of the supply office, POL (petroleum, oil, lubricants),” Eisenhower 

wrote. [Victory, p. 43] 

Trucks struggled to keep up with the advancing army’s need for POL, particularly after 

Eisenhower authorized the American Army to advance beyond the Seine River. In late 

July, the Allies finally broke the Germany lines and began forcing them back. By 

August, Command Zone headquarters, which was responsible for maintaining lines of 

communication and logistics, was searching for a solution to the supply problem. 

The answer came from the Transportation Corps’ Motor Transport Brigade (MTB), 

which had overall command of the trucking companies. The MTB Chief, Lieutenant

Colonel Loren A. Ayers, and Major Gordon K. Gravelle came up with the Red Ball 

Express. The term had been in common use among railroads for express shipping, and it 

had been used for other operations during the war. However, the Red Ball Express 

following the Normandy invasion would earn a special claim to the name. 

The plan was to gather nonessential trucks from throughout the European Theater. 

Although General Eisenhower had wanted tractor-trailers for the Red Ball Express, the 

primary vehicle was the versatile 21⁄2 ton six-wheel-drive General Motors truck 

nicknamed the “Jimmy” and “deuce-and-a-half.” They would operate 24 hours a day on 

two designated two-lane, one-way roads, reserved almost exclusively for the trucks,

totaling around 600 miles at the peak of service. The northern route was closed to all 

traffic except convoys delivering supplies, while the southern route was closed to all but 

returning trucks. 

The Red Ball Express began operating on August 25, 1944, with 67 truck companies, 

3,358 trucks, mostly Jimmies, carrying 4,482 tons of supplies on a 125-mile run from 

Cherbourg to the forward logistics base at Chartres. Just 4 days later, the Red Ball 

Express included 132 truck companies and 5,958 vehicles. [Victory, p. 49] 

This massive supply initiative required drivers, and that meant African-Americans:

What is most often overlooked about the Red Ball operation, as well as the war in 

Europe, is the contribution made by the African American soldiers assigned to 

Quartermaster and Transportation Corps units. Although three-fourths of Red 

Ball drivers were black, and the majority of the quartermaster truck companies in 
69 

the ETO were manned by blacks, African American troops represented less than 

10 percent of all military personnel in World War II. When the call went out to 

form the Red Ball Express, African American troops, in large measure, kept the 

supply lines rolling. [Victory, p. xv] 

On average, as many as 900 vehicles operated around the clock. They usually operated 

in convoys consisting of at least five trucks with Jeep escorts in front and back, although 

individual trucks sometimes made the run. 

Drivers in convoy were instructed to maintain 60-yard intervals to present less of a target 

to German bombers and a top speed of 25 miles per hour for safe operation. Passing was 

not allowed. During night runs, drivers had to operate without lights, using “cat-eye” 

headlight covers more to mark their presence than to see the road. The trucks were 

stopped for 10 minutes each hour to give the drivers a break. 

 

As Colley pointed out, such a large-scale motorized supply operation was unprecedented: 

The Red Ball Express was a seat-of-the-pants operation, organized in extreme 

haste, with frequent administrative and operational breakdowns. Problems were 

most apparent at the beginning but continued throughout its existence. Truck 

drivers often avoided the Red Ball Highway to take side roads, bypassed 

regulating stations, ignored speed limits and maintenance, and cursed at MPs who 

tried to bring them in line . . . . 

MTB officers immediately established traffic-control points (TCPs) that operated 

around the clock at principal intersections and in towns. The job of TCP 

personnel was to regulate convoys or any other vehicles, civilian or military, that 

used the dedicated highway and to ensure that Red Ball convoys had the right-ofway in all cases. TCP troops kept daily records of the arrival times of passing 

convoys and logged their destinations, weights, and the classes of supplies that 

they carried. TCP personnel also were required to have maps of alternate routes 

for non-Red Ball vehicles, as well as maps of the Red Ball route that showed the 

location of refueling points and maintenance shops for legitimate convoys and 

vehicles. [Victory, p. 87] 

Military police were posted along the roads, with control of drivers intent on their 

mission:

The job of the MPs in traffic control on the Red Ball was critical to the success of 

the operation. There were thousands of vehicles on the highway, all in a hurry 

and all expecting priority treatment, but there were never enough MPs and those 

assigned to the Red Ball had too many other responsibilities . . . . There were 

hundreds of miles of Red Ball Highway to patrol, intersections to manage, detours 

to point out, and bridges to guard . . . . [Victory, p. 91] 
70 

The way was marked by colorful signs to keep the drivers on the route. An oft-reprinted 

photograph shows a sign reading: 

RED BALL HIGHWAY

STAY ON THE

BALL

KEEP ‘EM ROLLING!

Maintenance vehicles were posted along the route to repair disabled trucks. The Army 

opened bivouac rest areas where exhausted drivers could rest and get a hot meal.

Allied reconstruction of the French railroad system brought the Red Ball Express to an 

end on November 16, 1944: 

The reconstruction of the French rail system and the creation of truck-to-rail 

transfer points meant that some materiel once sent by truck across France now 

could be transported by rail. Trucks no longer had to make the long journey back 

to the invasion beaches. The need for the Red Ball diminished daily. 

From its peak performance when it transported 12,342 tons of supplies on 29 

August, the Red Ball settled down to haul an average of 5,088 tons per day until 

25 October when the loads dipped to an average of 2,711 tons daily. From then 

on, to the last day of the operation, tonnages declined. On 1 November, total tons 

carried on the Red Ball declined to 1,644 daily and seldom went above 2,000 tons 

thereafter. 

From a high-water mark when some 132 truck companies served on the Red Ball 

during the first week of September, only 5 companies were left by midNovember, Red Ball’s last week. On average, some 83 truck companies served 

on the Red Ball during its eighty-one days of operation, with an average of 899 

trucks operating on the highway on any given day. [Victory, p. 183] 

The Red Ball Express was a conveyor belt on wheels carrying supplies until the rail 

network could carry the load. During its brief existence, African-American drivers 

performed a vital mission that was dull, hard work. General Eisenhower acknowledged 

the value in an October 1 message to the officers and men of the Red Ball Express. After 

explaining the importance of supplying the fighting troops, he said: 

On the continent, the Red Ball Line is the lifeline between combat and supply. 

To it falls the tremendous task of getting vital supplies from ports and depots to 

the combat troops, when and where vital supplies are needed, materiel without 

which the Armies might fail.

To you the drivers and the mechanics and your officers, who keep the Red Ball 

vehicles constantly moving, I wish to express my deep appreciation. You are 

doing an excellent job. 
71 

But the struggle is not yet won, for the enemy still fights. So the Red Ball must 

continue the battle it is waging so well, with the knowledge that each truckload 

which goes through to the combat forces cannot help but bring victory. [Victory, 

p. 186-187] 

The contribution of African-Americans to the Red Ball Express has not been forgotten. 

The 1952 film Red Ball Express featured some African-Americans, including Sidney 

Poitier. In 1973, CBS aired a situation comedy called Roll Out! about the adventures of a 

largely African-American trucking company on the Red Ball Express. Following in the 

footsteps of the iconoclastic Korean War comedy M*A*S*H (1972-1983), Roll Out! used 

World War II for a commentary on segregated race relations. The show lasted 12 

episodes. 

In 2003, the rock group, Scott Miller and the Commonwealth, included a song called 

“Red Ball Express” on their Upside/Downside album. The song told the story from the 

perspective of an African-American soldier looking back on his experience as a Red Ball 

driver. He recalls the day-to-day experience:

All we do is keep it rolling on

Trading bodies for petroleum 

Heating rations on the manifold 

And never sleep enough to dream about home. 

Looking back, he thinks about: 

Looking through cat eyes 

Of a deuce and a half and a days supply

Of jerry cans in back . . . 

Even now I've never felt that cold 

Because fifty years later and you don't forget

Being eighteen and scared to death

In a world that's changing fast.

On June 6, 1994, the United States Postal Service issued a 29-cent stamp honoring the 

Red Ball Express as part of a 50th anniversary commemoration of the Normandy D-Day 

invasion called "The 1944: Road to Victory."

The phrase Red Ball Express would be revived in subsequent wars for express supply 

routes, but Colley summed up the reason why the Red Ball Express following the D-Day 

invasion made an impression that is recalled today:

The operation is remembered, in part, because it fits so well into American 

folklore. Americans have had a long love affair with the road and the truck. The 

speeding Red Ball drivers, thumbing their noses at military authority and the 

enemy to speed supplies to the front and to victory, symbolized American 
72 

individualism and embodied the spirit of the frontiersmen and cowboys who had 

tamed the American continent. The Red Ball drivers were the first true road 

warriors . . . . [Victory, p. 205] 

The Family Vacation 

After war’s end in 1945, pent-up demand for travel was unleashed during an unexpected 

economic boom that erased fears the Depression of the 1930s might return. Travelers 

took advantage of the network of two-lane paved roads that had been built in the 1920s 

and 1930s under the Federal-aid highway program. This network–much of it part of the 

U.S. numbered highway network–constituted the Nation’s first interstate highway 

system. (The inadequacies of this network were to be corrected with construction of the 

Interstate System described in the two reports to Congress mentioned earlier, Toll Roads 

and Free Roads (1939) and Interregional Highways (1944).) 

Professor Susan Sessions Rugh, in her book about American family vacations, explained 

that the availability of this highway network was only one of the factors contributing to 

the post-war rise in leisure travel. Another factor was the growth of vacation benefits for 

American workers:

More middle-class families could afford to take vacations because of the 

increasingly liberal vacation benefits awarded American workers in the late 

1940s. A Department of Labor report in 1948 declared that “paid vacation 

clauses are now a standard feature of union agreements in most industries.” By 

the end of 1944, 85 percent of union agreements contained vacation provisions for 

workers . . . . 

In the following decade, paid vacations became widespread (93 percent of 

collective bargaining agreements contained vacation provisions in 1949), and 

provisions were liberalized. Two innovations occurred: reducing the length of 

service required to earn vacation time, and awarding longer vacation periods for 

time of service. Vacation provisions thus expanded from one week for one to 

four years of service, to two weeks after as little as two years of service. And 

upper-rank workers could expect to be paid for a three-week vacation with fifteen 

years of service. By 1956, only 18 percent of hourly employees were held to a 

two-week ceiling of vacation, and paid holidays were more common. [Rugh, 

Susan Sessions, Are We There Yet? The Golden Age of American Family 

Vacations, University Press of Kansas, 2008, p. 17] 

 

The expansion of car ownership was another factor: 

Car ownership by families rose from 54 percent in 1948 to 77 percent in 1960 and 

82 percent by 1970. The family car was a home on wheels, an extension of the 

domestic space, and thus represented a sense of security for the traveling family 

on the road. [Are We There Yet?, p. 18-19] 
73 

Even as America took to the road, white and black travelers could expect a very different 

experience, as African-Americans traveling the Nation’s roads before the war well knew: 

Travelers in Jim Crow America—where whites and blacks were made to use 

different restrooms, drink at different water fountains, eat in different restaurants, 

and stay in different hotels—were citizens as well as consumers. Discrimination 

against black travelers meant that vacationing was a fundamentally different 

experience for them than it was for white families in cold war America. It was an 

uncertain, even fear-filled, experience because blacks never could be sure that 

they would find places to sleep and eat on the road. Indeed, African Americans 

often feared for their safety, even their very lives, as they traveled the dark 

highways of the Deep South . . . . [Are We There Yet?, p. 69-70]

Among the obstacles to pleasure travel, they had to anticipate passing through “sundown 

towns” that prohibited any African-Americans from being within their borders after 

sundown. Author James W. Loewen dated this phenomenon to the 1890s. Before then, 

African-Americans could live anywhere in the country, although most remained in the 

South. As discussed earlier, racism had increased over the years after the Civil War, 

aided by court decisions and local action. “The idealism spawned by the Civil War,” 

Loewen stated, “was fading too, as memories of the war dimmed.” By the 1890s, only 

one in three Americans had been alive during the war, and millions of immigrants had 

arrived after it ended.

Within this context, Loewen attributed the creation of sundown towns to “the three i’s”: 

Indians, immigration, and imperialism. First, the army’s destruction of the Indian camp 

at Wounded Knee in South Dakota on December 29, 1890, brought an end to the Indian 

wars, prompting the attitude that, “If it was okay to take Indians’ land because they 

weren’t white, wasn’t it OK to deny rights to African Americans, who weren’t white 

either?” Second, immigrants understood the advantage of identifying with whites and 

holding down African-Americans, in part because they were competing with them for 

low-wage jobs. 

As for the third “I,” Loewen explained that with the country dealing with sovereignty 

issues following the addition of dependent countries in the wake of the Spanish-American 

War (1898), “Imperialism was sweeping the West, and it both depended upon and in turn 

reinforced the ideology of white supremacy.” This ideology, he stated, had been at the 

heart of the call of “Manifest Destiny” that had pulled the American people across the 

continent. [Loewen, James W., Sundown Towns: A Hidden Dimension of American 

Racism, A Touchstone Book, Simon and Schuster, 2006, p. 30-32] 

From these and other causes, sundown towns spread across the country: 

Beginning in about 1890 and continuing until 1968, white Americans established 

thousands of towns across the United States for whites only. Many towns drove 

out their black populations, then posted sundown town signs . . . . Other towns 

passed ordinances barring African Americans after dark or prohibiting them from 
74 

owning or renting property; still others established policies by informal means, 

harassing and even killing those who violated the rule. [Sundown Towns, p. 4] 

Such towns included cities of many sizes and income ranges as well as suburban 

communities in all parts of the country. By allowing African-Americans to be within the 

city limits only during daylight hours, the towns retained access to service employees. 

To make the restriction clear to all travelers, sundown towns often posted signs on the 

main roads with variations of “WHITES ONLY WITHIN CITY LIMITS AFTER 

DARK.” In an era before “political correctness” had been conceived, many of the signs 

used blunter language. 

Loewen wrote that in general, “travel was difficult and often unsafe for African 

Americans, and not just in the South . . . . Older African Americans can still recall how 

trips had to be meticulously planned to reach places with restrooms or overnight 

accommodations in a timely manner.” Sundown towns added to the uncertainty and 

potential for humiliation:

Although any stop for gas, food, or lodging might prove humiliating to the black 

traveler, sundown towns posed the worst hazards. In other towns, even if hotels 

and restaurants refused to serve African Americans, they could secure shelter 

within the black community. Sundown towns had no black community, of 

course. Worse still, black travelers were acutely aware that they stuck out in these 

all-white towns, not only as unusual but also as illegitimate and unwanted. 

Some communities did not post signs to alert travelers. African-American motorists had 

to find a way to avoid these communities and the public accommodations that would not 

serve them: 

Until well after the passage of the 1964 Civil Rights Act, which outlawed 

segregation in public accommodations such as restaurants and motels, African 

Americans coped by compiling guidebooks of places that would not harm or 

embarrass them . . . . Families also assembled their own lists and shared them 

with friends. [Sundown Towns, P. 343] 

Professor Rugh described these guides: 

To resist Jim Crow, by the 1930s blacks had created an entirely separate tourist 

infrastructure, including their own travel guides and travel agencies that directed 

travelers to places where they would be welcome without fear of humiliation. 

[Are We There Yet?, p. 70] 

The Green Book (1936-1966) and Travelguide (1946-1955) “attempted to spare black 

travelers that humiliation.” Victor Green modeled his guide on Jewish travel guides, 

listing hotels, motels, tourist homes, and restaurants that would serve African-Americans. 

Rugh quoted the foreword to the 20th anniversary edition, published in 1956, stating that 

the guide “has made traveling more popular, without encountering embarrassing 
75 

situations.” Travelguide included similar listings but “was a more racially assertive 

publication with the motto: ‘Vacation & Recreation Without Humiliation.’” [Are We 

There Yet?, p. 77] 

In June 1955, Ebony magazine reported that conditions were improving “in the South and 

Throughout America for Negroes who travel the highways.” Even in the South, “Motels 

worth more than $3 million have been built in Dixie for Negro guests.” The magazine 

added, “Still more are being planned.” The situation had improved since World War II:

Until the end of World War II, few white motel operators were willing to accept 

Negro patronage. In recent years, however, discrimination against the naturally 

tanned traveler has declined noticeably along the highways . . . . [Many] white 

motels in the North and West have voluntarily opened their doors to Negroes. In 

the far west where motor courts are plentiful, Negro motorists are likely to find 

the going easiest. 

Still, the welcome was uncertain:

In Kansas last year, for example, a Negro couple was admitted to a white court on 

condition that they disappear before daylight. “We wouldn’t want to offend 

anyone,” the owner explained timidly. And in Oklahoma, a Negro family was 

lodged at a white motel for two days after they agreed to “pass” as Mexicans 

during their stay. 

At the University Motel in Atlanta, “Clientele is mainly Negro, but state law permits 

motels to accept whites, manager says, if they do not share rooms with Negroes.” 

The article added:

Encouraging though the motel picture is, travel accommodations for colored 

people are still too few and too scattered. In 1955, for example, 3,500 white 

motels would put up dogs, but less than 50 unhesitatingly said they would house 

Negroes. [“Hotels on the Highway,” Ebony, June 1955, p. 92-103] 

Professor Rugh began her chapter on “Vacation with Humiliation” by quoting July 1963 

testimony by Roy Wilkins, executive secretary of the NAACP, before the Senate 

Committee on Commerce. He asked the Senators to imagine themselves “darker in 

color” on an auto trip across the country: 

How far do you drive each day? Where and under what conditions can 

you and your family eat? Where can they use a rest room? Can you stop 

driving after a reasonable day behind the wheel or must you drive until 

you reach a city where relatives or friends will accommodate you and 

yours for the night? Will your children be denied a soft drink or an ice 

cream cone because they are not white?
76 

When questioned by Senator John O. Pastore [D-RI] as to what families did in 

these circumstances, Wilkins admitted, “You take your chances. You drive and 

you drive and you drive.” Unable to stop when tired because there were no 

accommodations, he said, “You keep on driving until the next city or the next 

town where you know somebody or they know somebody who knows somebody 

who can take care of you.” 

As Professor Rugh put it: 

Discrimination against black travelers meant that vacationing was a 

fundamentally different experience for them than it was for white families in cold 

war America. In was an uncertain, even fear-filled, experience because blacks 

never could be sure that they would find places to sleep and eat on the road. 

Indeed, African Americans often feared for their safety, even their very lives, as 

they traveled the dark highways of the Deep South. [Are We There Yet?, p. 68-

69] 

Rugh added, “While African American highway travelers expected to have trouble in the 

South, they were frequently denied accommodations in the North.” Restaurants were a 

particular problem:

Traveling families also faced discrimination at restaurants along the road, all over 

the country. In the late 1940s, blacks who wrote to the NAACP complained of 

being refused service in the Midwest (Bloomington, Indiana, and Zanesville, 

Ohio); the West (Reno, Nevada): and the Northeast (Port Jefferson, New York)—

all outside the South. Even in 1961, so many black tourists from the South along 

Route 66 in Illinois were refused restaurant service that they took to bringing their 

food along and eating in their cars, “rather than chance being embarrassed.”

After citing examples found in her review of letters to the NAACP, she explained why 

traveling was so different than experiences at home, even in the South: 

At home they might know how to avoid places that would treat them that way, but 

on the road they were in unfamiliar territory and especially vulnerable to 

humiliation. Their treatment was made even more humiliating because it was in 

front of their family. Members of their family could see that they were denied the 

privileges of citizenship, and that they were powerless to obtain their rights. And 

because they were on vacation and did not want to provoke a confrontation, 

parents were less likely to insist on fair treatment. [Are We There Yet?, p. 74-77] 

In 1987, Courtland Milloy, Jr., an African-American columnist with The Washington 

Post, wrote about a trip that he and his father made to their home State of Louisiana “to 

see what had changed during the past 30 years.” His father, a businessman in Shreveport, 

drove his ivory-colored Mercedes 420 SEL.
77 

Milloy’s parents told him that he could not remember how bad it was back then: 

“I remember you were just a little baby, riding in a basket on the back seat of the 

car, on our way to see your grandmother,” my mother recalled before we left. 

“The car broke down in Hope, Arkansas, and do you know the white people there 

would not let us heat up your bottle? My baby had to drink cold milk.” 

During the 1950s and into the ‘60s, Mother would spend the evening before the 

trip frying chicken and boiling eggs. We thought it was because Mom knew we 

liked to eat and ride at the same time. The truth was harder to swallow.

“After riding all day, I’d say to myself, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if we could spend the 

night in one of those hotels?’” Mom recalled, “or, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if we 

could stop for a real meal and a cup of coffee?’ We see the little white children 

jumping into motel swimming pools, and you all would be in the back seat of a 

hot car, sweating and fighting.” 

Driving through Arkansas, Milloy’s father told him: 

“Back in the old days, a black man with a new car would drive real slow on a road 

like this,” Dad said as we passed the cotton, bean and rice fields en route to Earle. 

“The police would be looking for a reason to pull you over, humiliate you in front 

of your family or, if you were alone, just brutalize you.” 

At night, the Milloys pulled into a Ramada Inn in West Memphis: 

I thought about what my mother had said, how ridiculously painful it must have 

been for blacks to have once been barred from public accommodations. 

But there was no sign that now. Two young black women, Lisa James and 

Shirley Brown, greeted Dad and me at the reception desk and went out of their 

way to make us feel at home . . . . 

The next day we ate breakfast—served by a white woman—and didn’t think twice 

about it. 

As they drove that day, Milloy’s father recalled an incident from his childhood: 

“A black kid from Memphis was riding his bicycle along the sidewalk and ran 

into a white woman,” Dad recalled. “The police beat that child half to death, took 

him to jail and confiscated his bike. A friend of the family was a custodian at the 

jail and after some months had passes, he asked if he could have the bike and 

gave it to me. That’s how I got my first bike,” he said sadly. 

In Earle, they found that the family home had burned down and that few of his father’s 

friends remained behind. They headed for St. Louis where his father had attended 
78 

Vashon High School because Earle did not have a high school for African-Americans at 

the time. He excelled, worked in a war-bonds office and on the fuselage assembly line 

for the McDonnell Aircraft Company, while saving enough money to attend Tuskegee 

Institute in Alabama. There, he met his wife who would become the journalist’s mother. 

His father overcame the “tragedies, the hardships and sacrifices” to become a successful 

businessman: 

I’m proud of my dad, and thankful that he passed on to me some of the lessons he 

learned the hard way. I wonder sometimes if it would have been better for me to 

learn them the hard way, too, instead of comfortably in the new world my dad and 

so many other black men fought to build. 

But today, I’m happy to be riding in comfort with my dad along a road where we 

both feel free. [Milloy, Jr., Courtland, “Black Highways,” The Washington Post, 

June 21, 1987.] 

World War II was a dividing line for on-the-road discrimination. Before the war, 

African-American travelers for the most part had to accept the order of things. After 

serving in the war or seeing their loved ones fight for freedom, African-Americans felt 

the sting of humiliation more sharply. “War veterans thought that they deserved better 

treatment, given their service to the nation.” [Are We There Yet?, p. 75] 

Post-war complaints prompted the NAACP to increase its efforts against travel 

discrimination:

In the late 1940s these practices were brought to the attention of Thurgood 

Marshall, special counsel to the NAACP, who notified the offending hotels that 

they were in violation of state law and that he would ask the district attorney’s 

office to intercede with the Hotelmen’s Association. After a 1947 embarrassment 

when Negro delegates to the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural 

Organization brought suit against a Denver, Colorado, hotel for denying them 

accommodations, the NAACP became proactive in checking out hotel procedures 

before conferences . . . . 

As more black travelers refused to accommodate Jim Crow, the NAACP pursued 

a strategy of putting pressure on two national restaurant and hotel chains, Howard 

Johnson’s and Hilton Hotels. 

Marshall, driving with a companion, had experienced an incident at a Howard Johnson 

restaurant in Elizabeth, New Jersey, that prompted the company to send a letter of 

apology: 

The NAACP had documented a consistent pattern of discrimination at Howard 

Johnson restaurants, and Thurgood Marshall had extracted an apology from the 

chain regarding an incident in 1941. In 1947 Marshall was refused service at the 
79 

same Elizabeth, New Jersey, restaurant (certainly not a coincidental choice), and 

he lost patience with corporate executives’ promises. [Are We There Yet?, p. 85] 

He eventually sued for $500 in damages. 

President Lyndon B. Johnson recalled an incident in the early 1950s that awakened him 

to the difficulties African-Americans faced in traveling around the country. Rugh 

explained that when Johnson was in the Senate, he and his life would fly between Texas 

and Washington, while their maid Helen Williams, her husband Gene, and their cook, 

Zephyr Williams, would drive the 1,300 miles. One year, Johnson asked them to take the 

family beagle in the car with them. When Gene Williams hesitated to take the dog, 

Johnson asked why. In a memoir, Johnson recalled Williams’ explanation: 

We drive for hours and hours. We get hungry. But there’s no place on the road 

we can stop and go in and eat. We drive some more. It gets pretty hot. We want 

to wash up. But the only bathroom we’re allowed in is usually miles off the main 

highway. We keep goin’ ‘til night comes—‘til we get so tired we can’t stay 

awake anymore. We’re ready to pull in. But it takes another hour or so to find a 

place to sleep. You see, what I’m saying is that a colored man’s got enough 

trouble getting across the South on his own, without having a dog along. [Are We 

There Yet, p. 89] 

Journey of Reconciliation 

The case of Irene Morgan was one of those championed by the NAACP. On July 16, 

1944, following a miscarriage, the 27-year old Morgan bought a Greyhound ticket to go 

from Gloucester County, Virginia, to Baltimore, Maryland, for a doctor’s appointment. 

The mother of two sat in the “Colored Section” near the back of the crowded bus, but 

when a young white couple boarded the bus, the driver asked her and two seatmates to 

move further back. Her seatmates moved, but she refused to do so. 

When the bus reached the town of Saluda, the driver asked a sheriff’s deputy to arrest her 

for violating the State’s segregation law. The deputy approached her, but she tore up the 

summons and threw it out the window. She then kicked and clawed him before finally 

being subdued. 

In court, she pleaded guilty to resisting arrest and paid a $100 fine, but pleaded not guilty 

to violating the segregation law. She was convicted and fined $10, but refused to pay it. 

Her attorney argued that the segregation law violated the interstate commerce clause of 

the Constitution–unlike the violation behind Plessy V. Ferguson which involved a 

segregated car on an intrastate rail line. 

When the argument did not prevail in Virginia’s courts, the NAACP took Morgan’s $10 

fine to the Supreme Court. On June 3, 1946, in Irene Morgan v. Commonwealth of 
80 

Virginia, the Supreme Court ruled that segregation in interstate travel was 

unconstitutional: 

As no state law can reach beyond its own border nor bar transportation of 

passengers across its boundaries, diverse seating requirements for the races in 

interstate journeys result . . . . It seems clear to us that seating arrangements for 

the different races in interstate motor travel require a single, uniform rule to 

promote and protect national travel. Consequently, we hold the Virginia statute in 

controversy invalid. 

African-Americans, especially those returning from the war, rejoiced over the ruling, but 

any hope they had for a change in the South soon faded. The southern States with laws 

codifying Jim Crow did not feel compelled by the ruling to change them. Professor 

Raymond Arsenault cited examples from the summer of 1946: 

The most troubling incident was the brutal beating of Isaac Woodard in midFebruary [13, 1946]. Brought to national attention by NAACP executive 

secretary Walter White in July, the Woodard case involved a recently discharged 

black veteran returning to his North Carolina home from a Georgia military base. 

[He had served in the Pacific theater of operations as a longshoreman with an 

Army labor battalion.] Traveling on an interstate Greyhound, Woodard was 

arrested in Batesburg, South Carolina, after he and the bus driver “exchanged 

words over some minor point of racial etiquette.” [Woodard had argued with the 

driver about a rest room break.] Dragged from the bus and beaten by Batesburg 

police chief Linwood Shull and a deputy, the twenty-seven year-old soldier 

suffered massive injuries, including the blinding of both eyes. Having survived 

fifteen months fighting the Japanese in the Pacific, he had run afoul of two white 

men who saw fit to gouge out his eyes with the blunt end of a billy club. Such 

treatment was egregious enough to prompt an FBI investigation and a federal 

indictment of Shull in the fall of 1946. But even the sworn testimony of army 

doctors was not enough to secure a conviction from an all-white Columbia, South 

Carolina, jury.

A second and equally revealing case involved Wilson Head, a courageous black 

World War II veteran who undertook his own personal freedom ride from Atlanta 

to Washington in July 1946. Traveling on the Greyhound line and insisting on his 

right to sit in the front of the bus, he braved angry drivers, enraged passengers, 

and menacing police officers—one of whom threatened to shoot him during a 

brief detention in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Somehow Head managed to make 

it to Washington without injury or arrest, suggesting that testing compliance with 

the Morgan decision was possible if not altogether safe. To the dismay of many 

white Southerners, individual acts of defiance on segregated buses and trains were 

becoming increasingly common in the postwar years, especially in the Upper 

South and even among local and intrastate passengers. [Arsenault, Raymond, 

Freedom Riders: 1961 and the Struggle for Racial Justice, Oxford University 

Press, 2006, p. 34] 
81 

The Morgan ruling and incidents of this type prompted the Congress of Racial Equality 

(CORE) and Fellowship of Reconciliation to stage a bus trip to challenge Jim Crow laws. 

On April 9, 1947, nine African-Americans and nine white men divided into two teams in 

Washington, D.C., and boarded buses at the Greyhound and Trailways stations for what 

was termed the Journey of Reconciliation through the upper South (Virginia, North 

Carolina, Tennessee, and Kentucky). African-Americans sat in the front of the bus, while 

white passengers sat in the “colored section.” The trip ended on April 23: 

The Journey’s official balance sheet, as reported by CORE, listed twenty-six tests 

of compliance, twelve arrests, and only one act of violent resistance . . . . 

[Freedom Riders, p. 51] 

One arrest occurred as the Trailways bus left the station in Richmond, Virginia. The 

driver informed Conrad Lynn, an African-American attorney from New York, that he 

could not sit in the section reserved for whites. When Lynn explained the significance of 

the Morgan ruling, the driver said he worked for Trailways, not the Supreme Court, and 

intended to follow the company’s rules on segregation. The confrontation led to a 2-hour 

delay and Lynn’s arrest, as well as grumbling on the bus: 

During the two-hour delay, several of the CORE riders conducted a spirited but 

largely futile campaign to drum up support among the regular passengers. A 

white navy man in uniform grumbled that Lynn’s behavior merited a response 

from the Ku Klux Klan, and an incredulous black porter . . . challenged Lynn’s 

sanity. “What’s the matter with him? He’s crazy. Where does he think he is?” 

the porter demanded, adding, “We know how to deal with him. We ought to drag 

him off.” [Freedom Riders, p. 44] 

Lynn was released on $25 bail and rejoined the ride in Raleigh. 

Similar confrontations and arrests would occur throughout the trip, including the arrest of 

five African-Americans, including their leader, Bayard Rustin. They bought Trailways 

tickets in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, for the trip to Greensboro. Joseph Felmet, a white 

resident of North Carolina, and Andrew Johnson, an African-American law student, sat 

together near the front of the bus in the “white” section. When the driver, Ned Leonard, 

told Johnson he would have to move to the “colored” seats in the rear, they explained 

they “were traveling together to meet speaking engagements in Greensboro and other 

points south” and “that they were inter-state passengers . . . ‘covered’ by the Irene 

Morgan decision”: 

Unmoved, Leonard walked to the nearby police station to arrange for their arrest. 

While he was gone, Rustin and [Igal] Roodenko [a white peace activist from New 

York] engaged several of the passengers in conversation, creating an “open 

forum” that revealed that many of the passengers supported Felmet’s and 

Johnson’s protest. When Leonard later passed out waiver cards that the bus 

company used to absolve itself from liability, one woman balked, declaring: 
82 

“You don’t want me to sign one of those. I am a damn Yankee, and I think this is 

an outrage.” Shaking her hand, Roodenko exclaimed: “Well, there are two damn 

Yankees on the bus!” By this time, Felmet and Johnson had been carted off to the 

police station, and [white journalist James] Peck had followed them to the station 

to arrange bail. But Leonard soon discovered that he had two more protesters to 

deal with. Encouraged by the sympathetic reaction from the regular passengers, 

Rustin and Roodenko moved to the seat vacated by the arrested riders, which 

prompted a second round of arrests. [Freedom Riders, p. 45-46] 

Bailed out, the riders confronted angry white residents who had heard that “outside 

agitators” were stirring up trouble. They took refuge in the home of a friendly minister 

who received a call warning him that if the riders were not out of town by midnight, his 

house would be burned down. With the help of university students willing to drive them 

and an escort by reluctant police, the riders made it out of town safely. The wave of 

intimidation of the minister would continue for a week. 

Rustin and Roodenko were tried on May 20 before Judge Henry Whitfield, “a hard-line 

segregationist [who] made no effort to hide his contempt for the defendants’ three 

NAACP attorneys . . . .” Judge Whitfield sentenced Rustin to court costs, while 

sentencing Roodenko to 30 days on a road gang: 

Explaining the differential treatment, he termed Rustin “a poor misled nigra from 

the North” who bore less responsibility than white agitators who should know 

better, and later added a dash of anti-Semitism to his admonition. “I presume 

you’re Jewish, Mr. Rodenky,” drawled the judge. “Well, it’s about time you Jews 

from New York learned that you can’t come down here bringing your nigras with 

you to upset the customs of the South. 

The two other men arrested in the same incident were tried a month later. Judge 

Whitfield sentenced Joseph Felmet, a white resident of Asheville, North Carolina, to 6 

months on the road gang, while Johnson received a sentence of court costs and a $50 fine. 

When the prosecutor pointed out that Felmet’s sentence exceeded the 30-day limit, Judge 

Whitfield reduced the sentence, saying, ‘I can’t keep all these things in my little head.” 

Higher State courts ruled that all four men should receive the same sentence, but the 

financially strapped NAACP was unable to take the case to Federal courts, adding that 

the four bus tickets had been lost, possibly intentionally, so proving the four men were 

interstate passengers would not be possible. [Freedom Riders, p. 53-55] 

Rustin, Felmet, and Roodenko surrendered on March 21, 1949, to serve their sentence at 

the State prison camp in Roxboro. They served only 22 days, with time off for good 

behavior, but “their experiences with inhumane conditions and brutal guards” led to 

Rustin’s memoir, Twenty-Two Days on a Chain Gang, that was serialized in newspapers 
83 

around the country. Rustin described his experience of convict road building: 

The camp schedule at Roxboro began with the rising bell at five-thirty. By seven 

beds had been made, faces washed, breakfast served, and lines formed for leaving 

the camp for the ten-hour-day’s work. We worked from seven until noon, had a 

half-hour for lunch, resumed work at twelve-thirty, and worked until five-thirty. 

Then we were counted in and left immediately for supper, without so much as a 

chance to wash hands and face. From six o’clock we were locked in the 

dormitory until lights were dimmed at eight-thirty. From then until five-thirty 

A.M. we were expected to sleep.

Rustin, who had never done physical labor, was ill suited to the regimen of convict labor, 

but followed the advice of other convicts and worked steadily as hard as he could. 

Arriving at the first work site, the walking boss assembled his crew. Waving a 

newspaper article about Rustin, the boss asked, “You’re the one who thinks he’s smart. 

Ain’t got no respect. Tries to be uppity. Well, we’ll learn you.” The work consisted of 

breaking ground with a pick and shoveling the results. They leveled shoulders, dug or 

cleaned ditches, and made cement for pipe to be used in draining roads and building 

bridges. 

The work was hard, but Rustin listed the factors that made it even worse: 

1. The work was never done 

2. Thought and creativity in any form were not permitted. 

3. Staying “under the gun” made for crowded, tense conditions. 

4. The men felt like “things” rather than people on the job. 

He added: 

I believe they most disliked the feeling that no matter how hard they toiled, “the 

work on the highway ain’t never done.” When one job was finished there was 

always another. “Let’s ride,” the Captain would say, and off we would go . . . . I 

had never before realized the importance, even to men doing the most 

monotonous manual labor, of knowing clearly the reasons for doing a job, and the 

dejection of spirit that subconsciously creeps in when men cannot see a job 

completed. One day when we dug out patches in the road which another crew 

would fill in, [one of the other convicts] expressed this feeling: “I reckon these 

holes will be filled by some fool ‘rrested in Durham tonight, and he’ll wonder 

where ... they come from.” [Carbado, Devon W., and Weise, Donald, editors, 

Time on Two Crosses: The Collected Writings of Bayard Rustin, Cleis Press, Inc., 

2003, p. 31-57] 
84 

Arsenault summarized the impact of the article:

Laced with dark humor—including an account of Rustin’s dealing with a prison 

guard who kept reminding him, “You ain’t in Yankeeland now. We don’t like no 

Yankee ways”—the piece shocked many readers and eventually led to a 

legislative investigation of conditions in North Carolina’s prison camps. 

[Freedom Riders, p, 55] 

In the end, the Journey of Reconciliation was a disappointment, as Arsenault explained: 

For the riders, the return to Washington on April 23 brought a sense of relief—

and a measure of pride in their perseverance. To their disappointment, however, 

there was no public event to mark the conclusion of a remarkable collective 

experience . . . . [The] project’s accomplishments drew little attention from the 

mainstream press in the spring of 1947. Even among white reporters interested in 

racial matters, the Journey could not compete with the unfolding drama of Jackie 

Robinson’s first weeks in a Brooklyn Dodgers uniform. [Freedom Riders, p. 51-

52] 

The 28-year old Robinson was the first African-American to play major league baseball

in the 20th century. His first game with the Dodgers was on April 15, 1947, at Ebbetts 

Field in Brooklyn. He did not get a hit that day, but by the end of the season, would be 

designated Rookie of the Year. 

President Harry S. Truman and Civil Rights

President Harry S. Truman shared the common racial prejudices of his upbringing in 

Missouri. As historian David McCullough explained in his biography of Truman: 

He did not favor social equality for blacks and he said so. But he wanted fairness, 

equality before the law. [McCullough, David, Truman, Simon and Schuster, 

1992, p. 247] 

Whatever his personal views, Truman believed that as President he must rise above them. 

On December 5, 1946, he signed Executive Order 9808 establishing the President’s 

Committee on Civil Rights to evaluate the state of civil rights, compile a report, and 

make recommendations “with respect to the adoption or establishment, by legislation or 

otherwise, of more adequate and effective means and procedures for the protection of the 

civil rights of the people of the United States.” Charles E. Wilson, the president of 

General Electric, chaired the committee. Truman’s advisors, whether from the North or 

South, were certain he was committing political suicide by tackling the issue. [Truman, 

p. 570] 

Even before the committee released its report, Truman addressed the NAACP. At 4:30 

p.m. on June 29, 1947, from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, he addressed 10,000 

delegates to the closing session of the 38th annual conference of the NAACP. The 
85 

President talked about civil rights and human freedom: 

It is my deep conviction that we have reached a turning point in the long history 

of our country’s efforts to guarantee freedom and quality to all our citizens. 

Recent events in the United States and abroad have made us realize that it is more 

important today than ever before to insure that all Americans enjoy these rights. 

When I say all Americans I mean all Americans.

He summed up his view on the Nation’s responsibility: 

As Americans, we believe that every man should be free to live his life as he 

wishes. He should be limited only by his responsibility to his fellow countrymen. 

If this freedom is to be more than a dream, each man must be guaranteed equality 

of opportunity. The only limit to an American’s achievement should be his 

ability, his industry, and his character . . . . Our immediate task is to remove the 

last remnants of the barriers which stand between millions of our citizens and 

their birthright. There is no justifiable reason for discrimination because of 

ancestry, or religion, or race, or color. 

 

He pledged his full support to ensuring these rights for every citizen: 

The way ahead is not easy. We shall need all the wisdom, imagination and 

courage we can muster. We must and shall guarantee the civil rights of all our 

citizens. Never before has the need been so urgent for skillful and vigorous action 

to bring us closer to our ideal. 

After citing the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, and the 

Emancipation Proclamation, President Truman said: 

With these noble charters to guide us, and with faith in our hearts, we shall make 

our land a happier home for our people, a symbol of hope for all men, and a rock 

of security in a troubled world. 

McCullough called it “the strongest statement on civil rights heard in Washington since 

the time of Lincoln.” He added, “That someone of his background from western 

Missouri could be standing at the shrine of the Great Emancipator saying such things was 

almost inconceivable.” 

Taking his seat after the speech, Truman told NAACP executive secretary White that he 

meant “every word of it –and I’m going to prove that I do mean it.” [Truman, p. 570] 

To Secure These Rights, the committee’s October 1947 report, covered a range of topics, 

including discrimination in places of public accommodation: 

Most Americans patronize restaurants, theaters, shops, and other places offering 
86 

service to the public according to their individual preferences and their ability to 

pay. They take their right to enter such places and to be served for granted. This 

is not the case with other Americans. Because of their race or their color or their 

creed, they are barred from access to some places and given unequal service in 

others. In many sections of this country, some people must pause and give 

thought before they enter places serving the public if they wish to avoid 

embarrassment, arrest, or even possible violence. 

The report cited the Civil Rights Act of 1875, approved by President Ulysses S. Grant on 

March 1, 1875. In its key provision, the legislation provided: 

Be it enacted, That all persons within the jurisdiction of the United States shall be 

entitled to the full and equal enjoyment of the accommodations, advantages, 

facilities, and privileges of inns, public conveyances on land or water, theaters, 

and other places of public amusement; subject only to the conditions and 

limitations established by law, and applicable alike to citizens of every race and 

color, regardless of any previous condition of servitude. 

After the Supreme Court ruled in 1883 that the act was unconstitutional, the committee’s 

report stated, “legislation on the matter was left entirely to the states.” As of the date of 

the report, 18 States prohibited discrimination in places of public accommodation. “Most 

of them prohibit discrimination in public conveyances of all types . . . .” However, 20 

States “by law compel segregation in one way or another.” The remaining 10 States did 

not have laws on the subject: 

In the states with compulsory segregation laws Negroes are usually separated 

from whites in all forms of public transportation, and in hotels, restaurants, and 

places of amusement. Fourteen states require railroads to separate the races, and 

two authorize railroads to provide such separation. Train conductors are given 

power to enforce these laws. Under the Supreme Court decision in Morgan v. 

Virginia, such laws do not apply to passengers in interstate transportation. 

However, this decision does not prevent carriers from voluntarily enforcing 

segregation. Eight states require separate waiting rooms, 11 require separation in 

buses, 10 in street cars and three in steamships and ferries. Instances where 

completely separate facilities are provided, as in railroad coaches and waiting 

rooms, those set aside for the Negro are usually inferior in quality. 

In States that secure the right of access, “practice does not necessarily conform to the 

law.” The report added that, “One prominent Negro has stated that it is difficult to find a 

meal or a hotel room in the downtown areas of most northern cities.” Signs declaring 

“whites only” went unchallenged. The penalties for violating public accommodation 

laws were usually small and the prospect of prosecution or civil suit slight. Often, the 

discrimination was less overt than a direct violation of the law. “Unwanted customers are 

discouraged from patronizing places by letting them wait indefinitely for service, 

charging higher prices, giving poor service, and publicly embarrassing them in various 

ways.” 
87 

Even in interstate transportation, companies adapted to differing State laws:

For example, the Pennsylvania Railroad in its terminal in New York City 

segregates Negroes in coaches on through trains bound for the South, even though 

it does not do so on its own trains operating as far as Washington. [To Secure 

These Rights: The Report of The President’s Committee on Civil Rights, 

Government Printing Office, 1947, p. 76-78] 

The committee’s report provided a long list of recommendations, including two under 

public services:

The enactment by Congress of a law prohibiting discrimination or 

segregation, based on race, color, creed, or national origin, in interstate 

transportation and all the facilities thereof, to apply against both public 

officers and the employees of private transportation companies. 

Legislation is needed to implement and supplement the Supreme Court 

decision in Morgan v. Virginia. There is evidence that some state officers 

are continuing to enforce segregation laws against interstate passengers. 

Moreover, carriers are still free to segregate such passengers on their own 

initiative since the Morgan decision covered only segregation based on 

law. Congress has complete power under the Constitution to forbid all 

forms of segregation in interstate commerce. We believe it should make 

prompt use of it. 

The enactment by the states of laws guaranteeing equal access to places of 

public accommodation, broadly defined, for persons of all races, colors, 

creeds, and national origins. 

Since the Constitution does not guarantee equal access to places of public 

accommodation, it is left to the states to secure that right. In the 18 states 

that have already enacted statutes, we hope that enforcement will make 

practice more compatible with theory. The civil suit for damages and the 

misdemeanor penalty have proved to be inadequate sanctions to secure the 

observance of these laws. Additional means, such as the revocation of 

licenses, and the issuance of cease-and-desist orders by administrative 

agencies are needed to bring about wider compliance. We think that all of 

the states should enact such legislation, using the broadest possible 

definition of public accommodation. [To Secure, p. 170-171, bold in 

original] 

For Truman, the report was a “shocking revelation,” as McCullough put it. He could “no 

longer sit idly by and do nothing in the face of glaring injustice.” The South, he was 

convinced, was “living eighty years behind the times and the sooner they come out of it 

the better it will be for the country and themselves.” He was outraged by incidents of 
88 

brutality that went unpunished, especially when directed at African-American veterans. 

As he told a friend who cautioned him to go easy on civil rights: 

I am going to try to remedy it and if that ends up in my failure to be reelected, that 

failure will be in a good cause. [Truman, p. 588-589] 

As the election year of 1948 began, President Truman delivered his State of the Union 

Address on January 7, before a Congress that had been controlled by Republicans since 

the elections of 1946. McCullough called the address “an uncompromising reaffirmation 

of his liberal program”:

In less than an hour at the podium, Truman called again for a national health 

insurance program, a massive housing program, increasing support for education, 

increased support for farmers, the conservation of natural resources, and a raise in 

the minimum wage from 40 to 75 cents an hour. To compensate for rising prices, 

he proposed a “poor man’s” tax cut, whereby each taxpayer would be allowed to 

deduct $40 for himself and for each dependent from his final tax bill . . . . 

Further, Truman announced he would be sending Congress a special message on 

civil rights. “Our first goal,” he said, “is to secure fully the essential human rights 

of our citizens.” 

The speech “evoked little applause and little praise afterward,” McCullough said:

The Republicans, as anticipated, did not like it at all, any more than did the 

southern Democrats . . . . The distress among southern Democrats was 

considerable. [Truman, p. 586] 

A. Philip Randolph saw an opportunity to pursue the cause he had failed to convince 

President Roosevelt to adopt. Tye explained: 

Randolph played hardball, launching the Committee Against Jim Crow in 

Military Service and Training, threatening to rally black draftees and veterans 

behind a program of civil disobedience, and capitalizing on Truman’s fear of 

black defection to Progressive Party presidential nominee Henry A. Wallace . . . . 

[Rising, p, 214-215 

On February 2, 1948, President Harry S. Truman sent a special message to Congress on 

civil rights, the first presidential message of its kind, and one he sent without consulting 

Democratic leaders in Congress. Drawing on the findings detailed in To Secure These 

Rights, he told Congress that the Nation must “strive in our constant effort to strengthen 

our democracy and improve the welfare of our people.” Citing the high goals of the 

Nation’s founders, he said, “We shall not . . . achieve the ideals for which this Nation was 

founded so long as any American suffers discrimination as a result of his race, or 

religion, or color, or the land of origin of his forefathers.” He added: 

Unfortunately, there still are examples—flagrant examples—of discrimination 
89 

which are utterly contrary to our ideals. Not all groups of our population are free 

from the fear of violence. Not all groups are free to live and work where they 

please or to improve their conditions of life by their own efforts. Not all groups 

enjoy the full privileges of citizenship and participation in the government under 

which they live. 

The issue was basic to democracy. “The protection of civil rights is the duty of every 

government which derives its powers from the consent of the people.” To accomplish 

this goal he recommended a series of steps that would require congressional action. They 

included establishment of a permanent Commission on Civil Rights, Federal protection 

against lynching, protection of the right to vote, settling claims of Japanese-Americans

who had been relocated after the attack on Pearl Harbor, statehood for Alaska and 

Hawaii, suffrage and self government for the District of Columbia, and “Prohibiting 

discrimination in interstate transportation facilities.” Of the latter he said:

The channels of interstate commerce should be open to all Americans on a basis 

of complete equality. The Supreme Court has recently declared unconstitutional 

state laws requiring segregation on public carriers in interstate travel. Company 

regulations must not be allowed to replace unconstitutional state laws. I urge 

Congress to prohibit discrimination and segregation, in the use of interstate 

transportation facilities, by both public officers and the employees of private 

companies.

He concluded his message by saying:

We know that our democracy is not perfect. But we do know that it offers freer, 

happier life to our people than any totalitarian nation has ever offered. 

If we wish to inspire the peoples of the world whose freedom is in jeopardy, if we 

wish to restore hope to those who have already lost their civil liberties, if we wish 

to fulfill the promise that is ours, we must correct the remaining imperfections in 

our practice of democracy.

McCullough described the speech as “a brave, revolutionary declaration, given the reality 

of entrenched discrimination and the prevailing attitudes of white Americans nearly 

everywhere in the country, but especially in the South, where the social status and legal 

‘place’ of black citizens had advanced not at all in more than half a century.” Truman 

believed in the specifics and the spirit of his statement. “Asked at a press conference a 

few days later what he had drawn on for background, he replied, ‘the Constitution and the 

Bill of Rights.’” [Truman, p. 587] 

After meeting with several southern Democrats who suggested he soften his views, 

Truman replied in writing. He reminded them that he came from a part of Missouri 

where Jim Crow still prevailed. He continued: 

But my very stomach turned over when I learned that Negro soldiers, just back 
90 

from overseas, were being dumped out of army trucks in Mississippi and beaten. 

Whatever my inclinations as a native of Missouri might have been, as President I 

know this is bad. I shall fight to end evils like this. 

He had been particularly affected by the experience of Isaac Woodard, the AfricanAmerican sergeant who had been dragged from a bus in Batesburg, South Carolina, and 

beaten and blinded by police. 

During the July nominating convention of the Democratic Party in Philadelphia, civil 

rights would divide the party. On July 13, an African-American alternate delegate from 

St. Louis challenged the seating of the Mississippi delegation. He was overruled, but 

U.S. Representative William L. Dawson, an African-American from Chicago, gave a talk 

on civil rights. The following day, a northern delegation headed by Mayor Hubert H. 

Humphrey of Minneapolis demanded a stronger civil rights plank in the party platform 

that would endorse Truman’s recommendations. When the platform committee kept the 

moderate plank designed to appease southern delegates, Humphrey took to the podium 

for a 10-minute speech that, as McCullough explained, would make history. In part 

Humphrey said: 

There are those who say to you—we are rushing this issue of civil rights. I say 

we are a hundred and seventy-two years late . . . . The time has arrived for the 

Democratic Party to get out of the shadow of states’ rights and walk forthrightly 

into the bright sunshine of human rights. 

The speech set off demonstrations around the convention hall while southern delegates 

sat silently. The new plank on civil rights was approved: 

The Democratic Party is responsible for the great civil rights gains made in recent 

years in eliminating unfair and illegal discrimination based on race, creed or 

color. 

The Democratic Party commits itself to continuing its efforts to eradicate all 

racial, religious and economic discrimination. 

We again state our belief that racial and religious minorities must have the right to 

live, the right to work, the right to vote, the full and equal protection of the laws, 

on a basis of equality with all citizens as guaranteed by the Constitution. 

We highly commend President Harry S. Truman for his courageous stand on the 

issue of civil rights. 

We call upon the Congress to support our President in guaranteeing these basic 

and fundamental American Principles: (1) the right of full and equal political 

participation; (2) the right to equal opportunity of employment; (3) the right of 

security of person; (4) and the right of equal treatment in the service and defense 

of our nation. 

We pledge ourselves to legislation to admit a minimum of 400,000 displaced 

persons found eligible for United States citizenship without discrimination as to 

race or religion. We condemn the undemocratic action of the Republican 80th 
91 

Congress in passing an inadequate and bigoted bill for this purpose, which law 

imposes no-American restrictions [sic] based on race and religion upon such 

admissions. 

We urge immediate statehood for Hawaii and Alaska; immediate determination 

by the people of Puerto Rico as to their form of government and their ultimate 

status with respect to the United States; and the maximum degree of local selfgovernment for the Virgin Islands, Guam and Samoa. 

We recommend to Congress the submission of a constitutional amendment on 

equal rights for women. 

We favor the extension of the right of suffrage to the people of the District of 

Columbia. 

The plank prompted a walkout by southern delegates who would form a rival States’ 

Rights Party and select Governor Strom Thurmond of South Carolina as their presidential 

nominee. The platform of the States’ Rights Democratic Party stated:

We stand for segregation of the races and the racial integrity of each race . . . . 

We oppose the totalitarian, centralized bureaucratic government and the police 

nation called for by the platforms adopted by the Democratic and Republican 

Conventions. 

Truman’s acceptance speech was plain-spoken, filled with pride in accomplishments and 

proposals, and strong in denunciation of Republicans. They were, he said, holding up 

progress on housing, aid to education, medical care, and civil rights: 

Everybody knows that I recommended to the Congress the civil rights program. I 

did that because I believed it to be my duty under the Constitution. Some of the 

members of my own party disagree with me violently on this matter. But they 

stand up and do it openly. People can tell where they stand. But the Republicans 

all professed to be for these measures. But the Congress failed to act . . . 

He would, he said, call the Congress back into session on July 26, which he said was 

known in Missouri as “Turnip Day,” to pass legislation on inflation and the housing crisis 

“which they are saying they are for in their platform,” and civil rights legislation “which 

they say they are for.” (He took the phrase Turnip Day from the Missouri folk saying, 

"On the twenty-fifth of July, sow your turnips, wet or dry." Turnip Day, July 25, was a 

Sunday in 1948, so the session began on July 26.) The pledge prompted cheering and 

stomping in the hall, so loud that he had to shout to be heard: 

Now, my friends, if there is any reality behind the Republican platform, we ought 

to get some action from a short session of the 80th Congress. They can do this job 

in 15 days, if they want to do it. [Truman, p. 638-643] 
92 

When the Turnip Session opened, the President addressed Congress to a cool reception. 

He called for an ambitious agenda for the short session, as described by McCullough: 

He called for action on an eight-point program, including civil rights—controls on 

consumer credit, an excess profits tax, strengthened rent control, price controls, 

action on housing, farm support, aid to education, an increased minimum wage, 

and change in the Displaced Persons Act that discriminated against Catholics and 

Jews—all that he had asked for before and had been denied. 

Later that day, Truman surprised Congress by approving two Executive orders:

• Executive Order 9981: Established the President’s Committee on Equality of 

Treatment and Opportunity in the Armed Services, and 

• Executive Order 9980: Created a Fair Employment Board to eliminate racial bias 

in Federal employment. 

Tye stated:

[With] Congress balking and pressure building from Randolph, the president 

signed a pair of executive orders that began the transformation of the armed 

forces from America’s most segregated institution to its most integrated. [Rising, 

p. 214-215] 

(The process, as Tye noted, was just beginning. Desegregating the military would take 

years, with African-Americans continuing in menial classifications for years. The final 

all-African-American unit was disbanded in 1954.) 

Although some Republicans considered a strategy of approving a few of the measures to 

show voters a spirit of cooperation, they decided not to give the President any victories: 

The two-week session accomplished little, as Truman had anticipated, except to 

make his point that a Republican Congress was the great roadblock to social 

progress for the country and to show the gulf between Republican promises and 

Republican performance. [Truman, p. 651] 

Through the fall campaign, Truman repeatedly denounced the “do-nothing” Congress. 

On election night, he stunned observers, perhaps including himself, by defeating his 

favored Republican adversary, Governor Thomas E. Dewey of New York, as well as two 

third-party candidates, Governor Thurmond and Progressive/American Labor nominee 

and former Agriculture Secretary and Vice President Henry A. Wallace:

Truman: 24,179,347 (303 electoral votes) 

Dewey: 21,991,292 (189 electoral votes) 

Thurmond: 1,175,930 (39 electoral votes) 

Wallace: 1,157,328 (0 electoral votes)
93 

Although many factors contributed to Truman’s surprise victory, support from AfricanAmericans was a key factor in the Electoral College votes, as McCullough discussed: 

Black support for Truman had been overwhelming. He polled more than two 

thirds of the black vote, a percentage higher than ever attained by Franklin 

Roosevelt. In such crucial states as Ohio and Illinois it could be said that the 

black voter had been quite as decisive as anyone in bringing about a Truman 

victory. Speaking of Truman’s civil rights programs and its impact on the 

election, [Senator and Democratic Party Chairman] J. Howard McGrath [of 

Rhode Island] called it both honest statesmanship and politically advantageous. 

“It lost us three Southern states, but it won us Ohio, Illinois, would have carried 

New York for us if it had not been for Henry Wallace, and it was a great factor in 

carrying California.” [Truman, p. 713] 

When Truman left office on January 20, 1953, he could point to success in many areas, 

but his record on civil rights was mixed: 

He had achieved less in civil rights than he had hoped, but he had created the 

epoch-making Commission on Civil Rights, ordered the desegregation of the 

armed services and federal Civil Service, done more than any President since 

Lincoln to awaken American conscience to the issues of Civil Rights. [Truman, 

p. 915] 

One of his most influential initiatives, the Housing Act of 1949, had the unintended 

consequence of harming the African-Americans who had shifted from the rural South to 

northern cities during the great migration begun in the late 1910s. The President had 

called for a measure to address an acute housing shortage by, in part, clearing slums and 

replacing them with low-rent public housing. The legislation provided funds for slum 

clearance as part of efforts to renew urban areas while funding construction of more than 

800,000 public housing units. The slum residents who were displaced often were 

minorities, particularly African-Americans, giving the phrase “urban renewal” another 

name: “Negro removal.” 

(In April 1949, Truman rejected a proposal by the Federal Works Agency to focus his 

housing program on concepts described in Toll Roads and Free Roads and Interregional 

Highways. The new express highways envisioned by these reports to Congress would 

provide the framework for revitalized cities. Urban road building would eliminate the 

substandard housing, while planners coordinated the placement of Federal buildings 

along the expressways as part of civic center redevelopment. Housing built in 

conjunction with the expressways would reverse the movement of taxpayers to the 

suburbs. President Truman preferred to certainty of the bill at hand to the possibility that 

Congress would pass a bill embodying the express highway plan.) 
94 

South of Freedom

Carl T. Rowan was born in 1925 and raised in McMinnville, Tennessee. After serving as 

a commissioned officer in the U.S. Navy during World War II, he graduated from 

Oberlin College (1947) and earned a master’s degree in journalism from the University of 

Minnesota (1948). He joined the staff of the Minneapolis Tribune, first as a copywriter, 

then as a staff writer. Carl Rowan was an African-American. 

Many years later, President Kennedy would appoint Rowan to the position of Deputy 

Assistant Secretary of State, a delegate to the United Nations, and in 1963, U.S. 

Ambassador to Finland. President Johnson brought Rowan back to serve as director of 

the United States Information Agency. After leaving the Administration, Rowan wrote a 

syndicated column for the Chicago Sun-Times, appeared on television talk and panel 

shows, earned a spot on President Nixon’s “enemies list,” and won a Pulitzer Prize for his 

commentaries.

But that was in the future. In 1951, the young journalist sold his editor on a story idea. 

Rowan would return to the South and report on what turned out to be a 6,000-mile 

journey. His articles were of sufficient interest in the Minneapolis Tribune that he 

expanded them into a book called South of Freedom (Alfred A. Knopf, 1952). 

The book is not a sermon or an attempt to offer solutions. Rather, as Rowan put it in the 

preface, “This book is about the Americans—white and black—who live under the 

shadow of the problem.” He continued: 

It is about their struggles—on the one hand to maintain the old order of 

segregation and racial caste, and on the other hand to establish a “New South.” I 

have tried to tell of the “little things” that circumscribe the lives of black folk. I 

also have told of our gains. This is a balance-sheet of American race relations: it 

tells how far we have come and where we still must go. [South, p. vii] 

Rowan would encounter Jim Crow racism in many aspects of southern life, but nowhere 

more than in transportation. Because the 1950s would be a decade of transformation for 

the Civil Rights Movement, Rowan’s observations of the South allow a glimpse of what 

life was like at the start of that pivotal period.

He flew home to Tennessee, encountering Jim Crow at his first stop at the Louisville 

airport. He approached a candy stand and stood by as the attendant served white 

customers and ignored him. He walked away. Having grown up in the South, he wrote, 

“I knew that I would be served only after all whites had been waited on.” Soon, in 

Nashville, he saw seats designated “For Colored Passengers Only” and separate rest 

rooms (one marked “White Ladies” and the other “Colored Women”) 

Before leaving the North, Rowan had reserved a car at the airport. The attendant at the 

Hertz rental station treated Rowan courteously, one of the few times he would receive 

such treatment when attendants discovered that Rowan was an African–American. 
95 

The Jim Crow signs and the courteous treatment by the Hertz attendant, right at the start 

of the journey, illustrated “what it is like to be a Negro”:

It is a life of doubt, of uncertainty as to what the reception will be, even from one 

building to another. It is this doubt that permeates Negro life in the North as well 

as the South. In the North, the doubt is created by whites who circumvent 

democratic laws by subterfuge, in the South, the doubt springs from the fact that, 

because few statutes exist that are favorable to the Negro, the white man’s mood 

and spoken word become law. 

Having served his country during the war, earned a master’s degree, and secured a job 

that kept him in the north, Rowan realized he would have to adjust his approach as he 

drove to McMinnville on U.S. 70: 

I realized that I had come face to face with doubt. Doubt as to which fillingstation would allow me to buy gasoline and also to use the toilet. Doubt as to 

which restaurant would sell me food, even to take out. Doubt as to which cities 

forbid Negroes to ride in white cabs, and whites to ride in Negro cabs . . . . I 

knew that on highways, where all-white patrols enforce the law, I must always be 

prepared to smile meekly and question nothing should patrolmen stop me. [South, 

p. 15-17] 

After a stay in his hometown, Rowan would travel through the south by bus and train. 

His first trip out of McMinnville on a Tennessee Coach Lines bus got off to a promising 

start. He pushed his suitcase ahead of him towards the back of the bus where he was 

required to sit. As the bus rolled along in the night, he reached for his coat in the 

overhead rack: 

As I began to fumble in the semidarkness, the driver flicked on a light for me. I 

got my coat and lifted my hand toward him as a gesture of thanks. I had ridden 

scores of buses in the South, many times on that same route, and drivers showing 

such courtesy to a Negro passenger were rare. It was the first time I had ever 

observed such an act. [South, p. 51] 

The bus took him to Knoxville where he went to the airport for a flight to Washington, 

DC:

. . . Washington is the magic boundary where the mores of train and bus 

passengers shift suddenly and decree that Negros and whites who have ridden side 

by side must do so no farther south; or where northbound passengers who have 

ridden under conditions of untouchability feel free to change to a closeness next 

to intimacy. [South, p. 59] 

Before leaving Knoxville, Rowan had called the Plaza hotel in Washington to make a 

reservation. Upon arriving at National Airport, he called to confirm the reservation. 
96 

However, when he reached the Plaza he would have an experience that he would 

encounter many times in coming weeks, namely that places willing to accommodate Carl 

T. Rowan did so only if they thought he was white. No, the woman at the desk told him, 

the hotel had no reservation for a Mr. Rowan. No, her supervisor added, they didn’t have 

a free room since “we’ve been filled for quite a while—two weeks.” 

As he walked out of the hotel, the bellhop told him, “I thought you must be crazy when 

you stopped here.” Before he stepped into a taxi, he received a message from the front 

desk that he should try the Whitelaw hotel. It was a Negro hotel and he booked a room 

that was similar to many such rooms he would see: 

Once in the Deep South, I would have to stay at dirty, bedbug-ridden, brawling 

houses, most of them owned by whites and run by Negroes, all gleefully profiting 

from segregation, or I would have to rely on the hospitality of Negro citizens. 

[South, p. 61-62] 

As he explored segregation in the Nation’s capital, he looked into its origins: 

During most of the twentieth century, the government has had a “closed door 

policy” toward the Negro worker, whereas during the last half of the nineteenth 

century Negroes served as Register of the Treasury, Auditor of the Navy, consul, 

Collector of Customs, and in many other important posts at home and abroad. 

The change began, Rowan explained, under President William Howard Taft (1907-1912), 

who restricted white census workers to canvassing white citizens and African-American

workers to canvassing black citizens. As noted earlier, segregation became firm after 

President Wilson took office in March 1913 and had to work with southern Congressmen 

who were determined to extend white supremacy. Having grown up in Virginia, the new 

President was receptive:

Senators Hoke Smith (Georgia), Ben “Pitchfork” Tillman (South Carolina), and 

James Vardaman (Mississippi) formed an organization known as the Democratic 

Fair Play Association, the purpose of which was to “put the Negro in his place.” 

This group made President Wilson an honorary member and then set about its 

mission. Negro and white employees of the Bureau of Engraving were set apart 

at lunchtime. In 1914 the Civil Service Commission began asking each job 

applicant to submit a photograph. This stopped Negroes from getting top jobs. 

With two exceptions, every Negro in the auditor’s office was demoted. 

The South had seized control of the District Committees of the House and Senate, 

and Washington became the citadel of Jim Crow. [South, p. 79-80] 

Ready to travel to Charleston, South Carolina, Rowan called and made a Pullman 

reservation on the Atlantic Coast Line’s Palmetto Limited. He was optimistic because, 

he said, “Many a Negro has secured Pullman space or reserved seats on a train by 

telephoning, since race is not so discernible over the phone.” At Union Station, he went 
97 

to pick up his ticket: 

The seller made the usual phone call to confirm my space, but seemed to do all 

his talking about a pile of coal in somebody’s basement. He expressed surprise 

that the Army already had moved it, and then gave me my tickets with no 

apparent reluctance.

As the train rolled along, he discovered that his ticket was not for the berth he had 

reserved by telephone. Although the Supreme Court had ruled that segregation could not 

be practiced on interstate trains, the porter explained what had happened: 

“Oh, but they had their ways of segregating. Ticket-sellers had race codes, and 

they do now in lotsa cities. They’ll talk to the reservations office about the 

‘woodpile,’ ‘in the coal bin,’ and all that stuff. It all means: ‘This traveler is a 

Negro; put another one with him if you can.’” 

He would be able to sleep in a Pullman berth, but only with an African-American above 

him. [South, p. 85] 

When Rowan was ready to leave Charleston, he called to reserve a seat on the East Coast 

Champion. He was told he would have to come in to purchase a ticket. This was “my 

first real idea of Charleston’s regard for federal law.” African-Americans had been 

calling to reserve seats and telling the sellers that they would send a Negro boy to pick up 

the tickets. Having gotten wise to this trick, the sellers required travelers to pick up their 

tickets in person “unless they could establish their racial heritage rather clearly by 

phone.” 

As he suspected, the ticket he received at the station was for car number one right behind 

the engine. Despite the Supreme Court ruling, he saw signs directing white and AfricanAmerican passengers to different boarding stations. He was in the Jim Crow car. 

The following day, he watched the scene passing by as the train rolled south: 

The tracks would move closer to the sea, where riders could watch a million little 

whitecaps polka-dot the ocean’s blue. 

But part of the panorama—the part controlled more by man than by nature—

would remain constant. Unchangeable would be the picture of despair that 

extends for hundreds of miles down the Atlantic coast, where the shabbiest kind 

of houses stand alongside the railroad tracks. Their foundations sinking into 

swampy lowlands, these dilapidated bungalows turn a pitiful face to America 

riding by. I knew that many, many Americans had traveled that same road 

without thinking or caring about how many fellow Americans live in those oneand two-room tarpaper shacks. I knew that it didn’t have to be that road. Every 

train-rider, every automobile tourist had seen it somewhere, for it is traditional 
98 

for railroad tracks and highways to cut through the heart of the Negro’s rundown 

domain. [South, p. 107]

After a stay in Miami, Rowan decided to visit family members in Milledgeville, Georgia. 

He would take the New Royal Palm, a streamliner, to Macon, then bus to his destination. 

Once again, he reserved a ticket on the train, but when he approached the ticket office in 

the white waiting room, the seller closed the window in his face and pointed toward the 

waiting room designated “colored.” Only through persistence did the seller agree to give 

him the reserved ticket for a seat in car 4. [South, p. 121-122] 

Arriving in Macon, he felt confident over his small victory. When he could not find a 

newspaper in the waiting room for African-Americans, he walked into the white waiting 

room to make his purchase. While he was deciding which paper to buy, he heard the 

booming voice of the station agent: “Boy! This ain’t the colored waiting-room.” The 

agent directed the woman behind the newsstand counter not to take Rowan’s money. She 

told him, “No, no, no, you got no business in here.” When he insisted on his rights, the 

station agent told him he had to go back to his waiting room and ask the redcap to 

purchase the paper. 

The humiliations of the past 3 weeks boiled over. “I was angry, damned angry.” After 

making his views clear, he returned to the other waiting room. The agent ordered an 

African-American redcap to follow him. “See where he goes,” the agent said as he dialed 

a telephone. Fearful that the agent was calling the police, Rowan hired a taxi to take him 

to Milledgeville. [South, p. 124-126] 

When Rowan was ready to travel to Atlanta, he was informed that the morning bus route 

went through Macon. He declined to revisit that city. He would take the afternoon bus. 

Because his trip was intrastate, the bus line was not subject to the Supreme Court ruling 

on interstate transportation. At the station, he entered through the side door into the 

Negro waiting room and purchased a ticket at the window for Negroes. He had arrived 

early to be sure to get a seat on the bus, but as he approached the door, another AfricanAmerican passenger told him, “Colored can’t board until all the whites are on.” After all 

the white passengers had boarded, Rowan was thankful that he found an empty Jim Crow 

seat. [South, p. 142-143] 

As in many cities, and not just those in the South, African-American life in Atlanta was 

centered on a street, in this case Auburn Avenue: 

Almost everything that met the eye was Negro—of, for, or about Negroes. These 

were sights I might have seen in many cities. I could have been on Baltimore’s 

Pennsylvania Avenue, Nashville’s Fourth Avenue, Memphis’ Beale Street, 

Minneapolis’s Olson Highway, or St. Paul’s lower Rondo Street. [South, p. 151] 

This was where the poor African-Americans lived, dependent on the businesses along 

Auburn Avenue that would serve them. To see the other side of African-American life, 
99 

Rowan took a taxi to the Hunter Road area “where fine homes and fine cars lined the 

streets.” This was where the better off African-Americans lived. Visiting a friend of a 

friend in one of those homes, he found the owner confident of progress. “The old South 

ain’t what she used to be,” he said. While prosperous African-Americans may have felt 

that way, Rowan found their day-to-day life was ruled by Jim Crow:

Negroes ride in cabs driven by Negroes; they sit in Jim Crow seats in public 

vehicles; they sit in bleachers to watch a baseball game; and in many buildings 

they are expected to take the freight elevator up, although they may descend on 

the first elevator to come along. [South, p, 154-155] 

His next stop was Birmingham, Alabama, “the capital of Jim Crowism in America.” He 

explained:

Birmingham is a city of gross tensions, a city where the color line has been drawn 

in every conceivable place; Eugene “Bull” Connor, white-supremacist police 

commissioner, sees that no man, white or black, crosses the line. [South, p. 158] 

Arriving in the city on the Southern Railroad in the Jim Crow car (despite his arguments 

with rail officials in Atlanta), he searched for 2 days to find “just one aspect” of life that 

was not dominated by segregation. “I failed,” he concluded. “I found only countless 

examples of the inconsistency, the irony, the pathos, and accompanying evil that is 

segregation.” 

It began at the station, where a policeman made sure that white passengers went through 

the steel gate while African-Americans were directed through the gate leading to their 

waiting room. Outside, he found the segregated location for taxis driven by AfricanAmericans that an African-American could use. [South, p. 158-159] 

As he wandered the city during his 2-day stay, he rode a bus downtown: 

I found that both races enter through the front door, as is customary in most cities 

of the South. I did not read fast enough, however, and had to be told by a gruff 

motorman that “Nigras step up on the left side, white people on the right side” of 

the steps. Sure enough, painted side-by-side on the single set of steps were the 

words COLORED and WHITE. There was only one money box; the fares were 

the same for both races. 

I sat behind a wooden bar near the rear of the bus. The bar is the official 

“segregator,” and a sign on it warned both whites and Negros [sic] not to move it. 

Although it was not the case on my bus, I saw others on which Negroes stood 

packed in behind the segregator although there were many empty seats in front of 

the bar. This can work the other way, of course, but drivers usually see that the 

bar is where no whites will be inconvenienced. 
100 

Unfamiliar with Birmingham customs, Rowan erred leaving the bus: 

Again I erred by starting out the front door—down the colored side of the steps. 

The motorman closed the door in my face and ordered me to go to the back door. 

Only whites could exit at the front. [South, 161] 

Rowan described Birmingham as “the human sinkhole of race relations” partly because 

of the lack of effective political power. He attributed the lack of power to “deceptive 

skullduggery on the part of election officials” and “apathy on the part of Negroes.” Less 

than 5,000 of the 108,000 African-Americans in Jefferson County had registered to vote: 

One reason, of course, is the poll tax of $1.50 yearly. It is cumulative up to $36, 

and must be paid in a lump sum. It prevents many Negroes as well as whites from 

voting. (Alabama is one of the five Southern states with a poll tax in effect. 

Tennessee recently repealed its law.)

Even more effective in preventing a buildup of Negro political strength is the 

registration system, under which registrars defy the law and continue to use what 

is, in effect, the Boswell Amendment, already declared unconstitutional. Under 

this amendment the registrar could ask an applicant to “interpret the 

Constitution.” If the applicant failed to answer “satisfactorily” he was declared 

ineligible to vote. The amendment was applied almost exclusively to Negroes, 

who represent a third of the Alabama population. [South, p. 169] 

(After the Supreme Court outlawed white primaries in 1944, the Alabama State 

legislature adopted the Boswell Amendment, named for State Senator E. C. “Bud” 

Boswell, in 1945. As ratified by voters in 1946, the amendment required voters to 

“understand and explain” any section of the Constitution. As a result of litigation 

initiated by the NAACP and other organizations, the U.S. District Court ruled the 

Boswell Amendment unconstitutional in 1949 because it violated the 15th Amendment to 

the Constitution (Davis et. al. v. Schnell et. al.).) 

The proprietor of the Rush Hotel, one of the few hotels in the city that accepted AfricanAmericans, told Rowan that, “just wait, the President of the United States will take an 

unsegregated step here one day. Then Americans will see that it can happen to anybody.”

After a couple days in the city, Rowan had to disagree: 

I feared that long before Presidents start making unsegregated moves in 

segregated places, some of Birmingham’s lost thousands will act boldly. The 

tiniest stroke against an unmovable city regime will be the spark to send the 

tensions exploding. [South, p. 167] 

Rowan visited New Orleans, then called the Missouri Pacific Railroad to reserve a 

Pullman berth for a trip to Monroe in northeastern Louisiana. He then went to the station 

to pick up his ticket. At first, he used the standard trick of claiming he was the “boy” 
101 

sent to pick up Mr. Rowan’s ticket, but he realized that since he was paying with 

traveler’s checks made out in his name, the seller would be suspicious. 

“Is it for you?” the seller asked.

“Does it make any difference?” I asked.

“Well, if you’re colored I can’t sell you a Pullman ticket to Monroe—that ain’t 

across no state line. Are you colored?” 

Frustrated after weeks in the South, Rowan said, “You see what color I am. Why don’t 

you ask what you want to ask: am I American? Well, I am!” 

Rowan decided to get around the restriction by asking for a ticket to an interstate train 

that went to Little Rock via Monroe. When the seller tried to get out of providing the 

ticket by explaining that the train would reach Monroe at 3 a.m., Rowan bluffed. 

“Somebody’s going to sell me a Pullman ticket to Monroe or the whole United States 

government will know about it. I’ve ridden Pullman intrastate in the South before.” 

Suspecting that Rowan might be a government man, the seller finally issued the ticket for 

lower berth 11, car 1162. When Rowan protested that the car had only 10 sections, the 

agent explained that they had sold him a ticket for a compartment rather than a berth at 

the price of a berth. [South, p. 207-209] 

The trip went well at first but was delayed first by a collision up ahead and then by 

derailment. Because of the long delay, Rowan decided to switch from the Monroe car to 

a car bound for Little Rock. The porter was hesitant, explaining that all the 

compartments were full. When Rowan said he just wanted a seat, the porter explained, 

“there’s mostly white women in that car. They ain’t too happy around here about colored 

men riding where white women are. Fact is, that’s the main thing they’s against.” After 

talking to the conductor, Rowan received his ticket and continued on without incident. 

[South, p. 218-219] 

When the train finally resumed the trip, Rowan thought about his experience of riding in 

the same car as white women:

The fact that I did get the seat and nobody screamed to be let off the train seemed 

to me a tiny indication that the oldest taboo of the Old South also might be 

weakening under the wear and tear of time and the emergence of reasoning 

among basically reasonable men. [South, p, 228] 

Rowan’s journey through the New South ended in Oklahoma City. Sitting in the allNegro Littlepage Hotel after 4,000 miles of rough handling and uncertainty, “I had 

decided, all of a sudden, that I had seen enough. I was ready to leave the South.” He 

went to the railroad station to get a ticket on the last Missouri-Kansas-Texas line leaving 

for Kansas City that night. To avoid confrontation, he went to the “colored” waiting 
102 

room and purchased his ticket at the window for Negro travelers. The train did not have 

Pullman accommodations; it had only two cars for this trip. 

When he saw that the car he was assigned to was dilapidated, he moved to the other car, 

which was for white travelers. He thought, “I don’t know if they segregate on this train, 

but this is one night Rowan won’t be Jim Crowed.” The conductor immediately 

informed him he would have to move back to the first car. Leaving the South, Rowan 

engaged in the longest confrontation of his trip. When the conductor said “the colored 

car is up front,” Rowan replied, “There isn’t any colored car now, either,” referring to a 

recent Circuit Court of Appeals ruling in Richmond that the segregation of interstate 

passengers was illegal in coaches, diners, and Pullman cars. 

Rowan was determined to stand firm even if it meant “I might get my brains beaten out.” 

He threatened to sue if not allowed to stay in his comfortable seat. The conductor left 

and returned with a man who claimed to be a policeman. Rowan explained the Supreme 

Court decision. “Show me some credentials,” the man insisted. Rowan asked to see his 

credentials. “Boy, I said I’m a policeman.” Rowan replied that “I see nothing to indicate 

that you’re a policeman.” 

Because Rowan had implied that he might be a government agent, the conductor and the 

other man were reluctant to push too hard. Only then, reluctantly, did they allow him to 

stay in the car. His trip to Kansas City was uneventful. [South, p. 246-249] 

Arriving in Kansas City, he thought: 

[Going] North is never quite the same as going South. Not if you are a Negro . . . 

. The difference is in the mind and spirit and nerves. It is the dissolving of 

tension. The depressing feeling of living with all the odds against you begins to 

let up. The fear of physical harm lessens. Militancy becomes less synonymous 

with foolhardiness. You begin to feel that you can “talk back.” 

He would still see differences. At a restaurant in Kansas City, the hostess tried to seat 

him in the area with other African-Americans, but he sat at the counter instead. In St. 

Louis, trying to catch a taxi to his hotel in a snowstorm, he had to wait 55 minutes before 

a cab driven by an African-African would stop for him. [South, p. 255-256] 

Many African-Americans were following his path of leaving the South. He recalled the 

Birmingham railroad station he visited to buy a ticket to Montgomery:

[The] room was crowded with Negroes. I was concerned about whether there 

would be enough seats aboard the train to Montgomery. 

“Don’t worry about the crowd,” the agent said as he handed me my ticket. 

“They’re all going north.” [South, p. 257] 
103 

Now, he saw the same travelers in St. Louis:

These, I felt, were twentieth-century pilgrims, many of whom would find no 

Plymouth Rock north of the Mason-Dixon line. But their departure made them 

happy in the sense that a daydream is happy . . . . So this migration, which 

reached an almost staggering rate during World War II, is supposed to be the 

cure-all. The white South forgets, however, that the Negroes who leave are those 

with a spirit of venture, with “get up and go.” Because of this loss in men with 

the initiative and self-confidence needed to pick up everything about their set 

lives and stumble into a strange, fast, new environment, the South will suffer in 

the long run. [South, p. 258] 

The trip had been depressing, frustrating, and discouraging, and only among a 

“courageous few of a passing generation and among wisdom-seeking youth who stand to 

control a coming generation,” had he found “an admission that racism has been the 

Southland’s mental illness, her epidemic.” In them, he detected a glimmer of hope “that 

an increasing number of the people were quietly desirous of a cure.” [South, p. 257] 

The problem, Rowan knew, was not just in the South. He had experienced “the twofacedness of the North.” Where “little men with the towering club of law” ruled the 

South, he encountered small men in the North “who manifest their hatred and antipathies 

by guile and trickery.” He added:

The North, in resorting to subterfuge, had at least negatively acknowledged my 

rights, leaving me to contend only with the wily nonconformist. I have a fighting 

chance. [South, p. 264-265] 

The future, he concluded, “is our great hope.” Some fear it, but many African-Americans 

put their faith in it:

We are not yet masters of our fate, but we intend to grope and grapple with the 

present, and try to put a mold of our making on the future . . . . The wheels of 

justice are turning, and everywhere that old despot, custom, is on the run. 

The Nation, Rowan predicted, was facing its “hour of bedlam.” Through “the dust and 

haze of turmoil,” America stumbled in its “common hour of tribulation” toward its 

“common destiny.” [South, p. 269-270] 

Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka 

Underpinning the discrimination, legally and in common practice, was the 1896 ruling in 

Plessy v. Ferguson. A third grader in Topeka, Kansas, named Linda Brown would help 

bring the ruling to an end. 

Linda was African-American who could not go to the white school just seven blocks 

from her home. She had to walk six blocks to catch a school bus that would take her to a 
104 

segregated school a mile away. The two elementary schools were a result of an 1879 

Kansas law that permitted school districts to maintain separate facilities. In 1951, her 

father, Oliver L. Brown, a welder for the Santa Fe Railroad, agreed to participate as one 

of 13 plaintiffs who tried unsuccessfully to enroll their children in white schools. 

Brown was chosen as the lead plaintiff before the District Court, which cited Plessy v. 

Ferguson in ruling for the Board of Education. Although acknowledging that segregated 

education could be detrimental, the court found that the school district was consistent 

with the separate but equal standard of the 1896 ruling. 

The appeal to the Supreme Court was combined with other similar cases, but the Topeka 

case was the only one where the separate schools were considered to be basically equal in 

quality. In December 1952, attorney Thurgood Marshall and other NAACP lawyers, 

argued for the plaintiffs before the Supreme Court. (One of the authors of Marshall’s 

brief, William T. Coleman, Jr., would later serve as U.S. Secretary of Transportation, 

1975-1977, under President Gerald Ford.) 

After the hearing, Chief Justice Frederick M. Vinson expressed reluctance to the 

associate justices about desegregating all public schools. However, he died on September 

8, 1953, and President Eisenhower appointed Governor Earl Warren of California to be 

Chief Justice. 

Warren, unlike his predecessor, was unwavering about overturning Plessy v. Ferguson. 

The Supreme Court held additional hearings, concluding them in December 1953, before 

reaching a unanimous decision in Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka. Chief Justice 

Warren announced on May 17, 1954: 

We conclude that in the field of public education the doctrine of ‘separate but 

equal’ has no place. Separate educational facilities are inherently unequal.

Segregated schools violated the “equal protection” guarantee of the 14th Amendment to 

the Constitution. 

The next day, The New York Times, which had reduced Plessy v. Ferguson to railroad 

news in 1896, ran a headline that proclaimed: “High Court Bans School Segregation.” 

The Washington Post called the ruling “the most important [opinion] on racial relations 

since the Supreme Court ruled before the Civil War that Dred Scott, a Negro slave, was 

not a citizen.” The same issue carried Georgia Governor Herman Talmadge’s reaction 

that the ruling had reduced the Constitution to “a mere scrap of paper.” It also reported 

the defiant comment of Senator James O. Eastland (D-Ms.) that the South “will not abide 

by nor obey this legislative decision by a political court. We will take whatever steps are 

necessary to retain segregation in education.” [Separate and Unequal, p. 306] 

Senator Harry Flood Byrd (D-Va.), who as Chairman of the Finance Committee would be 

a major influence on funding for the Interstate System, was among the Southern 

politicians vowing to oppose integration of the schools. On February 24, 1955, he 
105 

declared:

If we can organize the Southern States for massive resistance to this order I think 

that in time the rest of the country will realize that racial integration is not going 

to be accepted in the South. 

“Massive resistance” would become the battle cry of Southern politicians attempting to 

block the march of civil rights advances. Byrd would be among 101 politicians (99 

Democrats and 2 Republicans) who would sign the Southern Manifesto in FebruaryMarch 1956 declaring Brown v. the Board of Education a "clear abuse of judicial power" 

and promising to use "all lawful means to bring about a reversal of this decision which is 

contrary to the Constitution and to prevent the use of force in its implementation.” (Only 

three Southern Senators, all Democrats, refused to sign –Lyndon Johnson, and 

Tennessee’s Estes Kefauver and Albert Gore, Sr.) [Heinemann, Ronald L., Harry Byrd 

of Virginia, University of Virginia Press, 1996, 334-335] 

Even States such as Texas that agreed to integrate their schools did so slowly. President 

Eisenhower, who reportedly came to consider his appointment of Chief Justice Warren to 

be the biggest mistake he had ever made, ordered the integration of schools in the District 

of Columbia, then still under U.S. control, and directed an immediate end to any 

remaining segregation in the armed services. He would not urge the Southern States to 

comply with the ruling, but did urge “extremists on both sides” to remain calm, thereby 

equating African-Americans seeking their civil rights with segregationists trying to retain 

“separate but equal” facilities.

Biographer Stephen Ambrose discussed President Eisenhower’s attitude: 

Although Eisenhower personally wished that the Court had upheld Plessy v. 

Ferguson, and said so on a number of occasions (but only in private), he was 

impressed by the 9 to 0 vote and he certainly was going to meet his responsibility 

and enforce the law. But he would not comment on it in public . . . . 

What hurt was not Eisenhower’s private disapproval of Brown, but his refusal to 

give it a public endorsement . . . . Eisenhower insisted time and time again that he 

had neither need nor right to comment. Even as violence flared across the South, 

as the implementation of desegregation began, Eisenhower refused to ever say 

that he thought segregation was morally wrong. That allowed the bitter-end 

segregationists to claim that Eisenhower was secretly on their side, which they 

said justified their tactics. Warren, and many others, thought that one word from 

Eisenhower would have made possible a smoother, easier, and quicker transition 

period. But Eisenhower never said the word. [Ambrose, Stephen, Eisenhower: 

The President, A Touchstone Book, Simon and Schuster, Inc., 1984, p. 190-191] 

The President would accept the need for Federal intervention only in September 1957, 

when Governor Orval Faubus of Arkansas ordered the National Guard to prevent nine 

African-Americans who had registered in a white high school in Little Rock from 
106 

attending classes. Given Governor Faubus’ defiance of court orders and the President’s 

direct warning, Eisenhower sent the 101st Airborne Division to Little Rock to integrate 

Central High School. The images of the troops escorting the nine students to school 

amidst jeering white segregationists, broadcast via television news programs across the 

country, would bring the struggle for civil rights to a broader audience—“a real-life 

passion play instantaneously being broadcast into millions of homes via the shiny new 

medium of television,” as Packard put it [American Nightmare, p. 257]. 

 

Packard summarized the compliance record:

From the emotional heights experienced by black Americans on the day Brown 

was announced, the journey to justice seemed at first as if it might be short. But 

such was not to be the case. Though some jurisdictions undertook important 

measures—however resentfully—toward obedience to the court, the progress 

made by the states of the old Confederacy for the next decade and more was 

paltry at best: by 1965, only 6.5 percent of black children living in the South 

attended school with white children. A great many white Southerners simply 

didn’t see “liberty and equal rights” as having anything at all to do with schooling 

their children with black children . . . . 

The South . . . undertook massive efforts to thwart the Supreme Court’s decision, 

efforts that eventually reached a point of new insurrection with concepts like 

“state sovereignty,” “nullification,” and “interposition” expressing Southern 

resistance to the will of the federal government. [American Nightmare, p. 241] 

Too Tired to Move 

Less than a year after the Supreme Court’s ruling, the separate but equal philosophy of 

Plessy v. Ferguson would face an unexpected challenge by an incident in Montgomery, 

Alabama, on bus 5726 on the Cleveland Avenue line on December 1, 1955. In the Jim 

Crow era, Montgomery required African-Americans to sit in the back, with whites in the 

10 front rows. The middle seats were a “no-man’s land.” If unoccupied, AfricanAmericans could sit in them, but if a white passenger needed the seat, the AfricanAmerican would have to yield it. That was not the only humiliation, as Montgomery 

resident Jo Ann Gibson Robinson recalled in her memoir: 

Some operators snatched transfers from the hands of black passengers, or threw 

transfers or change in coins at them. Some drivers refused to make change for 

Negroes and accepted only exact fares from them . . . . [If] the black rider had no 

change, he was put off the bus and made to walk, unless other passengers could 

make change for him. Sometimes passengers who wanted transfers had to stand 

waiting as the driver drove for one or two blocks before throwing the slips of 

paper at them. The humble ones bent down and picked them up from the floor 

and said nothing. Those less restrained, retaliated in bitter, inaudible tones. 

Nevertheless, if they wanted the despicable pieces of paper, they, too, bent and 

picked them up. 
107 

On rainy days black riders were “passed by” by some of the “yellow monsters,” 

as the buses had come to be called. “Wet, bulksome, and smelly,” as the drivers 

described blacks, whites did not want them standing over them, or “passing by 

them” on their way to the back. Thus, drivers often drove past them without 

stopping on rainy days, leaving them standing there to wait for the next bus, or the 

next, or the next. Those waiting could either continue to wait in the rain or cold 

for the next bus, or walk to work or home. [Robinson, Jo Ann Gibson, The 

Montgomery Bus Boycott and the Women Who Started It,” The University of 

Tennessee Press, 1987, p. 35-36] 

On December 1, 1965, a 42-year old seamstress named Rosa Parks, tired from a day’s 

work at the Montgomery Fair department store, took a seat in no-man’s land. When the 

white seats filled, bus driver James Blake asked Parks and three other African-Americans 

to move to the back. When they did not move, Blake left his driver’s seat to speak 

directly to them. “You better make it light on yourselves and let me have those seats.” 

Taylor Branch described the encounter in his history of the Civil Rights Movement:

At this, three of the Negroes moved to stand in the back of the bus, but Parks 

responded that she was not in the white section and didn’t think she ought to 

move. She was in no-man’s land. Blake said that the white section was where he 

said it was, and he was telling Parks that she was in it. As he saw the law, the 

whole idea of no-man’s land was to give the driver some discretion to keep the 

races out of each other’s way. He was doing just that. When Parks refused again, 

he advised her that the same city law that allowed him to regulate no-man’s land 

also gave him emergency police power to enforce the segregation codes. He 

would arrest Parks himself if he had to. Parks replied that he should do what he 

had to do, she was not moving. She spoke so softly that Blake would not have 

been able to hear her above the drone of normal bus noise. But the bus was silent. 

Blake notified Parks that she was officially under arrest. She should not move 

until he returned with the regular Montgomery police. [Branch, Taylor, Parting 

the Waters: American in the King Years 1954-1963, Simon and Schuster, 1988, 

p. 128-129] 

Parks was charged with violating Alabama’s bus segregation laws, “booked, 

fingerprinted, and incarcerated.” That night, Edgar D. Nixon of the local NAACP and 

white attorney Clifford Durr and his wife Virginia obtained bail for Mrs. Parks. 

Nixon’s role was not surprising. He was a Pullman porter and founder and president of 

the Montgomery division of the International Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, a 

leader of the Montgomery NAACP, president of the Progressive Democratic Association, 

and a person who had earned the respect of local white leaders as well as the AfricanAmerican community. As Robinson recalled: 

When violations of human rights occurred, the victims involved would telephone 

Mr. Nixon, and he would go to their rescue. In fact, anytime a black citizen was 
108 

arrested in the city and knew not whom to call for help in getting free, Mr. Nixon 

was called, often during the night, and he would go to city hall and get the 

prisoner out on bail . . . . He was a friend to all who were in trouble and appealed 

to him for help. [Bus Boycott, 27-28] 

Parks was not the first African-American to refuse to move to her place in Montgomery’s 

buses, nor the first whose arrest had prompted the city’s African-Americans to consider a 

protest. One was 15-year old Claudette Colvin, a high school student who on March 1, 

1955, got on her bus and sat two seats from the rear door. When the bus became crowded 

and the aisles jammed with passengers, the driver demanded that African-Americans 

sitting beyond the first 10 rows yield their seats to white passengers. When Claudette, 

thinking she was safe in her seat, refused to stand, the driver found a policeman to arrest 

her. Robinson described the arrest: 

Obeying the driver’s demand that Claudette be arrested, the officers commanded 

the girl to get up. When she refused, they dragged her, kicking and screaming 

hysterically, off the bus. Still half-dragging, half-pushing, they forced her into a 

patrol car which had been summoned, put handcuffs on her wrists so she could do 

no physical harm to the arresting police, and drove her to jail. There she was 

charged with misconduct, resisting arrest, and violating the city segregation laws. 

[Bus Boycott, p. 38-39] 

Her case seemed ideal for action to end Jim Crow restrictions, especially since the bus 

driver had appeared to overstep his responsibilities. The case seemed even more likely 

when she was convicted, not under city law, but a State law that gave discretion to bus 

drivers, and released on probation to her parents: 

She had remained calm all during the days of her waiting period and during the 

trial, but when she was found guilty, Claudette’s agonized sobs penetrated the 

atmosphere of the courthouse. Many people brushed away their own tears. 

The verdict was a bombshell!

However, she was too young to withstand the ordeal she would face. As it was, the 

conviction was difficult for her to accept: 

[Her] head was not held so high. She did not look people straight in the eye as 

before. Her classmates stared at her, and curiosity-seekers made a special effort 

to see “the girl who had been arrested.” Claudette, who had never sought 

notoriety, could not understand laws that did such terrible things to people. [Bus 

Boycott, p. 42-43] 

Instead of Claudette, leaders in the African-American community, with Parks’ consent, 

took up her cause. Robinson, representing the Women’s Political Council, and Nixon 

planned a 1-day bus boycott to protest her arrest. Ninety percent of the city’s AfricanAmericans complied with the boycott. They knew the reputation of James F. Blake, the 
109 

driver who had Parks arrested. Historian Douglas Brinkley described him as a “vicious 

bigot who spat tobacco juice out of his bus window and cursed at ‘nigras’ just for the fun 

of it.” He added:

His favorite sport was making African-Americans pay in front and walk back to 

board in the rear, then leaving them with a faceful of exhaust as he gunned the bus 

away before they could get on. [Brinkley, Douglas, Rosa Parks, Viking, 2000, p. 

58, quoted in Rising, p. 201 footnote] 

While police officers patrolled the city looking for what they assumed must be “Negro 

‘goon squads’” that were supposedly intimidating African-Americans into participating 

in the boycott, the police presence itself intimidated many African-Americans from using 

the buses. Parks was convicted that same morning in a 30-minute trial. She was fined 

$10 and directed to pay $4 in court costs. Her attorney filed notice of appeal. 

Nixon had called Reverend Ralph D. Abernathy who agreed to help with boycott 

planning. Then he called Reverend H. H. Hubbard, who also agreed. Finally, he called 

the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., who said he would think about it. He was new to 

the city, little known within the African-American community and among the city’s 

white leaders, and not familiar with the issues. After speaking to many other people, 

Nixon called Dr. King at the Dexter Street Baptist Church again and this time, he agreed 

to help. “I’m glad of that, Reverend King,” Nixon told him, “because I talked to eighteen 

other people, [and] I told them to meet at your church at three o’clock.” [Rising, p.199-

200] 

As Tye noted, that decision was based mainly on the size of Dr. King’s church, but it 

would have a profound effect on Dr. King and the Nation because it would introduce him 

to a local, State, and national audience as a civil rights leader. 

That same evening, community leaders, including Nixon and Robinson, formed the 

Montgomery Improvement Association (MIA) to continue the boycott. During the 

meeting, Nixon observed, “Negroes stopped riding the bus because they were arrested, 

and now they are being arrested for not riding them.” [Bus Boycott, p. 63] 

Nixon, who by then had been a Pullman porter for 32 years, had to skip the afternoon 

meeting because of work commitments. Moreover, his travels as a porter meant he 

would be unable to lead the subsequent boycott as his local prominence might have 

suggested. Unable to serve as president of the MIA, Nixon wanted Dr. King to take the 

post, as Tye explained: 

Nixon tapped King because his was the wealthiest and most influential black 

church in Montgomery, he had not been in town long enough to make enemies, 

and he was almost as eloquent as Nixon’s mentor, A. Philip Randolph. [Rising, p. 

202] 
110 

Dr. King agreed to serve as president of the MIA as it debated whether to continue the 

boycott or suspend it while negotiating for a solution. At a mass meeting, he told an 

enormous crowd, “We are here this evening—for serious business.” He continued: 

We are here in a general sense, because first and foremost—we are American 

citizens—and we are determined to apply our citizenship—to the fullness of its 

means. But we are here in a specific sense—because of the bus situation in 

Montgomery. The situation is not at all new. The problem has existed over 

endless years. Just the other day—just last Thursday to be exact—one of the 

finest citizens in Montgomery—not one of the finest Negro citizens—but one of 

the finest citizens in Montgomery—was taken from a bus—and carried to jail and 

arrested—because she refused to give up—to give her seat to a white person.

He said the arrest was improper because the segregation ordinances did not specify 

reserved bus sections for the races. “The law has never been clarified at that point.” He 

added, “And you know, my friends, there comes a time when people get tired of being 

trampled over by the iron feet of oppression.” [Parting the Waters, p. 128-139] 

Under Dr. King’s leadership, the bus boycott would last 381 days, resulting in white 

harassment of African-Americans, the arrest of Dr. King and the bombing of his home, 

and inconvenience for African-Americans trying to get around the city. The MIA 

coordinated alternative transit in carpools for boycotters. The city’s attempt to disrupt the 

boycott included harassment of the carpools, as Dr. Catherine A. Barnes discussed in her 

book on desegregation of Southern transit: 

Faced with a stalemate at the start of the new year, city authorities tried several 

stratagems. Late in January, they announced a phony settlement, but King got 

wind of the plan in advance and managed to notify the black community that the 

report was false and the boycott was still on. After this attempt to break the 

protest failed, the city launched a crackdown on the car pools. “We have 

pussyfooted around on this boycott long enough,” Mayor W. A. Gayle asserted on 

January 24. The next day, police began stopping black drivers to check on 

licenses, registrations, and insurance. Over the next week or two, they gave out 

hundreds of traffic tickets and arrested over sixty people for minor or imaginary 

traffic offenses. They threatened blacks waiting for rides with arrest for vagrancy 

or hitchhiking. Around the same time, rumors about MIA leaders were circulated. 

The abusive and harassing phone calls that King and others had been receiving 

from the start of the boycott increased in number. Rosa Parks was fired from her 

job and was unable to find other steady employment. The MIA was forced out of 

three different locations in which it tried to establish its headquarters. The city 

commissioners let it be known that they had all joined the White Citizens Council.

This assault started to weaken the car pools by convincing some drivers to 

withdraw, but then the opposition went too far. On January 26, the police arrested 

King for allegedly driving five miles an hour over the speed limit and took him to 

jail. The minister was bailed out that evening, but the incident rallied blacks 
111 

around their leader and the protest. [Barnes, Catherine A., Journey from Jim 

Crow: The Desegregation of Southern Transit, Columbia University Press, 1983, 

p. 112-113] 

In February, the city tried a new tactic. A county grand jury began indicting AfricanAmericans for violating an Alabama anti-boycott law of dubious constitutionality: 

Again, however, the opposition’s tactics backfired. Instead of being intimidated, 

Montgomery blacks voluntarily turned themselves in at the police station. 

Nationally, the mass indictments made the boycott front-page news. Reporters 

from around the country descended on Montgomery, and with the increased 

publicity, outside assistance for the protest grew. [Journey, p. 115] 

While NAACP attorneys pursued Parks’ case, the MIA launched a parallel court case 

with other defendants in Federal rather than local court. The association was concerned 

that Parks’ case was too entangled in Alabama State courts that would delay resolution 

indefinitely. On February 1, the association filed a lawsuit on behalf of Montgomery 

housewife Aurelia Browder, Claudette Colvin, and other residents who had been arrested 

for violating the State bus segregation laws. The case would be known as Browder v. 

Gayle. 

In June, the U.S. District Court ruled that in view of the Brown, Morgan, and other 

Supreme Court rulings, Plessy had been “impliedly, though not explicitly, overruled.” 

Since the court could find no rational basis for applying separate-but-equal restrictions to 

public carrier transportation, the State law violated the 14th Amendment. 

Without a hearing, the Supreme Court refused to hear an appeal, again endorsing the 

lower court ruling. The court issued its brief ruling on November 13, 1956, stating that 

“the motion to affirm is granted and the Judgment is affirmed.” The bus segregation 

ordinances were unconstitutional. After the Supreme Court notifications reached city 

officials on December 20, 1956, integrated buses began traveling the streets of 

Montgomery. Branch said: 

That night, King told a mass meeting that the walking was over. He stressed 

reconciliation, saying that the boycott had brought a victory for justice that would 

benefit both races. It was not a victory over the white people, he said, but most 

white politicians seemed to believe otherwise. Mayor Gayle and Police 

Commissioner [Clyde] Sellers managed to be out of town, unavailable for 

comment. A local judge who was forced to dissolve his pro-segregation decrees 

denounced the Supreme Court decision as based on “neither law nor reason” but 

an “evil construction.” [Parting the Waters, p. 196] 

Barnes discussed the significance of the ruling:

Ironically, it was the Court ruling in Browder, not the boycott, that finally won 

desegregation on Montgomery’s buses. Although the economic effect of the 
112 

protest made the bus company willing to desegregate, the boycott never persuaded 

Montgomery city officials to abandon Jim Crow transit . . . . They yielded only 

when faced with a final mandate from the Supreme Court, and they had to choose 

between accepting integrated buses or risking a fine or jail sentence for defiance 

of a court order. Legally, Browder marked the demise of Plessy v. Ferguson and 

the separate-but-equal doctrine. [Journey, p. 124] 

The two rulings marked a major victory against Jim Crow. Rosa Parks’ refusal to yield 

her seat and the resulting Montgomery Bus Boycott provided the impetus not only to Dr. 

King’s reputation, but the Civil Rights Movement. Within a decade, the legal structure 

supporting Jim Crow would be gone. 

When Rulings Don’t Count

These dramatic events in the courts, including the highest court in the Nation, did not 

mean that day-to-day life changed overnight for African-Americans. 

In 1989, journalist Eugene L. Meyer wrote about the challenges of daily travel along one 

of the Nation’s main pre-Interstate roads, U.S. 1 in Maryland, during the transitional 

years. In Elkridge, he came to the Skyline Motel. “The wooden sign remained at the side 

of the road, but it was faded and the old motel above it looked abandoned.” Although the 

motel was closed, owners Daniel and Dorothy Duffy still lived in the office section. 

They had purchased the motel in 1952, but the opening of the access-controlled 

Baltimore-Washington Parkway parallel to U.S. 1 in 1954 took much of the traffic from 

the old highway. Travel-oriented businesses along U.S. 1 had to decide their future: 

They closed it [in 1957], they said, because the financial and psychic expense of 

modernizing a dying business was just not worth it. And besides, they added, 

they would have had to integrate. “We never did” accept blacks, Dorothy Duffy 

said. “When they passed that [public accommodations] law, we had to take 

everyone.”

Few of the U.S. 1 motels “had earlier bucked the Jim Crow tradition” (not mandated by 

law) that permeated Maryland into the 1960s. Meyer reported that two, Cedar Motel and 

the Valencia Motel in Laurel, did integrate: 

“We didn’t have that much to offer, so whoever came got a room here,” said 

Morris Pet, the sixty-seven-year-old proprietor of the Cedar Motel. “Not too 

many white people came in because they always looked for the better places.”

When the Valencia Motel opened in 1947, it “offered more amenities than the Cedar 

Motel, including rubber-tiled floors, steel furniture, tiled showers, room radios, and, after 

a while, coin-operated television.” The owner, Ida Fischer, told Meyer that she “always 

thought it was terrible that black people didn’t have the right to stay everyplace.” 
113 

Still, Meyer said, “few blacks chanced humiliation by stopping at motels that weren’t 

clearly identified as ‘Colored.’” He added:

Those that were went unlisted in the AAA guidebooks. While the auto 

association campaigned against billboards and for the Baltimore-Washington 

Parkway, staffers I consulted could find no mention in old issues of the club 

magazine of the racial barriers that were an integral part of life on U.S. 1. 

Meyer added that other facilities accepted African-Americans. McClain’s Motel and 

Restaurant, which opened in 1949, had been owned and operated by an AfricanAmerican couple. Mrs. Mary McClain told Meyer, “the black people traveling, they 

found a place to stay.” Hall’s Motel in Elkridge had been white owned, but was “always 

open to blacks and [was] still serving a largely black clientele.” The Log Cabin was “a 

truck stop catering mostly to blacks with its menu of chitterlings, maw, and ribs.” 

[Meyer, Eugene L., Maryland: Lost and Found, The Johns Hopkins University Press, 

1986, p. 129-130] 

Although President Eisenhower was not eager to enter the civil rights debate, he was 

confronted with a Cold War diplomatic reason for involvement, as Packard described: 

At the outset of his administration, Eisenhower’s United Nations representative 

clearly warned him that America’s notorious racist practices amounted to a 

“diplomatic Achilles’ heel.” While Washington ceaselessly sought support from 

new and third world member states against Soviet-backed initiatives, those 

countries had a hard time offering sympathy for a nation in which black and 

brown diplomats couldn’t sit at a lunch counter or rent a hotel room in its capital. 

In the early days of his presidency, the strongest factor in Eisenhower’s order to 

desegregate Washington’s public accommodations was likely not that black 

Americans had for so long suffered the indignity of Jim Crow in the nation’s 

capital, but that important black foreigners were now being humiliated. 

[American Nightmare, p. 229, emphasis in original] 

This would be a growing problem as Europe’s colonial governments in Africa were 

overturned. Africans were increasingly part of the diplomatic corps that traveled around 

the United States. 

One diplomatic incident, which occurred in the spring of 1961 shortly after President 

Eisenhower left office, illustrates the type of embarrassment Packard cited. William 

Fitzjohn, charge d’affaires for the Republic of Sierre Leone in west Africa, drove from 

Washington to Pittsburgh for a lecture. When his driver stopped at a Howard Johnson’s

restaurant in Hagerstown, Maryland, they were both refused service because of their 

color. Appalled by reports of the snub, President John F. Kennedy invited Fitzjohn to the 

White House. The president of Howard Johnson’s apologized, while Hagerstown Mayor 

Winslow F. Burhans invited him to a dinner with the city’s leading citizens. 
114 

Soon, however, another incident occurred. On June 26, 1961, Ambassador Adam Malick

of the Republic of Chad in northcentral Africa was driving to Washington on U.S. 40 to 

present his credentials to President Kennedy when he was refused service after stopping 

in Edgewood for a meal. 

By one count, nine such incidents involving diplomats occurred in 1961 alone. In a 2005 

column, Frederick N. Rasmussen of The Baltimore Sun recalled the Governor’s reaction: 

While Maryland Gov. J. Millard Tawes apologized for the incidents, he also 

suggested that African diplomats traveling U.S. 40 should pick restaurants with an 

open-door policy. 

U.S. 40, then the major route for diplomats traveling between New York and 

Washington, fittingly became the target of Kennedy’s efforts in ending the 

practice of denying service not only to black diplomats but African-Americans as 

well.

He asked Maryland civic leaders to extend “voluntary cooperation for an 

immediate end to segregation in restaurants and other places of public service.” 

. . . Restaurant and café owners along U.S. 40 were slow to move, believing it 

was their right to serve, or withhold service from, whomever they pleased. 

“Frankly, I can’t afford it,” said Mrs. Charles Krell, owner of the Suburban Inn 

near Aberdeen. “I’d lose all of my white customers.” 

. . . On March 30, 1963, Tawes signed into law a public accommodation bill, 

making Maryland the first state south of the Mason-Dixon Line to ban 

discrimination against African-Americans in restaurants and hotels. The law 

became effective statewide after the 1964 elections. [Rasmussen, Frederick N., 

“Racial bias revealed along U.S. 40 in 1961,” The Baltimore Sun, October 8, 

2005] 

Boynton v. Virginia (1960) 

Another incident in the struggle to implement the Morgan ruling occurred in 1958 when 

Bruce Boynton, an African-American student at historically black Howard University’s 

Law School in Washington, boarded a Trailways bus for a trip to his home in 

Montgomery, Alabama. On a stop in Richmond, Boynton sat in the white section of the 

lunchroom and refused to move to the “colored section.” He was arrested for trespass 

and fined $10. 

The NAACP took up Boynton’s case, which reached the Supreme Court in 1960. The 

State had conceded that the arrest was invalid if Federal law or the Constitution gave 

Boynton the right to service, but did not believe either was the case. Arguing for 

Boynton, Thurgood Marshall explained that the arrest placed an unreasonable burden on 
115 

commerce and denied Boynton equal protection of the law. The Justice Department 

raised a different issue in a friend-of-the-court brief. It said that the Interstate Commerce 

Act forbade “unjust discrimination.” The provision read:

It shall be unlawful for any common carrier by motor vehicle engaged in 

interstate or foreign commerce to make, give, or cause any undue or unreasonable 

preference or advantage to any particular person . . . in any respect whatsoever; or 

to subject any particular person . . . to any unjust discrimination or any unjust or 

unreasonable prejudice or disadvantage in any respect whatsoever . . . . [Section 

216(d) of Part II of the Interstate Commerce Act, 49 U.S.C. 316(d)] 

Trailways, which had built the Richmond terminal in 1953, was subject to the law, but 

the company hired a contractor to operate the dining area. The State responded that 

unlike Trailways, its contractor was not subject to the act. 

The Supreme Court ruled on Boynton v. Virginia on December 5, 1960, that interstate 

passengers were protected by the Interstate Commerce Act. The 7-2 ruling, written by 

Justice Hugo L. Black, turned on the status of the contractor operating the dining area: 

We are not holding that every time a bus stops at a wholly independent roadside 

restaurant the act applies . . . [but] where circumstances show that the terminal 

and restaurant operate as an integral part of the bus carrier’s transportation service 

. . . an interstate passenger need not inquire into documents of title or contractual 

agreements in order to determine whether he has a right to be served without 

discrimination.

Therefore, Boynton had a right to remain in the white section of the dining area. 

The ruling extended the Supreme Court’s ruling in Morgan v. Commonwealth of Virginia

beyond interstate buses and trains, but again the southern States did not enforce it and the 

Federal Government did not throw its weight behind the decision. Enforcement would 

have to be by the action of individuals and defense of their actions by the NAACP and 

other civil rights organizations. 

Boynton inspired CORE to adapt the Journey of Reconciliation for a new campaign of 

integration through the South. This was not the first time CORE had considered reviving 

the campaign. Billie Ames, a St. Louis woman who served as CORE’s national group 

coordinator, had proposed a “Ride for Freedom” in 1954 to challenge segregated railway 

coaches and terminals. Family obligations, however, forced her to abandon the plan. 

[Freedom Riders, p. 57] In the wake of the Boynton ruling, however, CORE revived the 

idea.

Arsenault explained that the revival came about because CORE members had written to 

ask why neither Morgan nor Boynton was being enforced. The new director of CORE, 
116 

James Farmer, asked his staff how to answer the questions he was receiving: 

To his surprise, two staff members had already come up with a tentative plan to 

address the problem of nonenforcement. As Gordon Carey explained, during an 

unexpectedly long bus trip from South Carolina to New York in mid-January, he 

and Tom Gaither had discussed the feasibility of a second Journey of 

Reconciliation. Adapting the phrase “Ride for Freedom” originated by Billie 

Ames in the mid-1950s, they had come up with a catchy name for the project: 

“Freedom Ride.” Thanks to a blizzard that forced them to spend a night on the 

floor of a Howard Johnson’s restaurant along the New Jersey Turnpike, they had 

even gone so far as to map out a proposed route from Washington to New 

Orleans. Patterned after Gandhi’s famous march to the sea—throughout the bus 

trip Carey had been reading Louis Fisher’s biography of Gandhi—the second 

Journey, like the first, would be two weeks. But, taking advantage of the 

Southern movement’s gathering momentum, it would also extend the effort to test 

compliance with the Constitution into the heart of the Deep South. [Freedom

Riders, p. 93-94] 

The Freedom Ride would follow the pattern of the Journey of Reconciliation. Half of the 

riders would go by Greyhound, while the other half would travel on Trailways. Unlike 

the earlier ride, the plan would go through the Deep South. They would leave 

Washington on May 17 and travel through Virginia, North and South Carolina, Georgia, 

Alabama, and Mississippi on their way to New Orleans. 

In view of the potential danger, CORE asked Gaither to travel the route in advance to 

survey the terminal facilities, talk with local leaders of the African-American 

communities, arrange housing and speaking engagements for the riders, and assess the 

prospects for violence. Although the reaction of African-Americans was mixed, Gaither 

was encouraged by their overall response. His assessment of the white reaction was 

another matter:

In the Upper South states of Virginia and North Carolina, the prospects for 

compliance with Morgan and Boynton looked promising, but from South Carolina 

on down Gaither didn’t like what he saw. He already had firsthand experience 

with the harshness of segregationist resistance in Rock Hill and other South 

Carolina communities, but the belligerence and defiance that he encountered in 

Alabama and Mississippi shocked him. If the Freedom Riders challenged the 

ultra-segregationists of the Deep South without benefit of police protection, he 

concluded, they would be lucky to escape with their lives. [Freedom Riders, p. 

96-97] 

Freedom Riders

Branch described the start:

The thirteen riders embarked [from Washington, D.C.] on the morning of May 4 
117 

in two groups, one on Greyhound and the other on Trailways. According to plan, 

they scattered throughout each bus in various combinations—some whites in the 

back and Negroes in the front, with at least one interracial pair of seatmates and a 

few riders observing less conspicuously from traditional seats. [Parting the 

Waters, p. 413] 

At the first stop, a Greyhound terminal on U.S. 1 in Fredericksburg, Virginia, an AfricanAmerican used the whites-only restaurant and ordered a drink at the counter without 

incident, while a white passenger used the “Colored Only” rest room. In similar tests in 

Richmond and Petersburg, the Freedom Riders found similar results. 

In Prince Edward County, which had transferred its schools into private hands to avoid 

complying with Brown v. the Board of Education, the results were the same:

When the Greyhound and Trailways buses pulled into Farmville, the Freedom 

Riders found that the local “Colored” signs had been freshly painted over at the 

stations. All thirteen riders obtained service without incident, as the powers of 

Prince Edward County declined to extend their “massive resistance” to interstate 

transportation. By nightfall, the riders had passed through Lynchburg to Danville, 

where, for the first time, bus station officials turned them away. There were no 

arrests, however, and no violence. [Parting the Waters, p. 413] 

An African-American waiter refused to serve a white Freedom Rider from the Greyhound 

bus at the “colored” counter; the manager had threatened to fire the waiter if he served a 

Freedom Rider on the wrong side of the racial divide. The scene was repeated later when 

the Trailways bus arrived, but the Freedom Riders convinced the manager to relent. 

Crossing into North Carolina, the riders arrived at the Trailways station in Greensboro, 

where the “colored” sign had been taken down earlier in the week. The riders were able 

to eat in the former “whites only” section without incident. Traveling south to Salisbury 

on U.S. Route 29, the riders found the usual Jim Crow signs, but encountered no 

problems in violating local custom. 

The first violence occurred when the Greyhound bus pulled into the terminal at Rock 

Hill, South Carolina. John Lewis, an Alabama native who was an adherent of the 

nonviolent philosophy of Reverend King, was the designated tester who moved toward 

the white waiting room. Young whites who used the terminal as a hangout blocked his 

way. When Lewis asserted his rights under Boynton v. Virginia, the youths shoved him 

toward the door: 

One of the attackers threw a punch that caught Lewis in the mouth, making the 

first loud pop of fist against flesh on the Freedom Ride. Lewis sank to the 

ground. More whites surged toward the primitive sounds of violence. Albert 

Bigelow, next in line behind Lewis, stepped forward to put his body between 

Lewis and those kicking him. Bigelow’s erect posture and determined 

passivity—such an alien sight in a fistfight—did not keep the attackers from 
118 

darting in to strike him on the head and body. Three or four thudding blows 

dropped Bigelow to one knee, and as one of the attackers lunged toward Bigelow 

he knocked Genevieve Hughes, the third Freedom Rider in line, sprawling to the 

floor.

Rock Hill police separated the parties, and a captain asked Lewis and Bigelow if they 

wanted to press assault charges. When they declined because doing so was not in the 

spirit of nonviolent resistance, the captain was displeased because “his politically risky 

offer to arrest local white boys was going to waste.” The Freedom Riders then went into 

the waiting room and placed food orders without further difficulty. (Because of a 

personal commitment, Lewis would have to leave the ride temporarily after Rock Hill.)

When the Trailways bus arrived two hours later, the terminal had been closed to prevent 

further difficulties. [Parting the Waters, p. 415-416] The restaurant had been closed 

weeks earlier to thwart sit-ins. The Riders were greeted by sympathizers, but the 

situation was dangerous, as Arsenault described: 

As the Riders stepped off the bus, a welcoming committee of drivers rushed up to 

inform them about the assault on the Greyhound group—and to protect them from 

essentially the same gang of white “thugs” responsible for the earlier attack. 

Across the street was a line of cars filled with tough-looking young white men 

hoping for a second shot at the outside agitators who had dared to invade their 

town. Several of the men shouted epithets and motioned menacingly at the 

Riders. [Freedom Riders, p. 123] 

As the welcoming committee took the Riders away, the cars filled with angry white men 

followed for a few blocks, but eventually left without attacking. 

The following morning, the riders peacefully desegregated the waiting rooms in the 

Greyhound and Trailways terminals before boarding their buses. In Chester, the planned 

lunch stop for both buses, officials had closed the terminal after hearing that 

troublemakers were on their way. 

The drivers headed to Winnsboro for the lunch break. Arsenault described the town: 

Nearly 60 percent black in 1961, Winnsboro had earned a reputation as an ultrasegregationist stronghold, a place where the local White Citizens’ Council 

invariably got its way. Challenging the white supremacist traditions of 

Winnsboro would have been dangerous under any circumstances, but in the wake 

of the Rock Hill incident it was especially so.

The situation was compounded because the Rock Hill incident had received national 

newspaper coverage. As Arsenault pointed out, “much of South Carolina, not to mention 

the rest of the South, now knew that Riders were coming their way . . . . [From] this 

point on the Riders would have to deal with an awakened white South.” 
119 

Hank Thomas, an African-American student at Howard University, and James Peck, the

white journalist who was the only person to participate in the Journey of Reconciliation 

and the Freedom Ride, had been chosen to desegregate the white lunch counter. As soon 

as they sat down, the manager called the police. A police officer arrived to arrest Thomas 

(“Come with me, boy,” the officer told him) for trespassing. When Peck pointed out that 

Thomas had the constitutional right to eat lunch at the counter, the officer arrested Peck 

for interfering with the arrest. At the police station, they were placed in separate Jim 

Crow cells. 

In accordance with procedures agreed to at the start of the Freedom Ride, the rest of the 

Riders boarded the buses and headed for Sumter, leaving behind Frances Bergman, a 57-

year old white educator from Michigan and civil rights activist. As she tried to work with 

police for the release of Thomas and Peck, the police called her an “outside agitator” and 

told her, “We have no use for your kind here.” 

Around midnight, the police dropped the charges against Thomas and drove him to the 

nearly deserted bus station. Spotting a group of white men he thought could be a lynch 

mob, Thomas ducked into the station, bought a candy bar in the white section, and hoped 

for the best. One of the white men ordered him to the “colored” waiting area. What 

might have happened is unknown because he was rescued by an African-American 

minister summoned by Bergman. “Get in the car and stay down,” the minister shouted to 

Thomas. The minister drove him to Columbia, where he took a bus in the morning to 

rejoin the other Riders on their 2-day rest in Sumter. 

Peck, too, was released but he was immediately arrested again when an officer spotted a 

whiskey bottle, purchased just north of the South Carolina line, in his possession without 

a State liquor stamp. Freed when Farmer and other CORE supporters paid his $50 bail, 

Peck “jumped bail” by going with his rescuers to Sumter. [Freedom Riders, p. 125-127] 

After a 2-day rest, the Riders boarded Greyhound and Trailways buses for the next leg of 

their journey via U.S. 76 to Columbia and U.S. 1 to Augusta, Georgia. Augusta police 

had arrested an African-American soldier who tried to desegregate one of the city’s

terminal lunch counters earlier in the year, but the Riders encountered no resistance: 

Although the black Riders were the first nonwhites to break the color line at the 

Augusta bus stations, no one seemed to care, except for one white waitress who 

refused to serve Joe Perkins, forcing a black co-worker to do so. 

The next day, the buses headed for Atlanta via U.S. 78. At rest stops in Athens and 

Atlanta, the Riders encountered no difficulties. Peck concluded that “our experiences 

traveling in Georgia were clear proof of how desegregation can come peacefully in a 

Deep South state, providing there is no deliberate incitement to hatred and violence by 

local or state political leaders.” [Freedom Riders, p. 132] 

While in Atlanta, Farmer learned of a plot to disrupt the ride in Alabama. He informed 

the other Riders that he would lead the testings for the Trailways group and that Peck 
120 

would be the leader for the Greyhound group. However, he received news that night that 

his father had died; his mother needed him in Washington. The morning of May 14, he 

informed the other Riders he would have to leave the group. He designated Joseph 

Perkins, an African-American graduate student from the University of Michigan, to take 

his place.

The plot Farmer had heard about was real. CORE had been keeping the FBI aware of its 

plans even before they were announced. The FBI had been forwarding its memos on the 

Freedom Ride to the Birmingham Police Department, which informed the State’s 

chapters of the Ku Klux Klan. Several police officers with Klan links assured members 

that whatever they did when the Freedom Riders arrived, they would have 15-20 minutes 

before police would respond. A high ranking member of the Alabama Klan was an FBI 

informant, so the FBI was aware of developments, but took no steps to warn the Freedom 

Riders of the danger they faced in Alabama. 

With this advance assurance, the Klandsmen had several weeks to plan how it would 

teach the Freedom Riders a lesson. Arsenault described the plan that emerged as the 

Freedom Riders came closer to the State:

The final plan, which resembled a full-scale military operation, called for an 

initial assault in Anniston, the Riders’ first scheduled stop in Alabama, followed 

by a mop-up action in Birmingham. As an FBI informant reported to the 

Birmingham field office, the Anniston klavern was responsible for blocking the 

Riders’ access to the local bus stations, but Birmingham Klansmen, working in 

conjunction with [the local police], were calling most of the shots . . . . If the 

Klansmen did their duty on Sunday afternoon, the Freedom Riders and others 

would be forced to recognize the power and passion of men who regarded 

massive resistance as something more than idle talk. [Freedom Riders, p. 136-

139] 

On May 14, Mother’s Day, the Greyhound bus left Atlanta at 11 a.m. with Perkins in 

charge of the Freedom Riders. The bus was mostly empty, carrying only 14 passengers, 

including the seven Freedom Riders. Two journalists, the manager of the Atlanta 

Greyhound station, and two undercover officers from the Alabama Highway Patrol, Eli 

Cowling and Harry Sims, were among the other passengers. Cowling carried a hidden 

microphone to eavesdrop on the Freedom Riders. 

On U.S. 78, the bus crossed the State line around 1 p.m. After passing through Heflin and 

Oxford, the driver, O. T. Jones, turned the bus north on State Route 21 toward the 

planned stop in Anniston. The driver of a southbound bus waved for Jones to pull over. 

Jones was told, “There’s an angry and unruly crowd gathered at Anniston. There’s a 

rumor than some people on this bus are going to stage a sit-in. The terminal has been 

closed. Be careful.” Jones continued on to the city. 

When Jones pulled the bus into the station parking lot, he found that the terminal was 

indeed closed. A mob quickly surrounded the bus. Jones went to open the door, but 
121 

Cowling and Simms prevented anyone from entering. The mob smashed windows, 

dented the side of the bus, and slashed the tires. The Anniston police finally arrived to 

clear a path for the battered bus to leave the parking lot. 

The police provided a safe escort to the Anniston city limits, but once across the line on 

State Route 202, Jones found a long line of cars and pickup trucks waiting for it. Two of 

the cars raced ahead of the bus, then slowed to force Jones to reduce speed while being 

trailed by “thirty or forty cars and trucks jammed with shrieking whites,” as Arsenault put 

it. Flat tires soon forced Jones to pull his bus to the side of the road in front of the 

Forsyth and Son grocery store just a few hundred yards from Anniston Army Depot. 

While Jones ran into the store to make phone calls in a futile effort to find replacement 

tires, one of the undercover State police officers managed to retrieve his gun from the 

baggage compartment before the bus was surrounded. 

The crowd battered the bus and rocked it in an attempt to tip it over. The onslaught 

continued for 20 minutes, with the mob demanding that the Freedom Riders leave the bus 

and take their beating. Highway patrolmen arrived, but took no action. 

Finally, one member of the mob threw a flaming bundle of rags through a window. The 

bus soon filled with smoke and then flames. The passengers escaped through windows 

and doors as the crowd moved back, afraid of an explosion: 

When Hank Thomas, the first Rider to exit the front of the bus, crawled away 

from the doorway, a white man rushed toward him and asked, “Are you all 

okay?” Before Thomas could answer, the man’s concerned look turned into a 

sneer as he struck the astonished student in the head with a baseball bat. Thomas 

fell to the ground and was barely conscious as the rest of the exiting Riders spilled 

out onto the grass. [Freedom Riders, p. 144] 

A few local residents helped the passengers, while an explosion and Cowling’s gun kept 

the angry mob back until the State patrolmen finally stepped in to end the siege. 

Getting the injured to a hospital proved a challenge when the ambulances summoned by 

the police were slow to arrive and their white drivers were unwilling to transport the 

African-American Freedom Riders. The drivers relented only after the white riders 

already in the ambulances exited, unwilling to leave their comrades behind – and “a few 

stern words from Cowling.” 

While the Freedom Riders received minimal help at Anniston Memorial Hospital, a mob 

threatened to burn the hospital down. Perkins arranged with Reverend Fred 

Shuttlesworth of Birmingham’s Bethel Baptist Church for a squadron of cars from that 

city to rescue the Riders, and the mission was successful only because the police held 

back the jeering crowd. Traveling the back roads to Birmingham to avoid trouble, the 

rescuers answered the Greyhound Freedom Riders’s questions about their companions on 

the Trailways bus. The story they heard was grim. [Freedom Riders, p. 148] 
122 

Even as they stood in line to buy tickets in the Atlanta Trailways station, the Freedom 

Riders could see white men advising white passengers to get out of line. Most of the 

passengers accompanying the Riders would be Klansmen. As the bus left the station, the 

Klansmen began making threatening remarks and assuring the Freedom Riders they 

would be taken care of once the bus was in Alabama. Arriving in the Anniston 

Greyhound station an hour or so after their companions had departed, the Trailways 

Freedom Riders managed to purchase a few sandwiches at the lunch counter without 

incident. That would be their last moment of relative calm.

The driver, John Olan Patterson, had been talking with police officers during the stop. 

When he stepped back on the bus, he told his passengers about the fate of the Greyhound. 

“We have received word that a bus has been burned to the ground and passengers are 

being carried to the hospital by the carloads. A mob is waiting for our bus and will do the 

same to us,” he continued, unless the African-American Freedom Riders moved to the 

back. The bus, he said, wasn’t moving until all African-Americans (not the word he 

used) had moved to the back. 

One of the Freedom Riders pointed out that they had the right to sit wherever they wanted 

on an interstate bus. Patterson left the bus, while the Klansmen began their assault on 

two of the African-American Freedom Riders. Their retreat to Gandhian nonresistance 

only incited the Klansmen to greater violence. Peck and Walter Bergman, both white, 

attempted to intervene, but the Klansmen began pummeling them as well. Bergman, the 

oldest of the Riders, was nearly killed despite the pleading of his wife Frances, but the 

Klansmen stopped short of murder. They dragged the battered, bloody, and limp bodies 

of the Riders to the back of the bus. 

With Jim Crow seating restored by force, Patterson returned to the bus and pulled it out 

of the station. However, he headed toward Birmingham on the back roads to avoid the 

mobs that had assaulted the Greyhound bus and were on the lookout for the Trailways 

bus. 

By the time the Trailways bus reached its terminal in Birmingham, Klansmen and an 

even more violent group called the National States Rights Party (NSRP) were in place. 

The police were not in sight. They had promised the Klansmen 15 minutes alone with 

the Riders, and that promise would be honored. 

At the station, the Klansmen on the bus departed with a few parting insults. The Riders 

left the bus and retrieved their luggage amidst a crowd that made no effort to stop them. 

Inside the station, the designated testers, Peck and Charles Person, an 18-year old 

African-American from Atlanta, approached the whites-only lunch counter. Within 

moments, the Klansmen and members of the NSRP began their assault. Several of the 

Riders escaped, but the others were brutally beaten. The attackers beat other passengers 

on the bus and even bystanders (including one Klansman) mistaken for Freedom Riders. 

When the 15 minutes were up, a plainclothes police detective who had been monitoring 

the situation approached the FBI informant to tell him, “I’m ready to give the signal for 
123 

the police to move in.” Despite the chaos in and out of the station, the Klansmen and 

NSRP members had left the area by the time the police arrived, but only after a few last 

minute beatings of one of the bystanders and a newspaper photographer. 

With difficulty, the Riders gradually made their way to Reverend Shuttlesworth’s 

parsonage. While he tried to find an ambulance willing to take Peck, the most seriously 

injured, to a hospital, police arrived to arrest the Riders for violating local segregation 

laws. Only Shuttleworth’s defiance stopped them. 

An ambulance finally arrived for Peck but the first hospital refused to treat him. At the 

second hospital, Jefferson Hillman Hospital, he was operated on for his head injuries. 

That night, reporters gathered around his bed for an interview. Groggy and barely able to 

speak above a whisper, he told them of his experiences. Asked what he intended to do, 

he managed to strengthen his voice. “The going is getting rougher, but I’ll be on that bus 

tomorrow headed for Montgomery.” 

While Peck was being treated, the Riders from the Greyhound bus reunited at the 

parsonage with their companions from the Trailsways bus. After comparing notes on 

their ordeal, they participated in a public meeting in the church, with only about 50 

visitors to witness the session:

Sitting in chairs alongside the altar, looking like an array of accident victims in a 

hospital waiting room, they told their stories one by one . . . . Despite a badly 

swollen eye, cracked ribs, and deep facial cuts, Walter Bergman spoke the 

longest, presenting an eloquent explanation of CORE’s philosophy and hopes for 

the future. He and others pleaded with the crowd to join the nonviolent 

movement, to redeem the land of Jim Crow with acts of commitment and 

sacrifice. [Freedom Riders, p. 145-161] 

After many of the Riders had departed to spend the night with supporters, Reverend 

Shuttlesworth was informed that Peck had been discharged from the hospital around 2 

a.m. Ordering Peck to stay put, the Reverend and one of his deacons drove to the 

hospital. The woozy Peck made his way into their car: 

As the three men headed back to the parsonage, two policemen on motorcycles 

pulled them over. When one of the officers accused the deacon of stealing the 

car, Shuttlesworth identified himself and eventually talked his way out of the 

situation, but this additional round of harassment did not bode well for the 

Freedom Riders’ future in Birmingham. [Freedom Riders, p. 162] 

In the morning, the Riders realized they would need protection to continue 

their journey, but could expect none from State or local police in Alabama. AfricanAmerican journalist Simeon Booker called John Seigenthaler, Special Assistant to 

Attorney General Robert Kennedy, to request Federal help. While President John F. 

Kennedy and his brother, the Attorney General, were sympathetic to the civil rights 

cause, the Administration was focused on foreign affairs at the time: 
124 

In the White House, and even in the Justice Department, administration leaders 

viewed civil rights primarily as a political issue, not as a moral imperative . . . . In 

mid-May 1961, though, the political calculus of the administration allowed little 

room for interracial provocateurs, however well-meaning they might be. To the 

Kennedy brothers, taking the civil rights movement into the streets, where 

uncontrolled conflict was inevitable, was an embarrassing luxury that the United 

States could not afford in the context of the Cold War. [Freedom Riders, p. 164] 

The Administration wanted to downplay the story; Seigenthaler urged Booker to avoid 

inflaming the situation in the press. The request was too late. The Mother’s Day 

Massacre dominated the Monday morning headlines, with the few photographs of the 

assaults that had survived attacks on photographers letting people around the country see 

something they found hard to believe. In addition, CBS newsman Howard K. Smith had 

been an eyewitness to the brutality in Birmingham. In town by coincidence working on a 

story about racial issues in the city, he had received a call from Dr. Edwards R. Fields, 

president of the NSRP, who urged Smith to be at the bus station “if he wanted to see 

some real action.” [Freedom Riders, p. 153] 

As a result, Smith had seen the beatings, and even managed to interview some of the 

victims. By telephone from his motel room, he called in reports to the CBS radio 

network. Arsenault quoted one of the reports: 

“One passenger was knocked down at my feet by twelve of the hoodlums, and his 

face was beaten and kicked until it was a bloody pulp.” Obviously shaken by 

what he had seen, the veteran reporter insisted that “the riots have not been 

spontaneous outbursts of anger but carefully planned and susceptible to having 

been easily prevented or stopped had there been a wish to do so.” Later in the 

broadcast, he talked about a dangerous “confusion in the Southern mind” about 

the sanctity of law and order and went on to suggest that the “laws of the land and 

purposes of the nation badly need a basic restatement, perhaps by the one 

American assured of an intent mass hearing at any time, the President.” 

[Freedom Riders, p. 165] 

As other reporters covered the story, the image of the burning Greyhound bus became an 

iconic symbol of the Civil Rights Movement. 

On Monday, reporters interviewed the Riders, including the heavily bandaged Peck. 

They had decided to continue their journey by combining forces on the Greyhound bus 

leaving Birmingham at 3 p.m. Attorney General Kennedy, speaking directly to the 

group, asked them to give him time to make arrangements for their protection, but his 

efforts to negotiate with the State’s segregationist Governor, John Patterson, proved 

fruitless. 

When the time came to leave for the station, the 14 remaining Riders hoped that the press 

coverage of the previous day’s events would protect them. At the Greyhound station, 
125 

they found an angry crowd of white men, but also police and press. They managed to 

purchase tickets for the ride to Montgomery, but then they heard a radio report that 

Governor Patterson had refused to guarantee their safety. “The citizens of the state are so 

enraged, that I cannot guarantee protection for this bunch of rabble-rousers.” State 

police, according to the news, announced that segregationists were placed along the route 

from Birmingham to Montgomery to intercept the bus. Governor Patterson was willing 

to get the Riders out of his State, but not if they were going to Montgomery “to continue 

their rabble-rousing.” [Freedom Riders, p. 170] The station manager canceled the 3 p.m. 

bus. 

The Riders initially decided to wait at the station while negotiations with the Attorney 

General continued by phone without success. At one point, Kennedy called the station 

manager, urging him to find a driver for the bus. Surely someone from the bus company, 

Kennedy told the manager, “can drive a bus, can’t they?” His efforts were in vain. 

By 5 p.m., the Riders had decided to fly out of the city. After much debate, they decided 

to fly to Montgomery rather than to their final destination, New Orleans, to continue their 

mission. Reverend Shuttlesworth arranged for transportation and police kept the angry 

crowd back as the Riders departed for the airport where they found that many members 

of the mob had been alerted to the plan and awaited their arrival. 

The police escorted the Riders into the airport where they bought tickets for Montgomery 

and boarded the plane. However, a Klansman phoned in a bomb threat. Passengers were 

removed from the plane while it was checked for a bomb. The flight was eventually 

canceled. When Booker phoned Kennedy with the news, the Attorney General

dispatched Seigenthaler to Birmingham.

At the airport, the Riders felt besieged. They voted by a solid majority to end the mission 

and fly to New Orleans. Perkins was outraged by the vote, taking it out on his white 

friend, Ed Blankenheim, who had voted to end the mission. “You can go back to being 

white anytime you want to. You have no right to make decisions where black people are 

involved unless you are prepared to go the distance.” [Freedom Riders, p. 174] Despite 

the protest, Peck purchased tickets for a flight to New Orleans via Mobile. A bomb threat 

promptly arrived for the flight, leading to its cancelation.

Just then, Seigenthaler arrived to personally witness the heavy toll the trip through 

Alabama had taken on the Riders. Five of the riders, he concluded, were too weak to 

even be at the airport, while three members of the group were acting irrationally. “This is 

a trap,” one Rider told a reporter, “We’ll all be killed.” The situation – “the bomb 

threats, the taunts from the police and passengers, the airport staff’s refusal to serve the 

Freedom Riders food, the threats from the mob outside the terminal” – had taken a severe 

toll. [Freedom Riders, p. 175] 

Seigenthaler found the solution. He convinced the airport manager to pick any flight to 

New Orleans, get the other passengers and their luggage on it then, at the last minute, slip 

the Riders on, before announcing which flight they would take. He also advised the 
126 

manager not to answer his phone because it would just be another bomb threat. At 10:38 

p.m., an Eastern Airlines flight lifted off with the 14 Freedom Riders, Seigenthaler, and 

four journalists on board. They landed in New Orleans an hour later. 

Despite the presence of reporters, photographers, and television cameras, the New 

Orleans police had harassment in mind: 

Forming a cordon along the tarmac, a long line of white police officers dressed in 

riot gear surrounded the Riders as they walked towards the terminal. When some 

of the officers shouted racial epithets, Seigenthaler became concerned and more 

than a little angry. Only after he identified himself as a Justice Department 

official did the police reluctantly back off, allowing the Riders to make their way 

to a small but deliriously relieved welcoming committee of CORE volunteers. 

Several of the Riders, with tears of joy streaming down their faces, looking much 

like returning prisoners of war, collapsed into the outstretched arms of their 

comrades. Against all odds they had made it to New Orleans after all. The great 

CORE Freedom Ride of 1961 was over. [Freedom Riders, p. 176] 

Completing the Freedom Ride

The problem with the safe end of the perilous Freedom Ride through Alabama was that 

violence had won as it had for so long in the South. 

In Nashville, a group of student civil rights activists decided to do something about it. 

They had just completed the desegregation of the city’s downtown movie theaters. 

Among them was John Lewis, who had departed the Freedom Ride with the intention of 

returning in 4 days – the 4 days that brought it to an end. He, Diane Nash and other 

activists vowed to go to Birmingham to complete the Freedom Ride. 

Nash had been born and raised in Chicago, had attended Howard University and Fisk 

University, largely free from the Jim Crow world of the South. Since being forced to use 

a “colored” rest room at the Tennessee State Fair, she had worked with other students and 

activists on sit-ins and other tactics to secure desegregation. In April 1960, Nash had 

been a founding member of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). 

Now, having just turned 23, Nash was determined to complete the Freedom Ride. She 

recognized that Lewis, an original Freedom Rider, was a natural leader for the initiative. 

Nash called Farmer, still conflicted over the end of the Freedom Ride and his absence 

following his father’s death from the terror of its last days, to let him know of the 

Nashville students’ plan. “You realize it may be suicide,” he told her. She replied, “We 

fully realize that, but we can’t let them stop us with violence. If we do, the movement is 

dead.” The Freedom Ride, Farmer told her, was a CORE project; he indicated he would 

fly to Alabama to join Lewis, Nash, and the others. 

While associates in Nashville tried to discourage the determined students, the Justice 

Department heard about the plan. Seigenthaler, still in New Orleans, received a call from 
127 

Washington urging him to try to stop the Nashville students. Seigenthaler spoke directly 

with Nash:

After describing the explosive atmosphere in Birmingham, he asked her to 

consider a temporary postponement of the Ride. She refused, insisting that 

delaying the hour of freedom was out of the question. Exasperated, Seigenthaler 

predicted: “You’re going to get your people killed.” Once again, she was 

unmoved. If the first wave of Nashville Freedom Riders were to die, she calmly 

informed him, “then others will follow them.” [Freedom Riders, p. 183] 

Despite Seigenthaler’s continued efforts with his contacts within the Nashville 

movement, Nash, Lewis, and the other student activists were determined. Nash called 

Reverend Shuttlesworth to let him know they were coming. “Young lady,” he asked her, 

“do you know that the Freedom Riders were almost killed here?” She responded as she 

had to Seigenthaler, “That’s exactly why the ride must not be stopped. If they stop us 

with violence, the movement is dead. We’re coming.” Reluctantly, Reverend 

Shuttlesworth agreed to help. [Freedom Riders, p. 184] 

The Nashville Freedom Riders consisted of eight African-Americans, including Lewis 

and two women. and a 21-year old white man and woman. They considered Nash too 

valuable to the mission to let her participate. Several prepared wills or letters to loved 

ones; Nash would send the letters if any of the students were killed. 

Even as the Justice Department continued its efforts to discourage her, Nash informed 

Reverend Shuttlesworth when the Nashville Freedom Riders were about to depart. As 

planned, he sent a telegram to alert Birmingham’s Commissioner of Public Safety, “Bull” 

Connor, that new Freedom Riders were on their way. Connor had overseen the Mother’s 

Day assault but the telegram was intended to give him a second chance to protect the 

constitutional rights of African-Americans.

The Nashville students bought tickets on a Greyhound bus leaving for Birmingham at 

6:45 a.m. on Wednesday, May 17, the day the original Freedom Riders had expected to 

reach New Orleans in time for a celebration on the 7th anniversary of Brown v. the Board 

of Education. They had been instructed to obey Jim Crow laws on the ride to 

Birmingham to avoid any trouble, and for the most part they obeyed. One of the whites 

and one of the African-Americans sat defiantly in the front section of the bus, but no one 

objected, so the ride along U.S. 31 proved uneventful. One of the white students, Salynn 

McCollum, had missed the departure, and had raced to catch the bus in Pulaski, where 

she bought a through ticket to Birmingham, Montgomery, Jackson, and New Orleans. 

As the bus crossed into Birmingham, the police came aboard. They immediately arrested 

the white and African-American men seated in the white section of the bus for violating 

State law. They also checked the tickets held by every passenger to identify those bound 

from Nashville to New Orleans on the route of the Freedom Ride. In this way, they 

identified all the Freedom Riders except McCollum, who had purchased her ticket in 

Pulaski. 
128 

When the Greyhound arrived at the terminal at 12:15 p.m., the two students who had 

been arrested were taken off the bus, which was sealed for further inspection of tickets. 

McCollum was among the passengers allowed to leave; she called Nash who called the 

Justice Department to request help. 

As a crowd gathered at the station, the police decided that for the Freedom Riders’ safety, 

they would be kept in protective custody on the bus. The Riders tried to explain their 

constitutional right to get on the 3 p.m. bus for Montgomery, but a billy-club wielding 

officer blocked the aisle. With the press looking on, the police allowed their luggage to 

be shifted to the Montgomery bus, but the driver said he would refuse to leave if the 

Freedom Riders were onboard. His concern was moot in the wake of another bomb 

threat that led Greyhound to cancel the trip. 

Near 4 p.m., the police let the Freedom Riders off the bus and escorted them through the 

angry crowd into the station’s white waiting room. They joined Reverend Shuttlesworth 

in trying to desegregate the white restaurant, but it was locked. They then managed to 

desegregate the rest rooms. They sang freedom songs in the white waiting room while 

awaiting the opportunity to leave for Montgomery. 

In Alabama, the political dynamic had shifted dramatically in just the few days since the 

Mother’s Day assault. As Arsenault put it, “Simultaneously restraining the crowd and 

intimidating the Freedom Riders was turning out to be a difficult proposition, especially 

with the press looking on.” [Freedom Riders, p. 189] The police did not want another 

riot, but as Governor Patterson told a press conference, he could not “guarantee the safety 

of fools.” 

The Freedom Riders, including McCollum, hoped to board the 5 p.m. bus for 

Montgomery, but Bull Connor had them placed in “protective custody.” He arrested

Reverend Shuttlesworth for interfering. The “agitators” were taken to the Southside jail. 

Although the reverend was released on bail, the rest stayed in jail. The men, in keeping 

with Gandhian principles, refused to eat. They could not sleep, so they spent the night 

singing freedom songs. McCollum, as a white woman, was kept separate in the jail, 

while the two African-American women were placed in a cell with other AfricanAmerican prisoners.

In Washington, officials were trying to find a way to defuse the situation. Military 

intervention was ruled out as likely to remind southerners of the post-Civil War 

Reconstruction era. They concluded that civilian authorities such as U.S. Marshals and 

Border Patrol officers could be used because they would be less likely to make the 

situation worse. Officials hoped that the threat of intervention would prompt State 

officials to ensure safety, but when President Kennedy called Governor Patterson to urge 

him to handle the situation safely, the President was told that the Governor had gone 

fishing and was not available. 
129 

On Thursday, Connor blamed Reverend Shuttlesworth for the problem. Displaying the 

telegram he had received the day before, Connor claimed that Shuttlesworth’s actions in 

notifying the press were the equivalent of shouting “fire” in a crowded auditorium. 

Connor then attended Shuttlesworth’s trial. Reverend Shuttlesworth was convicted, but 

released on bail. After being released, he told the press that the Freedom Ride would 

continue. 

That night, Harry K. Smith’s documentary on racial attitudes in Birmingham aired on 

CBS. The hour-long program gave white leaders their say in defending segregationist 

policies. A leading attorney explained the city’s troubles: 

I have no doubt that the Negro basically knows that the best friend he’s ever had 

in the world is the Southern white man. He’d do the most for him—always has 

and will continue to do it, but when they, from Northern agitators, are spurred on 

to believe that they are equal to the white man in every respect and should be just 

taken from savagery, and put on the same plane with the white man in every 

respect, that’s not true. He shouldn’t be. 

The program ended with Smith’s account of the Mother’s Day assault while standing in 

front of a photograph of Connor. [Freedom Riders, p. 196-197] 

Connor took action that night. He hustled the remaining Freedom Riders into a caravan 

that took them to Ardmore near the State line. (The two students who had been arrested 

were kept in jail, while McCollum had been released into her father’s custody. He told 

reporters he was taking her to New York because, “I sent her to Nashville to get an 

education, not to get mixed up in this integration mess.” [Freedom Riders, p, 198-199]) 

“There is the Tennessee line,” Connor told the bewildered Freedom Riders. “Cross it and 

save this state and yourself a lot of trouble.” 

Finding a telephone, the Freedom Riders consulted Nash, who let them decide which 

direction they would travel. She informed them, too, that a second batch of Freedom 

Riders would soon be leaving for Alabama. They decided to return to Birmingham. She 

dispatched a car on U.S. 31 for them. 

Back in Birmingham, the Nashville Freedom Riders met at Reverend Shuttlesworth’s

home with the second wave of Riders. Together, the Riders now totaled 19 student 

volunteers. As before, Shuttlesworth alerted law enforcement officials of the plan to 

depart for Montgomery that afternoon. 

By this time, Federal, State, and local officials were looking for a way to bring the 

situation to an end without another riot, all frustrated that the Nashville Freedom Riders 

would not see what the officials viewed as reason. Instead, the Riders and Shutttlesworth 

headed for the Greyhound station where they made their way into the white waiting room 

despite a growing and angry crowd that surrounded them outside. Their bus, nearly ready 

to depart, had room for them, but the station manager canceled the run, claiming he did 

not have a driver available.
130 

The Riders camped in the station. The police kept most of the protesters out of the 

station, but allowed several Klansmen in to harass the Riders in petty ways while the 

Klan’s Imperial Wizard, Robert Sheldon, looked and the angry mob outside continued to 

grow.

President Kennedy had finally managed to get Governor Patterson on the phone, but the 

Governor was unyielding. He demanded that the President send someone to 

Montgomery to discuss the situation. Seigenthaler arrived in Montgomery on Friday for 

a tense meeting with the Governor and his cabinet. Despite the Governor’s furious 

denunciations, he agreed to a plan for resolving the situation. Police in Birmingham and 

Montgomery would protect the Riders while they were in those cities. The State police 

would protect them in between, with the State’s director of safety, Floyd Mann, riding 

along with them. 

With the deal in place, Seigenthaler was convinced that Federal intervention would not be 

needed. What he did not know is that Governor Patterson had changed his mind. Instead 

of cooperating with the plan, he had secured an injunction from Judge Walter B. Jones 

barring the Riders from traveling in Alabama. Although Judge Jones pointed out that the 

injunction presented to him referred to James Farmer and the CORE Riders, not the 

group from Nashville, he was assured the Governor wanted the injunction. [Freedom 

Riders, p. 205-206] 

By Saturday morning, everyone was ready to go. Attorney General Kennedy had tried to 

intervene with Reverend Shuttlesworth to convince the Nashville Freedom Riders to fly 

to New Orleans, but the reverend indicated he would be on the bus with them. At the 

station, the Nashville students appeared for the first bus to Montgomery, but the driver 

refused to board them. “I don’t have but one life to give,” he told them. “And I don’t 

intend to give it to CORE or the NAACP.” [Freedom Riders, p. 207] Only after a 

warning from the president of Greyhound to the station manager and the appearance of 

Bull Connor was the driver willing to allow the Nashville Freedom Riders on his bus. 

The police arrested Reverend Shuttlesworth when he attempted to board, but the others 

boarded without incident. 

A caravan of police cruisers and motorcycles, plus reporters in their own cars, escorted 

the bus to the Birmingham city line. The Nashville Freedom Riders, who were not aware 

of the plans for their safety, feared what might happen, but several State highway patrol 

cars appeared to replace the city force as a State patrol plane tracked the bus as it moved 

toward Montgomery on U.S. 31. Despite the plan to make all scheduled stops, the bus 

continued without break toward the capital. 

As the bus approached the city line, Mann spoke with Montgomery’s public safety 

commissioner, the segregationist L. B. Sullivan, who assured the State official that city 

police were waiting at the Greyhound station. Trusting Sullivan’s word was one of 

Mann’s biggest mistakes on this day. Only one officer on a motorcycle greeted the bus 
131 

when it crossed the city line but the bus arrived at the station safely at 10:23 a.m. No 

police were evident. 

Seigenthaler was not there, either. He did not know that the bus had not made the 

scheduled stops and was ahead of schedule. He was driving around the station trying to 

find a parking space. 

As the Nashville Freedom Riders stepped onto the loading platform, the station was 

quiet. They saw taxicabs, a group of reporters, and around 12 white men near the 

terminal door. What they did not know is that safety commissioner Sullivan had made 

the same deal with the Klan that they had received in Birmingham – 15 or so minutes 

alone with the Riders before the police showed up. Over 200 white men, women, and 

children were in the area waiting for their 15 minutes to begin. 

As reporters began to question the Freedom Riders, the attacks began. The reporters 

were pushed aside. Television cameras and cameras were broken as the mob reached the 

Freedom Riders, who tried to practice their Gandhian nonviolent stance. The mob 

attacked them with fists, bats, bricks, chains, tire irons, and fingernails. One of the white 

men, Jim Zwerg, was the first target, and he was brutally beaten, but each of the Freedom 

Riders came in for a beating. 

In the frenzy, many of the Freedom Riders, including seven women, were pushed off the 

loading station and ran for safety. The women begged an African-American taxicab 

driver to take them to Reverend Abernathy’s First Baptist Church, but he was unwilling 

to carry more than four passengers or violate Jim Crow restrictions by taking any white 

women. He finally agreed to take the five African-Americans, but the two white women, 

Susan Wilbur and Susan Hermann, were left on the curb.

They approached another African-American cab driver, who objected even as they 

climbed into the back seat. Before they could argue their desperate case, a white man 

dragged the driver out of his cab. Others dragged the two women out of the back seat 

and began beating them. 

Seigenthaler, still looking for a parking space, turned the corner and saw the riot taking 

place. He also saw a teenage white boy repeatedly punching Wilbur. He pulled his car 

onto the curb. He pulled Wilbur to her feet and urged her to get in his car even as she 

told him, “Mister, this is not your fight! Get away from here! You’re gonna get killed!” 

Hermann made it into his car, but Seigenthaler was surrounded by the mob: 

Suddenly, two rough-looking men dressed in overalls blocked his path to the car 

door, demanding to know who “the hell” he was. Seigenthaler replied that he was 

a federal agent and that they had better not challenge his authority. Before he 

could say any more, a third man struck him in the back of the head with a pipe. 

Unconscious, he fell to the pavement, where he was kicked in the ribs by other 

members of the mob. Pushed under the rear bumper of the car, his battered and 
132 

motionless body remained there until discovered by a reporter twenty-five 

minutes later. [Freedom Riders, p, 213-214] 

Wilbur and Hermann managed to escape without serious injury. 

Mann arrived on the loading dock a few minutes into the riot. He had been suspicious of 

Sullivan’s assurances, but had no authority within the city limits. As a result, Mann had 

stationed highway patrolman a few blocks away, but amidst the chaos inside the station, 

he had to act on his own. Firing warning shots, he came to the rescue of the Freedom 

Riders being beaten on the loading platform. He managed to back off some of the 

attackers.

Sullivan’s police arrived 10 minutes into the riot, but initially took no action to halt the 

beatings. Hearing that Mann was on the loading platform, Sullivan rushed to the scene. 

As Sullivan tried to assert his authority over Mann, Judge Jones and State Attorney 

General MacDonald Gallion arrived to take charge. Their primary concern was not to 

stop the riot or arrest Klansmen, but to read the Judge’s injunction to the nearly 

unconscious Freedom Riders. 

Two Freedom Riders and a reporter carried Zwerg, who appeared to be dying, to a 

taxicab. The white driver refused to drive Zwerg to the hospital. A deputy sheriff arrived 

– to read the injunction to Zwerg and the two other Freedom Riders. An AfricanAmerican taxi driver agreed to take them to a doctor, but the police would not allow 

Zwerg to go. He would have to wait until a white ambulance arrived. Since Sullivan, as 

he later explained, had arranged for all the white ambulances to be in the repair shop on 

this date, the ambulance would never arrive. Mann had to intervene, directing one of his 

patrolmen to drive Zwerg to a hospital. (Zwerg would be hospitalized, but survived his 

injuries.) 

The riot would continue into the late afternoon, long after the Nashville Freedom Riders 

had found ways out of the area. Too late, Attorney General Kennedy directed John Doar, 

on the scene from the Department’s Office of Civil Rights, to get an injunction blocking 

the Klan and the NSRP from interfering with interstate transportation. The Justice 

Department also activated the plan to send U.S. marshals and other nonmilitary law 

enforcement officials to enforce the civil rights of the Nashville Freedom Riders.

Even while taking these actions, the Attorney General and other Administration officials 

were aware of the political aspects of the struggle. In the close popular vote in the 1960 

election, Kennedy’s election had turned on small differences. Although the South was 

largely Democratic, it had been fighting the national party for years over civil rights. 

While the Kennedy brothers were outraged by what had happened in Montgomery, they 

kept their statements evenhanded. The President called on State and local officials “to 

exercise their lawful authority to prevent any further outbreaks of violence.” At the same 

time, he hoped that citizens of Alabama or visitors to the State “would refrain from any 

action which would in any way tend to provoke further outbreaks.” 
133 

In an angry telephone exchange, Governor Patterson and Attorney General Kennedy 

exchanged accusations. The Governor was opposed to Federal intervention, claiming 

that Alabama did not need outside help. In the telephone call and a public statement, the 

Governor made clear he had no sympathy for lawbreakers, agitators, and troublemakers: 

While we will do our utmost to keep the public highways clear and to guard 

against all disorder, we cannot escort bus loads or carloads of rabble rousers about 

our state from city to city for the avowed purpose of disobeying our laws, flouting 

our customs and traditions, and creating racial incidents. Such unlawful acts 

serve only to further enrage our populace. I have no use for these agitators or 

their kind. [Freedom Riders, p. 223] 

Like the Kennedys, Governor Patterson had to tend to his own political base as an antiWashington, States rights leader who would protect Alabama’s white population from 

outside agitators.

Zwerg and another African-American, William Barbee, were hospitalized. Two of the 

women, Hermann and Wilbur, had been captured by the police and sent by train back to 

Nashville. The remaining Nashville Freedom Riders found their way to First Baptist 

Church where they were given refuge. 

A Night of Fear 

Nash reacted to the news by contacting civil rights leaders from around the country, 

including Dr. King and Farmer, and encouraging them to join the Freedom Riders in 

Montgomery. Dr. King, Farmer, and Reverend Shuttlesworth were among the leaders 

who joined Nash at the church for a rally Sunday evening. 

By the start of the rally at 8 p.m., First Baptist was jammed with men, women, and 

children, most of them African-American. The Nashville Freedom Riders were in the 

basement, subject to arrest under Judge Jones’ order. While U.S. marshals patrolled the 

area, a few FBI agents were present, along with two plainclothes State detectives

assigned by Mann. They saw a white crowd of about 2,000 people who shouted and 

waved signs, but initially made no attacks. 

As the meeting began, several leaders were concerned about the growing crowd outside 

the church. The crowd had begun throwing rocks at those entering the church and 

smashing the windows of cars parked along the street by the church. Dr. King and a few 

others left the basement to go outside to get a sense of the crowd. As soon as the 

protesters recognized Dr. King, they began shouting and throwing rocks and other objects 

at him. He quickly reentered the church. 

Soon, the mob ignored the U.S. marshals and crossed onto church property. They began 

banging on the doors, breaking windows, and screaming epithets. They torched the gas 

tank of a Buick parked near the church, causing an explosion. 
134 

As the situation got out of hand, the U.S. marshals called for backup, while Dr. King 

spoke by telephone with Attorney General Kennedy, who assured him that additional 

marshals were on the way. Their arrival temporarily relieved the situation, but this 

quickly assembled force included many officers who had little experience with law 

enforcement and none with mob control. Their attempt to disperse the mob with tear gas 

backfired when the wind blew the gas back on the officers and into the church. The small 

Federal force was soon under attack. 

Governor Patterson had secretly been listening in on the conversations with Federal 

officials, including the Attorney General, waiting for the right moment to assert State 

control. That moment came around 10 p.m., when he declared “qualified martial rule” in 

the city. Soon, city police officers and members of the Alabama National Guard under 

Adjutant General Henry Graham surrounded the church – most of them more sympathetic 

to the mob than the crowd inside. The head of the Federal force placed his men under 

Graham’s control. Graham immediately ordered the force to leave the area.

By the time the mass meeting ended, everyone inside was eager to go home. However, 

State and local forces blocked the doors. The situation, Graham explained to Dr. King, 

was too unstable. They would have to stay inside the church until the situation was under 

control. Dr. King called the Attorney General to describe the situation and complain 

about the departure of the U.S. forces, but Kennedy felt he had done all he could for the 

Freedom Riders. [Freedom Riders, p. 240] 

Only after 4 a.m., would the State and National Guard forces relent: 

[A] convoy of National Guard trucks and jeeps pulled up in front of the church, 

and over the next hour the Freedom Riders and the faithful parishioners of First 

Baptist finally left the scene of a confrontation that none of them would ever 

forget. [Freedom Riders, p. 242] 

While the future of the Freedom Ride was in doubt, the Nashville contingent regrouped at 

the home of a prominent African-American pharmacist along with Dr. King, Farmer, 

Nash, and other leaders. 

The Governor’s declaration of martial law temporarily vacated Judge Jones’s injunction 

within the city limits, but the Freedom Riders were subject to arrest anywhere else in the 

State. Therefore, on Monday, attorneys for the Riders went before U.S. Judge Frank 

Johnson on Monday. John Lewis, the designated plaintiff, testified about the reason for 

the Freedom Ride and the assertion of legal and constitutional rights. Although Judge 

Johnson expressed some doubt about the wisdom of the provocative Freedom Ride, he 

ruled that Judge Jones’s injunction was an unconstitutional infringement of Federal law. 

As far as the Federal court was concerned, the Nashville Freedom Riders were no longer 

subject to arrest. [Freedom Riders, p. 248] 

With the Freedom Riders determined to resume their journey to Jackson on Wednesday, 

Mississippi Governor Ross Barnett, a proud member of the White Citizens’ Council, sent 
135 

a telegram to Attorney General Kennedy:

You will do a great disservice to the agitators and the people of the United States 

if you do not advise the agitators to stay out of Mississippi. 

He said he would not tolerate mob violence or Federal intervention: 

The people of Mississippi are capable of handling all violations of law and 

keeping peace in Mississippi. We . . . do not want any police aid from 

Washington, either marshals or federal troops. [Freedom Riders, p. 251] 

He followed up this telegram by putting the Mississippi National Guard on alert and 

directing State troopers to stop all buses at the Alabama-Mississippi border and search for 

Freedom Riders. 

Governor Patterson was infuriated by the implication that Alabama had not handled the 

situation properly. In a press conference, he blamed the trouble on meddling Federal 

officials. He urged them to go home and let State officials handle law and order. The 

only thing he wanted from the Kennedy Administration was for it to encourage the 

Freedom Riders to get out of Alabama as soon as possible: 

If they want to go to the state line we will see that they get there. I’m opposed to 

agitation and mob violence no matter who does it. But it’s just as guilty to 

provoke an incident as to take part in one. [Freedom Riders, p. 252] 

The Attorney General was losing patience with the Riders, who had provoked a series of 

violent incidents that made the United States look bad at a time when his brother was 

focused on foreign issues: 

The president was first and foremost a Cold Warrior, and his focus on world 

affairs was never more intense than during the troubled spring following the Bay 

of Pigs fiasco [in April 1961]. In the midst of getting ready for his first 

presidential trip abroad—to England and France—he had just learned that Soviet 

premier Nikita Krushchev had agreed to a June summit meeting in Vienna . . . . 

From the administration’s perspective, the timing of the confrontations in 

Alabama couldn’t have been much worse, as the president told [aide Harris] 

Wofford in no uncertain terms after the Monday morning headlines [about the 

Mother’s Day riot]. “Can you get your . . . friends off those buses?” Kennedy 

exploded. “Stop them.” [Freedom Riders, p. 164] 

Frantic negotiations continued among officials in Montgomery, Jackson, and 

Washington. Recognizing that the inept performance of Federal forces at Montgomery’s 

First Baptist Church ruled out their continued involvement as peacekeepers, Attorney 

General Kennedy enlisted the help of Senator Eastland of Mississippi, a Democrat and an 

avowed segregationist. The Senator assured the Attorney General that the Freedom 

Riders would not come to harm in Mississippi, but any attempt to violate the State’s 
136 

segregation laws would result in arrest. Kennedy, who wanted the Freedom Riders out of 

the news, accepted the compromise. The key was to keep Federal forces out of the 

situation and allow the segregationists and States’ rights advocates to handle the situation

without violence. 

Justice in Jackson 

The Riders decided to leave for Jackson on Wednesday, May 24. They held a 

nonviolence workshop to remind the Riders how to handle the situations they were likely 

to face. The two States and the Kennedy Administration worked out an elaborate 

security plan, although the Freedom Riders were unaware of the details. 

Alabama National Guardsmen escorted the Trailways group of Nashville Freedom Riders 

along with Dr. King and other leaders to the station, where 500 armed Guardsmen 

separated the Riders from white bystanders. The crowd, spotting Dr. King, began 

screaming, but he led the Freedom Riders through the white waiting room and up to the 

counter: 

As several reporters and camera men pressed forward to record the moment, “the 

white waitresses removed their aprons and stepped back,” but, with the approval 

of the terminal’s manager, black waitresses from the “negro lunch counter stepped 

up and took the orders,” thus breaking a half-century-old local color bar. Local 

and state officials, it seemed, had put out the word that nothing—not even the 

sanctity of Jim Crow dining—was to get in the way of the Freedom Riders’ timely 

departure from Montgomery. [Freedom Riders, p. 260] 

The Riders boarded their Trailways bus without incident, but found that the only other 

passengers would be reporters and six Alabama National Guardsmen. As the bus pulled 

out of the station, the Riders saw that it was accompanied by National Guard Jeeps and 

police cars and motorcycles. The bus would take State Route 14 out of the city, 

connecting with U.S. 80 in Selma for the 258-mile trip to Jackson. At the city line, the

Riders began to understand the security effort put together to get them safely out of 

Alabama:

In addition to several dozen highway patrol cars, there were two helicopters and 

three U.S. Border Patrol planes flying overhead, plus a huge contingent of press 

cars jammed with reporters and photographers. As the Riders would soon 

discover, nearly a thousand Guardsmen were stationed along the 140-mile route to 

the Mississippi border. Less obtrusively, there were also several FBI surveillance 

units placed at various points along Highways 14 and 80. [Freedom Riders, p. 

262] 

It would be a nonstop trip through Alabama, minus the planned rest stop in Selma. 

Because the bus lacked a bathroom, the Riders were disappointed but they could see the 

menacing crowds lining the route of the bus into and through the city. 
137 

At the State line, Mississippi authorities took over. They escorted the bus safely to the 

Trailways station. The Riders entered the white waiting room and used the white 

restroom. All 12 were immediately arrested and taken to the city jail as white protesters 

cheered. The Riders were charged with inciting to riot, breach of the peace, and failure to 

obey a police officer – not, as Arsenault noted, violation of segregation laws. They 

refused an NAACP offer to pay bail, preferring to remain in jail. 

Much to the surprise of Alabama officials, a second group of 15 Nashville Freedom 

Riders arrived at the Greyhound station to buy tickets to Jackson. This group included 

John Lewis, Hank Thomas, and James Farmer, as well as one white student, Peter 

Ackerberg, and two women, Lucretia Collins and Doris Castle. Farmer, fearful for his 

life, almost chose not to get on the bus, but as he later wrote, “only the pleading eyes and 

words of the teenage Doris Castle . . . persuaded me to get on that bus at the last minute.” 

The State hastily put together a security force to escort the bus out of the station at 11:25 

a.m. through a large crowd of jeering whites. Despite the reduced security force, the 

Greyhound arrived without incident in Jackson. The Nashville Freedom Riders were 

arrested within 3 minutes of arriving as they moved toward the white waiting room. 

Lewis made it as far as the white rest room where he was arrested while using the urinal. 

Attorney General Kennedy was among the officials surprised by the second bus. He 

issued a statement calling for law and order by all parties:

For the good of the nation, he insisted, the disruptive behavior by individuals and 

organizations on both sides of the segregation controversy must be halted. “I 

think we should all keep in mind,” he explained, “that the President is about to 

embark on a mission of great importance. Whatever we do in the United States at 

this time which brings or causes discredit on our country can be harmful to this 

mission.” [Freedom Riders, p. 269] 

Even as the Greyhound bus was leaving the terminal in Montgomery, a third group of 

Riders was leaving Atlanta. This group was not affiliated with CORE or the Nashville 

movement. It was led by William Sloane Coffin, Jr., a 36-year old Yale University 

chaplain. The group had little difficulty until reaching the Greyhound terminal in 

Montgomery. The crowd pelted them with rocks and bottles as National Guardsmen 

struggled to keep the protesters from the nine new Riders. 

With help from security forces, Sloane and his associates made it safely out of the station 

in two cars, one of them driven by Reverend Abernathy. A reporter managed to ask 

Abernathy about Attorney General Kennedy’s complaint that the Riders were 

embarrassing the Nation. “Well,” the reverend replied, “doesn’t the Attorney General 

know we’ve been embarrassed all our lives?” [Freedom Riders, p. 271] 

In the name of safety, the Attorney General called for a cooling off period by Freedom 

Riders “until the present state of confusion and danger has passed and an atmosphere of 

reason and normalcy has been restored.” As part of this cooling off, Kennedy hoped the 
138 

arrested Riders would see reason and leave jail on bail. To that effect, he called Dr. King 

to urge him to pursue a more reasonable approach, but Dr. King rejected the plea. “You 

must understand,” he told the Attorney General, “that we’ve made no gains without 

pressure and I hope that pressure will always be moral, legal and peaceful.” He added, “I 

see a ray of hope, but I am different from my father. I feel the need of being free now.” 

[Freedom Riders, p. 274-275] 

Coffin, undeterred by the Attorney General’s statements, led his Riders to the 

Montgomery Trailways terminal on Thursday to take the bus to Jackson. Of the Attorney 

General’s viewpoint, Coffin said: 

We can’t drag the name of the United States in the mud. The name of the United 

States is already in the mud. It is up to us to get it out. 

However, as soon as they walked up to the white lunch counter, they were arrested on 

orders from Governor Patterson for disorderly conduct and conspiring to breach of peace. 

Their hosts, including Reverends Abernathy and Shuttlesworth, also were arrested, 

bringing the total to 11. [Freedom Riders, p. 279-280] Several of Coffin’s group, 

including Coffin, stayed only 1 day in jail before heading home, while the five remaining 

prisoners went on a hunger strike. 

(Coffin, a former agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, had left the agency and 

earned a Bachelor of Divinity in 1956. Influenced by the social philosophy of Reinhold 

Niebuhr, he came involved in the civil rights and antiwar movements. He is best known 

today for his protests during the Vietnam War.) 

Far from backing off, Dr. King convened a meeting on Friday of civil rights groups at 

Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta to plan an expansion of the movement by organizing 

the Freedom Ride Coordinating Committee (FRCC):

At the founding meeting, the group agreed to establish recruitment centers in 

Nashville, Atlanta, New Orleans, and Jackson; to coordinate fund-raising for an 

all-out assault on Jim Crow transportation; to seek a meeting with the president; 

and to push for unambiguous endorsements of desegregated travel from both the 

Justice Department and the Interstate Commerce Commission . . . . As the 

FRCC’s first press release put it, they felt compelled to “fill the jails of 

Montgomery and Jackson in order to keep a sharp image of the issue before the 

public.” [Freedom Riders, p. 282-283] 

The announcement received a mixed reaction, not only from southern segregationists, but 

liberals and moderates who endorsed the idea of a cooling off period. 

That same Friday, the Freedom Riders in Jackson went on trial before Municipal Judge 

James L. Spencer, a segregationist, on a charge of breaching the peace (the charge of 

disobeying a police officer had been dropped). Judge Spencer went out of his way to 

avoid any appearance of unfairness, even letting the African-American and white 
139 

defendants sit together in defiance of Mississippi law and custom. 

After hearing testimony from both sides, Judge Spencer emphasized that “we’re not here 

trying any segregation laws or the rights of these people to sit on any buses or to eat in 

any place.” However, the defendants had come to the State to “inflame the public.” He 

found them guilty and fined each defendant $200 in lieu of a 60-day jail term. Most of 

the defendants chose not to pay the fine, but to serve their sentence. [Freedom Riders, p. 

285-286] 

Over the next day or two, several groups of Riders boarded buses for Montgomery and 

Jackson. They made it through Montgomery, even using the white facilities, but arrived 

in Jackson safely only to be arrested for breaching the peace in the white waiting room. 

On Monday, May 29, officials transferred 22 Freedom Riders from jail in Jackson to the 

Hinds County Penal Farm. The initial brutal treatment by the guards, who singled out the 

“outside agitators” for special attention, prompted three of the Riders to post bail and 

leave the State. The others, dressed in the traditional black-and-white striped uniforms, 

were confined to their cells because officials were afraid that if they were put to work on 

the roads or in the fields, journalists might be able to get to them. 

Events continued in several locations. Governor Patterson lifted martial law in 

Montgomery while Reverend Abernathy and his group continued a hunger strike in jail. 

The Justice Department asked Judge Johnson to expand the injunction against vigilante 

groups to include local police officials. The Justice Department had been satisfied with 

its presentation during the hearing before Judge Johnson, but realized that the defense 

attorneys had presented a strong case. They focused on the Justice Department’s 

involvement in the Freedom Rides. The key evidence was a transcript of Attorney 

General Kennedy’s telephone conversation with the manager of the Greyhound station. 

The transcript, including Kennedy’s insistence that an African-American driver be found 

if no white driver would take the bus out, convinced many white citizens that the Justice 

Department had conspired with the Freedom Riders to undermine the Southern way-oflife. [Freedom Riders, p. 297-298] 

The New Orleans CORE opened a school for Freedom Riders to teach the principles of 

nonviolence, with Dr. Bergman, who had been beaten during the recent CORE Freedom 

Ride, as one of the instructors. Louisiana police were on alert for Freedom Riders; they 

stopped any vehicle that appeared suspicious, including a bus registered in New York that 

was carrying the blues singers Clyde McPhatter and Sam Cooke. 

Waiting for the ICC 

On Monday, May 29, the Attorney General filed a petition asking the Interstate 

Commerce Commission (ICC), which regulated bus operators and other motor carriers, to 

adopt “stringent regulations” prohibiting segregation in interstate bus travel, citing the 

Freedom Riders as evidence of the need. The Motor Carrier Act of 1935 had given the 

ICC jurisdiction over interstate buses. Arsenault explained the ICC’s action on 
140 

desegregation: 

Six years earlier the ICC had issued an order mandating the desegregation of 

interstate train travel, including terminal restaurants, waiting rooms, and 

restrooms. The November 1955 order had also directed interstate bus companies 

to discontinue the practice of segregating passengers, but said nothing about 

segregated bus terminals. Even more confusing was the commission’s subsequent 

decision to forego any real effort to enforce the order. When the ICC won a 

judgment against Southern Stages, Inc. in April 1961, it was the first instance of 

even token enforcement of bus desegregation. And even in the Southern Stages 

case, which involved the segregation of a black interstate passenger in Georgia in 

the summer of 1960, the hundred-dollar fine levied against the company and a 

driver represented little more than a slap on the wrist. 

The Attorney General’s proposal may have reflected desperation to put the controversy in 

the past as well as his frustration that leaders such as Dr. King had rejected the call for a 

cooling off period. 

Having decided to pursue the change, Kennedy ordered his staff to figure out a way to 

initiate ICC action. The petition was a unique method of pursuing the ICC change. 

Amid its legal and legislative citations, the petition stated:

Just as our Constitution is color blind, and neither knows nor tolerates classes 

among citizens, so too is the Interstate Commerce Act. The time has come for 

this commission, in administering that act, to declare unequivocally by regulation 

that a Negro passenger is free to travel the length and breadth of this country in 

the same manner as any other passenger. [Freedom Riders, p. 292-294] 

The following day, young protesters picketed the White House to protest the 

Administration’s reaction to the Riders. One sign read:

Attention Robert Kennedy 

There’s been a 95-Year Cooling-Off Period 

That same day, a group of CORE Freedom Riders left New Orleans on an integrated

Illinois Central Railroad bound for Jackson. The group included a Howard University 

student named Stokely Carmichael. As they moved through the station onto the train, 

they were beaten by an angry white mob, but they made their way to Jackson. All eight 

were quickly arrested for disorderly conduct and sentenced by Judge Spencer to a $200 

fine and 60 days in the county jail. 

They joined several groups of Riders in the county jail, including the group that had 

initially been sent to the Hinds County Penal Farm. That group had been returned to the 

county jail after reports emerged that the guards had beaten one of the prisoners. Despite 

the crowded, miserable conditions and the attitude of the guards, the prisoners kept up 

their spirits singing freedom songs, much to the annoyance of the guards. 
141 

On Friday, June 2, Judge Johnson issued his ruling; it surprised both sides. He issued a 

preliminary injunction against the Klan and similar groups, and ordered the police to 

protect all interstate travelers, regardless of race. He also granted a temporary restraining 

order prohibiting all groups from “sponsoring, financing, assisting or encouraging any 

individual or group of individuals in traveling interstate commerce through or in Alabama 

for the purpose of testing the state or local laws as those laws relate to racial 

segregation.” He indicated he would reconsider the ban in a hearing later that month: 

If there are any such incidents as this again, I am going to put some Klansmen, 

some city officials and some Negro preachers in the Federal penitentiary.

With the media focused on President Kennedy’s trip to Europe to meet with allies and 

hold the summit with Khrushchev in Vienna, the Freedom Riders and the movement’s 

leaders took time to reassess their position in view of Judge Johnson’s order. During a 

June 5 press conference in New York City, Dr. King called for “a second Emancipation 

Proclamation.” He explained:

The time has now come for the President of the United States to issue a firm 

Executive Order declaring all forms of racial segregation illegal . . . . There is a 

mighty stirring in this land. The sit-ins at lunch counters and Freedom Riders on 

buses are making it palpably clear that segregation must end and that it must end 

soon. [Freedom Riders, p. 304-305] 

By the end of the week, the Freedom Rides had resumed, generally under the auspices of 

the FRCC, but avoiding Alabama in view of Judge Johnson’s preliminary injunction. All 

ended in Jackson where participants were arrested and brought before Judge Spencer, 

whose patience was stretched to a limit. He threatened to increase the penalties to 

include 6 months in jail. His threats did not stop the flow of Freedom Riders to Jackson 

and its jail. From diverse backgrounds and States, group after group made its way to the 

city.

Even as the rides continued, the NAACP filed a desegregation petition in Federal District 

Court in Jackson. On behalf of three African-American residents of Jackson, the petition 

sought to prevent State and local police from enforcing transit segregation in violation of 

the Constitution. Without citing the Freedom Riders, the petition also sought an end to 

the breach-of-peace arrests used to “arrest, harass, and intimidate” travelers seeking to 

use interstate and intrastate facilities without discrimination. The court planned to hear 

the petition in July. [Freedom Riders, p. 312-313] 

Officials supporting Jim Crow segregation were further troubled on June 12 when Judge 

Johnson lifted his temporary restraining order against the Freedom Riders. His new 

ruling reopened Alabama to the riders. 

Jackson was not the only destination of the Freedom Riders. On June 12, CORE 

announced two rides along the East Coast to Florida. The first, consisting of 
142 

18 clergymen, was known as the Interfaith Freedom Ride. The second group of 14 

included teachers, students, doctors, and union representatives. 

The Riders received service without problems at stations well into Florida. “Much of the 

state,” according to Arsenault, “particularly northern Florida, was rigidly segregated by 

law and custom.” However, Attorney General Kennedy had spoken with Governor Farris 

Bryant to encourage him to avoid the confrontations that had created so many problems 

in Alabama and Mississippi. The Interfaith Freedom Ride in the Florida Panhandle had 

difficulty in Lake City where waitresses refused to serve a racially mixed group of 

clergyman, but received service at the Tallahassee Trailways terminal. At the Greyhound 

terminal, the manager ensured that African-Americans served African-Americans, but the 

entire group was able to eat in the same room. 

The Interfaith Freedom Riders intended to fly home from the Tallahassee airport, so in 

the morning they planned to test the airport’s white restaurant. When they arrived in the 

morning, local authorities closed the restaurant. Eight of the Riders flew home, but the 

other 10 remained at the airport until it closed at midnight, even as angry whites came to 

the airport to express their views. After a night at a local Baptist church, the Riders

returned with local activists the next day, only to be arrested at midday for refusing an 

order to leave the airport within 15 seconds. 

While the “Tallahassee Ten” experienced the jail’s miserable conditions, the second 

group of Freedom Riders arrived at the Ocala Greyhound station. When the Riders were 

blocked by two white men from entering the white cafeteria, police officers ordered the 

Riders to get back on their bus. Several riders were arrested for refusing to comply while 

the others desegregated the white restrooms, then headed to Tampa and St. Petersburg. 

They were accommodated without difficulty. 

Judge John Rudd found the Tallahassee Ten guilty and sentenced them to 30 days in jail 

and a $500 fine. He admonished the clergymen for their agitation: 

Stop and think when you go back home and check the records of crime, 

prostitution and racial strife there compared to Tallahassee. Then clean up your 

own parishes, and you’ll find you have more than you can take care of. 

The group appealed the conviction as far as the Supreme Court, which refused to 

interfere with the Florida courts. One of the defendants paid his fine to avoid going to 

jail, but the others reported to jail in August 1964. After their release, they managed “to 

eat triumphantly at the same airport restaurant that had refused to serve them in 1961.” 

[Freedom Riders, p. 317-325] 

On June 15, 45 Freedom Riders in the Jackson jail were placed into trucks without being 

told where they were going: 

As the convoy lurched northward, however, at least some of the Riders began to 

suspect that they were on Highway 49, the road to the Delta and the dreaded 
143 

Parchman farm. It was a road that thousands of unfortunate Mississippians had 

taken since the prison’s construction in 1904, and very few had survived the 

experience without suffering lasting physical and emotional scars. [Freedom 

Riders, p. 325] 

Because some of the Riders refused to cooperate, their processing into the prison farm 

was more intimidating than it might have been. That evening, Governor Barnett arrived 

at the prison with the head of the Mississippi Highway Patrol. The Governor cautioned 

the guards that “it will be hard for you men to take what they may say to you,” and 

announced that the Riders would not be put to work. They would be kept locked up in 

isolation. 

The prospect of similar treatment did not discourage other groups of Freedom Riders. 

Attorney General Kennedy had decided on a new strategy. Having failed to convince the 

FRCC to accept a cooling off period, he decided to convince civil rights leaders to shift 

their focus to voting rights agitation, which Justice Department officials thought would 

be less confrontational. Many of those leaders attended a meeting with Kennedy at the 

Justice Department on June 16: 

After making the administration’s preferences clear, Kennedy all but promised to 

provide movement leaders with tax exemptions, foundation grants, and legal and 

physical protection if they agreed to shift their attention to voting issues. To 

several of the students, including the voting rights enthusiast [Charles] Sherrod, 

Kennedy’s offer sounded too much like a bribe, and the meeting nearly broke up 

when Sherrod jumped to his feet to scold the attorney general. “You are a public 

official, sir,” Sherrod reminded Kennedy. “It’s not your responsibility before God 

or under the law to tell us how to honor our constitutional rights. It’s your job to 

protect us when we do.” 

Kennedy was encouraged that the leaders had not outright rejected his suggestion, but he 

soon found that they would not adopt it. On June 17, Reverend King told a news 

conference at the Los Angeles airport:

We are going to win the transportation fight through passive resistance. Then we 

will tackle the problem of Negro voting in Dixie. We will make a nonviolent 

assault on all phases of all segregation. But our big move will be to intensify 

voter registrations through stand-ins at places of registration and polling, and 

anything else we can do to emphasize the degree to which the negro is denied his 

right of franchise. [Freedom Riders, p. 329] 

That was not the sort of voting rights pursuit the Attorney General had in mind. He was 

picturing a nonconfrontational pursuit that would not generate negative press coverage in 

the country and internationally. 
144 

As reflected in Harry K. Smith’s documentary, southern whites took comfort in their 

view that African-Americans accepted their life in the segregated South, and that the 

problem was being caused by agitators from other parts of the country. On June 23, four 

students from Jackson’s historically black Tougaloo College bought tickets at the 

Trailways station for the bus to New Orleans. When a police officer ordered them to 

leave the white waiting room, they refused and were arrested. By early July, “scores of 

black Mississippians followed the lead of the “‘Tougaloo Four.’” [Freedom Riders, p. 

333] 

Southern whites also took comfort from their belief that the Riders were inspired by 

connections with communism. The State Sovereignty Commission, formed in 1956 to 

protect the sovereignty of the State of Mississippi, looked into CORE and the other 

groups involved in the Freedom Rides for evidence that they were part of a communist 

plot. When the commission learned that two of the students in jail had attended a “Fair 

Play for Cuba” tour in February, southern whites considered the case proved 

conclusively. “We have known for some time the communist party is behind the freedom 

rider movement,” the public relations chief of the Mississippi Highway Patrol said, “Now 

we’re getting some proof.” [Freedom Riders, p. 347] 

Freedom Rides continued through June and July, with many ending after arrests in 

Jackson, but CORE was facing a financial burden:

In effect, Mississippi’s decision to arrest the Freedom Riders had initiated a war 

of attrition, a contest between the state’s ability to accommodate wave after wave 

of Riders and the movement’s capacity to sustain them, financially and otherwise 

. . . . To this point [early July] much of the financial cost had been postponed by 

the Riders’ decision to forgo bail, but this favorable situation was about to end, 

thanks to a provision of Mississippi’s disorderly conduct statute that required the 

jailed Riders to post bond within forty days of conviction. Riders who missed this 

deadline lost their right of appeal and any alternative to serving out their entire 

sentence. [Freedom Riders, p. 364] 

Bond was set at $500 for each prisoner, but after their release, CORE had to arrange to 

get them home, then back to Jackson for their trial. Moreover, State officials had decided 

on a legal strategy that would put maximum financial burden on CORE. Mass arrests 

were normally handled as class actions with prosecutors selecting one or two protesters

whose judicial outcome would apply to all members of the class. Mississippi planned to 

try each Rider individually. As a result, CORE would not only have to pay for the 

defense, but for transporting each Freedom Rider to Jackson by the date of his or her trial. 

The New York Times carried a story in late June headlined “Negro Leaders Seek Halt in 

Freedom Ride Testing.” The article cited “sources among the movement’s top leaders” 

as expressing the view that the Justice Department’s petition to the ICC would result in 

an end to segregated travel. Reduced finances and the failure of southern AfricanAmericans to participate caused the leaders, according to the article, to pull back from 

this form of protest. However, at a June 26 meeting of FRCC leaders, Nash and other 
145 

leaders made clear their determination to continue the Freedom Rides. Whatever Dr. 

King may have thought of the future of the Freedom Rides at the start of the meeting, by 

the end he understood the passion and determination of the other leaders. His spokesman 

told reporters after the meeting that the FRCC would continue the Freedom Rides as long 

as “segregation is still a living factor.” [Freedom Riders, p. 340-341] 

In early July, as the FRCC increased the number of local students challenging Jackson’s 

segregated facilities at bus and rail stations, Mayor Allen Thompson called on the city’s 

white residents to encourage African-Americans to cooperate in bringing the local 

protests to an end. He told whites: 

Let’s start right now emphasizing what I’ve said about getting over to the colored 

people their responsibility in this matter. There is no threat, no economic reprisal 

involved, but just show them how lucky they are to be living and working here in 

this fine city. Then have them talk to their fathers and mothers and their 

neighbors about controlling their children who may be causing trouble. Our 

colored people are not to be afraid, but they must get out and emphasize to 

everyone they want things to be left as they are. [Freedom Riders, p. 370] 

In Jackson, Dr. King told 1,500 supporters that “segregation is dead” and the only 

question was “how expensive the segregationists will make the funeral.” He encouraged 

residents to continue their nonviolent protests. “Let the Negroes fill the jail houses of 

Mississippi.” The protests increased almost immediately after the speech. Within 4 days, 

police arrested 49 protesters, including 23 from Mississippi. When some of the students 

were found to be under the age of 18, police arrested three organizers of the Jackson 

Non-Violent Movement, including Diane Nash. 

Jackson was not the only target city. A mixed race Freedom Ride from St. Louis, 

Missouri, to New Orleans had few problems at rest stops until it reached Little Rock on 

July 10. With the help of police, the four Riders made their way through an angry white 

crowd into the terminal, where they found that separate facilities had been arranged for 

interstate and intrastate passengers in technical compliance with the Supreme Court’s 

Boynton ruling, with the intrastate section segregated. The Riders walked into the white 

intrastate waiting room where they were immediately arrested for breach of peace despite 

orders from officials for the police to avoid a confrontation. 

The youngest, an 18-year old girl, was released, but the other three were convicted on 

July 12. Judge Quinn Glover imposed the maximum sentence of 6 months in jail and a 

$500 fine, but offered to suspend the sentence if the defendants would leave Arkansas 

and go home. The defendants accepted the deal and left jail, but were intent on 

continuing on their way to New Orleans. They were soon back in jail, but Judge Glover, 

under pressure to end the confrontation, conceded that he could not control their 

destination. They were released and boarded a bus to continue their Freedom Ride. 

[Freedom Riders, p. 376-377] 
146 

Because Freedom Riders were encountering different outcomes throughout the South, 

Governor Barnett became convinced that inconsistency was weakening the case for 

segregation. He invited the South’s Governors to a conference in Jackson on July 19. 

The conference was a disappointment because only four Governors participated 

(Alabama, Arkansas, South Carolina, and Mississippi), undermining the appearance of 

solidarity that Governor Barnett had hoped to demonstrate. 

That same day, President Kennedy addressed the issue during a press conference:

In his most forceful statement to date, Kennedy insisted that “there is no question 

of the legal rights of the freedom travelers, freedom riders, that move in interstate 

commerce” . . . . While he stopped short of endorsing the Freedom Riders’ reason 

for traveling, he maintained that all Americans, regardless of “the purpose for 

which they travel[,] . . . should enjoy the full constitutional protections given to 

them by the law and by the Constitution.” Alluding to the Justice Department 

petition awaiting consideration by the ICC, he added that he was “hopeful” that 

the administration position would eventually “become the generally accepted 

view” and that “any legal doubts about the rights of people to move in interstate 

commerce” would soon disappear. [Freedom Riders, p. 378-379] 

Financially strapped and with court proceedings pending, CORE and FRCC called a 

moratorium on Freedom Rides in August, but only after orchestrating an increase in late 

July. By the time the moratorium began, Jackson police had arrested nearly 300 people 

since the start of the Freedom Rides. 

For the national press, the Freedom Rides had become routine. Stories no longer made 

the front page outside the South. The Berlin Crisis dominated the news after East 

Germany began erecting the Berlin Wall on August 13 to prohibit free migration between 

the U.S. and Soviet zones. 

Approximately 200 defendants were due back in Jackson for arraignment the following 

day, Monday, August 14. Failure to appear would result in forfeit of their $500 bond, a 

price CORE could not afford if too many Riders missed their trial date. CORE managed 

to get over 190 defendants back to Jackson by the appointed date, with only 9 Riders 

failing to appear. Appearing in Hinds County Courthouse, they came forward in pairs, 

stated their plea of not guilty, and were assigned a court date. Hank Thomas, the veteran 

Freedom Rider, and Julia Aaron, a 22-year old African-American student at Southern 

University in New Orleans, were selected to be the first defendants, with their trial set for

August 22. 

On August 15, the ICC held a hearing on the Justice Department’s petition. In 

anticipation of the hearing, Reverend King had urged the ICC to issue a “blanket order” 

to desegregate bus, rail, and air terminals: 

“The Freedom Riders have already served a great purpose,” he told reporters, 

highlighting “the indignities and injustices that the Negro people still confront as 
147 

they attempt to do the simple thing of traveling as interstate passengers.” He 

acknowledged, though, that a clear and broad ICC mandate held the power to go 

even further. If strict compliance were enforced for interstate travelers, all 

segregated travel would “almost inevitably end,” even among intrastate travelers. 

“This will be the point where Freedom Rides will end,” he predicted. [Freedom 

Riders, p. 392] 

The Administration had been working behind the scenes in preparation for the hearing. 

In addition to submitting briefs supporting a detailed directive, the Justice Department 

met with transit industry executives who opposed a comprehensive plan. They were 

willing to withdraw opposition only to an order on interstate travel, leaving segregated 

intrastate transit systems in place. Cabinet Secretaries wrote to the ICC from their 

perspective. Secretary of Defense Robert S. McNamara, for example, explained the 

demoralizing effect of segregation on African-American personnel traveling in the South. 

Secretary of State Dean Rusk explained the embarrassment to democracy when diplomats 

from a largely nonwhite world traveled to Washington: 

Rusk’s point received timely reinforcement from a series of diplomatic incidents 

related to the recent proliferation of black African envoys to the United States . . . 

. Most obviously, the racial segregation that dominated the greater Washington 

area became an embarrassing reality for the new Kennedy administration. The 

segregated housing patterns of the District of Columbia, suburban Maryland, and 

northern Virginia proved to be a major irritant for visiting African families. The 

primary flash point, though, was the segregated facilities along the Route 40 

corridor between Washington and the New Jersey border. When traveling back 

and forth between Washington embassies and the United Nations headquarters in 

New York, black Africans discovered that virtually all of the restaurants and other 

public accommodations were for whites only. [Freedom Riders, p. 394-395] 

The State Department had set up a Special Service Protocol Section in March 1961 to 

address the complaints, but the incident on June 26 involving Ambassador Malick of 

Chad, mentioned earlier, prompted President Kennedy to authorize discussions with 

Maryland officials and restaurant owners. This issue was unresolved at the time of the 

ICC hearings.

The trial of Hank Thomas opened on August 22 before an all-white jury. The 

prosecution’s witnesses testified that the arrest of the Freedom Riders had prevented 

violence and rioting. Lead defense attorney William Kunstler chose not to present a 

defense, instead asking Judge Moore to place the Supreme Court’s Boynton ruling in the 

trial record. Judge Moore rejected the motion on the grounds that the ruling was 

irrelevant to the charges at hand. The jury took 45 minutes to return a guilty verdict. 

Judge Moore imposed a 4-month jail sentence on Thomas and a $200 fine. Thomas was 

released on bond pending appeal. 

Thomas’ trial took all day. Julia Aaron’s trial took only 6 hours, but with the same result. 

The all-white jury returned a guilty verdict after 15 minutes of deliberation. She decided 
148 

not to post bail and returned to jail. If many defendants chose bail instead of jail, CORE 

could face bankruptcy – a goal CORE thought might be part of Mississippi’s strategy of 

bringing each defendant to trial. 

Prior to the first trials, Kunstler had filed an appeal in Federal District Court before Judge 

Harold Cox. President Kennedy had appointed Cox, an avowed segregationist, to the 

bench over the strenuous objections of civil rights activists. Now, with the first two trials 

completed, Judge Cox issued his ruling that the arrests were not about segregation, but 

about “a pure and simple peace law enacted by the Legislature in good faith to assure 

peace and tranquility among its people.” He said that “counterfeit citizens” from other 

States who came to Mississippi with the sole purpose of causing trouble would not find a 

haven in the Federal District Court, which had no interest, after all, in breach of peace 

trials. [Freedom Riders, p. 422] 

With the school year getting underway, some defendants began to pay their fines rather 

than go to trial and jail. Paying fines, in CORE’s view, was an admission of guilt, but the 

organization could only hope that other Freedom Riders would remain true to nonviolent 

principles and accept the verdict of unjust courts. Moreover, 14 Tennessee State students 

who had participated in Freedom Rides had been expelled after Governor Buford 

Ellington directed State education commissioner Joe Morgan to investigate their 

activities.

Another 78 Freedom Riders were arraigned in Jackson on September 11, all pleading not 

guilty, and given court dates in the spring of 1962. On September 12, the U.S. Fifth 

Circuit Court of Appeals upheld Judge Johnson’s ruling in Alabama that William Sloan 

Coffin, Jr., Reverend Shuttlesworth, Reverend Abernathy, and six others must stand trial.

These and other reverses gave hope to those attempting to block integration. On the 

evening of September 12, the White Citizens Council held a rally in Montgomery: 

As more than 800 WCC members looked on, the special guest speaker, Governor 

Ross Barnett, reported that the “ruthless actions” of the Freedom Riders, the 

NAACP, and meddlers such as Chief Justice Earl Warren had backfired. Outside 

agitators were on the run, Barnett declared, and even in the North the integration 

cause was losing ground. Back in Jackson, according to the Governor, the 

Freedom Riders were finally learning the full meaning of Mississippi justice. 

[Freedom Riders, p. 432] 

The Jackson Daily News reported on September 18 that CORE had offered to halt 

Freedom Rides into Jackson if officials would halt prosecutions and let 250 appeals be 

adjudicated by the circuit and State supreme court justices. Mayor Thomas, according to 

the article, “did not intend to yield one inch in prosecuting those who violate our local 

laws.” He added, “We feel we have completely broken the Freedom Rider movement 

here.”
149 

The ICC Ruling

At this low moment in the movement, the ICC issued its unanimous ruling on September 

22 prohibiting racial discrimination in interstate bus transportation. Because 10 of the 11 

commissioners had been appointed by President Eisenhower, and only one by President 

Kennedy, the unanimous verdict was a surprise: 

[Endorsing virtually every point in the attorney general’s petition, the commission 

announced that, beginning on November 1, 1961, all interstate buses would be 

required to display a certificate that read: “Seating aboard this vehicle is without 

regard to race, color, creed, or national origin, by order of the Interstate 

Commerce Commission.” Displaying the signs would be mandatory until January 

1, 1963, but the commission reserved the right to extend the requirement 

indefinitely. Beginning in 1963, federal law would require the same text to be 

printed on all bus tickets “sold for transportation in interstate or foreign 

commerce.” This provision, which made an allowance for the thousands of 

tickets already printed, was the only delay granted by the commission. As of 

November 1, all terminals serving interstate buses would be required to post and 

abide by the new ICC regulations. Interstate carriers were forbidden to use 

racially segregated terminal facilities, which, according to the commissioners, 

were still common “in a substantial part of the United States.” “In many motor 

passenger terminals,” they reported, with a suggestion of feigned surprise, “Negro 

interstate passengers are compelled to use eating, rest room and other facilities 

which are segregated.” 

The commissioners did not extend the rule to independent roadside restaurants or other 

facilities where buses stopped only to pick up or discharge passengers:

However, the commissioners made it clear that the new rules applied to any ticket 

agent who “offers or provides facilities for the comfort and convenience of 

passengers, such as a public waiting room, rest room, or eating facilities.” The 

ICC order also required bus operators to report any attempts to interfere with the 

new regulations and provided fines of up to five hundred dollars for each 

violation. [Freedom Riders, p, 439] 

The rule applied only to interstate bus travel, not to air or train travel. 

Although many observers praised the ruling, others were skeptical: 

To most white Southerners, the ICC ruling appeared to be just another 

unenforceable edict. In May 1955 the Supreme Court had ordered the 

implementation of school desegregation “with all deliberate speed,” yet six years 

later all but a handful of Southern schools remained segregated. In November 

1955 the ICC had ordered the desegregation of interstate railway travel, yet racial 

segregation was still the general rule on Southern trains in 1961. [Freedom 

Riders, p. 441] 
150 

African-Americans praised the ruling, but its effect would depend on enforcement – and 

on that, they were skeptical. CORE, NAACP, FRCC, and other groups planned to begin 

testing enforcement in November. They dispatched dozens of groups throughout the 

South, the most ambitious test and the most difficult to coordinate. 

The testers encountered less resistance than expected, as Arsenault explained:

The best news came out of Virginia, Kentucky, Texas, and West Virginia, where 

the tests found total compliance. In Florida, where tests were conducted at bus 

stations in Jacksonville and the Panhandle communities of Tallahassee and 

Marianna, there was compliance but no sign of the required ICC postings; the 

same was true in Arkansas, where Freedom Riders were served at bus stations in 

six cities. In Tennessee there was compliance in four of the five bus stations 

tested, with mandated segregation persisting only in the small town of Linden. In 

North Carolina the only community to enforce transit segregation on the first day 

of the new order was the tiny Piedmont town of Wadesboro, just down the road 

from Monroe. And in Oklahoma noncompliance was limited to McAlester, a 

remote hill town in the southeastern part of the state. 

In other States, the testers found mixed results. In South Carolina, for example, the 

testers found compliance in Charleston, Columbia, Greenville, Rock Hill, Spartanburg, 

and Sumter, but separate facilities in Camden, Florence, and Lancaster. In Camden, the 

Trailways station manager “endorsed compliance but insisted that many black passengers 

were confused by the ICC order and ‘didn’t know where to sit.’” 

The testers also found mixed results in Louisiana where New Orleans and southern 

parishes were in compliance with the order, but in some parts of the State, the Freedom 

Riders “encountered stiff resistance from police determined to maintain segregated 

facilities.” 

Georgia was challenging the ICC ruling in Federal court, but the testers saw that many 

communities, including Thomasville, Valdosta, Macon, and Augusta, were in 

compliance. However, four Freedom Riders were arrested in the Atlanta Trailways 

station for trying to desegregate the whites-only lunch counter. [Freedom Riders, p. 456-

457] 

The biggest challenges, as expected, were in Alabama and Mississippi, where many 

officials were determined to resist the ICC order. Governor Patterson of Alabama said 

that if the Freedom Riders “continue to invade our state and continue to try to run over 

us, we want to serve notice that we are going to defend ourselves and we are not going to 

take it lying down.” In Birmingham, Bull Connor agreed with the Governor’s intent. 

The Freedom Riders found compliance in some Alabama communities, including 

Anniston. At the Greyhound station in Birmingham, the manager of the cafeteria, Ralph 

Sizemore, agreed to serve them. However, he was quickly arrested for violating city 

ordinance. The police did not arrest the testers. When testers returned a few days later, 
151 

Sizemore again agreed to serve them, but he and two waitresses were arrested. Police 

would arrest the manager two more times in coming days. Attempts to solicit Justice 

Department intervention to enforce the ICC ruling prompted discussions with State and 

local leaders, but no action. 

The Freedom Riders found similar resistance throughout nearly all of Mississippi, except 

in Greenville where the testers were served without incident. Violations varied, from 

installation of the mandatory signs but ignoring them, closing facilities for “repairs” 

when testers arrived, to simply ignoring the order. The biggest problems, as expected, 

were in Jackson. At the Trailways station, the manager had posted the mandatory sign 

and painted over the “White” and “Colored” signs, but police posted temporary Jim Crow 

signs on the sidewalk. Testers were arrested for violating the peace. [Freedom Riders, p. 

458-459] 

In Maryland, CORE decided to piggyback on Federal efforts to desegregate U.S. 40. In 

September, the head of the State Department’s Route 40 initiative, Richard Sanjuan, had 

addressed the State legislature. He had told the legislators, “When an American citizen 

humiliates a foreign representative or another American citizen for racial reasons, the 

results can be just as damaging to his country as the passing of secret information to the 

enemy.” When the legislature dug in its heels, CORE launched a Route 40 campaign 

with promises of a massive Freedom Ride along the corridor on November 11. The 

threat prompted about half of the restaurants along Route 40 in Delaware and Maryland 

to desegregate. CORE called off the ride, but promised to test desegregation over time. 

[Freedom Riders, p. 461-462] 

The Justice Department turned to the Federal courts for assistance in enforcing the ICC 

ruling. One of the key test cases involved McComb, Mississippi, where police had 

installed Jim Crow signs outside the bus and train stations on November 1. The 

Department sought an injunction, which was granted by the Fifth Circuit Court of 

Appeals. The court’s November 21 ruling also found three Mississippi laws on 

segregation of intrastate passengers unconstitutional. Department attorneys filed the 

papers in Jackson on November 27, and with officials in McComb the following day. 

Mayor C. H. Douglas promised compliance. “There are no two ways about it. That 

means no attempt will be made to separate as far as race is concerned.” He ordered the 

signs removed overnight. 

Freedom Riders arrived from New Orleans by Greyhound the following day, making 

their way through a small crowd of angry whites. The station was closed because of “a 

gas leak.” The testers returned several hours later, but were ordered to leave the station 

by the manager, who told them, “Greyhound does not own this building.” White 

onlookers attacked the testers, who escaped with minor injuries. The testers left 

McComb, but Freedom Riders arrived from Baton Rouge the next day. Police kept back 

a large white crowd, but the testers found the lunch counter closed. They stayed in the 

waiting room for a short while, then left the station without violence. Instead, the crowd 

attacked several reporters and photographers, but not the 40 FBI agents on the scene. 
152 

A third group of Freedom Riders arrived on Saturday without notice and remained in the 

white waiting room without incident for several minutes. Quickly, a small group of 

whites arrived to attack the testers, but the police kept violence to a minimum as the 

testers left the station. 

That afternoon, Judge Sidney Mize issued a 10-day restraining order prohibiting further 

tests in the city until he could rule on the matter. At the December 7 hearing, Judge Mize 

extended the restraining order for 2 weeks. Appeals were filed, but were assigned to 

Judge Cox, the segregationist appointed by President Kennedy. Judge Cox upheld Judge 

Mize’s ruling on December 22. He concluded that the injunction applied only to outside 

agitators, not to African-Americans as a racial group, thereby avoiding conflict with the 

ICC order. The Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals dismissed his reasoning and overturned 

the injunction. Arsenault summarized the result: 

Of the seven communities placed under court order by the Justice Department in 

1961, McComb probably did the most to tip the balance in favor of decisive 

federal action. [Freedom Riders, p. 462-468] 

In mid-October, Attorney General Kennedy had negotiated desegregation of trains and 

depots operated by the Southern, Louisville and Nashville, and Illinois Central rail lines, 

with other smaller lines agreeing as well. The Freedom Riders undertook a test of the 

agreement in a Georgia ride from Atlanta to Albany, where a major effort was underway 

to overturn Jim Crow rules. On December 10, the testers had little difficulty until they 

reached Albany, where police chief Laurie Pritchett arrested them. When a mass 

demonstration took place on the day of the testers’ trial, he arrested 267 protesters, and 

202 more the following day, many of them high school students. With the arrests making 

national news while local officials were unsure how to fight the movement, local 

demonstrators desegregated the Trailways terminal. 

Local activists and officials negotiated through go-betweens during the week. On 

December 15, Dr. King arrived for a mass meeting. The following day, he was among 

265 marchers arrested, bringing the total in jail to over 400. “I will not accept bail,” King 

told reporters. “If convicted, I will refuse to pay the fine. I expect to spend Christmas in 

jail. I hope thousands will join me.” However, Federal efforts to defuse the situation 

resulted in the release of most of the prisoners, including Dr. King, when trials were 

postponed for 60 days. 

The confrontation had divided major civil rights groups as they argued about whether to 

stage a mass protest in Albany. The willingness of Dr. King to leave jail and Albany 

while a biracial desegregation commission tried to sort out the situation was undercut 

when Chief Pritchett gloated that Dr. King had left without resolution of the situation that 

brought him to town. The division among civil rights groups grew as many leaders 

agreed with the New York Herald Tribune that his departure resulted in “a devastating 

loss of face.” The Justice Department’s failure to challenge the arrests undercut 

confidence in its enforcement efforts because it was “a troubling reminder of the political 
153 

constraints that had delayed civil rights enforcement in the past.” [Freedom Riders, p. 

469-474] 

End of a Transition Year

As 1961 came to an end, the Freedom Riders could look back on a transition year. 

Arsenault summarized the results:

As the year of the Freedom Rides drew to a close . . . despite a general pattern of 

compliance with the ICC order, there was a great deal of desegregation work left 

to be done in the Deep South. “A well-advertised group of Freedom Riders may 

receive police protection,” columnist Anthony Lewis wrote in the New York 

Times on December 3, “but it would probably still be a brave, indeed foolhardy 

local Negro who sat down at the ‘white’ restaurant in an Alabama or Mississippi 

bus terminal” . . . . Indeed, even in the Upper South and border states, where 

virtually all terminals, buses, and trains were desegregated, there were pockets of 

dogged segregationist resistance, as a series of arrests at several Route 40 

restaurants demonstrated on December 16 . . . . 

In most areas outright resistance had been replaced by a spirit of resignation, and 

evidence of real progress could be seen in some of the South’s toughest white 

supremacist strongholds. 

Even Bull Connor and officials in Birmingham gave up his attempts to keep transit 

facilities segregated. When his attempts to revoke the license of the restaurant in the 

Trailways station were blocked in January 1962 by Federal District Judge Seybourn H. 

Lynn, a conservative segregationist, “Connor and the commissioners conceded defeat on 

the narrow issue of segregated transit facilities and transferred their energies to other 

fronts in the war against desegregation and federal encroachment.” [Freedom Riders, p. 

474-475] 

The Supreme Court would raise hope, then deal a blow to the movement’s efforts to 

avoid the Jackson court cases. A December 16 ruling overturning convictions under the 

breach of peace statutes in a Baton Rouge sit-in case had raised hope for the Riders that 

the similar charges in Jackson would be overturned. However, the Supreme Court ruled 

unanimously on December 18 to deny the appeal of the breach of peace charges in 

Jackson. The ruling turned on a technicality, namely that the three defendants chosen to 

represent the class of plaintiffs had not been arrested for breach of peace. Finding that 

the plaintiffs lacked standing, the Justices did not consider the broader issue that NAACP 

attorneys had argued about the breach of peace statutes. [Freedom Riders, p.476] 

In Jackson, where the only change was that the Jim Crow signs had been removed in 

compliance with the ICC ruling, the trials would continue through May 1962. Arrests 
154 

for breach of peace also would continue, although the Freedom Rides would end: 

NAACP attorney and future Harvard Law School professor Derrick Bell 

discovered this on January 10, when he was arrested for loitering in the white 

waiting room of the Jackson railroad terminal, and three weeks later the police 

arrested Ernest McBride, a black soldier from Los Angeles, for a similar 

infraction at the Jackson Greyhound station. 

A second unanimous Supreme Court ruling on February 26, 1962, in Bailey v. Patterson, 

left the situation confused. Samuel Bailey and three other African-Americans from 

Jackson had sought injunctive relief from Jim Crow restrictions, but had not been arrested 

for violating them or any other reason. They were simply seeking their constitutional 

rights. The court ruled that it had “settled beyond question that no state may require 

racial segregation of interstate or intrastate transportation facilities.” Arsenault 

summarized the confusion caused by the ruling:

Once again, however, the situation was muddied by the Court’s refusal to issue an 

injunction staying the prosecution of the Freedom Riders arrested in Jackson. 

According to the Court, since the plaintiffs were not actually Freedom Riders and 

had never been arrested as such, Bailey and the others had no standing to enjoin 

the prosecutions. Though technically correct, this decision created confusion and 

ensured continued resistance on the part of Mississippi segregationists interested 

in preserving Jim Crow transit. [Freedom Riders, p. 478] 

Segregationists felt empowered to use violence and the jails if necessary to block 

“outside agitators.” Change would come slowly to Mississippi:

Here, more than anywhere else, movement leaders had to deal with a ferocious 

form of white supremacist resistance paradoxically fueled by a combination of 

outside intervention and the apparent futility of that intervention. In the long run 

the ICC order would lead to grudging desegregation and ultimately to new social 

mores, but in the short run, the perceived emptiness of the Freedom Riders’ 

victory encouraged continued resistance on all fronts, including voting rights and 

school desegregation. With the help of meddling federal officials, outside 

agitators had invaded the state, yet the Mississippi way of life remained intact. 

Among white Mississippians in 1962, this was the primary lesson conveyed by 

the Freedom Rides. [Freedom Riders, p. 481-482] 

Nevertheless, the Freedom Riders brought change to Mississippi by mid-1963: 

Early in the year the Justice Department filed lawsuits against the police 

departments of Greenwood and Winona, which had persisted in enforcing 

segregation at local terminals, but in June the department reported that its 

investigators “knew of no rail, bus, or airline facility still maintaining 

segregation,” in Mississippi or anywhere else. While de facto and selfsegregation remained common, especially in communities where unmarked but 
155 

duplicate waiting rooms and other facilities survived, and many Mississippi 

blacks were still wary of asserting the right to sit where they pleased, the age of 

systemic, legally enforced transit segregation was over . . . . For at least some of 

the Riders arrested in Jackson and McComb, and for the attorneys who 

represented them, the legal ordeal of appeals, continuances, and court appearances 

continued until 1965. But by that time the first major civil rights victory in the 

nation’s most hidebound state was secure, suggesting that the Rides were only a 

prelude to further struggle and ultimate triumph. [Freedom Riders, p, 482-483] 

Progress was also slow in Louisiana, particularly in Shreveport and Baton Rouge. “The 

spirit of outright defiance continued well into 1962, making Shreveport one of the last 

cities in the region to comply with the ICC mandate . . . . And it would be several years 

before local blacks could comfortably exercise the rights guaranteed by the ICC without 

risking economic retaliation or police harassment.” Despite official efforts to resist in 

Baton Rouge, “the prominence of the capital ensured that transit desegregation would 

come earlier than in Shreveport . . . .” 

In New Orleans, resistance to school desegregation slowed compliance with the ICC 

order. Segregationists led by George Singelmann of the Greater New Orleans Citizens’ 

Council decided to fight the outside agitators from the north by proposing Reverse 

Freedom Rides in April 1962: 

Singelmann’s original plan, advertised on handbills distributed throughout 

southeastern Louisiana, offered “Free Transportation plus $5.00 for Expenses to 

any Negro Man or Woman, or Family (No limit to size) who desire to migrate to 

the Nation’s Capital, or any city in the north of their choosing.” On the back of 

the flyer, Singelmann printed a list of the addresses and phone numbers of welfare 

departments and NAACP and Urban League offices in Washington and four other 

Northern cities, ostensibly to help the Reverse Freedom Riders find a job after 

they arrived.

The goal was to tell the North “to put up or shut up.” President Kennedy called it “a 

rather cheap exercise . . . in publicity,” but Singelmann planned to send a one-way 

“freedom train” filled with “1,000 Negroes” to the north. His idea spread to nearby 

States, with the Capital Citizens’ Council of Little Rock directing its Reverse Riders to 

Hyannis, Massachusetts – summer home of the Kennedys: 

When, as expected, the actual reception accorded the scores of black migrants to 

Hyannis proved to be something less than grand, [Citizens’ Council president 

Amos] Guthridge declared his experiment had confirmed the immutable nature of 

racial segregation. Here, as elsewhere, there were individual acts of kindness that 

belied the Citizens’ Councils’ sweeping claims that all white Northerners were 

racially prejudiced. But the generally inhospitable response of Northern 

officials—which included Massachusetts governor John Volpe’s request for 

federal legislation outlawing the Reverse Rides—allowed the Citizens Council to 

score propaganda points that were trumpeted by conservative commentators north 
156 

and south. “Listen to them squirm!” advised the Chicago-based columnist Paul 

Harvey. “The hypocrisy of pompous Northern do-gooders has never been more 

apparent.” More sympathetic observers pointed out that factors other than racism 

were involved—that Volpe and others were understandably worried that a flood 

of impoverished migrants would overwhelm an already overburdened welfare 

system in unprepared Northern communities—but it was difficult to counter the 

general impression that Northern hypocrisy had been exposed. 

The Hyannis migrants soon moved elsewhere, while by midsummer, “the negative 

publicity surrounding the general disillusionment of the approximately two hundred 

blacks who had joined the Reverse Freedom Rides had convinced almost everyone, 

including most Citizens’ Council leaders, that the program had run its course. By the fall, 

the groups backing the Reverse Rides withdrew financial support, bringing them to an 

end. [Freedom Riders, p. 484-486] 

In 1962, CORE launched a campaign called Freedom Highways to extend the Route 40 

campaign throughout the southeast to desegregate Howard Johnson’s roadside 

restaurants. The restaurants in Florida and Maryland had capitulated by June, and more 

States would follow, aided by liberal leaders such as Governor Terry Sanford of North 

Carolina and Senators Estes Kevauver and Albert Gore of Tennessee, who had replaced 

the segregationist leaders of the past. 

(Maryland would pass a public accommodations law in 1963, but only after the 

legislature exempted Southern Maryland and the Eastern Shore, the State’s two most 

segregationist areas. The law was expanded to those areas the following year, making it 

statewide.)

In assessing the impact of the 1961 Freedom Rides, Arsenault said that they “exerted an 

impact that transcended tangible, quantifiable changes in institutional behavior or public 

policy.” He continued: 

Within six months of the first Ride, travelers of all races were sitting side by side 

on buses and trains all across the nation without fear of arrest, the WHITE and 

COLORED signs that had blighted the walls of Southern bus and train stations for 

decades were gone, the nation’s major civil rights organizations had undergone 

significant transformations, and the Justice Department had been pushed into a 

deepening engagement in civil rights matters.

Beyond the immediate results was a change in approach:

In the course of six months, the nation’s first mobile nonviolent army expanded 

the realm of the possible in American political and social insurgency, redefining 

the limits of dissent and setting the stage for the escalating demands and rising 

expectations of the mid- and late 1960s . . . . The rising movements for women’s 

rights, military withdrawal from Southeast Asia, environmental reform, gay and 

lesbian rights, and the rights of the disabled all built upon the foundation of 
157 

legitimacy and success established by Freedom Riders and other nonviolent 

activists in the early 1960s. [Freedom Riders, p. 511-512] 

[Author’s Note: As the citations make clear, I have relied heavily on Raymond 

Arsenault’s account of the Freedom Rides in writing the sections of this article on the 

subject. I encourage readers who would like more information about this important stage 

in the Civil Rights Movement to read his detailed, authoritative, and readable account. 

Arsenault, Raymond, Freedom Riders: 1961 and the Struggle for Racial Justice, 

Oxford University Press, 2006]

Getting to the March on Washington, August 28, 1963 

Leaders of the Civil Rights Movement were rarely unified on tactics or strategy. The 

NAACP preferred litigation to marches and protests. Dr. King believed in nonviolent 

protest, as he explained in a letter he wrote on April 16, 1963. He was serving in a 

Birmingham jail cell after being arrested during mass protests that included large 

numbers of students: 

You may well ask, 'Why direct action? Why sit-ins, marches, etc.? Isn't 

negotiation a better path?' You are exactly right in your call for negotiation. 

Indeed, this is the very purpose of direct action. Nonviolent direct action seeks to 

create such a crisis and establish such creative tension that a community that has 

constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue. It seeks to so 

dramatize the issue that it can no longer be ignored . . . . History is the long and 

tragic story of the fact that privileged groups seldom give up their privileges 

voluntarily. . . . We know through painful experience that freedom is never 

voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. 

In Birmingham, the peaceful protests provoked Bull Connor to an excess that shocked the 

Nation as television, newspapers, and magazines displayed images of fire hoses and dogs 

unleashed on students, women, and other nonviolent marchers. The second week of May

1963, protesters flooded the central business district. Taylor Branch described the result: 

King’s demonstrators literally carpeted Birmingham’s downtown business district 

that second week of May. Having no place to put them, police officers in their 

midst shrugged helplessly to the city’s business leaders, who were traumatized by 

the sudden evaporation of normalcy and commerce alike. Nearly two hundred 

reporters had converged from as far away as Germany and Japan. “We are not 

sitting idly by,” President Kennedy’s spokesman announced tersely in 

Washington. “We just can’t say anything.” Privately, Kennedy and several 

members of his Cabinet were calling the heads of corporations with subsidiaries 

in Birmingham, urging them to enter negotiations with King, and on Friday, May 

10, Fred Shuttlesworth announced triumphantly that Birmingham “has reached 

accord with its conscience.” Birmingham’s merchants had accepted a schedule 

for desegregating their dressing rooms and lunch counters—even hiring Negro 
158 

clerks. “Now this is an amazing thing!” King cried out at the mass meeting. 

[Branch, Taylor, Pillar of Fire: America in the King Years 1963-1965, A 

Touchstone Book, Simon and Schuster, 1999, p. 80-81] 

In May 1963, the different philosophies among Civil Rights leaders came together in an 

unexpected way in Jackson, Mississippi. A small sit-in on May 28 grew to major 

proportions dominated by African-American students, many defying their parents, 

marching through the city into the arms of police who carried hundreds of them off to 

jail, taking the overflow in garbage trucks. The New York Times captured the day in a 

six-word headline: “Jackson Police Jail 600 Negro Children.” 

Medger Evers was the leader of the movement in Jackson, but as an official of the 

NAACP, he could not endorse marches for the purpose of mass arrests. He begged Roy 

Wilkins to reconsider NAACP policy, but Wilkins hesitated before relenting, as Branch 

explained:

Secretly—and not for the first time—Evers collaborated by phone with King. He 

told his New York office that King might come to Jackson if the NAACP avoided 

command, and the specter of such a coup helped motivate Wilkins to fly to 

Jackson on the evening of the six hundred arrests. He did not tell his wife, to 

spare her the worry and himself her objections. 

The Justice Department rushed advisors to the area, including Thelton Henderson, the 

Civil Rights Division’s first African-American staff attorney. Police arrested Wilkins

and Henderson. Wilkins bailed out and returned to New York. 

This moment of collective strategy gave Dr. King the idea that the time had come to take 

the movement national with a mass protest that would go beyond the localized battles that 

saw advances move city-by-city. He speculated that if he could get A. Philip Randolph, 

who had threatened marches to achieve his ends, but had never organized one, to support 

the idea, the NAACP would agree to the proposal. Branch summarized a conference call 

among Dr. King and advisors that summarized the idea at its genesis: 

“We are on a breakthrough,” he said, “and we need a mass protest.” King wanted 

to think beyond individual movements. “We are ready to go on a national level 

with our protests,” he said . . . . King fed off the idea in a rush. If [Randolph] 

endorsed a giant rally, Randolph’s stature as the unifying senior presence among 

the quarrelsome civil rights leaders would make it difficult for Wilkins and the 

NAACP to withhold support, especially now that Wilkins was newly baptized [by 

his arrest] for protest. “Roy will only act under extreme pressure,” said King. 

Now there was an opening to get Wilkins behind a giant national protest that 

could concentrate, symbolize, and define the spreading energy of local 

movements before they dissipated or something went wrong. That in turn could 

push President Kennedy into being a crusader who could move the country and a 

recalcitrant, fearful Congress. They agreed that it would take a crowd of a 
159 

hundred thousand to generate enough political force, and that it would take at 

least until August to mobilize. [Pillar, p. 101-102] 

Randolph and Wilkins agreed to sponsor the march, along with CORE, Southern 

Christian Leadership Conference, Urban League, and SNCC. They agreed on the goals 

of the march, which was scheduled for Wednesday, August 28: 

• Passage of meaningful civil rights legislation.

• Immediate elimination of school segregation. 

• A program of public works, including job training, for the unemployed. 

• A Federal law prohibiting discrimination in public or private hiring.

• A $2-an-hour minimum wage nationwide. 

• Withholding Federal funds from programs that tolerate discrimination.

• Enforcement of the 14th Amendment to the Constitution by reducing 

congressional representation from States that disenfranchise citizens.

• A broadened Fair Labor Standards Act to currently excluded employment areas.

• Authority for the Attorney General to institute injunctive suits when constitutional 

rights are violated. [U.S. News & World Report, September 9, 1963] 

As author Thomas Gentile pointed out in his history of the march, the Kennedy 

Administration opposed the planners’ initial goal of holding the demonstration on Capitol 

Hill. The Administration also wanted to avoid a “march,” suggesting instead a rally on 

the grounds of the Washington Monument. As a compromise, the Administration and 

organizers agreed on the Washington Monument grounds as a rallying point for a short 

march of less than a mile to the Lincoln Memorial. [Gentile, Thomas, March on 

Washington: August 28, 1963, New Day Publications, 1983, p. 65-66] 

Although the Lincoln Memorial had symbolic significance for march organizers, the 

grounds were not ideal for a mass rally. The long Reflecting Pool occupies much of the 

space before the Memorial. Trees along both sides of the Reflecting Pool block the view 

for most participants in any large event staged on the memorial grounds. In later years, 

event organizers would post large television monitors around the grounds so participants 

could watch events they could not see directly, but that was not an option for August 28, 

1963. 

 

As August 28 approached, organizers and officials planned for a crowd of about 150,000. 

Housing had to be arranged, especially with African-American families in the area. With 

stores closed, arrangements had to be made for the marchers’ needs. Over 100 portable 

toilets were set up along with 16 first-aid stations. Spouts were attached to fire hydrants 

so marchers would have access to drinking water. 

News organizations began extensive coverage:

Like other formative experiences of the mass communications era—the 

coronation of Britain’s Queen Elizabeth in 1953, the presidential conventions, the 

dramas of astronauts rocketing from launchpad to splashdown—the Freedom 
160 

march commanded national attention by preempting regularly scheduled 

television programs. Broadcast networks voluntarily surrendered their revenues, 

and gathered their most important news correspondents to preside over a 

transcendent ritual of American identity. As the first ceremony of such 

magnitude ever initiated and dominated by Negroes, the march also was the first 

to have its nature wholly misperceived in advance. 

Dominant expectations ran from paternal apprehension to dread. On Meet the 

Press, television reporters grilled Roy Wilkins and Martin Luther King about 

widespread foreboding that “it would be impossible to bring more than 100,000 

militant Negroes into Washington without incidents and possibly rioting.” In a 

preview article, Life magazine declared that the capital was suffering “its worst 

case of invasion jitters since the First Battle of Bull Run.” President Kennedy’s 

advance man, Jerry Bruno, positioned himself to cut the power to the public 

address system if rally speeches proved incendiary. The Pentagon readied 

nineteen thousand troops in the suburbs; the city banned all sales of alcoholic 

beverages; hospitals made room for riot casualties by postponing elective surgery. 

More than 80 percent of the day’s business revenue would be lost to closed and 

empty stores. Although D.C. Stadium stood nearly four miles from the Lincoln 

Memorial rally site, Major League Baseball canceled in advance two night games 

between the Minnesota Twins and the last-place Senators. With nearly 1,700 

extra correspondents supplementing the Washington press corps, the march drew 

a media assembly bigger than the Kennedy inauguration two years earlier. 

[Pillar, p. 131-132] 

District officials shifted prisoners from the D.C. Jail to Lorton Reformatory in Virginia to 

make room for protesters in the event of mass arrests. [“Throng Gets Quick Start,” The 

Evening Star, August 28, 1963] 

The reality would be far different, first in size. Nearly 250,000 people would crowd 

around the Reflecting Pool and the area beyond to face the Lincoln Memorial for the 

ceremony easily surpassing the 100,000 that Dr. King thought would be a sign of success. 

Although predominantly African-American, the crowd included an estimated 60,000 

white participants, including church groups and union members. Between 75 and 100 

Members of Congress attended. 

But first, the marchers had to get to Washington from around the country by road, rail, 

and air. 

Organizers had arranged for buses to bring thousands of marchers to Washington. 

Gentile described how the transportation system accommodated the marchers:

Buses from Boston left at 11:00 p.m. on Tuesday night for a long, 8-hour ride to 

Washington, but there were others who took longer bus rides from places like 

Milwaukee, Little Rock, and St. Louis. New York City was active throughout the 

night in a scene reminiscent of a holiday eve. Port Authority Bus Station and 
161 

Penn Station were crowded with travelers, rare for the middle of the night on a 

Wednesday in August. At Penn Station, where special trains had left at 2:00 a.m., 

and again shortly after dawn, authorities reported the largest early morning crowd 

since the end of World War II. At 1:30 a.m. buses began leaving Yankee Stadium 

for the 5-1⁄2 hour drive to Washington. Buses left Queens at 1:00 a.m., Yonkers at 

4:00 a.m., and Brooklyn at 5:30 a.m. All of these charters were sponsored by the 

NAACP . . . . In addition, other chartered buses were leaving from all over the 

city, most from the 143rd Street Armory, where an incredible 450 buses had 

assembled. The Lincoln Tunnel had a middle of the night traffic jam when the 

buses started rolling at 1:30 a.m . . . . 

Buses left from all over the Philadelphia area at 7 a.m. They then rendezvoused 

outside the city on U.S. Route 40. Chartered trains had left Philadelphia’s 30th

Street Station by 6:15 a.m. A number of busloads of marchers left Rodney Square 

in downtown Wilmington at 7:00 a.m. on the morning of the March . . . . 

By dawn, State Police in Pikesville, Maryland reported traffic very heavy on U.S. 

40, the Pulaski Highway, between the Delaware state line and Baltimore, and 

even heavier on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway: “Almost a continuous line 

of buses on the expressway,” police said. “By 8:00 a.m., 100 buses an hour were 

streaming through the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel. [March, p. 184-186] 

For those coming from the New York area and locations further north, planners needed to 

know how many buses would be on the road for the 6-hour trip. At the Howard 

Johnson’s at Cranbury, New Jersey, the only charter bus stop on the New Jersey 

Turnpike, preparations had been underway for a week. Parking had been expanded, 

additional drinking fountains and comfort units had been installed, and temporary 

workers taken on. Visitors had been warned to bring box lunches, but The New York 

Times reported that the Howard Johnson’s was ready for a big increase in customers: 

Refreshments on hand include 6,000 half-pint containers of soft drinks, 2,400 

half-pints of milk, 2,400 ham sandwiches, 12,000 frankfurters and 5,400 chicken 

halves. 

Officials were worried about the perennial bottleneck in Baltimore where U.S. 40, one of 

the main routes through the city, followed city streets to the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel, 

which had been opened in November 1957 under the Patapsco River: 

A potential bottleneck is the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel. It has seven toll gates and 

six southbound entrances, but only two entrances lead in from Route 40, which is 

expected to be the main road used by the civil rights groups going to the capital.

[Arnold, Martin, “Road Facilities to Aid Caravans,” The New York Times, August 

28, 1963] 
162 

One reporter, Fred Powledge, accompanied African-Americans who boarded six buses in 

Birmingham for the 750-mile trip to Washington: 

The 260 demonstrators, of all ages, carried picnic baskets, water jugs, Bibles and 

a major weapon – their willingness to march, sing and pray in protest against 

discrimination. They gathered early this morning [August 27] in Birmingham’s 

Kelly Ingram Park, where state troopers once used fire hoses and dogs to put 

down their demonstrations. It was peaceful in the Birmingham park as the 

marchers waited for the buses. The police, now part of a moderate city power 

structure, directed traffic around the square and did not interfere with the 

gathering . . . . 

An old man commented on the 20-hour ride, which was bound to be less than 

comfortable: “You forget we Negroes have been riding buses all our lives. We 

don’t have the money to fly in airplanes.” 

Many had never been out of Alabama and were looking forward to seeing Washington. 

An 81-year old Birmingham resident said he was looking forward to seeing the White 

House as much as the march. A 20-year old upholsterer told Powledge, “I guess you 

could call me a combination freedom rider and tourist on this trip.” One middle-aged 

woman had been given the day off as a white woman’s maid. “She said have a good 

time,” the woman told Powledge. 

The reporter added of the trip: 

The driver of the lead bus was white. He paid strict attention to his duties. On the 

road to Knoxville, he was stopped by a highway patrolman for speeding 75 miles 

an hour. But the officer let him off. [Powledge, Fred, “Alabamians Gay on Bus 

Journey,” The New York Times, August 28, 1963] 

Coverage of the trip continued in a second article: 

The demonstrators from Alabama sang freedom songs on their long trip from 

Birmingham, but for the most part they talked. There were hours of recollections 

about last spring’s civil rights demonstrations in Birmingham.

One of the six busloads of Alabamians moaned almost en masse when a white 

policeman stopped the bus to give instructions on the outskirts of Washington. 

But when the bus approached the march area and a smartly uniformed Negro 

military policeman gave further directions, there was a different reaction. “Now 

that’s what I call good police work,” said one of the marchers. 

As the delegation from Alabama pulled into Washington, some passengers 

expressed regret that they had no banners flying from their buses. Many of the 

other buses had banners and signs. 
163 

“They ought to know who we are,” said one man from Birmingham. “After all, 

we’re the ones who started the whole freedom movement.” 

“Yeah,” replied a fellow passenger, “but can you see us getting through Alabama 

with signs all over these buses? We’ll let ‘em know who we are once we get to 

the Washington Monument.” [“Marchers Sing and Voice Hope on Way to 

Washington Rally,” The New York Times, August 29, 1963, no byline] 

One of the riders, Hazel Mangle Rivers, had paid $8 for her ticket, “one-tenth of her 

husband’s weekly salary.” She had always believed in civil rights, but “one day she 

realized that the national movement concerned her as an individual.” Since then, she had 

participated in mass meetings, picketing, and boycotts. She had been arrested twice. 

Mrs. Rivers “was determined to march on Washington,” but she was impressed by 

Washington’s civility:

“The people are lots better up here than they are down South,” Mrs. Rivers said. 

“They treat you much nicer. Why, when I was out there at the march a white man 

stepped on my foot, and he said, “Excuse me,” and I said “Certainly!” 

“That’s the first time that has ever happened to me. I believe that was the first 

time a white person has ever really been nice to me.” [“Marcher From Alabama,” 

The New York Times, August 29, 1963] 

Some incidents occurred as participants closed in on Washington. Washington’s Evening 

Star newspaper reported: 

In Jessup, Md., a motorist allegedly drove his car into a group of 12 marchers 

hiking toward Washington along U.S. 1 and was arrested by Howard County 

police, but the marchers continued on into the city. [The driver was charged with 

assault and disorderly conduct.] 

At least six chartered Greyhound buses loaded with marchers were delayed in 

Hagerstown, Md., because there were not enough relief drivers to complete the 

trip from points West. Four relief drivers were rounded up at the change point to 

bring some marchers on to Washington, but two other busloads were temporarily 

stranded. 

Washington’s bus traffic was heavy as the marchers swarmed into the city. 

Trailways handled 40 buses carrying more than 1,500 marchers, arriving at 

intervals during the morning, from New York City. The buses went directly to 

the vast section of Northwest Washington set aside for bus parking, and 

discharged their passengers near the march area, to wait for them until evening.
164 

Greyhound also was routing buses directly to the bus parking area in Foggy 

Bottom. Those buses included: 10 from Boston, 15 from Cleveland, 6 from 

Memphis, 18 from Winston-Salem, 20 from New York, and an unknown number 

from Norfolk . . . . More than 100 buses came from points throughout Maryland 

with an estimated 6,000 Free Staters, mainly from Baltimore, Annapolis and 

Cambridge. 

One of the buses was stoned by three young people on the Baltimore-Washington 

Parkway near the Bladensburg turnoff. The stones broke one window but did not cause 

any injuries. The U.S. Park Police, who have jurisdiction on the parkway, had arrested 

the youths, who lived in Bladensburg. The police “said they had no reason to believe the 

busload of civil rights advocates was singled out for stoning since all types and sizes of 

buses regularly are used as targets for youngsters.” 

Many people drove their cars into the city:

Out-of-town cars were numerous beyond count, despite police pleas that marchers 

not bring their own automobiles to Washington. Many out-of-town cars bore 

distinctive banners. Their license plates indicated most of them were from 

Maryland and Virginia, nearby Southern States and States from Pennsylvania to 

New England.

To clear the way for the marchers, police had banned parking in the downtown and 

Monument-Memorial area. Still, they had to tow 75 cars out of the march area to 

impoundment lots. 

Once in Washington, marchers had to get to the Washington Monument grounds. They 

were expected to walk, not march:

One group of marchers, about 75 strong—from Wisconsin—which debarked from 

their bus at the Mount George Baptist Church, 514 Fourth street S.E., were 

cautioned while walking to the Monument grounds via Constitution avenue past 

the Capitol not to raise their placards. Two marchers were carrying signs above 

their heads and complied immediately with the request of Capitol police.

Many government workers had taken the day off, while many tourists who would 

normally be sightseeing stayed out of the city. Traffic moved into the city more freely 

than expected on this Wednesday, with only short-lived congestion occurring on three 

arteries into the city:

Traffic along Pennsylvania avenue . . . was about what could be expected in the 

middle of any Sunday morning when the first tourists cruise up and down 

sightseeing.

At Fifteenth and K streets, usually a welter of vehicles bumper-to-bumper [during 

a weekday], a lone military policeman directed what traffic there was. [City 
165 

transit buses] cruised along K street with six or seven passengers, instead of the 

usual standing room only crowds. 

At the Capitol, policemen were stationed about 100 feet apart, but the grounds 

seemed deserted. There were many vacancies among the parking places reserved 

for Congressional employees. Missing also from the area were the long lines of 

tourist buses that bring thousands of sightseers on normal mornings. 

The WMAL [radio] police helicopter reported that Shirley Highway [I-395 in 

Virginia leading into the District] at 8:45 a.m. had never been so free of traffic at 

that time during a weekday.

At one point in the morning “rush” period, only seven cars were moving along the 

Whitehurst Freeway east of Key Bridge [in Georgetown]. Normally traffic along 

this stretch would be moving at a snail’s pace. 

Although commuter buses were able to keep to their schedules downtown for the most 

part, some had to take alternate routes because officials had closed Arlington Memorial 

Bridge, which deposits traffic from Virginia into the District behind the Lincoln 

Memorial, and main arteries in the immediate area north and south of the march site, 

including Constitution Avenue. [“Throng Gets Quick Start” and “3 Youths Stone 

Marchers’ Bus,” The Evening Star, August 28, 1963] 

Writing in The New York Times, Joseph A. Loftus agreed that, “Traffic control was close 

to flawless.” What little congestion occurred on the main arteries into the city had been 

short-lived: 

Some came by dawn’s early light.

The freedom march was a thin line then. Nor was it long. Viewed from a 

helicopter, the grounds around the Washington Monument and the Lincoln 

Memorial were a lush green, dotted by a few early arrivals. Traffic was light on 

all arteries and moved swiftly.

Slowly the tempo rose. By 10, the inpouring was tremendous. This went on for 

two hours. The great crush of humanity on the monument grounds spilled over 

into Connecticut Avenue and edged westward like a great lava flow. 

Connecticut Avenue, an artery for Maryland commuters, is ordinarily four lanes 

of screeching brakes in the rush hour. Today there was plenty of bumper room, 

although traffic had not quite thinned down to the density of a Sunday morning . . 

. . 

Traffic control was close to flawless. Some congestion occurred on three arteries 

leading into the city, but it was short-lived . . . . 
166 

The Washington-Baltimore parkway, a high-density artery any business day, 

showed thin, swift movements at 7:30 . . . . Beginning about 10, the parkway 

from Baltimore and points north began to choke up a bit. But by 11:15 or earlier, 

traffic flowed swiftly straight for the monument grounds. There were almost as 

many buses as private cars in the southbound lanes. On they came in singles and 

sixes, and once a cluster of eight.

District police had tried to estimate the number of buses the city would have to 

accommodate: 

Every police chief in the land had been queried on the teletype network. Captain 

[Thomas I.] Herlihy had checked with Greyhound and Trailways and with the 

Interstate Commerce Commission. The estimate was 800 to 900. Instead, more 

than 1,500 buses came. 

“The police estimated that more than 175,000 persons had jammed into the few acres east 

of the memorial and that 25,000 were scattered.” The city had accommodated larger 

crowds, including 750,000 for President Eisenhower’s inaugural events, “but most of 

them were spectators. Today, nearly all were participants.” Loftus added, “Besides, they 

rolled in and out within a few hours.” He continued:

They were parked in reserved spaces long [sic] the Mall and around the Ellipse 

south of the White House. The monument grounds were not far off, except for 

those who had spent the night on the road. [Loftus, Joseph A., “Delays are few 

and Short-Lived,” The New York Times, August 29, 1963] 

The crowd included many celebrities. Branch wrote:

[M]ovement veterans absorbed revelatory homage from palpable symbols of 

white prestige – the television cameras, movie stars, and dearest edifices of 

American democracy. A chorus of news cameras clicked as James Garner pushed 

through the crowd hand in hand with Negro actress Diahann Carroll; they were 

among dozens who had arrived on the Hollywood “celebrity plane” organized by 

Harry Belafonte and Clarence Jones. Even those who had attended a hundred 

mass meetings never had witnessed anything like Marlon Brando on the giant 

stage, holding up for the world an actual cattle prod from Gadsden as an 

indictment of segregationist hatred. 

The day’s events began at 10 a.m. with the folksinger Joan Baez performing the spiritual 

“Oh Freedom.” She was followed by Odetta, who sang “I’m On My Way.” The group 

Peter, Paul, and Mary performed their hit version of Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind,” 

with Dylan appearing next to perform his new song, “Only a Pawn in Their Game,” about 

the murder of Medgar Evers. (Evers had been murdered on June 12, 1963, just after 

pulling into his driveway following a meeting with NAACP lawyers. Stepping out of his 

car carrying NAACP t-shirts that read JIM CROW MUST GO, he was shot by Byron De 

La Beckwith, a fertilizer salesman and member of the White Citizens’ Council and Klan. 
167 

Two all-white juries deadlocked on De La Beckwith’s guilt in 1964, but he was finally 

convicted for his crime in 1994.) 

Although organizers had wanted to stage a short march from the Washington Monument 

grounds to the Lincoln Memorial, participants began streaming to the rally site long 

before planned. 

The formal rally began at 1:15 p.m. with the singing of the National Anthem. Gentile 

summarized the early stages:

[After the invocation] and continually interspersed throughout the afternoon, 

protest leaders and celebrities were introduced to the appreciative crowd. Some 

gave short unscheduled speeches, like Birmingham’s Fred Shuttlesworth, who 

spoke first, King’s associate, the reverend Ralph David Abernathy, comedian 

Dick Gregory, and [ex-patriot singer] Josephine Baker. Charlton Heston read the 

statement prepared by James Baldwin regarding the support of the artistic and 

entertainment community. Burt Lancaster unfurled a scroll he and Baldwin had 

brought from Paris signed by 1500 overseas Americans in support of the march. 

[March, p. 222] 

Randolph, the chairman of the march, was the first scheduled speaker. He called the 

marchers “the advance guard of a massive moral revolution for jobs and freedom.” A 

Tribute to Women followed, with Randolph introducing several prominent women, 

including Diane Nash (now Diane Nash Bevel) and Rosa Parks. After Randolph cited 

Medger Evers’ widow, who was not in attendance, Dylan again sang his new song. 

Odetta, Baez, and Peter, Paul, and Mary performed again. 

John Lewis, the Freedom Rider, had written a fiery speech that took aim at the Kennedy 

Administration’s proposed Civil Rights Act. President Kennedy had introduced the bill 

in a television and radio speech on June 11. He had said: 

It ought to be possible for American consumers of any color to receive equal 

service in places of public accommodation, such as hotels and restaurants and 

theaters and retail stores, without being forced to resort to demonstrations in the 

street, and it ought to be possible for American citizens of any color to register 

and to vote in a free election without interference or fear of reprisal . . . . 

Now the time has come for this Nation to fulfill its promise. The events in 

Birmingham and elsewhere have so increased the cries for equality that no city or 

State or legislative body can prudently choose to ignore them. 

The fires of frustration and discord are burning in every city, North and South, 

where legal remedies are not at hand. Redress is sought in the streets, in 

demonstrations, parades, and protests which create tensions and threaten violence 

and threaten lives. 
168 

We face, therefore, a moral crisis as a country and as a people. It cannot be met 

by repressive police action. It cannot be left to increased demonstrations in the 

streets. It cannot be quieted by token moves or talk. It is a time to act in the 

Congress, in your State and local legislative body and, above all, in all of our 

daily lives. 

 

Individuals could do much, but they needed help at the Federal level:

I am, therefore, asking the Congress to enact legislation giving all Americans the 

right to be served in facilities which are open to the public—hotels, restaurants, 

theaters, retail stores, and similar establishments. 

This seems to me to be an elementary right. Its denial is an arbitrary indignity 

that no American in 1963 should have to endure, but many do . . . . 

He would, he said, ask Congress to authorize the Federal Government “to participate 

more fully in lawsuits” to end segregation in public education as required under the 

Supreme Court’s Brown vs. the Board of Education decision in 1954: 

The orderly implementation of the Supreme Court decision, therefore, cannot be 

left solely to those who may not have the economic resources to carry the legal 

action or who may be subject to harassment. 

The proposal also would call for voting rights for all Americans. 

 

Lewis had toned down his remarks at the request of march organizers after much 

backstage debate. As delivered, Lewis’ speech began: 

We march today for jobs and freedom, but we have nothing to be proud of, for 

hundreds and thousands of our brothers are not here. They have no money for 

their transportation, for they are receiving starvation wages, or no wages at all. In 

good conscience, we cannot support wholeheartedly the administration’s civil 

rights bill. There’s not one thing in the bill that will protect our people from 

police brutality.

“The revolution is at hand,” he said, “and we must free ourselves of the chains of political 

and economic slavery.” He rejected party affiliation:

The nation is still a place of political leaders who build their careers on immoral 

compromises, and ally themselves with open forms of political, economic and 

social exploitation. What political leader here can stand up and say, “My party is 

the party of principles?” The party of Kennedy is also the party of Eastland. The 

party of [New York Republican Senator Jacob] Javits is also the party of 

Goldwater. Where is our party?
169 

For change to happen, “the people, the masses, must bring them about”: 

Mr. Kennedy is trying to take the revolution out of the streets and put it into the 

courts. Listen, Mr. Kennedy. Listen, Mr. Congressman. Listen, fellow citizens. 

The black masses are on the march for jobs and freedom, and we must say to the 

politicians that there won’t be a “cooling-off” period. 

We will not stop. If we do not get meaningful legislation out of this Congress, the 

time will come when we will not confine our marching to Washington. We will 

march through the South, through the streets of Jackson, through the streets of 

Danville, through the streets of Cambridge, through the streets of Birmingham. 

But we will march with the spirit of love and with the spirit of dignity that we 

have shown here today . . . . 

We must say, “Wake up, America. Wake up! For we cannot stop, and we will 

not be patient.” 

James Farmer was to address the marchers, but he was in a Louisiana jail. His statement 

was read, assuring marchers that he had wanted to be with them, but could not bail his 

way out of jail while leaving behind 232 others “for their crime was the same as mine, 

demanding freedom now.” He promised to continue the struggle: 

We will not slow down, we will not stop our militant, peaceful demonstrations. 

We will not come off the streets until we can work at any job befitting our skills 

any place in the land . . . until our kids have enough to eat and their minds can 

study and range wide without being cramped in Jim Crow schools. 

Until we can live wherever we choose and can eat and play with no closed doors 

blocking our way. We will not stop till the dogs stop biting us in the South and 

the rats stop biting us in the North. 

As the speeches continued through the afternoon, the tightly packed crowd became 

restless in the sweltering heat, “many waiting almost for the speeches to end,” as Gentile 

put it:

Many sought the shade of the huge trees lining the Reflecting Pool, but the trees 

could not cover all of the crowd. Some took dips in the shallow, murky 

Reflecting Pool. Everyone fanned himself or herself. [March, p. 234-235] 

A speech by Whitney Young, Jr., Executive Director of the Urban League “had little 

visible impact” on the crowd, which did not interrupt it with applause. 

He was followed by Matthew Ahmann, the white Executive Director of the National 

Catholic Conference for Interracial Justice. According to Gentile, his words struck the 

crowd as “essentially empty,” lacking “a militant call for action, the sense of urgency, the

sense of ‘Now’ so vital to blacks in the summer of 1963.” 
170 

Roy Wilkins of the NAACP followed with a speech that questioned the value of the 

President’s bill:

The President’s proposals represent so moderate an approach that if it is 

weakened, the remainder will be little more than sugarwater. 

He also questioned the government’s role in protecting those fighting for their civil 

rights:

It is simply incomprehensible . . . that the United States Government, which can 

regulate the contents of a pill, apparently is powerless to prevent the physical 

abuse of citizens within its own borders. 

Following Wilkins, gospel singer Mahalia Jackson “brought the then listless crowd to 

life” by singing “I’ve Been ‘Buked and I’ve Been Scorned.” [March, p. 237-239] 

Only two speakers remained on the program. The first, Rabbi Joachim Prinz, president 

of the American Jewish Congress, compared Germany in the 1930s to the present, calling 

on citizens not to become “a nation of silent onlookers.” His remarks lacked urgency for 

the hot, tired crowd. 

Dr. King was the final speaker, beginning at about 3:40 after a long, enthusiastic greeting 

from the crowd. He had worked hard on his speech for several days, and march 

organizers knew it would probably exceed the 7 minutes allotted to all speakers, but they 

also knew they would not interrupt him. 

He began by referring to President Lincoln, “a great American in whose symbolic 

shadow we stand today” and his signing of the Emancipation Proclamation: 

This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro 

slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a 

joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity. 

The marchers, he said, “have come to our nation’s capitol to cash a check.” He 

explained: 

When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the 

Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory 

note to which every American was to fall heir . . . . Instead of honoring this 

sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check: a check 

which has come back marked “insufficient funds.” But we refuse to believe that 

the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient 

funds in the great vaults of opportunity in this nation. So we have come to cash 

this check – a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the 

security of justice.
171 

Dr. King drew shouts from the crowd as he emphasized “the fierce urgency of now” in 

contrast to “the luxury of cooling off” and “the tranquilizing drug of gradualism.” He 

said:

Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy; now is the time to rise 

from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice; 

now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the 

solid rock of brotherhood; now is the time to make justice a reality for all of 

God’s children. It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the 

moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro’s legitimate discontent will not 

pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and quality. 

This was not a time to return to business as usual: 

The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our Nation 

until the bright day of justice emerges.

Don’t yield to bitterness, he said. He urged people to “conduct our struggle on the high 

plane of dignity and discipline” and “not allow our creative protest to degenerate into 

physical violence” or “a distrust of all white people.” 

He answered those in Congress and newspaper opinion columns who wanted to know 

when the Negro would be satisfied: 

We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable 

horrors of police brutality. 

We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, 

cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We 

cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro’s basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto 

to a larger one. 

We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their selfhood 

and robbed of their dignity by signs reading “for whites only.” We cannot be 

satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York 

believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, now we are not satisfied, and we 

will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a 

mighty stream.

The text Dr. King had worked on began toward a conclusion by urging the marchers to 

go home “as members of the international association for the advancement of creative 

dissatisfaction,” but he abandoned the pretentious line, and began to improvise: 

Go back to Mississippi; go back to Alabama; go back to South Carolina; go back

to Georgia; go back to Louisiana; go back to the slums and ghettos of our 
172 

northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can, and will be changed. 

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair. 

Branch explained what happened next:

Knowing that he had wandered completely off his text, some of those behind him 

on the platform urged him on, and Mahalia Jackson piped up as though in church, 

“Tell ‘em about the dream, Martin.” Whether her words reached him is not 

known. Later, King said only that he forgot the rest of the speech and took up the 

first run of oratory that “came to me.” After the word “despair,” he temporized 

for an instant: “I say to you today, my friends, and so even though we face the 

difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply 

rooted in the American dream . . .” [Parting the Waters, p. 882] 

What followed, though not part of the prepared text, would give the speech its name: the 

“I Have a Dream” speech. The dream he said, was that the Nation would live out the true 

meaning of the phrase that “all men are created equal,” that the sons of slaves and the 

sons of former slaveowners “will be able to sit down together at the table of 

brotherhood,” and that even the State of Mississippi, a “desert state sweltering in the heat 

of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.” 

He dreamed that his four children would one day be judged not by the color of their skin 

but by their character and that the State of Alabama would see black boys and girls join 

hands with white boys and girls “and walk together as sisters and brothers.” 

He transitioned to the conclusion by calling for America to “let freedom ring” from all 

parts of the Nation: 

When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every 

hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when 

all God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and 

Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of that old Negro 

spiritual, “Free at Last! Free at Last! Thank God almighty, we are free at last!” 

[Washington, James Melvin, editor, A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings 

and Speeches of Martin Luther King, Jr., Harper One, 1991, p. 217-220] 

Gentile summarized the crowd’s reaction to the 19-minute speech:

To many of the rank and file marchers, Dr. King’s speech, while the best of the 

lot, was not then the moving experience that it became later on in hindsight. 

Indeed, there was almost a collective sigh of relief that respite from the heat, 

standing, and crowd was forthcoming. But others remembered it as the most 

moving moment of their lives. [March, p. 249] 

Mrs. Icelle Coleman, a Manhattan garment worker, told a reporter for The New York 

Times that the program had been excellent from start to finish but that Dr. King “stole the 
173 

show.” She added, “He said so much, it was just uplifting.” Mrs. Doris Offley, a 

Manhattan nurse, agreed, adding, “Dr. King talked about racial harmony, and there it was 

for all to see.” [Jones, Theodore, “Tired New Yorkers Head Home Full of Praise for 

Capital Rally,” The New York Times, August 29, 1963] 

As Dr. King turned from the podium, Randolph introduced Bayard Rustin, who read the 

demands of the march. “This is why we are here,” Randolph said, so that when march 

leaders went to Congress, they could say the crowd approved the demands. After reading 

each demand, Rustin asked the crowd, “What do you say?” and the crowd cheered in 

support. 

Finally, at 4:15, Benjamin E. Mays, President of Morehouse College, gave the 

benediction, which concluded: 

Guide, keep, sustain, and bless the United States and help the weary travelers to 

overcome someday soon. 

After a mass singing of “We Shall Overcome,” the crowd dispersed. The march ended at 

4:20 p.m. [March, p. 241-251] 

District employees had been sent home at 3:15 and, at the request of police, Federal 

employees were dismissed at 3:30. The result was a smooth departure for the marchers, 

as Loftus described in The New York Times: 

By 2:30, hundreds of participants were leaving the scene of the ceremonies, long 

before they had ended. Shuttle buses carried them to the railroad station. Some 

of those who left early reported they could not get close enough to see the 

speakers and performers. They were tired and wanted a place to sit down. 

Later in the afternoon as trains got away on schedule, the police reported that the 

station crowd was orderly and “in a jovial mood.” 

By 6:10 P.M., 50 per cent of the special buses had left the city. [“Delays are Few 

and Short-Lived,” August 29, 1963] 

Gentile summarized the departures:

Indeed traffic was so light in Washington that day that a Star reporter called it “a 

harried motorist’s dream of heaven”. By 7:00 p.m. nearly all of the buses and 

trains, and most of the private vehicles had left town. By dusk the city seemed 

strangely deserted. The visitors had mostly left, and the inhabitants were either 

out of town, or still afraid to come out of doors. At 9:00 p.m. the police 

considered things back to normal and extra police and national guardsmen were 

released from duty. [March, p. 252] 
174 

Not all of the departures went smoothly. The Times reported that three buses bound for 

Connecticut were pelted with stones near the entrance to the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel. 

One of the stones crashed through the windshield of one of the buses, but no one was 

injured. [Associated Press, “3 Rights Buses are Stoned,” The New York Times, August 

29, 1963] 

On November 20, the Civil Rights Act cleared the House Judiciary Committee in a much 

stronger form than proposed by the Administration. The bill was referred to the Rules 

Committee, which decides on release of bills for consideration by the full House. 

Chairman Howard W. Smith, a segregationist Democrat from Virginia, promised that the 

bill would never emerge from his committee. 

Following the assassination of President Kennedy on November 22, Vice President 

Lyndon Johnson, a former Senate Majority Leader who was a master of Senate 

procedure, became President. Faced with pressure from the new President, surprising 

constituent support around the country for the measure as a result of the march, and a 

realization that the House would take the unusual step of bypassing the Rules Committee

if it did not clear the bill, Smith let the bill out of committee.

During floor debate, Congressman Smith introduced an amendment on February 8 to add 

the word “sex” to the bill. “Now I am very serious about this amendment,” he said. To 

his laughing colleagues, he explained that he had received a letter from a woman in 

Nebraska who wanted Congress to equalize the sexual ratio in the population by helping 

the “surplus of spinsters” obtain their “right” to happiness. (Smith’s motivation remains 

unclear, but women’s groups had urged him to introduce the amendment in hopes that his 

support would assure support from other southern Members of Congress who opposed 

the Civil Rights Act.) 

At first, Congressmen took the amendment as a way to lighten the mood. Chairman 

Emanuel Celler (D-NY) of the Judiciary Committee said the amendment was 

unnecessary because he and his wife had a “delightful accord” for 50 years. “I usually 

have the last two words, and those words are ‘Yes, dear.’” 

As the leaders continued joking, female Representatives became incensed. “If anyone 

doubted that women were second class citizens,” Congresswoman Martha Griffiths (DMi.) said, “the laughter would have proved it.” Congresswoman Katherine St. George 

(R-NY) added:

We do not need special privilege. We outlast you. We outlive you. We nag you 

to death. So why should we want special privileges? I believe that we can hold 

our own. We are entitled to this little crumb of equality. The addition of that 

little, terrifying word, “s-e-x,” will not hurt this legislation in any way.

Soon, southern opponents of the legislation rallied in support of the amendment. “Unless 

this amendment is adopted,” said Congressman George Andrews (D-Ga.), “the white 
175 

woman of this country would be drastically discriminated against in favor of a Negro 

woman!” 

For tactical reasons, the Johnson Administration hoped the amendment would not pass. 

The hope was that the House and Senate would approve the same bill, thereby avoiding a 

Conference Committee that would be chaired by Southerners who opposed the bill. 

While the strategy may have been sound, the flow of debate led to support for adding 

women to the legislation. The House approved Smith’s amendment by a vote of 168 to 

133. 

As one Member of Congress put it, “Smith outsmarted himself. At this point, there was 

no way you could sink the bill.” With women now having a vested interest in the 

outcome, the bill passed the House by a vote of 290 to 130 on February 10. Its 10 titles 

outlawed segregation in schools, public accommodations, and Federal programs, as well 

as racial and gender discrimination in employment. [Pillar, p. 231-234] 

Normally, the House bill would go to the Senate Judiciary Committee, which was headed 

by Senator Eastland of Mississippi. Knowing that Eastland would never report a Civil 

Rights Act out, Senate Majority Leader Mike Mansfield of Massachusetts used 

parliamentary procedures to bypass the committee and bring the House bill directly to the 

Senate floor for debate. When the bill reached the floor on March 30, 1964, Senator 

Richard Russell, Jr. (D-Ga.) launched a filibuster. “We will resist to the bitter end any 

measure or any movement which would have a tendency to bring about social equality 

and intermingling and amalgamation of the races in our (Southern) states.” The Senate 

would transact no other business until the filibuster ended. 

After 54 days, Senate leaders introduced a weaker version of the bill, still including the 

provision on women, but the filibuster continued. Finally, after 10 million words, the 

longest filibuster in Senate history came to an end on the 57th day. On June 9, Senator 

Robert C. Byrd (D-WV) began an address that included a complete reading of the Magna 

Carta and many biblical citations. He finished the speech the following day after 14 

hours. Senator Hubert H. Humphrey (D-Mn.), the Democratic Whip and bill manager, 

concluded that he had the 67 votes needed at the time to end the filibuster. By a vote of 

71 to 29, the Senate approved Humphrey’s measure, cutting off a civil rights filibuster for 

the first time. (The Senate would change the rules in 1975 to reduce the number of votes 

needed to end a filibuster to 60, as at present.) 

The Senate approved its weakened bill on June 19 by a vote of 73 to 27 – six 

Republicans, including Presidential candidate Barry Goldwater of Arizona, and 21 

Democrats voted against the bill. On July 2, the House passed the Senate version. 

President Johnson did not want to wait for a symbolic signing on July 4. At 6:45 p.m. of 

July 2, 1964, he addressed a television and radio audience before signing the bill. In the 

East Room, the audience included Attorney General Kennedy, Lady Bird Johnson, Dr. 

King, AFL-CIO president George Meany, FBI director J. Edgar Hoover, as well as Rosa 

Parks and James Forman of SNCC. 
176 

The President called the bill a “proud triumph” in the “unending search for justice within 

our own borders.” He said the purpose of the new legislation “is simple.” He described 

it:

• It does not restrict the freedom of any American, so long as he respects the rights 

of others. 

• It does not give special treatment to any citizen. 

• It does say the only limit to a man's hope for happiness, and for the future of his 

children, shall be his own ability. 

• It does say that there are those who are equal before God [sic] shall now also be 

equal in the polling booths, in the classrooms, in the factories, and in hotels, 

restaurants, movie theaters, and other places that provide service to the public. 

• He cautioned against implementing the law “in a vengeful spirit.”

• Its purpose is not to punish. Its purpose is not to divide, but to end divisions—

divisions which have all lasted too long. Its purpose is national, not regional. 

• Its purpose is to promote a more abiding commitment to freedom, a more constant 

pursuit of justice, and a deeper respect for human dignity. 

He was confident about achieving these goals “because most Americans are law-abiding 

citizens who want to do what is right.” He pointed out that the legislation “relies first on 

voluntary compliance, then on the efforts of local communities and States to secure the 

rights of citizens.” The national authority would step in “only when others cannot or will 

not do the job.” He ended by urging every American “to join in this effort to bring 

justice and hope to all our people—and to bring peace to our land.” It would be “a time 

of testing,” he said. “We must not fail.” 

Before using 72 ceremonial pens to sign the bill, he concluded: 

Let us close the springs of racial poison. Let us pray for wise and understanding 

hearts. Let us lay aside irrelevant differences and make our Nation whole. Let us 

hasten that day when our unmeasured strength and our unbounded spirit will be 

free to do the great works ordained for this Nation by the just and wise God who 

is the Father of us all. [Pillar, p. 387-388] 

The landmark bill provided the foundation for much of the civil rights progress to come 

for African-Americans and women. Even in the South, compliance with the new law was 

widespread if not universal. Branch summarized the reaction: 

Most Southern politicians urged at least a grudging compliance. “As long as it is 

there, it must be obeyed,” declared Senator Richard Russell of Georgia, and 

Senator Allen Ellender of Louisiana announced that “the law enacted by Congress 

must be respected.” Over the next several months, visible public separations 

broke down across the South in countless pioneer dramas—often mutually and 

meticulously prearranged to control discomforts on all sides. [Pillar, p. 388] 
177 

Title 1 of the Act required that voting rules and qualifications be applied to all races 

equally, but it left the South to continue imposing qualifications for voting that had 

proven nearly impossible for many African-Americans to meet. That would be the next 

legislative hurdle, and a road in Alabama would help achieve the goal.

The Voting Rights March

In 1965, U.S. 80 was a transcontinental highway from Savannah Beach, Georgia, to San 

Diego, California, a distance of about 2,570 miles. The State of Alabama had officially 

named its part of U.S. 80 the Jefferson Davis Memorial Highway, a name that dated to 

the 1910s. Not long after auto industry executives announced plans in 1913 for a 

northern transcontinental route called the Lincoln Highway, the United Daughters of the 

Confederacy (U.D.C.) adopted the idea of a comparable southern route named after the 

president of the Confederate States of America. The U.D.C. selected a route from 

Washington, D.C., to San Diego, and arranged for the States it passed through to adopt 

the name. 

When the U.S. numbered highway system was adopted in 1926 to supplant the names 

applied by private organizations to interstate routes, the Jefferson Davis Memorial 

Highway was split among U.S. 1, U.S. 15, U.S. 29, U.S. 80, U.S. 90, and others. 

(Eventually the U.D.C. extended the highway along the Pacific Coast via U.S. 99 to 

Washington State based on the fact that Davis, as U.S. Secretary of War before the Civil 

War, had obtained appropriations and directed surveys for wagon roads and railroads to 

the North Pacific Coast. In November 1966, at the request of Arizona and California, the 

western terminus of U.S. 80 shifted to Yuma, Arizona.) 

When the writers of the Depression-era American Guide Series drove between 

Montgomery and Selma in Alabama on U.S. 80 in the late 1930s, they found that the 

route traversed ". . . a gently rolling, open country similar to the Mid-Western prairies." 

The writers added:

The pattern of life, with its stratified society, still rests on the twin pillars of a 

Negro's strong shoulders and a bale of cotton . . . . For many years the densest 

Negro population in the State was found in this section. But tractor farming and 

cattle raising have removed half of the Negroes from the plantations where, as 

tenants and sharecroppers, they grew corn and cotton on the same acres that their 

ancestors tilled as slaves. [Alabama: A Guide to the Deep South, American 

Guide Series, Richard R. Smith, 1941, p. 287] 

About 30 years later, in 1965, that same stretch of U.S. 80/Jefferson Davis Memorial 

Highway in Alabama played a role in one of the most important events in the Civil Rights 

movement. 
178 

Selma had been a white bastion resisting the civil rights advances taking place elsewhere. 

Branch explained:

After the Brown decision of 1954, a number of prominent Negroes, including 

professors at Selma University, had followed NAACP instructions to petition for 

their children to attend the white schools—only to be crushed by retaliation 

against school budgets, bank loans, and other middle-class vulnerabilities until 

every name was withdrawn from the petition and the local NAACP disbanded. 

[Leading] Negroes were fearful, protective, and escapist—more likely to take 

private flying lessons than visit the courthouse. [Pillar, p. 64] 

The attitude extended to voting: 

Less than two hundred of fifteen thousand voting-age Negroes were registered in 

Selma’s Dallas County, and only seventy-five even tried to register during the 

entire decade since 1952—all rejected, including twenty-eight college graduates. 

On the wall of their Selma insurance office, [voting rights activists] Sam and 

Amelia Boynton posted the names of all seventy-five rejected applicants as an 

honor roll of the brave. [Pillar, p. 63] 

Into this unpromising atmosphere came Bernard Lafayette, a member of the Nashville 

Movement, a Freedom Rider, a SNCC founder, who was nicknamed “Little Gandhi” 

because of his slight stature, scholarly inclinations, and devotion to nonviolent protest. In 

his early 20s, Lafayette worked closely with Diane Nash and her husband James Bevel. 

In the fall of 1962, he moved to Selma as part of the movement’s fight to remove barriers 

to voting. The Justice Department had filed its first voting suit in April 1961 in Selma, 

with the Boyntons’ list of rejected applicants as a starting point. The suit gave Lafayette

an opening to work with the Boyntons and other local voting rights advocates. His initial 

efforts were stymied by resistance from African-Americans who preferred not to 

antagonize the city’s white power structure. 

In 1963, he drove to Birmingham most days to help Diane and James Bevel plan the 

teenage marches that would end the city’s protection of its Jim Crow heritage in May. 

Branch explained:

The thunderous breakthrough in Birmingham made him uncomfortable away 

from his new post some hundred miles to the south, and Lafayette returned to 

Selma most evenings that week to sit in vigil at tiny, segregated Berwell 

Infirmary, where a last debilitating stroke did not keep Sam Boynton from 

proselytizing whenever conscious. “Are you a registered voter?” he called out to 

strangers walking down his corridor. “I want you to go down and register. A 

voteless people is a hopeless people.” [Pillar, p. 81-82] 

Following Boynton’s death in May 1963, Lafayette wanted to hold a memorial service, 

but had a hard time finding a church willing to sponsor the event that church leaders 
179 

knew would really be a voting rights rally. The service finally took place at Tabernacle 

Baptist Church on May 14, with over 350 people in attendance. Dallas County Sheriff 

Jim Clark and his deputies, strict enforcers of Jim Crow laws, also attended, armed with 

guns and a court order that they claimed allowed them into the church to guard against 

insurrection. 

SNCC’s James Forman was the featured speaker during the 3-hour service, addressing 

the crowd on “The High Cost of Freedom.” Branch summarized his speech: 

Forman said it was good that the white officers were there to deprive [attendees] 

of cheap courage. If they wanted to shout amen to the mission of Sam Boynton, 

they should do so in front of the sheriff who stood in its way. “Someday they will 

have to open up that ballot box,” said Forman. A crescendo of enthusiasm made a 

number of elders cringe for the reaction of Sheriff Clark. 

After the service, the crowd leaving the church found an angry white mob, including 

many “teenagers wielding freshly lathed table legs from a nearby furniture company.” 

Sheriff Clark and his deputies, to the surprise of those leaving the church, tried to 

disperse the crowd, but without success: 

As Negroes huddled in panic, fearing arrest if they stayed and attack if they 

moved, decisive peacemaking authority arrived in the person of the football coach 

from Selma High School, who jumped from his car and pointed out his current 

and former players, telling them to go home. [Pillar, p 84] 

The drive for voting rights was underway. 

On December 10, 1964, Dr. King was in Oslo, Norway, to accept the Nobel Peace Prize. 

He began his remarks by saying:

I accept the Nobel Prize for Peace at a moment when 22 million Negroes of the 

United States of America are engaged in a creative battle to end the long night of 

racial injustice. I accept this award on behalf of a civil rights movement which is 

moving with determination and a majestic scorn for risk and danger to establish a 

reign of freedom and a rule of justice.

He used road imagery to make his point: 

The tortuous road which has led from Montgomery, Alabama to Oslo bears 

witness to this truth. This is a road over which millions of Negroes are travelling 

to find a new sense of dignity. This same road has opened for all Americans a 

new era of progress and hope. It has led to a new Civil Rights Bill, and it will, I 

am convinced, be widened and lengthened into a super highway of justice as 

Negro and white men in increasing numbers create alliances to overcome their 

common problems. 
180 

He concluded with a reference to Alfred Nobel, who made his fortune in munitions, 

including the invention of dynamite, and whose will dedicated most of his fortune to 

annual prizes for distinction without regard to nationality: 

I think Alfred Nobel would know what I mean when I say that I accept this award 

in the spirit of a curator of some precious heirloom which he holds in trust for its 

true owners - all those to whom beauty is truth and truth beauty - and in whose 

eyes the beauty of genuine brotherhood and peace is more precious than diamonds 

or silver or gold.

On January 2, 1965, Dr. King and Ralph Abernathy drove from Atlanta to Selma to 

energize the voting rights initiative. They saw opportunity because a new Mayor, Joseph 

T. Smitherman, had taken office and, while he was a segregationist, he took a more 

moderate approach than his predecessor. He and his city sheriff, Wilson Baker, said they 

wanted to avoid confrontation through negotiation that would keep Dr. King out of the 

city and reduce or minimize the types of protests that had damaged the reputation of other 

cities.

With support from several churches, King and Abernathy intended to defy an order 

issued in July by Judge James A. Hare that banned “assembly of three persons or more in 

a public place” under the sponsorship of specified organizations or individuals, including 

John Lewis and Amelia Boynton. The ban was a reaction to recent events. John Lewis 

had arrived in Selma in July 1964 to join protests against Jim Crow laws. 

On July 4, literacy workers from the north had attempted to eat at the segregated Thirsty 

Boy Drive-In, prompting a visit from Sheriff Clark. He and his deputies arrested the four 

workers, using cattle prods in the process, and impounded their car. Later that day, when 

African-Americans flowed from the balcony of the city’s two movie theaters into 

downstairs seats reserved for whites, Sheriff Clark chased the African-Americans out and 

closed both theaters. 

These confrontations resulted in a large crowd for a Sunday evening meeting at AME 

Zion Hall. Sheriff Clark declared the meeting a riot and invaded it along with his 

deputies and their tear gas and billy clubs. 

When Lewis led 70 African-Americans to the courthouse on July 6 to register to vote, 

Sheriff Clark arrested most of them. He and his deputies marched them five blocks to 

jail, occasionally jolting them with cattle prods. At the sheriff’s request, Judge Hare 

issued his injunction. [Pillar, p. 391] 

An appeal of the injunction was making its way through Federal courts. On January 2, 

Dr. King and Abernathy arrived in Selma. With Sheriff Clark in Miami to watch 

Alabama’s Crimson Tide, led by quarterback Joe Namath, play the Texas Longhorns in 
181 

the Orange Bowl (the Longhorns won, 21-17), Dr. King stood before a crowd of 700 at 

Brown Chapel challenging the order as he launched the voting rights initiative: 

Today marks the beginning of a determined, organized, mobilized campaign to 

get the right to vote everywhere in Alabama. If we are refused, we will appeal to 

Governor George Wallace. If he refuses to listen, we will appeal to the 

legislature. If they don’t listen, we will appeal to the conscience of the Congress . 

. . . We must be ready to march. We must be ready to go to jail by the thousands 

. . . . Our cry to the state of Alabama is a simple one. Give us the ballot! [Pillar, 

p. 554-555] 

Dr. King designated January 18, 1965, as Freedom Day and arranged a series of efforts to 

desegregate Selma and open voter registration to African-Americans. The registration 

effort proved symbolic, but seven of eight restaurants served integrated groups and Dr. 

King registered at the formerly segregated Hotel Albert. (In the hotel foyer, James 

Robinson of the NSRP asked to speak with Dr. King for a moment. When Dr. King 

approached, Robinson punched him in the face and kicked him until being pulled away 

and arrested.) 

The following day, volunteers expected to be arrested when they attempted to register to 

vote. Sheriff Clark obliged them, initially arresting Lewis and others without using a 

cattle prod or nightstick. However, at one point, he seized Amelia Boynton by the neck 

of her dress coat and shoved her to the sidewalk while photographers captured the image 

for newspapers, magazines, and television newscasts around the country. 

As President Johnson prepared to begin his first term as elected leader of the country, he 

planned to emphasize the Great Society proposals he had outlined in his State of the 

Union Address on January 4, 1965. It would be a society that “asks not how much, but 

how good; not only how to create wealth but how to use it; not only how fast we are 

going, but where we are headed.” The national agenda he outlined included eliminating 

“every remaining obstacle to the right and the opportunity to vote.” 

His Administration, however, was unsure how to proceed. After 4 years under Presidents 

Kennedy and Johnson, the Justice Department had found that the pursuit of county-bycounty litigation was fruitless. While some officials favored a constitutional amendment, 

the reality was that the South would block ratification. Moreover, the right to vote was 

guaranteed already by the 15th Amendment to the Constitution (“The right of citizens of 

the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any 

State on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude”), which had proven a 

weak guarantee in the South. 

Although the Administration planned to do something about voting rights, the focus 

initially would be on securing the Great Society legislation. Despite President Johnson’s 

legislative skills, that would be challenge enough. Critics were already dubbing his Great 

Society proposals a Communist plan. [Pillar, p. 556] 
182 

On February 1, Dr. King led a rally from Brown Chapel down Sylvan Street and into the 

arms of Sheriff Baker. When the marchers refused to break into small, separated groups 

that would not constitute a parade under city ordinance, Sheriff Baker arrested all 260-

plus. Initially, he refused to include Dr. King and Abernathy among the arrested, but 

when they held a brief press conference on the sidewalk (Dr. King: “He said we could 

not come in. They were full and we could come back”), Sheriff Baker’s officers arrested 

them, too. Sheriff Baker also arrested nearly 500 schoolchildren who had marched from 

a different church, but he released them to their parents until trials could be scheduled. 

While pressure continued outside the jail, Dr. King’s administrator, Andrew Young, 

approached President Johnson’s staff seeking support. President Johnson addressed the 

topic at a news conference on February 4, saying in his opening remarks: 

On another matter, I should like to say that all Americans should be indignant 

when one American is denied the right to vote. The loss of that right to a single 

citizen undermines the freedom of every citizen. This is why all of us should be 

concerned with the efforts of our fellow Americans to register to vote in Alabama. 

The basic problem in Selma is the slow pace of voting registration for Negroes 

who are qualified to vote. We are using the tools of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 

in an effort to secure their right to vote. One of those tools of course is legal 

action to guarantee a citizen his right. 

One case of voting discrimination has already led to a trial which has just been 

concluded. We are now awaiting a decision in this case. In the meantime I hope 

that all Americans will join with me in expressing their concern over the loss of 

any American's right to vote. Nothing is more fundamental to American 

citizenship and to our freedom as a nation and as a people. I intend to see that 

that right is secured for all of our citizens. 

That same day, U.S. Judge Daniel Thomas of Mobile ruled in the case the President had 

mentioned. After consulting with the Justice Department, Judge Thomas “formally 

suspended a version of the Alabama literacy test, ordered Selma to take at least one 

hundred applications per registration day, and guaranteed that all applications received by 

June 1 would be processed before July.” [Pillar, p.579] Marches to test the ruling 

resulted in more arrests. 

Dr. King, in a controversial move, posted bond, an act that undercut a visit by 15 

Members of Congress to the jail to see him. By the time they arrived at the jail, he was at 

Amelia Boynton’s home. His supporters announced that he came out of jail to meet with 

President Johnson at the White House about the need for voting rights legislation. 

When an aide told the President about the announcement, he was furious (“Where the 

hell does he get off inviting himself to the White House?”). Although Press Secretary 

George Reedy announced on February 6 that the Administration intended to submit 

voting rights legislation by the end of the year, the President was tied up with issues 
183 

related to the war in Vietnam on the Monday when Dr. King had proposed the meeting. 

To smooth over the embarrassing situation, Dr. King agreed to a White House plan that 

he would announce a meeting on Tuesday with Vice President Humphrey. The White 

House promised that the President would emerge from his war meeting to greet Dr. King

“spontaneously” if he kept this part of the plan secret. The meeting went as planned, but 

afterwards, Dr. King refused to read the White House’s draft statement or disclose what 

the President had said. Instead, Dr. King offered the media his own ideas for legislation 

and referred to the President’s commitment to take action. [Pillar, p. 581-582, 584] 

The following day, over 160 students left Brown Chapel. To evade the city’s parade 

ordinance, they walked to the courthouse in small groups. Once there, they displayed 

voter rights signs they had hidden in their clothes. Sheriff Clark, under orders to avoid 

confrontation, called for buses to block the reporters’ view of the demonstrators. Finally, 

after receiving new instructions in the afternoon, he and his deputies herded the students 

along Alabama Avenue, past the city jails, and out of town. With billy clubs and cattle 

prods, the police forced the students into a trot and, finally, a run. 

At a creek bridge on River Road, deputies blocked press photographers while he let the 

students escape into the fields. Later, Sheriff Clark announced that the students had 

escaped while he had simply been marching them the 6 miles to the Fraternal Order of 

Police Lodge because his jails were full. [Pillar, p. 586] 

As protests continued in Selma and the surrounding area, an incident occurred in Marion, 

a few miles northwest on State Route 45 in Perry County, that would turn into one of the 

galvanizing moments of the voting rights crusade. Officials and white citizens in Marion 

decided to call in State police to put an end to the Perry County Voter League’s agitation

in their community. 

The league met at Mount Zion Baptist Church one evening with the intention of marching 

to the jail a block away to sing a freedom song in honor of SCLC leader James Orange, 

who had been arrested for contributing to the delinquency of young marchers in Selma. 

Reporters were on hand, but had told camera crews and photographers to leave their 

equipment in their cars to avoid provoking police or angry white crowds. 

Half a block from the church, Marion Police Chief T. O. Harris ordered the marchers 

back inside. Reporters, confined across the square, could hear the struggles between the 

two groups in the darkness. Camera crews and photographers retrieved their equipment 

from their cars, but police and bystanders prevented them from taking any images of the 

nighttime events.

Many of the marchers tried to get back into the church, but the entrance was blocked by 

protesters who were coming outside to begin their march:

Panic drove the ones trapped outside to flee toward buildings behind the church. 

Fifty state troopers overtook many of them, including eighty-two-year-old Cager 
184 

Lee, who stumbled bleeding into Mack’s Café to find his daughter Viola and 

grandson Jimmy Lee. In utter chaos, some troopers chased two dozen marchers 

into the café while ten others pushed inside to chase them out. They expelled one 

crippled customer unharmed, overturned tables, smashed lights, dishes, 

customers, and marchers. The café owner saw troopers attack Cager Lee again in 

the kitchen. For trying to pull them off, Viola Jackson was beaten to the floor. 

Her son Jimmy Lee Jackson lunged to protect her. One trooper threw him against 

a cigarette machine, another shot him twice in the stomach, and then they 

cudgeled him back outside toward the bus station, where he collapsed. Jackson 

was the only gunshot victim among ten Negroes who were hospitalized . . . . 

Reporters on the Marion square were surprised to come upon Sheriff Clark among 

the officers imported from other counties. He quipped that things had been too 

quiet for him in Selma. [Pillar, p, 592-593] 

Jackson, a 26-year old pulpwood worker who had tried five times to register to vote, was 

taken to Good Samaritan Hospital in Selma, where he died on February 26. According to 

Branch:

Colonel Al Lingo, head of the Alabama state troopers, served an arrest warrant 

upon Jimmie Lee Jackson in his hospital bed Tuesday, and the Alabama Senate 

formally denounced “baseless and irresponsible” charges of dereliction by his 

men in the Marion incident. [Pillar, p. 597] 

James Bevel, his marriage to Diane Nash dissolving because of his philandering, and 

Lafayette visited the Lee family, who encouraged them to continue the marches for 

voting rights. Bevel suggested to Lafayette that they march the 54 miles to Montgomery 

on U.S. 80, a plan Bevel announced that evening at Brown Chapel: 

He expounded on Esther 4:8, in which Mordecai warned Esther of an order to 

destroy the Jews, and charged her to go to the king and “make request before him 

for her people.” He preached that the king now was Governor Wallace, who ran 

the state troopers and kept Negroes from voting. “I must go see the king!” he 

cried, and soon brought the whole church to its feet vowing to go on foot as in the 

Bible. “Be prepared to walk to Montgomery!” shouted Bevel. “Be prepared to 

sleep on the highway!” 

On the day that Jackson was buried, Wednesday, March 3, Dr. King participated in the 

funeral service in Marion. He predicted that “love will conquer hate” through justice, and 

endorsed the march to Montgomery scheduled for the coming Sunday. Returning from 

Marion to Brown Chapel, he predicted, “We will bring a voting bill into being on the 

streets of Selma.” [Pillar, p. 600] 

Governor Wallace and his staff decided on a plan they thought would make the marchers 

“the laughingstock of the nation.” They would surprise marchers, who assumed they 

would be blocked, by letting them march to Montgomery. But police would block all 

vehicles, leaving the marchers without supplies for the 3-day walk. The marchers would 
185 

have to straggle back to Selma, leaving the protest a shambles. The Governor approved 

the plan with the understanding that he could change his mind at the last minute to block 

the march. 

He did change his mind. 

Dr. King stated that if the marchers were blocked, they would “lie down in the road” and 

wait for Federal relief. Governor Wallace responded by announcing, “There will be no 

march between Selma and Montgomery.” Mayor Smitherman added, “Negroes should 

not be permitted to make this senseless march.” [Branch, Taylor, At Canaan’s Edge: 

America in the King Years 1965-68, Simon and Schuster, 2006, p. 38-39] 

On the Friday before the scheduled march, Dr. King was in Washington to meet with 

President Johnson to discuss the proposed voting rights bill. The President agreed about 

the need for a bill, as opposed to a constitutional amendment, but only agreed to submit a 

voting rights message to Congress. 

 

Finding that he had to be in Atlanta for services at Ebenezer Church on Sunday, March 7, 

Dr. King proposed to postpone the march to Monday. While march leaders in Selma 

debated whether Dr. King had, or had not, approved the March 7 start, marchers began to 

assemble at Brown Chapel. Leaders reached Dr. King at his church and he concurred in 

the plan to proceed despite his absence. 

Sheriff Clark had been in Washington on Saturday to tape the Sunday morning ABC

show Issues and Answers (he claimed that “nigras are registered pretty much as they 

desire to” and that Dr. King had come to Selma “to make his personal bank account 

larger”). Sunday, he returned to Alabama and drove from Montgomery on U.S. 80 to the 

east side of the Edmund Pettus Bridge to oversee plans for the march. In addition to 

troopers on horseback, he had wide-nozzle tear gas spray guns and launching rifles for 

tear gas canisters. [Canaan, p. 46] 

The Pettus Bridge

The Edmund Pettus Bridge, which was built in 1940, carries U.S. 80/Broad Street traffic 

across the Alabama River on the south side of Selma. It had been named after a Civil 

War General and Grand Dragon of the Alabama Ku Klux Klan who served in the United 

States Senate from 1897 until his death in 1907. He was the last Confederate General to 

serve in the Senate. 

John Lewis and Hosea Williams led marchers from Brown Chapel at around 1:40 p.m. 

The day was gray and hazy, with a brisk wind from the Alabama River. They were 

stopped almost immediately by Selma Sheriff Baker, who advised them that since they 

did not have a parade permit, they would have to break into small groups. After breaking 

into groups of 25, they resumed marching at 2:18, the 500 or so marchers followed by 

vehicles with their supplies, including medical supplies and portable toilets. 
186 

At the Pettus Bridge, marchers found that troopers had blocked the road, as Branch 

described:

In the middle distance, a wall of trooper cruisers blocked all four lanes of 

Highway 80. Closer, a reserve of some 150 troopers, sheriff’s deputies, and 

possemen mingled behind a front line of twenty-five troopers about two hundred 

yards beyond the foot of the bridge—the possemen in khaki jackets and white 

helmets, fifteen of them mounted on horseback, the troopers in blue uniforms and 

blue helmets. [Canaan, p, 49]

Troopers stopped the supply vehicles on grounds that the bridge had been closed to 

traffic.

As the marchers approached the bridge, troopers snapped on gas masks. Major John 

Cloud stepped forward to order the marchers to disperse. He gave the marchers 2 

minutes to turn around. One minute later, he ordered the troopers to advance. 

Overwhelmed, the marchers ran for their lives. Amid horses, troopers swinging 

nightsticks, bursting canisters of tear gas, and screams and shouts, the march dissolved in 

chaos. Lewis, struck on the head, collapsed with a fractured skull. Women, as well as 

men, were beaten; Amelia Boynton was found on the ground unconscious. In the rear, 

marchers unaware of what was happening, were knocked over by the front ranks of 

marchers and the pursuing troopers. Even at Brown Chapel, troopers in a frenzy lashed 

out at anyone they could reach. Sheriff Baker, confronting Sheriff Clark at Brown 

Chapel, demanded that he stop his troopers. Clark refused. 

This time, Branch explained, film made it out of the city: 

The ABC News film crew raced network competitors in a cavalry relay dictated 

by broadcast technology before videotape or satellite transmission. They drove 

around the troopers blockading Highway 80 at the first chance, then on through 

Lowndes County to the Montgomery airport and flights through Atlanta to New 

York, bearing canisters of undeveloped film to lab technicians rushed in for 

Sunday night work. 

The FBI had been on the scene, but took no action during the melee except to arrest three 

white men, including James Robinson (the segregationist who had punched Dr. King), for 

attacking an FBI agent.

The network was broadcasting the television premiere of Judgment at Nuremberg, the 

1961 Oscar winning film about the war crimes trials in Germany. Shortly after 9 p.m., 

ABC interrupted the movie for a 15-minute bulletin about the Selma march:

ABC’s bonanza audience of forty-eight million unsuspecting viewers transferred 

from the mystery of Holocaust atrocities among Good Germans to real-life scenes 

of flying truncheons on Pettus Bridge. ABC News executives let the footage run 
187 

nearly fifteen minutes—as long as Sheriff Clark had appeared on Issues and 

Answers—before resuming the film. CBS and NBC aired similar bulletins during 

regular programming, but the Nuremberg interruption struck with the force of 

instant historical icon. 

Like the images of Bull Connor suppressing protests in Birmingham, film and 

photographs of “Bloody Sunday” would prove to be a turning point for the Nation. They 

forced viewers to see with their own eyes what African-Americans experienced if they 

wanted to exercise a basic right that was routinely available to white Americans: 

The tide of confidence in equal citizenship had swelled over decades to confront 

segregation as well as the Nazis, and would roll forward, but an opposing tide of 

resentment and disbelief rose to challenge the overall direction of American 

politics, contesting the language of freedom. [Canaan, p. 56-57] 

After a distressing day of telephone reports from Selma, Dr. King announced plans for a 

renewed march. 

By Sunday evening, Dr. King had announced he would lead a ministers' march to 

Montgomery on Tuesday, March 9. He telegraphed invitations around the country: 

No American is without responsibility. All are involved in the sorrow that rises 

from Selma to contaminate every crevice of our national life. The people of 

Selma will struggle on for the soul of the nation, but it is fitting that all Americans 

help to bear the burden. I call, therefore, on clergy of all faiths, representatives of 

every part of the country, to join me in a ministers’ march to Montgomery on 

Tuesday morning, March 9th. In this way all America will testify to the fact that 

the struggle in Selma is for the survival of democracy everywhere in our land. 

[Canaan, p. 60 note] 

The response was sensational. Overnight, some four hundred ministers, rabbis, priests, 

nuns, students, and lay leaders—black and white alike—rushed to Selma to stand with 

Dr. King and the voting rights marchers. 

Over a thousand people waited for Dr. King at Brown Chapel on Monday evening. He 

told them about the dangers the marchers faced. “We must let them know that if they 

beat one Negro they are going to have to beat a hundred, and if they beat a hundred, then 

they are going to have to beat a thousand.” [Canaan, p. 64] 

At the White House, President Johnson was looking for a way out. His overtures to 

Governor Wallace were not productive; the President understood that the Governor 

needed to appear strong to his white backers and so could not be trusted. Picketers 

marched outside the Justice Department, and students were camped outside Deputy 

Attorney General Nicholas Katzenbach’s office. 
188 

The President’s representatives tried to convince Dr. King to call off the march, to avoid 

another Bloody Sunday blot on the national image, but Dr. King made clear that he could 

not do so unless the President offered significant alternatives to expand voting rights. 

In the morning, Dr. King received news that Judge Johnson had approved a court order 

prohibiting the march from Selma, despite knowing that his order was unconstitutional 

and would be overturned on appeal – long after the day of the planned march. U.S. 

marshals were racing across U.S. 80 from Montgomery to Selma to serve the injunction 

on the march leaders named in the court order. 

President Johnson dispatched former Florida Governor LeRoy Collins, now heading the 

Justice Department’s Community Relations Service, to appeal to Dr. King. Branch 

summarized the appeal:

The President felt strongly that Sunday’s violence disgraced the United States in 

the eyes of the world, said Collins. His overriding concern was to prevent more 

violence that would inflame racial hatreds and threaten stability far beyond Selma. 

Therefore, quite apart from legal mandates, the President wanted King’s people to 

stay home to guarantee the peace.

This was too much for Rev. Fred Shuttlesworth. “You’re talking to the wrong 

people,” he interrupted from the background. Shuttlesworth, the irrepressible 

movement leader from Birmingham, said Collins was mixed up about who was 

beating people over the head and who was nonviolent. Did he see the pictures? 

Shuttlesworth suggested that Collins take up the issue of violence with Governor 

Wallace and Sheriff Clark. “They’re the ones in the disgrace business,” he said 

with his matador’s bravado. 

Collins suggested a compromise, even though it would violate the court order. Dr. King 

could lead a march across Pettus Bridge, but then turn around. Already, Colonel Lingo 

had arranged his state troopers on the far side of the bridge, with 150 police cruisers 

behind them. “I don’t believe,” Dr. King told Collins, “you can get those people not to 

charge into us even if we do stop.” [Canaan, p. 70-71] 

Protesters marched outside the White House, the sit-in at the Justice Department was 

growing, and President Johnson was distracted from the ceremony planned for the 

signing of the Appalachian Regional Development Act. But that afternoon, Dr. King 

emerged from Brown Chapel to a roar from the crowd. “Almighty God, thou has called 

us to walk for freedom, even as thou did the children of Israel,” he began in prayer. As 

aides organized the marchers, he said through a bullhorn, “I say to you this afternoon that 

I would rather die on the highways of Alabama than make a butchery of my conscience.” 

Nevertheless, he warned the crowd:

If you can’t be nonviolent, don’t get in here. If you can’t accept blows without 

retaliating, don’t get in the line.
189 

The march began shortly after 2:17 p.m., with about 1,500 marchers behind Dr. King. 

Governor Collins emerged from a government sedan to meet with Dr. King as he led the 

march. The troopers would not attack, Collins said, as long as the marchers kept to a 

route marked on a map that he gave Dr. King. Despite Dr. King’s doubts about trusting 

the State’s word, Collins hopped back into his sedan and headed to the other side of the 

bridge. He planned to stand with Colonel Lingo to try to keep him to the promise. 

The route shown on the map was the normal route to the bridge via U.S. 80/Broad Street. 

As Dr. King approached Pettus Bridge, Deputy U.S. Marshal Stanley Fountain held up 

his hand to halt the marchers. He read the full text of Judge Johnson’s 600-word order. 

When Fountain was done, Dr. King said, “Let’s go.” He reached Pettus Bridge around 

2:35. 

Confronted by a State trooper and ordered to disperse, King and some of the other leaders 

kneeled to lead the front ranks of marchers in brief prayers. As they rose, they saw to 

their surprise, that the troopers had been ordered to move aside, leaving the road to 

Montgomery open. 

The unexpected move stunned Dr. King, the other marchers, Justice Department 

observers, and bystanders. Dr. King had to decide quickly whether he would be leading 

the marchers into a trap, knowing that if he turned back, he might appear timid. King led 

the marchers back into Selma. [Canaan, p. 74-77] 

President Johnson, having been advised not to issue a statement following Bloody 

Sunday, issued one on Tuesday. “I am certain,” he said, “Americans everywhere join in 

deploring the brutality with which a number of Negro citizens of Alabama were treated 

when they sought to dramatize their deep and sincere interest in attaining the precious 

right to vote.” He had dispatched officials to Selma to monitor the situation and had 

directed the Justice Department to enter as a “friend of the court” in the request before the 

Federal District Court in Alabama enjoining State officials from interfering with the right 

of Alabama citizens to walk from Selma to Montgomery. In addition, he expected to 

have recommendations for legislation by the following week. He concluded: 

We will continue our efforts to work with the individuals involved to relieve 

tensions and to make it possible for every citizen to vote. I urge all who are in 

positions of leadership and capable of influencing the conduct of others to 

approach this tense situation with calmness, reasonableness, and respect for law 

and order. 

That night, three white Unitarian ministers who had answered Dr. King’s call were 

walking down the street after dinner at Walker’s Café when they were attacked by several 

white men. One of them hit James Reeb in the head with a bat. Ministers Orloff Miller 

and Clark Olsen tried to protect Reeb and themselves from the kicks and taunts. When 

the attack ended, the three ministers made it to Diane Nash who arranged for medical 

treatment. Reeb was in desperate need of treatment in a neurosurgery unit in 

Birmingham. 
190 

An ambulance raced off, but outside Selma one of its tires blew. The crew were delayed 

trying to find a place where they could safely summon a second ambulance. While they 

waited, one of Sheriff Clark’s deputies stopped to see what was going on, but refused to 

help them get to Birmingham. The second ambulance finally arrived, 2 hours after the 

attack, and raced Reeb to the hospital.

The ambush made national news the next day, with dramatic stories about how Reeb’s 

wife had flown to Birmingham to be with her husband. “I told the children this morning 

as soon as they woke up that their father had been hurt,” she told reporters. “The younger 

ones did not fully understand, but the thirteen-year-old was quite upset.” [Canaan, p. 80-

81, 84-85] 

The day before, while waiting with six congressional leaders in the White House before 

the signing ceremony for the Appalachian bill, President Johnson had talked 

extemporaneously about the urgency of voting rights. “Good Lord, Mr. President,” 

gasped Speaker of the House John McCormack (D-Ma.), “why don’t you say that to the 

people?” The President told him, “At the right time I will.” [Canaan, p. 74] 

Bloody Sunday, the turn-around march on Tuesday, and now the news about Reeb, who 

lay dying in Birmingham, advanced the schedule for voting rights legislation. Pressure 

mounted on the President when six African-American students and six white students 

entered the White House along with other tourists but began a sit-in in an East Wing 

corridor. They were removed—gently and out of sight of the White House press corps—

before 50 or so Members of Congress arrived for a briefing on Vietnam.

The President brought up the situation in Selma. “The ghost of Lincoln is moving up and 

down the corridors rather regularly these days,” he said. When Katzenbach explained 

that the Justice Department planned to prosecute individual violators, Representative 

John Bell Williams of Mississippi “blasted Katzenbach for siding with Communist 

agitators to trample on the rights of the South,” as Branch put it. [Canaan, p. 87-89] 

Reeb died in Birmingham on Thursday, March 11, at 6:55 pm. 

On Friday, the President, Vice President, and Katzenbach met for more than 4 hours with 

activists and clergy, many of whom had been in Selma. At one point, Episcopal Bishop 

Paul Moore, Jr., asked the President why it was taking so long to send a voting rights bill 

to Congress. The President explained the difficulty of drafting a bill that would ensure 

the rights of African-Americans and pass a Congress dominated by Committee Chairmen 

from the South. 

Later that day, the President learned that Governor Wallace had requested a meeting. 

Johnson accepted immediately. 

In requesting the meeting, Wallace had not counted on the “Johnson Treatment,” but he 

would receive, full force, when the two met on Saturday morning. The President began 
191 

with some bantering. He pointed out that the Governor and Dr. King had one thing in 

common – the guts to demand an appointment with him and tell the press before he had 

accepted. The President directed the Governor to a low chair and pulled his own higher 

chair nearby so they were practically knee to knee. After the Governor spoke for 15 

minutes soliciting the President’s opposition to the Communists and outside agitators 

who were causing all the trouble, the President went into Treatment mode. He didn’t 

care for demonstrators – they “kept my daughters awake every night with their screaming 

and hollering” – but “You can’t stop a fever by putting an icepack on your head.” You 

had to get at the cause of the fever. 

In response to the Governor’s objection to the White House’s use of the word “brutality,” 

he displayed photographs from Bloody Sunday. The Governor had to admit that 

“brutality” was the right word. The President badgered the Governor about getting away 

from this battle and on to other causes that would help the people of Alabama. “What do 

you want left when you die? Do you want a great big marble monument that reads, 

‘George Wallace—He Built,’ or do you want a little piece of scrawny pine board that 

reads, ‘George Wallace—He Hated’?” When the Governor’s aide tried to discuss the 

menace of Communist agitators, the President handed him a pencil and said, “Here, take 

notes.” 

Going down a list he had solicited from Katzenbach that morning, the President 

suggested that the Governor join in a statement committing to desegregate the State’s 

schools, or obeying Federal court orders, or the right of peaceful assembly, or biracial 

meetings to find solutions. Turning to the aide, he added, ‘You getting this down?” 

Wallace could not agree to these options or the President’s suggestion that he simply 

support universal suffrage. 

The Governor assured him that everybody in Alabama could vote if they were registered, 

but since registration was handled by the counties, he didn’t have the power to register 

African-Americans who failed county eligibility requirements. The President rejected 

this argument, recalling that his name had been left off the ballots in Alabama in 1964, 

leaving voters to choose only Democratic electors. (For the first time since the Civil 

War, Alabama had voted for the Republican nominee, Senator Goldwater.) He argued 

that if the Governor had the power to keep him off the ballot in 1964, “Surely you have 

the power to tell a few poor county registrars what to do.” 

 

The meeting lasted over 3 hours, after which the Governor told reporters the President 

was “a great gentleman, as always,” but whatever he had expected to get out of the 

meeting, he didn’t get it. On the flight back to Alabama, he told aides, “when the 

President works on you, there’s not a lot you can do.” [Canaan, p. 96-98] 

On Monday, Brown Chapel held a memorial service for Reeb at 2 p.m. Dr. King was in 

Montgomery under court order during Judge Johnson’s hearing. He also had been invited 

to Washington for the President’s address to Congress on voting rights. Torn among 

responsibilities, Dr. King finally secured permission from the court to participate in the 

memorial service. Telling Brown Chapel’s leaders to stall until he arrived, Dr. King 
192 

raced along U.S. 80 from Montgomery to Selma. 

Arriving late, Dr. King told the crowd that Reeb’s death “was the result of a sensitive 

religious spirit. His crime was that he dared to live his faith.” Referring to Jimmie Lee 

Jackson and Reeb, Dr. King looked forward to the day when “our nation will realize its 

true heroes.” He concluded, “Here and there an individual or group dares to love . . . . 

Therefore, I am not yet discouraged about the future . . . . So we thank God for the life of 

James Reeb. We thank God for his goodness.” 

Reverend Abernathy stepped to the pulpit and announced that Judge Thomas had 

approved an order directing Sheriff Clark to allow a march to the courthouse. Since 

Tuesday, protesters had been limited to the perimeter of the church. Now 3,500 strong, 

they marched off shortly after 5 p.m. for the courthouse. They made no attempt to cross 

Pettus Bridge, but walked to the courthouse for a memorial service. [Canaan, p. 105-

108] 

That night, March 15, President Johnson entered the chamber of the House of 

Representatives for an address to a joint session of Congress and the Nation on the 

“American Promise.” Members of the House and Senate, minus the delegations from 

Mississippi and Virginia and a few Members from other Southern States, had assembled 

for the speech. The President told them:

At times history and fate meet at a single time in a single place to shape a turning 

point in man’s unending search for freedom. So it was at Lexington and Concord. 

So it was a century ago at Appomattox. So it was last week in Selma, Alabama.

There, long-suffering men and women peacefully protested the denial of their 

rights as Americans. Many were brutally assaulted. One good man, a man of 

God, was killed . . . . 

But there is cause for hope and faith in our democracy in what is happening here 

tonight. 

For the cries of pain, and the hymns and protests of oppressed people, have 

summoned into convocation all the majesty of this great government of the 

greatest nation on earth. 

Selma, he said, had revealed “the secret heart of America itself.” If the Nation defeated 

every one of its enemies and expanded its wealth, but could not overcome this issue, 

“then we will have failed as a people and as a nation.” He continued, “For with a country 

as with a person, ‘What is a man profited if he shall gain the whole world and lose his 

own soul?’” 
193 

Noting that the Nation had been founded on the principle that, “All men are created 

equal,” he said:

There is no Negro problem. There is no Southern problem. There is no Northern 

problem. There is only an American problem. And we are met here tonight as 

Americans—not as Democrats or Republicans—we are met here as Americans to 

solve that problem. 

Despite passage of civil rights legislation, “No law that we now have on the books . . . 

can ensure the right to vote when local officials are determined to deny it.” He outlined 

his legislative proposal, which would outlaw all the restrictions that blocked AfricanAmericans from registering to vote in Federal, State, and local elections. If State or local 

officials refused registration, the United States Government would register them. And it 

would ensure that registered voters were not prohibited from exercising their right. 

He recalled how the voting rights provision of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 had been 

weakened, but that bill finally had passed after 8 long months of debate. “This time, on 

this issue, there must be no delay, no hesitation and no compromise with our purpose.” 

He added, “We have already waited a hundred years and more, and the time for waiting is 

gone.” 

As African-Americans struggled to secure “the full blessing of American life,” he said:

 

Their cause must be our cause too. Because it is not just Negroes, but really it is 

all of us, who must overcome the crippling legacy of bigotry and injustice. And 

we shall overcome. 

Branch described the reaction to the President’s use of the Civil Rights Movement’s most 

common phrase: 

No one stood. Applause battled disbelief and renewed astonishment to hear such 

words from the first Southern President in a century. 

The President’s close friend and one-time mentor, Senator Russell of Georgia, told 

friends sitting nearby that his protégé was “a turncoat if there ever was one.” 

Watching on television, Selma Mayor Smitherman said the phrase was like “a dagger to 

your heart,” but not far away, colleagues of Dr. King erupted in excitement to hear the 

phrase from the President’s lips. “A tear rolled down King’s cheek,” Branch noted. 

As he moved toward his conclusion, President Johnson said: 

The real hero of this struggle is the American Negro. His actions and protests, his 

courage to risk safety and even to risk his life, have awakened the conscience of 

this Nation. His demonstrations have been designed to call attention to injustice, 

designed to provoke change, designed to stir reform. 
194 

He has called upon us to make good the promise of America. And who among us 

can say that we would have made the same progress were it not for his persistent 

bravery, and his faith in American democracy. 

He recalled his first job as a teacher of poor Mexican-American children who 

experienced the pain of prejudice without understanding why: 

I never thought then in 1928 that I would be standing here in 1965 . . . that I might 

have the chance to help the sons and daughters of those students, and to help 

people like them all over this country. But now I do have that chance, and I let 

you in on a secret: I mean to use it. And I hope you will use it with me. 

This comment earned a standing ovation as he moved to the end of his speech: 

I came down here to ask you to share this task with me and to share it with the 

people that we both work for. I want this to be the Congress, Republicans and 

Democrats alike, which did all these things for all these people. 

Beyond this great chamber, out yonder in 50 States, are the people that we serve. 

Who can tell what deep and unspoken hopes are in their hearts tonight as they sit 

there and listen. We all can guess, from our own lives, how difficult they often 

find their own pursuit of happiness, how many problems each little family has. 

They look most of all to themselves for their futures. But I think that they also 

look to each of us. 

Above the pyramid on the great seal of the United States it says—in Latin—"God 

has favored our undertaking." 

God will not favor everything that we do. It is rather our duty to divine His will. 

But I cannot help believing that He truly understands and that He really favors the 

undertaking that we begin here tonight. 

He left the House chamber to tumultuous applause. The President asked his aide, Jack 

Valenti, “how did I do?” Valenti had kept track. The President had been interrupted 36 

times for applause lasting a total of 8 minutes and 40 seconds. [Canaan, p. 111-115] 

Across the Bridge

The next day, life in Alabama was unchanged. In reaction to recent events, SNCC’s 

James Forman staged a hastily arranged march in Montgomery to deliver a voting rights 

petition to Governor Wallace. The 600 marchers included students and people 

intercepted at the airport on their way to Selma. They began at Jackson Baptist Church, 

but were stopped by police at the corner of Decatur Street and Adams Avenue. 

Montgomery County sheriff Mac Sim Butler and 15 mounted troopers rode into the 

marchers and pummeled them with nightsticks and, in the sheriff’s case, a cane held by 
195 

the tip end. Photographs of the attack made the front page of newspapers around the 

country. 

Dr. King led a second march the following day, 2,000 strong, to the courthouse in 

Montgomery. Aware of the negative publicity from the previous day, the local 

prosecutor met Dr. King to apologize for the “mix-up and a misunderstanding of orders” 

the day before. While the marchers waited in the rain outside, Dr. King and James 

Forman entered the courthouse to negotiate new protest procedures. At 5:15, they came 

out to brief the marchers:

Local officials had agreed to sign a statement of regret for Tuesday’s violence, 

they said, and to forswear the use of the unaccountable possemen for law 

enforcement. They thanked the rain-soaked crowd for putting a “historic 

occasion” within reach. 

Andrew Young interrupted to whisper in Dr. King’s ear. 

His face changed. News cameramen expectantly buzzed reporters near him to 

clear the view—“get the mike down, get the mike down.’ 

“Let me give you this statement I think will come as a source of deep joy to all of 

us,” King called out. “Judge Johnson has just ruled that we have a legal and 

Constitutional right to march from Selma to Montgomery!” Rolling cheers 

erupted over the last words. 

Judge Johnson had intended to issue the order all along, but had been waiting for 

guarantees from Washington that the marchers would be protected. [Canaan, p. 118-119, 

122-123] 

Dr. King scheduled the march to begin on Sunday, March 21. As State officials headed 

to New Orleans to appeal Judge Johnson’s ruling, the Senate adopted a resolution sending 

the President’s bill to the Judiciary Committee, with instructions that the committee 

report the bill for floor action no later than April 9, the 100th anniversary of General 

Robert E. Lee’s surrender at Appomattox. Judiciary Chairman Eastland was outraged 

that his prerogative to set the timetable had been usurped. He added, “I am opposed to 

every word and every line in the bill.” 

The White House was sparring with Governor Wallace over whether the State would 

enforce safety for the march. The President’s dominance of Wallace during their face to 

face meeting did not work on the telephone, but the Governor implied he would call up as 

many members of the Alabama Guard as necessary. Then he changed his mind. On 

Thursday, March 18, Governor Wallace addressed the State legislature to denounce the 

marchers who served a “foreign philosophy” that used African-Americans “as tools in 

this traditional type of Communist street warfare.” He called on Alabamians to stay 

home, and said that since the Federal court had created the problem, he would call on 

Washington to “provide for the safety and welfare of the so-called demonstrators.” 
196 

The President was infuriated that the Governor had gone back on his word and further 

angered when the Governor telegraphed a request for 5,000 civilian Federal workers, 

such as marshals and prison guards, to police the march. The telegram put the President 

in an awkward position because the States rights issue made calling out the National 

Guard or other Federal law enforcement officers problematic. The President, who 

wanted to issue a rebuke, instead replied that civilian workers were untrained for the task 

whereas the Alabama National Guard was trained and equipped for the purpose. Under 

the circumstances, the President intended to protect the marchers if Governor Wallace 

would not. [Canaan, p. 125-128] 

Dr. King and his aides had to concentrate on planning the march in accordance with 

limitations placed by Judge Johnson’s order. He allowed the march to last 5 or fewer 

days. Any number of people could participate at the beginning and end of the march, but 

no more than 300 could walk on the two-lane segment of U.S. 80 in Lowndes County. 

What to do with the marchers who could not participate in Lowndes County posed a 

logistical nightmare. [Canaan, p. 131] 

On Sunday, March 21, the march began at Brown Chapel just before 1 p.m. with over 

3,000 participants, a large press contingent, and hostile bystanders along the route. Dr. 

King led the march alongside Reverend Abernathy, Nobel Peace Prize winner Ralph 

Bunche of the United Nations, and Rabbi Abraham Heschel of the Jewish Theological 

Seminary of America. Marchers included college and high school students, housewives, 

movie stars, maids, even couples with baby carriages. Cager Lee, Jimmie Lee Jackson’s 

80-year old grandfather, was the oldest marcher. The bystanders were quiet, confining 

themselves to occasional protests, such as playing the popular song “Bye, Bye, 

Blackbird” from their car radios. 

At Broad Street, the marchers turned left and approached the Pettus Bridge, now clear of 

any obstacles. Under General Graham, the federalized Alabama National Guard was 

ready to protect and facilitate the march. The marchers crossed the bridge without 

incident and continued on U.S. 80 as National Guard Jeeps drove ahead to block 

intersections. Passing vehicles sometimes included intimidating signs such as “Cheap 

ammo here,” but the marchers continued unimpeded. 

At the first break, things began to sort out, according to Branch: 

After the reclining multitude ate bologna sandwiches—King in a dark suit, 

overcoat, and new hiking boots—hard pavement troubled the march more than 

danger. Backpacks grew heavy and assorted protections awkward—yellow 

hardhats, umbrellas, one football helmet. For stragglers who dropped from the 

lines by the score, sore and sick, marshals arranged transport back to Selma in 

private automobiles with National Guard escorts. [Canaan, p. 144] 

The first night’s campsite was 7 miles out of Selma on property owned by an AfricanAmerican. Many of the marchers were shuttled back to Selma for the night by car on 
197 

U.S. 80 or on a special train. About 400 marchers spent the night in four large field tents. 

Monday morning, the marchers got an early start, gradually joined by some of the 

marchers returning by bus from Selma. At the next rest stop, organizers had to reduce 

their number to 300 as mandated by Judge Johnson because the marchers had reached the

22-mile long segment of two-lane U.S. 80 in Lowndes County. The reduction led to 

arguments and resentments as those not selected returned to Selma. 

Finally, they set off again, with the reduced contingent including about 22 white 

marchers and John Lewis, just arrived despite his injuries on Bloody Sunday and advice 

from friends that he avoid potential confrontations while he was convalescing. About 

one-third of the marchers were women. They completed 16 miles on Monday without 

incident except for greetings from well-wishers along the way. Arriving in camp that 

night, many marchers needed treatment for sunburn and other heat-related conditions. 

Dr. King’s wife, Coretta, joined them in the evening. 

On Tuesday, Dr. King flew to Cleveland to raise funds for the march before taking his 

charter flight back to Montgomery. He told 2,200 people at the Hotel Sheraton that their 

donations would help defray the estimated $50,000 cost of the march. “Ohio’s largest 

newspaper, the Plain Dealer,” according to Branch, “highlighted blistered feet on the 

front page—‘Dr. King, in Cleveland, Tries Not to Limp’ . . . .” [Canaan, p. 152-153] 

While in Cleveland, Dr. King missed the morning deluge that saturated the marchers, but 

they continued along U.S. 80 in the rain. White bystanders taunted them, but the 

marchers sang songs to keep their spirits up. Branch noted a significant moment:

Halfway to Montgomery, on request from [Assistant Attorney general of the U.S. 

Department of Justice] John Doar through Pentagon Channels, Guardsmen in 

splattered ponchos along the route obediently turned outward toward the 

countryside, acknowledging external rather than internal danger. [Canaan, p. 

150] 

At the end of the day, the marchers arrived at their camp to find much of it too wet to use. 

After the Army demolition unit finished sloshing through the mud in search of bombs, 

march organizers found ground that was solid enough for two of the field tents that were 

usable only after bales of hay and straw provided some relief from the wet ground. 

Wednesday morning, Andrew Young led the marchers out of the muddy camp onto U.S. 

80, which returned to four lanes a mile ahead. No longer limited by Judge Johnson’s 

order, additional marchers began to join. 

By the time Dr. King returned around 11 a.m., the marchers totaled over 1,000, with 

more continuing to arrive by car and bus. When thunderstorms struck at around 1:30 

p.m., the marchers stretched over a mile of the highway. An estimated 4,000 to 5,000 

were marching by the time the group reached its final stop on a Catholic campground just 

outside Montgomery. 
198 

More supporters joined through the late afternoon and evening in anticipation of the 

march into the city. The crowd swelled to 30,000 by the end of the day, straining the 

limited capacity of the campsite. A stage had been erected, but the planned program was 

delayed by equipment failures that kept the camp in the dark. Finally, technicians coaxed 

a sound system to life: 

[The] jerrybuilt sound system sputtered to life late in the evening, allowing Harry 

Belafonte to sing one of his signature calypso hits, “Jamaica Farewell.” To 

restore order and spirits, Belafonte presented a midnight gala featuring Nina 

Simone, Alan King, Billy Eckstein, Johnny Mathis, the Chad Mitchell Trio, 

Leonard Bernstein, James Baldwin, and many others. Coretta King read a 

Langston Hughes poem in a rare joint appearance with her husband, saluting the 

large contingent of marchers from her native Perry County—“I was born and 

reared just eighty miles from here. [Canaan, p. 157-158] 

Dr. King spent most of the night in a nearby home participating in a staff meeting. When 

he returned to the St. Jude camp in the morning, soldiers, who had been told to block left 

turns into the campgrounds, initially blocked his car. Bernard Lee and Andrew Young 

tried to convince the sergeant in charge to let Dr. King’s car through. When they failed, 

Dr. Ralph Bunche told the sergeant, “I’m Dr. Ralph Bunche, undersecretary of the United 

Nations. Here for the march.” The sergeant replied, “Sorry, sir. This is not the United 

Nations. My orders are no left turn.” Finally, as Dr. King left the car to try to resolve the 

situation, a Montgomery police officer arrived and told the sergeant, “You danged fool. 

This is the man. Let him through!” The sergeant let the car through. [Canaan, p. 159-

160] 

Inside the camp, the order of marchers was hotly debated. Finally, 2 hours late, Dr. King 

was ready to lead approximately 12,000 marchers out of the camp. Intersections along 

the 4-mile march had been blocked, but more participants joined the long procession as it 

passed through the city: 

From St. Jude hospital, where Coretta had given birth to the Kings’ first two 

children, the path moved into Negro neighborhoods down Oak Street past Holt 

Street Baptist Church, where King at twenty-six had addressed the first mass 

meeting of the bus boycott more than nine years earlier . . . . The column 

streamed down Mobile Street into a downtown business district that was eerily 

deserted. Governor Wallace had proclaimed a “danger” holiday for female state 

employees, and major businesses placed newspaper advertisements endorsing his 

stay-home message. From an office building at the corner of Lee and 

Montgomery, marchers were showered with leaflets picturing King in 1957 at 

Tennessee’s Highlander Center, labeled “MARTIN LUTHER KING AT 

COMMUNIST TRAINING SCHOOL” . . . . 

From a high window in the federal building, where four years earlier a horrified 

John Doar had watched mobs beat integrated Freedom Riders at the bus station, 
199 

Frank Johnson witnessed a political demonstration for the first time in his life; he 

and a fellow judge measured two hours for the lines to pass the Jeff Davis Hotel . 

. . . 

Around the fountain at Court Square, where Rosa Parks had boarded her 

segregated bus home from work on the day in 1955 when her arrest started the 

boycott, the route opened broadly for the last six blocks up the hill toward the 

Palladian white dome of the Alabama state capitol. [Canaan, p. 162] 

State troopers stood behind wooden barriers along Dexter Avenue as Dr. King led the 

march past Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, site of his first pastorate. Troopers also 

blocked access to State property where Dexter Avenue, the route of Jefferson Davis’ first 

inaugural parade, met Bainbridge Street. Governor Wallace had ordered a plywood 

covering to prevent the marchers from “desecrating” by their touch the bronze floor 

emblem on the spot where Jefferson Davis had taken the oath of office as President of the 

Confederate States of America in February 1961.

The stage for the rally was the back of a flatbed truck. The rally began with 

performances by singers, including Odetta, Leon Bibb, Joan Baez, and Oscar Brand. 

When national broadcasts captured the white Mary Travers of Peter, Paul, and Mary 

kissing the black Harry Belafonte on the cheek, telephone calls flooded the networks 

from outraged southerners demanding that the broadcast be ended (as well as calls from 

angry viewers whose afternoon soap operas had been preempted). 

Amelia Boynton read the petition intended for Governor Wallace, while Rosa Parks, 

pushed forward against her wishes, spoke briefly to thunderous applause. Finally, Dr. 

King took the stage to address “all of the freedom-loving people” assembled before him 

and around the Nation and world: 

Last Sunday, more than eight thousand of us started on a mighty walk from 

Selma, Alabama. We have walked on meandering highways and rested our 

bodies on rocky byways. Some of our faces are burned from the outpourings of 

the sweltering sun. Some have literally slept in the mud. We have been drenched 

by the rains.

He acknowledged that, “Our bodies are tired, and our feet are somewhat sore,” but he 

recalled what a 70-year African-American woman had said when she was asked during 

the bus boycott if she wanted a ride. When she declined, the friend asked if she wasn’t 

tired. “My feets is tired, but my soul is rested.” He continued: 

And in a real sense this afternoon, we can say that our feet are tired, but our souls 

are rested.

They told us we wouldn’t get here. And there were those who said that we would 

get here only over their dead bodies, but all the world today knows that we are 

here and that we are standing before the forces of power in the state of Alabama 
200 

saying, “We ain’t goin’ let nobody turn us around.” 

He reminded them why they had marched to Montgomery. “Confrontation of good and 

evil compressed in the tiny community of Selma generated the massive power to turn the 

whole nation to a new course.” He continued: 

A president born in the South had the sensitivity to feel the will of the country, 

and in an address that will live in history as one of the most passionate pleas for 

human rights ever made by a president of our nation, he pledged the might of the 

federal government to cast off the centuries-old blight. 

He was confident of the future: 

So I stand before you this afternoon with the conviction that segregation is on its 

deathbed in Alabama and the only thing uncertain about it is how costly the 

segregationists and Wallace will make the funeral.

The denial of the right to vote that they had come to secure was “the very origin, the root 

cause, of racial segregation in the Southland.” The denial supported the segregated 

society in which they lived, and blocked the progress of African-Americans who needed

to join in the American way of life: 

Today I want to tell the city of Selma, today I want to say to the state of Alabama, 

today I want to say to the people of America and the nations of the world: We are 

not able to turn around. We are on the move now. Yes, we are on the move and 

no wave of racism can stop us. 

We are on the move now. 

The burning of our churches will not deter us. 

We are on the move now. 

The bombing of our homes will not dissuade us. 

We are on the move now. 

The beating and killing of our clergymen and young people will not divert us. 

We are on the move now. 

The arrest and release of known murderers will not discourage us. 

We are on the move now. 

Like an idea whose time has come, not even the marching of mighty armies can 

halt us. We are moving to the land of freedom.

Let us therefore continue our triumph and march to the realization of the 

American dream.

He continued with the list of barriers to be overcome, including segregated and inferior 

education, poverty, and hunger: 
201 

Let us march on ballot boxes, until we send to our city councils, state legislatures, 

and the United States Congress men who will not fear to do justice, love mercy, 

and walk humbly with their God. Let us march on ballot boxes until all over 

Alabama God’s children will be able to walk the earth in decency and honor. 

For all of us today the battle is in our hands. The road ahead is not altogether a 

smooth one. There are no broad highways to lead us easily and inevitably to 

quick solutions. We must keep going. 

Difficulties remained, a season of suffering was ahead, jail cells awaited them. But “the 

end we seek is a society at peace with itself, a society that can live with its conscience.” 

He continued: 

I know you are asking today, “How long will it take?” I come to say to you this 

afternoon however difficult the moment, however frustrating the hour, it will not 

be long, because truth pressed to earth will rise again. 

How long? Not long, because no lie can live forever. 

How long? Not long, because you still reap what you sow. 

How long? Not long. Because the arm of the moral universe is long but it bends 

toward justice.

How long? Not long, ‘cause mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the 

Lord, tramping out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored. He has 

loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword. His truth is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpets that shall never call retreat. He is lifting up the 

hearts of man before His judgment seat. Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him. 

Be jubilant, my feet. Our God is marching on. [Testament, p. 227-230] 

Governor Wallace refused to accept the voting rights petition the marchers had brought 

with them. 

One of the people in the crowd for Dr. King’s speech was a 39-year old white mother of 

five from Detroit, Violet Luizzo. She had been inspired by President Johnson’s March 15 

speech to hop in her Oldsmobile and drive to Alabama for the march. She performed 

administrative tasks for the marchers waiting at Brown Chapel for Judge Johnson’s 

clearance, and had loaned her car to the transportation committee for the march. 

Now, with the march ended, she found her Oldsmobile and used it to transport marchers 

back to Selma on U.S. 80. On the way, her car was tailgated by two cars with bright 

headlights flashing, but she arrived safely. She and a young African-American named 

Leroy Moton decided to make one more run to Montgomery to help marchers get back to 

Selma. 

Four Klan members from Birmingham had been looking for trouble all day, but had been 

frustrated by the presence of military vehicles and State troopers. They had been inspired 
202 

at the Silver Moon Café by one of the men who had killed James Reeb. “I did my job,” 

he told them. “Now you go and do yours.” Shortly after, they spotted Liuzzo and Moton 

and began pursuing the interracial “couple.”

The four followed Liuzzo across the Pettus Bridge and tailed the vehicle past Craig Air 

Force Base and by a radar speed unit. The State trooper operating the unit had stopped 

the four earlier in the day on U.S. 80 because of an equipment disparity on their car. 

Now, the four tailed Luizzo and Moton onto the two-lane segment of U.S. 80 in Lowndes 

County. 

Finally, the four saw their opportunity: 

Over one hilly straightaway, jammed against rolled-down windows on the 

passenger side, they held on for a passing run with three guns poked into the 

howling wind. 

Leroy Moton was absorbed with the radio dial, making an effort to accept 

Liuzzo’s hope that the pursuers might be “some of our own people,” when glass 

exploded over the front seat. Realizing that the car still hurtled along with Liuzzo 

slumped under the wheel, he grabbed from the side and steered blindly off the 

right shoulder over violent bumps to a tilted stop along the embankment of a 

fenced pasture. Moton managed to turn off the engine and headlights, blacked out 

for some time from the look of Liuzzo’s dead face, then ran toward Montgomery. 

Not for several miles of empty night did a truck come along driven by a Disciples 

of Christ minister from Richmond, California, Leon Riley, who backed up to 

investigate the frantically waving, blood-spattered young beanpole—nearly six 

feet four, less than 140 pounds. [Canaan, p. 173-174] 

Word of the murder soon reached President Johnson, who called on the FBI to 

investigate. Wilson Baker took Moton into custody in Selma, where he was questioned 

by the FBI. Finding the perpetrators had not been hard. The four men in the car included 

an FBI informant. He was given immunity in return for his testimony, while two of the 

other three would eventually serve time in jail. (The other murderer died before justice 

could be done.) 

The Voting Rights Act of 1965 

The march from Selma to Montgomery on U.S. 80, the deaths of Jackson, Reeb, and 

Liuzzo, and the President’s commitment kept the Voting Rights Act moving forward. In 

the Senate, Southern opponents staged a 24-day filibuster. Reporter E. W. Kenworthy 

explained in The New York Times explained that in contrast with the filibuster of the Civil 

Rights Act of 1964, “the sense of history in the making that made the closure vote last 

year a great occasion was largely missing today.” He explained that the limited scope 
203 

of the bill, in contrast with the sweeping 1964 Act, was one reason the debate had less 

tension. He added:

By contrast, the voting rights bill was much less controversial. Southerners 

themselves have always recognized that, of all discriminations practiced against 

the Negro, the denial of his right to vote was the least defensible because the 15th

Amendment [to the Constitution], ratified 95 years ago, forbids states to deny or 

abridge the right to vote because of race or color. 

In the desultory debate on the bill, the Southerners did not attempt to defend the 

way that Mississippi and Alabama, and to a lesser degree Louisiana, Georgia, 

South Carolina and North Carolina, have employed literacy and other tests to 

prevent the voter registration of Negroes. 

They rested their defense almost entirely on the right of the states, under Article I, 

Section 2 of the Constitution, to determine their own qualifications for voting . . . . 

Although the Southerners had protested bitterly through the debate that the bill 

was unconstitutional and that it was particularized and punitive legislation, many 

gave the impression they were not reluctant to have the issue settled. 

In part, this unspoken acceptance may be explained by the knowledge that 

Negroes are voting in large numbers in many parts of the South and will be voting 

in larger numbers, and that consequently Southern Democrats will soon be 

courting their votes. 

On May 25, the Senate voted 70 to 30 to invoke closure, 3 votes more than the two-thirds 

vote required at the time to end filibusters. [Kenworthy, E. W., “Senate, 70 to 30, 

Invokes Closure on Voting Rights,” The New York Times, May 26, 1965] 

The following day, the bill passed the Senate by a vote of 77 to 19, with 47 Democrats 

and 30 Republicans in support and 17 Democrats and 2 Republicans opposed. They 

approved the bill despite the assertion by Senator Allen J. Allender (D-La.) that the bill 

violated the Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill 

of Rights. 

Before voting against the bill, Senator Strom Thurmond of South Carolina, who had 

switched his party affiliation from Democrat to Republican in September 1964, eulogized 

the Senate as the “final resting place of the Constitution and the rule of law, for it is here 

that they will have been buried with shovels of emotion under piles of expediency, in the 

year of our Lord, 1965.” According to Branch:

Defeated Southern Democrats foresaw a “federal dictatorship” over the vote 

process to cement the economic impoverishment of “garden variety” white people 

that their leader, Senator Russell, had pronounced already inevitable from the 

Civil Rights Act of 1964. [Canaan, p. 227] 
204 

Shortly after Senate action, President Johnson called the vote “triumphant evidence of 

this Nation’s resolve that every citizen must and shall be able to march to a polling place 

and vote without fear or prejudice or obstruction.” He thanked the Senate leadership and 

their supporters on behalf of “a heartened Nation.” He urged quick approval in the 

House. 

While awaiting House action, the President delivered a commencement address at 

Howard University on June 4. He said he was proud of his role in approval of three Civil 

Rights Acts. As Senate Majority Leader, he secured passage of Civil Rights Acts in 1957 

and 1960 and of course as President, he had signed the Civil Rights Act of 1964: 

And, as your President, I was proud to sign the third. And now very soon we will 

have the fourth—a new law guaranteeing every American the right to vote. No 

act of my entire administration will give me greater satisfaction than the day when 

my signature makes this bill, too, the law of this land. 

He did not imagine that signing laws, alone, ensured freedom. He cited Winston 

Churchill who had said “of another triumph for freedom” that it “is not the end. It is not 

even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” To carry on 

the fight, he announced that he planned to call a White House conference in the fall “of 

scholars, and experts, and outstanding Negro leaders—men of both races—and officials 

of Government at every level.” The theme would be “To Fulfill These Rights”: 

Its object will be to help the American Negro fulfill the rights which, after the 

long time of injustice, he is finally about to secure. 

To move beyond opportunity to achievement. 

To shatter forever not only the barriers of the law and public practice, but the 

walls which bound the condition of many by the color of his skin. 

To dissolve, as best we can, the antique enmities of the heart which diminish the 

holder, divide the great democracy, and do wrong—great wrong—to the children 

of God. 

He concluded his address with a biblical reference that reflected his hopes for the 

conference: 

The Scripture promises: “I shall light a candle of understanding in thine heart, 

which shall not be put out.” 

Together, and with millions more, we can light that candle of understanding in the 

heart of America.

And once lit, it will never again go out. 

The Senate and House versions of the Voting Rights Act were similar, but the House had 

included an outright ban on poll taxes as a condition for voting in State and local 
205 

elections. The Senate had considered a similar ban but had defeated it narrowly (49 to 

45). The Administration and the chief author of the Senate bill, Senator Everett M. 

Dirksen (R-Il.), had opposed an outright ban because they feared, as Kenworthy 

explained, “it might be difficult to assemble evidence to prove that the poll tax had, in 

every instance, been used to prevent Negro registration.” That exposed the provision to 

the risk that a court would find the ban unconstitutional. Dirksen and the Administration 

had agreed to include a declaration in the Senate bill that the poll tax was an abridgement 

of the constitutional right to vote, along with a provision directing the Attorney General 

to proceed “forthwith” to test the constitutionality of the poll tax. 

The Administration hoped the House would accept the Senate bill, substituting it for the 

House bill, still in the Judiciary Committee, thereby avoiding the need for a conference 

committee that would include powerful Southern opponents. A compromise bill would 

have to pass the Senate again, and face resistance from the Southerners, but also from 

Senator Dirksen and others who opposed the poll tax provision. 

The House would take longer than the President hoped, and approval came with its share 

of drama. Before approving its bipartisan version of the bill, the House rejected a 

substitute bill supported by Republican leaders, including Minority Leader Gerald R. 

Ford (R-Mi.) and Representative William M. McCullough (R-Oh.), who had drafted the 

alternative. They considered their bill less repugnant than the Administration bill 

reported out by the Judiciary Committee. Kenworthy described the main difference: 

The McCullough bill would have allowed the dispatch of Federal registrars to a 

voting district upon the receipt of 25 meritorious complaints of discrimination. 

Literacy tests would have been waived for those with a sixth-grade education, but 

retained for those without it.

The House rejected the substitute, 215 to 166, and a later Republican bill, 248 to 171, that 

would have recommitted the Administration bill to committee with instructions to report 

back a Republican substitute. 

Finally, the House passed the Voting Rights Act, 333 to 85, on July 9. Those voting for 

the bill included 221 Democrats and 61 Republicans, while 61 Democrats and 24 

Republicans voted against it. Twenty-one Southern Democrats voted for the bill along 

with one Southern Republican, William C. Cramer of Florida. [Kenworthy, E. W., 

“Democratic Bill on Voting Passed by House, 333-85,” The New York Times, July 10, 

1965] 

White House Press Secretary Bill Moyers said he had never seen President Johnson more 

elated than he was after House passage of the bill. In a statement, the President said: 

That bill is not only a monument to this Congress, it is a shining moment in the 

entire history of the United States Congress. 
206 

The President pledged that his Administration would be ready with full enforcement upon 

final passage of the legislation: 

But it is a vital step. It is an important addition to the sum of rights and 

obligations we call freedom. And, perhaps more importantly, it enriches the life 

of every one of us—white and black. For men are fully free only in the company 

of the free. And thus, today, we can all be a little prouder to be Americans. 

The primary difference between the Senate and House versions involved the poll tax. A 

Conference Committee consisting of six members of the House Judiciary Committee and 

five members of the Senate Judiciary Committee would have to resolve this and other 

differences in putting the final bill together. 

As late as July 27, the conference was deadlocked on a proposal to substitute the Senate 

version of the poll tax provision for the version that had passed in the House 

overwhelmingly. On July 28, Attorney General Katzenbach contacted Dr. King in 

Cleveland, as Branch explained:

The voting rights bill was likely to remain stuck unless key representatives on the 

House-Senate conference—chiefly [Democratic Representatives] Harold 

Donohue of Massachusetts and Peter Rodino of New Jersey—accepted assurance 

that civil rights supporters could retreat honorably from a poll tax amendment the 

House had added July 9 over the Johnson Administration’s opposition. 

Katzenbach agreed to substitute [the Senate version] and King agreed . . . that 

Katzenbach could quote his exact appraisal of the compromise ending, “I am 

confident that the poll tax provision of the bill—with vigorous action by the 

Attorney General—will operate finally to bury this iniquitous device.” He agreed 

also that Katzenbach could call final enactment of the voting rights law his 

“overriding goal.” 

Katzenbach sent a “confidential” letter to the conference chairman, Representative Celler, 

outlining the Administration’s position and Dr. King’s support for the Senate 

compromise language. Donohue and Rodino, after seeing the letter, agreed to switch 

their votes to support the Senate language, thus breaking the deadlock. [Canaan, p. 270] 

When word of the letter leaked, some Southerners expressed shock, but their views had 

little effect on the outcome. On August 3, the House approved the Conference version of 

the bill, 328 to 74 – 217 Democrats and 111 Republicans voted for the bill, while 

opponents included 54 Democrats and 20 Republicans. The following day, the Senate 

approved the bill, 79 to 18. 

President Johnson was so excited that he headed to the Capitol to thank Senate Majority 

Leader Mike Mansfield (D-Mt.) and Minority Leader Dirksen personally. They met in 
207 

Senator Dirkson’s office. The President told reporters: 

I regard the cooperation and the effort of these two leaders in behalf of the bill as 

one of the most outstanding patriotic and selfless things I have ever seen, and the 

whole world ought to revere them for it. [“Voting Right Bill Sent to Johnson,” 

The New York Times, August 5, 1965, no byline] 

He was eager to sign the bill and wanted to do so in a setting with historic significance 

for African-Americans’ long struggle for civil rights. He chose the Capitol Rotunda for a 

speech prior to the signing, which would take place in the “President’s Room” just off the 

Senate chamber:

In this gorgeously painted and gilded room, widely considered the most beautiful 

and certainly the most ornate in the Capitol, Presidents from Abraham Lincoln 

through Mr. Hoover signed bills that had passed Congress during the last hours of 

the session. 

On the same green, baize-covered table, exactly 104 years ago tomorrow [August 

6], President Lincoln signed a bill giving freedom to slaves “employed by 

Confederates in carrying on the civil war.” There, too, Lincoln refused to sign the 

punitive Wade-Davis Reconstruction bill. [Robertson, Nan, “President to Sign 

Voting Bill Today,” The New York Times, August 6, 1965] 

On Friday, August 6, 1965, President Johnson and his entire Cabinet drove to the Capitol 

by motorcade at noon. He went first to Speaker McCormack’s office, where Vice 

President Humphrey, congressional leaders, and invited guests awaited the President’s 

arrival. The guests included Dr. King, John Lewis, Roy Wilkins, and James Farmer. 

Rosa Parks was there, too, and Vivian Malone, the first African-American to enter the 

University of Alabama at Tuscaloosa.

Led by the President, the group walked to the Capitol Rotunda for the President’s 

remarks. His lectern had been placed in front of a model of Gutzon Borglum’s head of 

Lincoln on Mount Rushmore and a statue of Lincoln by Vinnie Ream. (Ms. Reams, a 

sculptor from Wisconsin, had created the statue on commission from the government. It 

was dedicated in January 1871 when Ms. Reams was 23 years old.) 

The President began with a bit of history, noting that “the first Negroes arrived at 

Jamestown” three and a half centuries earlier:

They did not arrive in brave ships in search of a home for freedom . . . . They 

came in darkness and them in chains. And today we strike away the last major 

shackle of those fierce and ancient bonds. Today the Negro story and the 

American story fuse and blend.
208 

He described efforts over the years to remove the shackles, then said: 

And then last March, with the outrage of Selma still fresh, I came down to this 

Capitol one evening and asked the Congress and the people for swift and for 

sweeping action to guarantee to every man and woman the right to vote. In less 

than 48 hours I sent the Voting Rights Act of 1965 to the Congress. In little more 

than 4 months the Congress, with overwhelming majorities, enacted one of the 

most monumental laws in the entire history of American freedom . . . . 

There were those who said this is an old injustice, and there is no need to hurry. 

But 95 years have passed since the 15th amendment gave all Negroes the right to

vote. 

And the time for waiting is gone.

He recognized that years of “outward walls” and “inward scars” would be difficult to 

overcome:

We must all now help to end them—help to end them through expanding 

programs already devised and through new ones to search out and forever end the 

special handicaps of those who are black in a Nation that happens to be mostly 

white. 

So, it is for this purpose—to fulfill the rights that we now secure—that I have 

already called a White House conference to meet here in the Nation's Capital 

It is difficult to fight for freedom. But I also know how difficult it can be to bend 

long years of habit and custom to grant it. There is no room for injustice 

anywhere in the American mansion. But there is always room for understanding 

toward those who see the old ways crumbling. And to them today I say simply 

this: it must come. It is right that it should come. And when it has, you will find 

that a burden has been lifted from your shoulders, too. 

It is not just a question of guilt, although there is that. It is that men cannot live 

with a lie and not be stained by it. 

He concluded:

Thus, this is a victory for the freedom of the American Negro. But it is also a 

victory for the freedom of the American Nation. And every family across this 

great, entire, searching land will live stronger in liberty, will live more splendid in 

expectation, and will be prouder to be American because of the act that you have 

passed that I will sign today.
209 

Following his speech, President Johnson and the crowd moved to the Senate side of the 

Capitol:

More than 100 persons crowded in to [the President’s room] to watch the signing 

with multiple pens.

The green baize-covered walnut table—known as the “Lincoln table”—that 

occupies the center of the room had been pushed aside and replaced with a small, 

simple desk, also covered in green baize. 

There is some dispute whether Lincoln used this desk or the “Lincoln table” when 

he signed the bill freeing slaves forced into the service of the Confederate Army.

But the desk had a personal meaning for the President; because it was this desk 

that he used as majority leader, and it was from this desk that he guided through 

the Senate the 1957 and 1960 civil rights acts. 

As the President signed the bill, he handed pens to Vice President Humphrey, Senator 

Dirksen, other congressional leaders, and to the civil rights leaders, including Parks and 

Malone. [Canaan, p. 276-277; Kenworthy, E. W., “Johnson Signs Voting Rights Bill, 

Orders Immediate Enforcement; 4 Suits will Challenge Poll Tax,” The New York Times, 

August 7, 1965] 

The Voting Rights Act of 1965 was law. 

(On July 3, 1990, President George H. W. Bush signed Public Law 101-321, the Selma to 

Montgomery National Trail Study Act of 1989. John Lewis, one of the marchers and 

now a Member of Congress, had introduced the Act, which called for the National Park 

Service to study designation of the route of the march as a National Trail. In Section 2, 

the Congress found that: 

The designation of the route of the march from Selma to Montgomery as a 

national historic trail will serve as a reminder of the right and responsibility of all 

Americans to fully participate in the election process. It will serve as a reminder 

that we must be ever vigilant in securing our right to vote. It will also give long 

overdue recognition to the men and women who have sacrificed so much for, and 

dedicated their lives to, voting rights for all Americans.

This action was completed by the Omnibus Parks and Public Lands Management Act of 

1996 (Public Law 104-333), which President Bill Clinton signed on November 12, 1996. 

It established the Selma to Montgomery National Historic Trail.

In 1996, the U.S. Department of Transportation designated the Selma to Montgomery 

March Scenic Byway an All-American Road under the National Scenic Byways Program. 

An All-American Road is considered a destination unto itself, one that provides an 

exceptional traveling experience that is so recognized by travelers that they would make a 
210 

drive along the highway the primary reason for their trip. By itself, the trip by car along 

U.S. 80 from Selma to Montgomery takes only about an hour, but the byway has become 

part of a Civil Rights pilgrimage of sites that played in a significant role in these years of 

struggle.) 

March Against Fear

A week after President Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act, the Nation received a jolt 

in the Watts section of Los Angeles. Author Rick Perlstein summarized how it began:

The spark came at the corner of 116th and Avalon. Two black men, brothers, 

were stopped by a California highway patrolman at 7:19 p.m., the driver under 

suspicion of drunkenness. The three scuffled; a crowd gathered. Their mother 

came out from her house to quarrel with the cops, then another woman joined the 

fight. The crowd thought the second woman was pregnant (she was wearing a 

barber’s smock). When the cops struck the second woman—kicking a pregnant 

woman in the stomach?—the mob surged as one. By ten fifteen several hundred 

Watts residents were on the street, throwing things at white car passengers, 

staving in store windows, looting. Police tried to seal off the immediate area. But 

things had already spiraled out of control. [Perlstein, Rick, Nixonland: The Rise 

of a President and the Fracturing of America, Scribner, 2009, p. 9-10] 

The riot lasted 5 days (August 11 through 15) and resulted in 34 deaths, over 1,000 

injuries, and nearly 4,000 arrests. It shocked the State and the Nation. Its causes would 

be debated and its meaning for America examined, with opposite reactions from left and 

right, at all levels of government, in academia and the media, as well as within the Civil 

Rights Movement. Some wanted to understand the problems that prompted the residents 

to riot; others wanted to use stronger force to clamp down on the rioters. 

The Watts Riots were a turning point that would shift the Civil Rights Movement away 

from the nonviolent protests that Dr. King used to initiate the creative tension that could 

lead to solutions. Radical, even violent leaders would grow increasingly influential as 

riots hit other cities in coming years. These new leaders began to see Dr. King as a relic 

of an earlier era when it was possible to imagine a society where whites and AfricanAmericans could be coaxed by nonviolent principles to live together in harmony. 

Opposition to the Vietnam War, in which African-Americans experienced 

disproportionate combat-related deaths, added to this new vision of violent revolt – and 

the impression that the Nation was coming apart at the seams.

The transformation would become clear after the White House staged its long-delayed 

Conference on “To Fulfill These Rights.” The 2-day conference opened on June 1, 1966, 

at the Sheraton-Park Hotel in Washington under the co-chairmanship of A. Philip 

Randolph and Ben W. Heineman, Chairman of the Board of the Chicago and 

Northwestern Railway Company. The 2,400 delegates included Dr. King, CORE 

Director Floyd B. McKissick, Executive Director Whitney M. Young, Jr., of the National 

Urban League, Walter Reuther of the United Automobile Workers, and NAACP 
211 

Executive Secretary Roy Wilkins. The White House had sought a diverse mix of 

delegates with an emphasis on moderates. 

The conference was, as Branch put it, “born a living anachronism,” based on ideas that 

were not accepted by a new generation of African-American leaders. SNCC, for 

example, refused to participate. Stokely Carmichael, who had replaced John Lewis as 

chairman just the month before, was taking the organization away from the ideas that 

Lewis and his mentor, Dr. King, advocated. Instead of participating in the White House 

Conference, SNCC members picketed outside the hotel with signs greeting delegates with 

sentiments such as: SAVE US FROM OUR NEGRO LEADERS, and UNCLE TOMS!. 

When Dr. King arrived, protesters called out “Black Jesus!” in derisive tones. [Canaan, 

p. 471] 

In remarks at 10 p.m. on June 1, the President recalled his Howard University address 

announcing his plan for the conference. He said, “And now you have come tonight from 

every region of this great land, from every walk of life, to play your part in this 

momentous undertaking and in this great adventure.” He added: 

You are here because you represent the humane and the progressive spirit of our 

people. Through two centuries of trial and triumph that spirit has moved the 

American democracy from an ideal to a powerful reality.

You are here tonight because your country needs your collective judgment. The 

dilemma that you deal with is too deeply rooted in pride and prejudice, too 

profound and complex, and too critical to our future for any one man or any one 

administration to ever resolve . . . . 

So you are here, finally, because in your variety of background and circumstance 

you symbolize those who have a stake in including the Negro American in our 

society. And that is everybody—Negro and white, rich and poor, manager and 

worker, city dweller and suburbanite. 

Government could not solve the problems alone, nor could individuals wall themselves 

off from the effects of widespread poverty and discrimination. 

He acknowledged that in its first day, the conference had seen considerable dissention 

among delegates. At the same time, he said, the conference had seen “a lot of people that 

are plowing the furrows that are going to come up with constructive ideas, with vision, 

and with a platform that will bring a lot of people into agreement on goals that we have 

yet to achieve.” 

African-Americans were 11 percent of the population and held 15 percent of Federal 

jobs. “We are not satisfied that we have attained equal and exact justice and equal 

employment, but I have been working at it very diligently for 5 years.” 
212 

In closing, he noted that Presidents rarely introduce other speakers, but he was making an 

exception for “one who 12 years ago established in the field of civil rights a beachhead 

from which we shall never retreat.” He continued: 

Since that day, he has already occupied two great offices—distinguished Justice 

of the Court of Appeals, and tonight a great Solicitor General of the United States 

of America . . . . I am very proud that he serves my administration. I am very 

proud that his is the voice of the people of all the United States before the highest 

and greatest court of this land. And nothing, I think, could be really more 

appropriate than that this man should speak to the first great national conference 

that has ever been called to really consider the rights and the opportunities of 

Negro Americans.

He introduced Thurgood Marshall, who had led the team before the Supreme Court in 

Brown vs. Board of Education. He had become Solicitor General in August 1965, the 

first African-American to hold the post. 

Marshall’s remarks would offend Dr. King by championing the fight for justice in the 

courts rather than through nonviolent protest. “I submit that the history of the Negro 

demonstrates the importance of getting rid of hostile laws, and seeking the security of 

new friendly laws.” Privately, Dr. King was used to Marshall’s criticism, such as calling 

him “a boy on a man’s errand.” Marshall made clear in private that he saw Dr. King’s 

“missionary marches as a nuisance,” as Branch summarized the Solicitor General’s view. 

However, Marshall’s public words especially stung as he added to the growing evidence 

that Dr. King was becoming isolated and irrelevant. [Canaan, p. 472-473] Dr. King 

spent much of the conference, particularly the second day, in his hotel room. 

The conference ended the following day after moderate voices blocked contentious 

disputes on the Vietnam War initiated by McKissick and his allies. At one point, James 

M. Nabrit, Jr., Deputy Representative to the United Nations, ruled a Vietnam resolution 

out of order, saying, “I don’t want to put that albatross around the civil rights movement.” 

The conference—marked by angry debates on Vietnam, politicians trying to advance 

their careers, and widening divisions among African-Americans—resulted in more than 

100 pages of recommendations, including calls for new public works programs, 

guaranteed employment, and initiatives in education, housing, and justice. [Herbers, 

John, “Rights Conference Averts Showdown on War Policy,” The New York Times, June 

3, 1966] 

Amid the controversies of the conference, reporters barely noticed a banner hung in the 

Sheraton-Park press room declaring that the “World Committee for Preservation of James 

Meredith” would sponsor a “March Against Fear.” Meredith, a Mississippi native and 

U.S. Air Force veteran (1951-1960), had been the first African-American to attend the 

University of Mississippi. It took a Supreme Court ruling, negotiations with Governor 

Barnett, intervention by Attorney General Robert Kennedy, and protection by U.S. 

marshals, but Meredith had begun attending on October 1, 1962. Riots cost two lives, 
213 

left 160 soldiers and 26 marshals injured. Meredith was harassed through his two 

semesters, but by 1966, he had transferred to Columbia Law School in New York. 

Beginning on June 5, he planned to conduct a 220-mile “March Against Fear” from 

Memphis, Tennessee, to Jackson, Mississippi, to inspire the State’s African-Americans to 

register to vote and conquer their fear about living and traveling in Mississippi. “Nothing 

can be more enslaving than fear,” he told reporters. “We’ve got to root this out.” Unlike 

the carefully planned Voting Rights March the year before, the March Against Fear 

consisted of James Meredith and anybody who felt like straggling along. 

He left Memphis on Sunday, June 5, from the elegant Peabody Hotel on Union Avenue. 

The New York Times described his appearance:

He wore a yellow pith helmet and had exchanged the blue suit and button-down 

collar in which he arrived at the airport from New York this morning for a shortsleeved shirt and gray cotton trousers. He wore heavy-soled walking shoes. He 

carried an ebony walking stick with an ivory head. 

He was accompanied by a few companions, including a 24-year old New York friend and 

a white Episcopal minister from Monroe, New York, but he had not tried to gather 

supporters for the march. “If anyone wants to go, it’s his business. But I want to make it 

clear that he’s on his own.” He had not made any arrangements for the march, but was 

hoping people along the way would provide food and shelter. 

Three police cars accompanied him as he left downtown Memphis and headed toward 

U.S. 51. [Reed, Roy, “Meredith Begins Mississippi Walk to Combat Fear,” The New 

York Times, June 6, 1966] 

Meredith reached the Mississippi border by evening, and was 14 miles along U.S. 51, 

near Hernando, when Aubrey Norvell, a 40-year old hardware contractor, emerged from 

the woods and fired his shotgun at Meredith. Norvell was arrested immediately by 

officers accompanying the March Against Fear, and Meredith was taken off for surgery 

in Bowld Hospital in Memphis to remove 70 shotgun pellets from his back and scalp. 

Reports of his death were inaccurate, but his injuries prompted civil rights leaders to 

decide to continue the march they had paid little attention to initially.

After visiting Meredith in the hospital, Dr. King, Reverend James Lawson, Floyd 

McKissick and 21 others resumed the march from the point of the shooting incident near 

Hernando. The marchers included Stokely Carmichael, now the head of SNCC. Taylor 

Branch summarized the start:

King locked arms with Floyd McKissick and Stokely Carmichael . . . before a line 

of Mississippi state troopers confronted them at the top of the first gentle hill with 

orders to get off the pavement. King blinked with surprise, and called for 

protection instead, but the troopers resolutely shoved him aside with the others. 

“We walked from Selma to Montgomery in the middle of the road,” he protested 
214 

to no avail, stumbling backward. Troopers knocked Cleveland Sellers [a 22-year 

old SNCC leader] to the ground. Carmichael lunged toward the most aggressive 

one, but King kept his arm crooked tightly with an elbow and called out for help. 

[Canaan, p. 476-477] 

That evening, camped in a pasture, Carmichael apologized to Dr. King for his violent 

outburst. Carmichael, born in New York City, had joined the movement while attending 

Howard University in June 1961 when as noted earlier, he joined Freedom Riders on the 

Illinois Central Railway from New Orleans. Arsenault said of Carmichael: 

With his strong views and sharp tongue, he could be an unsettling influence, and 

his challenge to what he viewed as a misguided faith in Gandhian sacrifice often 

irritated Lewis and others. [Freedom Riders, p. 311-312, 362] 

On June 14, as the marchers approached Grenada, about halfway to Jackson, they walked 

over crude Klan signs painted on U.S. 51. The news service UPI described the marchers: 

This march has become part movement, part circus. Among the 350-odd 

marchers . . . are about 50 white youths who wear T-shirts and denims, sandals 

and weird cowboy hats adorned with Freedom buttons . . . . “This is a great 

assembly of kooks,” said a Mississippi Highway patrolman. Most newsmen 

agreed. [Canaan, p. 483] 

They clapped, sang, and danced across the Yalobusha River Bridge into Grenada. They 

marched along Pearl Street, with Highway Patrol keeping white hotheads away: 

Floyd McKissick of CORE tested the meaning of strange new signs that changed 

the dual public restrooms for both sexes from “white” and “colored” to “No. 1” 

and “No. 2.” Pointing to the Grenada County courthouse, he cried, “We’re going 

over to the toilets marked ‘No. 1,’ and see if it ain’t a little better.” Long lines 

quickly spilled across the lawn unmolested. 

Marchers helped 200 African-Americans register to vote. [Canaan, p. 484] 

The following day, the march departed from U.S. 51 to follow State Route 7 toward 

Greenwood, while Dr. King drove to Charleston and Winona for registration rallies. (On 

the 15th, he left the march to return to Chicago where he was leading efforts to promote 

open housing.) 

By then, Mississippi officials had seen enough. Governor Paul Johnson called the march 

“a voter registration campaign.” He reduced the police protection from 20 cruisers to 

four and told local jurisdictions to take over. “We aren’t going to wetnurse a bunch of 

showmen all over the country.” 
215 

In Greenwood, where Carmichael had lived and been jailed in 1964, the marchers 

planned to camp on the grounds of Stone Street Negro School, but police questioned their 

authority. After arguing with the police, Carmichael was arrested:

In Greenwood, where the morning Commonwealth warned against King as a hatemonger “who can be compared to Josef Stalin and Mao Tze Tung,” local officials 

thought better of dispersing his hordes. They reversed themselves to allow the 

school campsite, which added jolts of vindication to the mass meeting that night. 

[SNCC official] Willie Ricks guided Carmichael to the speaker’s platform when 

he made bail, saying most of the locals remembered him fondly. “Drop it now!” 

[Ricks] urged. “The people are ready.”

He was referring to a line of argument Carmichael had been using in private meetings 

with SNCC leaders:

Carmichael faced an agitated crowd of six hundred. “This is the 27th time I have 

been arrested,” he began, “and I ain’t going to jail no more!” He said Negroes 

should stay home from Vietnam and fight for black power in Greenwood. “We 

want black power!” he shouted five times, jabbing his forefinger downward in the 

air. “That’s right. That’s what we want, black power. We don’t have to be 

ashamed of it. We have stayed here. We have begged the president. We’ve 

begged the federal government—that’s all we’ve been doing, begging and 

begging. It’s time we stand up and take over. Every courthouse in Mississippi 

ought to be burned down tomorrow to get rid of the dirt and the mess. From now 

on, when they ask you what you want, you know what to tell ‘em. What do you 

want?”

The crowd shouted, “Black Power!” Willie Ricks sprang up to help lead 

thunderous rounds of call and response: “What do you want?” “Black Power!” 

[Canaan, 486] 

Dr. King returned on June 17 to continue with the march along Route 7, but the new 

phrase was on the minds of marchers and onlookers. As the marchers approached 

Belzoni, a reporter asked Carmichael, “What do you mean when you shout black power 

to these people back here?” 

“I mean,” Carmichael replied, “that the only way that black people in Mississippi 

will create an attitude where they will not be shot down like pigs, where they will 

not be shot down like dogs, is when they get the power where they constitute a 

majority in counties to institute justice.” 

“I feel, however,” King interjected, “that while believing firmly that power is 

necessary, that it would be difficult for me to use the phrase black power because 

of the connotative meaning that it has for many people.” Carmichael walked 

alongside, hands clasped behind his back with beguiling pleasantry. [Canaan, p. 
216 

487] 

This brief moment on Route 7, with Dr. King trying to redirect the words of his young 

ally, marked a changing of the guard, as Dr. King’s nonviolent philosophy began to fade 

into the past of the Civil Rights Movement. He would remain active, but Black Power 

would overtake the movement while he looked for new challenges to match his past 

successes.

On June 21, Dr. King, Reverend Abernathy, and 20 others left the March Against Fear to 

participate in a memorial march for Andrew Goodman, James Chaney, and Mickey 

Schwermer from Mt. Nebo Baptist Church to the Neshoba County Courthouse in 

Philadelphia, Mississippi. The three had been murdered while participating in Freedom 

Summer, a 1964 project to register voters and aid poor residents. After investigating the 

burning of Mt. Zion Methodist Church, they were arrested by Neshoba County Deputy 

Sheriff Cecil Price for alleged speeding. After being released that evening, they were 

driving in their Ford Fairlane station wagon back to their base in Meridian when they 

were overtaken by two carloads of Klan members who murdered them in brutal fashion 

on June 21 and buried the bodies. 

A national outcry at their disappearance forced the FBI to take a strong hand in locating 

the three. On June 23, while white leaders tried to diminish the outcry by claiming that 

the disappearance was a publicity stunt, an FBI agent raced along State Route 19 from 

Meridian to Philadelphia in response to a tip about the station wagon. He found the 

burned out vehicle, minus the workers’ bodies, in a thicket 80 feet off the highway 

beyond the bridge over Bogue Chitto Creek. Again in response to a tip, the FBI found 

the bodies on August 3 buried beneath an earthen dam on a farm 5 miles southwest of 

Philadelphia. [Canaan, p. 361-366, 434] 

(In October 1967, a jury found Price and six codefendants guilty of the murders, while 

finding seven others not guilty and deadlocking on three of the defendants.) 

At the commemoration, Dr. King addressed participants amid jeers from white 

bystanders. He said, “I want them to know that we are not afraid. If they kill three of us, 

they will have to kill all of us. I am not afraid of any man, whether he is in Michigan or 

Mississippi, whether he is in Birmingham or Boston.” As the group began the return 

march, the white bystanders attacked with stones, bottles, clubs, fists, and shouts. The 

police held them back until some of the marchers began to fight back. That night, white 

marauders drove through African-American neighborhoods spraying homes with gunfire. 

Returning to the March Against Fear, now on U.S. 49, at Yazoo City, Dr. King found that 

the incident in Philadelphia had revived debate over strategy. Many thought that if they 

were going to die for the cause, they should go down fighting. Dr. King explained the 
217 

futility of violence in a society where African-Americans were only about 10 percent of 

the population. He added: 

I am not going to allow anybody to pull me so low as to use the very methods that 

perpetuated evil throughout our civilization. I’m sick and tired of violence . . . . 

I’m tired of evil. I’m not going to use violence no matter who says it! 

He threatened to leave the March Against Fear if inflammatory rhetoric continued. 

[Canaan, p. 489] 

Given the threat of violence, President Johnson had contacted Governor Johnson, who 

assured that the marchers would be protected with additional units of the Mississippi 

Highway Patrol. The President sent a telegram to Dr. King saying Assistant Attorney 

General Doar would remain with the marchers as they left Yazoo City to walk on State 

Route 16 to Canton where they would intersect U.S. 51. 

By June 23, when Dr. King received the telegram, the marchers were 20 miles from 

Jackson, their ranks growing as the end came near. They prepared to camp on the 

grounds of McNeal Elementary School for Negroes. With a permit dispute as a pretext, a 

Highway Patrol commander used a megaphone to tell the crowd, “You will not be 

allowed to erect the tents. If you do, you will be removed.” 

Dr. King addressed the marchers, telling them, “we aren’t going to fight any state 

troopers,” but then handed the microphone to Carmichael who incited the crowd. “The 

time for running has come to an end!” he shouted. 

With the crowd cheering his confrontational speech, the patrolmen began shooting tear 

gas. “Nobody fight back,” Dr. King shouted. “We’re going to stand our ground.” As 

marchers tried to find cover or get away from the tear gas, the patrolmen charged into the 

crowd, kicking and clubbing. They impounded the tents and cleared the field, including a 

dozen unconscious marchers who had not been fast enough to get out of their way. In the 

onslaught, Carmichael had collapsed. 

CBS News correspondent John Hart caught up with Dr. King, who was wiping his eyes 

as Ricks pulled him to safety. “In light of this, Dr. King,” Hart asked, “have you 

rethought any of the philosophy of nonviolence?” Dr. King again endorsed nonviolence. 

“How could we be violent in the midst of a police force like that?” 

Marchers straggled to a church to review the evening’s events. Dr. King addressed them, 

but his remarks were less assured than usual. He referred to the telegram he had received 

from the President referring to the Governor’s assurances of safety:

“And the very men that tear gassed us tonight,” said King, “are the men that we 

are told will be our protectors.” Catching himself, he veered into a strangely 

subdued reverie: “You know, the one thing I have learned . . . on this march is 

that it is a shame before almighty God that people earn as little money as the 
218 

Negro people of Mississippi. You know the story.” He spoke of the humbling, 

bonding effect of seeing faces in desperation so closely. [Canaan, p. 490-491] 

While the marchers regrouped on Friday, June 24, Dr. King returned to Philadelphia 

where he confronted a crowd of 2,000 angry white Mississippians. With Carmichael, 

McKissick, and Ricks standing by, Dr. King told his supporters that the people who 

brutalized them thought that would stop them, “But we are right here today standing firm, 

saying we are gonna have our freedom.” The whites yelled and threw eggs and bottles, 

but Dr. King’s supporters escorted him safely to Mt. Nebo Baptist Church. 

Leaders wrangled over unpaid bills and the agenda for the next day’s rally, but Dr. King 

and others tired of the battles. “I’m sorry, y’all,” he told them. “James Brown is on. I’m 

gone.” He and Carmichael headed to Tougaloo College football field for a freedom 

concert by the soul star. Singer Harry Belafonte had arranged the concert, with Sammy 

Davis, Jr., and actor Marlon Brando involved in the festivities. Freedom Rider Jim Peck 

was there. He tried to reach Dr. King to discuss the ongoing purge of white members 

from CORE, but could not get through the crowd. Peck managed to get a note to him 

indicating that “despite the dirt deal I have received from CORE, I am still with The 

Movement.” [Canaan, p. 491-492] 

On Sunday, June 26, 15,000 marchers assembled in Tougaloo for the 8-mile march into 

Jackson. They made it safely to the State Capitol:

The closing rally gathered at the “rear” plaza of the state capitol, because 

Highway Patrol officers in gas masks, backed by National Guard with bayoneted 

M-1 rifles, sternly blocked the southern front where Mississippi governors 

traditionally took office near a goddess statue to Confederate womanhood. 

The closing speeches, according to Branch, were “disjointed” and “wilted in the heat.” 

He said: 

James Meredith, healed enough to make cantankerous public comments about the 

reshaped march (“The whole damn thing smells to me”), mis-introduced 

“Michael” Carmichael, who called upon black soldiers to resist “mercenary” 

service in Vietnam and declared, “Number one, we have to stop being ashamed of 

being black.” 

Dr. King, confronting the end of a march that he considered a mistake, spoke in part on 

the parable in Luke 16:19-31 about the rich man Dives who took his rewards in his 

lifetime while failing to notice the poor man Lazarus who received his in the afterlife. 

Dr. King used this parable to illustrate the need for America, the richest Nation in the 

world, to bridge the gulf between the haves and the have-nots. [Testament, p, 274] He 

also improvised on his I Have a Dream theme (“that one day the empty stomachs of 

Mississippi will be filled, that the idle industries of Appalachia will be revitalized”). 

[Canaan, p. 493] 
219 

The reporters watching the finale, with its recap of the Dream speech, could see that Dr. 

King was fading as a leader. They had been drawn to the last day of the Meredith march 

by Dr. King’s name, but his remarks seemed tired compared with the presence of the new 

leader, Stokely Carmichael, and his revolutionary new rallying cry, “Black Power!” 

As if to emphasize Dr. King’s falling status, the White House took no action on his 

complaints about police abuses during the march. The President, according to a deputy 

press secretary, had “no specific reaction” to the abuses.

The march that James Meredith had begun without planning or clear purpose ended 

without achieving any goal except its conclusion. But it had elevated Stokely Carmichael 

to a national spotlight along with the phrase Black Power that some African-American

leaders, including Carmichael, would use as a rallying cry for the violence that Dr. King 

had opposed his whole life. 

The Poor People’s Campaign 

Dr. King’s campaigns since the Voting Rights March had been frustrating as he searched 

for a new theme that would reenergize his supporters and convince them to follow his 

nonviolent path. Further, his objections to the Vietnam War diverted attention from his 

civil rights efforts. Increasingly, Black Power advocates saw him as irrelevant to their 

more strident demands to pull down the white power structure with revolution. 

Even as the Civil Rights Movement was transforming into a Black Power Movement, Dr. 

King began planning his most ambitious campaign in fall 1966. 

 

He had taken his movement into the North in 1966 by launching the Chicago Freedom 

Movement to secure compliance with the open housing provision of the Civil Rights Act 

of 1964. His initial tactic of stirring speeches and marches seemed to have no effect on 

the one official who counted, Mayor Richard J. Daley. 

That summer, in 100-degree temperature, a riot broke out when city workers turned off 

fire hydrants that residents had turned on, as they had for years, to give their children 

something cool to enjoy. The riot continued for several days before Mayor Daley turned 

the hydrants back on, even attaching sprinklers to them, and brought in portable pools. 

With the problem solved, Mayor Daley saw no need to address housing issues. 

Dr. King announced that he would take his marchers out of downtown and into white 

neighborhoods, initially into Gage Park on the city’s Southwest Side. Many of the white 

residents had moved to the area after African-Americans moved into their former 

neighborhoods. They came out for the march to heckle the protesters, creating news 

when Dr. King was hit in the head with a rock. Another march, through the bungalow 

neighborhood of Cragin in Northwest turned ugly as angry whites tried to get at the 

marchers and the police used clubs to hold them back. 
220 

Dr. King announced plans for more marches in white neighborhoods, at least one a day, 

maybe more. In a biography of Mayor Daley, Chicago Tribune columnist Mike Royko 

wrote: 

The white neighborhoods were furious, and much of their anger was directed at 

Daley. He had given rioting blacks swimming pools, now the police were beating 

home-owning whites. 

At last, Dr. King’s nonviolent tactics had brought about the creative tension that usually 

led to breakthroughs. While seeking an injunction to limit the marches, Mayor Daley 

called for a “summit conference” with civil rights leaders. At the conference in a 

Protestant church, Mayor Daley began making concessions. He agreed to establish a 

subcommittee of participants to work out the details of an agreement. He and Dr. King 

signed the agreement 8 days later in August 1966. “It is the first step in a thousand-mile 

journey,” Dr. King proclaimed, while Mayor Daley said he was satisfied the people of 

Chicago would accept the agreement. But as Royko pointed out: 

It was an impressive document, chock full of noble vows and promises. It was 

also without legal standing and wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on. Only 

three months after it was signed, when the crisis was over, Alderman [Thomas] 

Keane said at a City Council meeting that, “There is no Summit Agreement,” and 

the people who took part in the meeting had merely agreed that open housing was 

“a goal to be reached,” but there was no agreement beyond that. 

He could say it then. The snow had fallen, Dr. King was back home in the South, 

the marches had faded into memory. [Royko, Mike, Boss: Richard J. Daley of 

Chicago, E. P. Dutton and Company, 1971, p. 149-154] 

Now, in the fall, Dr. King was inspired to launch a new campaign based on the Bonus 

Army of 1932. Veterans of World War I had been promised a bonus payment in 1945 in 

thanks for their service, but at the height of the Depression, unemployed veterans traveled 

from all over the country to demand immediate payment of the bonus in 1932. After 

their shantytown encampment in Washington embarrassed President Herbert Hoover, 

troops under the command of General Douglas MacArthur forced the Bonus Marchers 

out of their camp on July 28, 1932. (Congress approved payment of the bonus in 1936 

over President Roosevelt’s veto.) 

With his SCLC leaders, Dr. King began to prepare a campaign for a similar nonviolent 

occupation of Washington. He explained it this way: 

We ought to come in mule carts, in old trucks, any kind of transportation people 

can get their hands on. People ought to come to Washington, sit down if 

necessary in the middle of the street, and say, “We are here; we are poor; we don’t 

have any money; you have made us this way; you keep us down this way; and 

we’ve come to stay until you do something about it.” [Nixonland, p. 250] 
221 

The goal of the Poor People’s Campaign would be to promote an Economic Bill of 

Rights that included full employment, a guaranteed annual income, and low-income 

housing. Dr. King estimated the cost at $30 billion. 

Validation of the goal would come from the Kerner Advisory Commission on Civil 

Disorders. In July 1967, President Johnson had appointed the 11-member commission, 

headed by Governor Otto Kerner, Jr., of Illinois, to investigate the riots that had rippled 

through the cities since Watts. The President asked the commission to answer three 

questions: “What happened? Why did it happen? What can be done to prevent it from 

happening again and again?" The report, issued on February 29, 1968, blamed the riots 

on the lack of economic opportunity and failed housing, education and social-service 

policies. “Our nation,” the report said, “is moving toward two societies, one black, one 

white—-separate and unequal." 

To address the imbalance, the Kerner Commission recommended $30 billion in new 

urban spending – the same amount Dr. King had set as the goal of the Poor People’s 

Campaign. Dr. King described the Kerner report as showing how “the lives, the incomes, 

the well-being, of poor people everywhere in America are plundered by our economic 

system.” 

After announcing the campaign in November 1967, Dr. King traveled around the country 

to arrange for people to travel to Washington to demand the Economic Bill of Rights. At 

the same time, he had to convince his associates, some of whom objected that the demand 

was too vague to be attained or inconsistent with the new concept of Black Power. 

By early 1968, the outline of the campaign was clear:

The plan, as it shaped up through early ’68, was for the initial assault on D.C. to 

come on Eastertide: one hundred leaders lobbying for a government jobs or 

guaranteed income program. That failing, three thousand destitute Americans 

would “tent in” on the Mall. If that didn’t get results, King imagined a “massive 

outpouring of hundreds of thousands of persons” the weekend of June 15. Civil 

disobedience had never been attempted on such a scale. To transform what he 

now called “a sick, neurotic nation” would require disruption as dramatic, as 

dislocative, as attention-getting as the riots without destroying life or property.” 

“The city will not function,” he’d told reporters after his testimony to the Kerner 

Commission. He spoke of similar demonstrations nationwide: “We got to go for 

broke this time.” [Nixonland, p. 250] 

While Dr. King, Reverend Abernathy, and their colleagues were planning the Poor 

People’s Campaign, Congress was considering the Civil Rights Act of 1968 (also known 

as the Fair Housing Act). The House of Representatives had approved a version of the 

bill in 1967, but in an election year, Members of Congress were not eager to approve 

legislation that would affect white home owners around the country. The bill had been 

pending in the Senate since the first day of the session, January 15. 
222 

On March 11, the Senate passed its version of the bill, 71 to 20, only after an amendment 

had been approved on March 5, 82-13, aimed at outside agitators. Under the 

amendment, traveling across State lines or using radio, television, or other interstate 

facilities with intent to incite a riot would be a Federal crime with a maximum penalty of 

5 years in prison and a $10,500 fine. 

Sponsors of the legislation hoped to convince the House to approve the Senate version 

rather than subject the legislation to the compromises of a conference committee. On 

March 19, the House Rules Committee voted to delay action until at least April 9, after 

the congressional recess for Easter. Supporters feared that the 3-week delay would give 

real estate interests and other opponents time to campaign against the bill. The delay also 

meant that the Senate bill would be considered just as Dr. King’s Poor People’s 

Campaign was getting underway. 

Assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. 

While working on final details of the campaign, Dr. King had agreed to support a strike 

by Memphis sanitation workers who walked off the job on March 12, 1968, to secure 

better wages and working conditions. The dispute was a local labor dispute, lacking the 

larger civil rights implications that had characterized many of Dr. King’s earlier 

campaigns.

When in Memphis, Dr. King always stayed in room 306 at the Lorraine Motel on the 

corner of Mulberry Street and Huling Avenue near downtown. It had opened in the 

1920s as the Windsor, but was renamed the Lorraine when Walter and Loree Bailey 

bought it in 1942. During Jim Crow days, it was one of the few Memphis hotels in the 

city that accepted white and African-American guests. As a result, many AfricanAmerican entertainers, including Nat “King” Cole and Louis Armstrong, stayed in the 

Lorraine while in the city even after the Jim Crow era had come to an end. 

On March 28, while staying in room 306, he took a break from organizing the Poor 

People’s Campaign to lead a march in Memphis along Beale Street onto Main. When 

marchers began to break windows and loot, Dr. King was whisked away. The following 

day, he led a second march kept peaceful by 4,000 National Guardsmen. 

The incidents on March 28 raised questions about Dr. King’s plans for the Poor People’s 

Campaign. “We are fully determined to go to Washington,” he said: 

We feel it is an absolute necessity . . . . Riots are here. Riots are part of the ugly 

atmosphere. I cannot guarantee that riots will not take place this summer. I can 

only guarantee that our demonstration will not be violent. [Nixonland, p. 251] 

On March 31, President Johnson shocked the Nation by announcing he would not run for 

reelection:
223 

With American sons in the field far away, with the American future under 

challenge right here at home, with our hopes and the world’s hopes for peace in 

the balance every day, I do not believe that I should devote an hour or a day of my 

time to any personal partisan causes or to any duties other than the awesome 

duties of this office, the Presidency of your country.

He would initiate peace talks with North Vietnamese leaders.

His decision opened the Democratic nomination to Vice President Humphrey, former 

Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy, now representing New York in the Senate, and 

Senator Eugene J. McCarthy of Minnesota, who had been gaining momentum with antiwar forces. Political maneuvering and the approach to Hanoi absorbed media coverage. 

On April 3, Dr. King addressed a rally at Mason Temple in Memphis in support of the 

sanitation workers’ strike. He began by saying that if the Almighty allowed him to live 

in any period of history, he would tell the Lord, “If you allow me to live just a few years 

in the second half of the twentieth century, I will be happy.” After listing the great 

periods of history, beginning with Ancient Egypt, he said of his choice, “Now that’s a 

strange statement to make, because the world is all messed up.” He explained:

But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough, can you see the stars. 

And I see God working in this period of the twentieth century in a way that men, 

in some strange way, are responding—something is happening in our world . . . . 

And another reason that I’m happy to live in this period is that we have been 

forced to a point where we’re going to have to grapple with the problems that men 

have been trying to grapple with through history, but the demands didn’t force 

them to do it. Survival demands that we grapple with them.

He was referring not just to the struggle for civil rights, but for peace at a time when the 

Nation was fighting in Vietnam. Those in the struggle, he said, must stay together and 

must recall that in both cases, “The issue is injustice.” He had come to Memphis where 

the injustice was the city’s refusal “to be fair and honest in its dealings with its public 

servants, who happen to be sanitation workers.” But the issue was always the same, 

whether dealing with Bull Connor in Birmingham or companies that discriminate against 

or hold back African-Americans. 

“Let us develop,” he said, “a kind of dangerous unselfishness.” He illustrated this odd 

phrase with the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke, 10:25-37). An expert in religious 

law tried to trick Jesus by asking him, “Teacher, what should I do to inherit eternal life?” 

Jesus asked the man what the law of Moses says on this subject. The man replied that 

people must love the Lord and their neighbor. “Right!” Jesus replied. The man asked 

Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” Dr. King summarized the reply: 

But Jesus immediately pulled that question from mid-air, and placed it on a 

dangerous curve between Jerusalem and Jericho. And he talked about a certain 
224 

man, who fell among thieves. You remember that a Levite and a priest passed by 

on the other side. They didn’t stop to help him. And finally a man of another race 

came by. He got down from his beast, decided not to be compassionate by proxy. 

But with him, administered first aid, and helped the man in need. Jesus ended by 

saying, this was the good man, this was the great man, because he had the 

capacity to project the “I” into the “thou,” and to be concerned about his brother. 

(Dr. King did not note that in the time of Jesus, anyone hearing this parable would have 

known that the Samarians and Jews were bitter enemies. So the Good Samaritan’s 

actions were unexpected.)

“Now you know,” Dr King said, “we use our imagination a great deal to try to determine 

why the priest and the Levite didn’t stop.” Perhaps, he speculated, they were headed for 

an ecclesiastical gathering and did not want to be late. Or perhaps a religious law 

prevented them from touching a human body 24 hours before the ceremony: 

And every now and then we begin to wonder whether maybe they were not going 

to Jerusalem, or down to Jericho, rather to organize a “Jericho Road Improvement 

Association.” That’s a possibility. Maybe they felt that it was better to deal with 

the problem from the casual root, rather than to get bogged down with an 

individual effort. 

But I’m going to tell you what my imagination tells me. It’s possible that these 

men were afraid. You see, the Jericho road is a dangerous road. I remember 

when Mrs. King and I were first in Jerusalem. We rented a car and drove from 

Jerusalem down to Jericho. And as soon as we got on that road, I said to my wife, 

“I can see why Jesus used this as a setting for his parable.” It’s a winding, 

meandering road. It’s really conducive to ambushing. You start out in Jerusalem, 

which is about 1200 feet above sea level. And by the time you get down to 

Jericho, fifteen or twenty minutes later, you’re about 2200 . . . feet below sea 

level. That’s a dangerous road. In the days of Jesus it came to be known as the 

“Bloody Pass.” 

Perhaps, he suggested, the priest and Levite were afraid the robbers were still around or 

that the injured man wasn’t injured at all, but just a decoy to attract helpers who would be 

robbed: 

And so the first question that the Levite asked was, “If I stop to help this man, 

what will happen to me?” But then the Good Samaritan came by. And he 

reversed the question: “If I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to 

him?”

That, in short, was why he was in Memphis on that day: 

“If I do not stop to help the sanitation workers, what will happen to them?” 

That’s the question. 
225 

He told of an incident in New York City when a demented woman stabbed him in the 

chest. Based on the X-ray, he said, “It came out in the New York Times the next 

morning, that if I had sneezed, I would have died.” He added, “I am happy that I didn’t 

sneeze.” If he had, he would not have been around in 1960 for the sit-ins at lunch 

counters. Or in 1963 in Birmingham, or on the National Mall to tell people of his Dream, 

or 1964 for the Civil Rights Bill. “If I had sneezed, I would not have been down in 

Selma, Alabama, to see the great movement there.” And if he had sneezed, he would not 

be in Memphis “to see a community rally around those brothers and sisters who are 

suffering.”

Friends and enemies had tried to discourage him from making the trip. “It really doesn’t 

matter what happens now,” his friends had told him. He got on the plane in Atlanta, and 

the flight was delayed to check all the luggage for bombs.” He continued: 

And then I got to Memphis. And some began to say the threats, or talk about the 

threats that were out. What would happen to me from some of our sick white 

brothers? 

Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. 

But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I 

don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its 

place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And 

He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen 

the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, 

that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm 

not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the 

glory of the coming of the Lord. [Testament, p. 279-286] 

That day, the sanitation workers were in court to secure a march permit, while a weary 

Dr. King debated leaders of the sanitation workers who wanted to adopt a violent 

approach. At the same time, he continued preparations for the Poor People’s Campaign. 

Around 5 p.m. on April 4, Dr. King received a report on the court proceedings. Later, he 

went on the motel balcony, joking with Dr. Abernathy, the Reverend Jesse Jackson, and 

other associates standing with him and in the parking lot below. 

In a flophouse across the street, a drifter and petty criminal named James Earl Ray was 

waiting for Dr. King to stand still just for a second. 

In early March, Ray had been in Los Angeles after driving around the country and into 

Mexico in his white Mustang. He had taken dance lessons and attended bartender’s 

school. He had altered his appearance with a “nose job” and used an alias. On March 17, 

he hopped into his Mustang and drove to New Orleans at a leisurely pace. After 

delivering a box of clothes he had brought with him to a friend’s family on March 22, he 

learned that Dr. King would be in Selma to recruit for the Poor People’s Campaign. 
226 

Ray drove to Selma, staying in the Flamingo Motel. Dr. King left on March 23, as did 

Ray, driving through Birmingham to Atlanta. He drove to Bessemer, Alabama, about 10 

miles outside of Birmingham on March 29, where he bought a .243-caliber rifle with a 2 

x 7 Redfield scope and twenty rounds of ammunition. After a night at a nearby 

Travelodge Motel, Ray returned to the store to exchange the rifle for a Remington 

Gamemaster Model 760, .30-060 caliber rifle.

Although Ray’s later accounts of his movements differed, he appears to have returned to 

Atlanta. On April 1, the SCLC announced that Dr. King was scheduled to be in 

Memphis to lead a march on Friday, April 5. On April 3, Ray took the 7-hour drive to 

Memphis, checking in at the New Rebel Motel on Lamar Avenue under one of his 

aliases. The following day, he drove to South Main Street and parked near the rooming 

house across from the Lorraine Motel. He rented room 5B. [The account of Ray’s 

travels from Posner, Gerald, chapters 25 (“Memphis Bound”) and 26 (“The Alibi”), 

Killing the Dream: James Earl Ray and the Assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., 

Random House, 1998] 

At 6:01 p.m., on April 4, Ray finally got what he wanted. Dr. King stood still for a 

moment. Ray steadied his .30-’06 Remington and fired a shot into Dr. King’s right 

cheek. He was pronounced dead an hour later, setting off riots in cities around the 

country. 

Immediately after shooting Dr. King, Ray returned to his car and drove through 

Mississippi back to Atlanta. Fearful that police might be on the lookout for a white 

Mustang, he stayed on the side roads, adding time to what became an 11 hour drive. On 

April 5, he left the Mustang in the Capitol Homes housing project and took a bus to 

Cincinnati, arriving around 1:30 a.m. on April 5. By bus, he reached Detroit around 8 

a.m. and took a taxi across the Ambassador Bridge into Windsor, Canada. He boarded a 

train for Toronto, where he stayed until April 22. From there, he took a bus to Montreal, 

hoping to find a way to England. The following day, he was indicted for the murder of 

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. On May 7, he took BOAC Flight 600 to London. [Killing, p. 

237-246] 

On June 8, Scotland Yard officers arrested Ray at London’s Heathrow Airport while he 

was leaving an airliner bound from Lisbon, Portugal, to Brussels, Belgium. [Killing, p. 

44-47] On July 18, he was taken aboard a C-135 U.S. Air Force jet for a flight to 

Millington Naval Air Base, 18 miles from Memphis. The flight left London in the dark 

of night and arrived in Tennessee in the dark of night to minimize not only press 

coverage but the threat of an attempt on Ray’s life. With the fatal shooting of President 

Kennedy’s assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, in mind, the government wanted to avoid the 

shooting of another assassin before justice could be served. [Killing, p. 55-56] He 

confessed to his crime on March 10, 1969, and was sentenced to 99 years in prison. 

James Earl Ray died in 1998. 
227 

On April 16, the city and sanitation workers reached an agreement that included union 

recognition, dues checkoff, promotions based on seniority, and a 10-cent an hour wage 

increase on May 1 and a 5-cent increase on September 1. The New York Times quoted a 

garbage collector as saying, “We won, but we lost a good man along the way.” 

[Caldwell, Earl, “Sanitation Strike in Memphis Ends,” The New York Times, April 17, 

1968] 

The assassination prompted final action on the Civil Rights Act of 1968 (Fair Housing 

Act). On April 10, even as riots continued in American cities, the Capitol was 

surrounded by National Guard troops who had been summoned in the wake of riots in the 

city. The House approved the Senate version of the bill, 250 to 171, with Republicans 

providing enough support to ensure passage. 

President Johnson signed the legislation on April 11 in the East Room of the White 

House. The bill, he said, “had a long and stormy trip” since he began promoting the idea 

in 1966. He recalled a meeting in April of that year during which Dr. King and other 

distinguished citizens assembled to hear the President read a message calling for effective 

legislation “against discrimination in the sale and the rental of housing.” Now, Dr. King 

was gone and the Nation was outraged at his loss and at the rioting that followed. 

However, “the voice of justice speaks again,” he said in reference to the new legislation: 

We just must put our shoulders together . . . . So I would appeal to my fellow 

Americans by saying, the only real road to progress for free people is through the 

process of law and that is the road that America will travel . . . . 

This afternoon, as we gather here in this historic room in the White House, I think 

we can all take some heart that democracy’s work is being done. In the Civil 

Rights Act of 1968 America does move forward and the bell of freedom rings out 

a little louder.

The new law expanded on the Civil Rights Act of 1964 by prohibiting property owners 

from refusing to rent or sell a dwelling based on race, color, religion, national origin, or 

gender. It prohibited many common practices, such as blockbusting and redlining, that 

had hindered housing progress and distorted city housing patterns by encouraging white 

residents to move to white housing in the suburbs. The final roadblock to passage had 

been eliminated when the bill was amended in Congress to make conspiring to cause a 

riot a Federal crime – the very action that Southern leaders had complained of for a 

decade.

Completing the Poor People’s Campaign 

The future of the Poor People’s Campaign was uncertain until Reverend Abernathy, now 

president of the SCLC, announced on April 21 that it had been expanded into “the most 

massive and militant nonviolent movement in history.” Rallies and marches were 

planned around the country before caravans headed toward Washington, as described in 

The New York Times: 
228 

In the Deep South, Mr. Abernathy said that a wagon train with mule-drawn carts 

would proceed from state to state, picking up the poor and taking them to 

Washington. He said that the wagon train would pass through Mississippi, 

Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina and Virginia. [Caldwell, Earl, 

“Abernathy Plans a ‘Massive’ March,” The New York Times, April 22, 1968] 

Reverend Abernathy and a delegation of about 150 arrived in Washington to begin the 

campaign by presenting the Economic Bill of Rights to Cabinet-level officials and other 

government officials on April 29. He promised to return in 10 days for answers, but 

added, “it won’t be just 150 of us like today but there will be 3,000.” [Caldwell, Earl, 

“Campaign of Poor Begins in Capital,” The New York Times, April 30, 1968] Abernathy 

testified the following day before the Senate Subcommittee on Manpower, Employment 

and Poverty, calling for legislation creating 2 million jobs. 

Officials were concerned about what might happen during a gathering of protesters in 

Washington so soon after the riots following the assassination of Dr. King. At a news 

conference on May 3, the President expressed concern about the “many inherent dangers” 

in the plan and the hope that the demonstration would be brief to avoid “possibilities of 

serious consequences.” On May 7, Members of Congress urged President Johnson to 

reach an agreement to limit the protest for fear of “militant advocates of violence who 

will swarm among the marchers’ routes” to incite rioting and looting, as Senator John L. 

McClellan (D-Ar.) put it. [Franklin, Ben A., “Congressmen Bid Poor Restrict Drive,” 

The New York Times, May 4, 1968] 

The campaign opened on May 12, when Dr. King’s widow, Mrs. Coretta King, addressed 

5,000 people in the Cardozo High School Stadium. She called for all the women of the 

Nation to join in a “campaign of conscience.” [Franklin, Ben A., “5,000 Open Poor 

People’s Campaign in Washington,” The New York Times, March 13, 1968] 

The following day, Reverend Abernathy launched construction of “Resurrection City, 

U.S.A.” on the grounds of the Lincoln Memorial to house about 3,000 people. To arouse 

the conscience of the Nation, he dedicated the plywood city “to plague the Pharoahs of 

this nation with plague after plague until they agree to give us meaningful jobs and a 

guaranteed annual income.” [Franklin, Ben A., “’City’ of the Poor Begun in Capital,” 

The New York Times, May 14, 1968] 

The campaign was experiencing financial problems, lacking funds to complete the 

temporary housing. On May 17, coordinator Bernard Lafayette, who had promoted 

voters’ rights in Selma, urged those not already on the way to Washington to postpone 

the trip until at least May 30. Of the 600 planned units, only 206 units had been built in 

West Potomac Park. In a news conference, Lafayette acknowledged that the campaign 

was in a financial crisis, with sufficient funds only “for the next few days.” [Franklin, 

Ben A., “‘Financial Crisis’ Forces a Delay in March of Poor,” The New York Times, May 

18, 1968] 
229 

Political news, war protests, and efforts to start peace talks dominated the news. Leaders 

of the Poor People’s Campaign had difficulty securing the coverage it had been designed 

to generate as a way of providing creative tension and an eventual negotiated solution. 

Ten days into the campaign, organizers arranged for the first group arrests at the Capitol. 

Reverend Abernathy explained that, “we are not quite ready yet” for mass arrests, so he 

negotiated with police to arrest only 18 of the 75 protesters who were violating the 

Capitol’s strict anti-demonstration regulations. [Franklin, Ben A., “18 Arrested in Protest 

by Poor Near Capitol,” The New York Times, May 24, 1968] 

On May 29, a small group of protesters at the Supreme Court building broke four 

windows, with some entering the building only to be pushed back out the windows by 

guards. [Caldwell, Earl, “High Court Building Stormed in Demonstration by the Poor,” 

The New York Times, May 30, 1968] 

Hundreds of protesters, singing and shouting, staged a 7-hour camp-in on June 3 outside 

Attorney General Ramsey Clark’s office in the Justice Department. The effort to block 

his exit failed when he left by the vehicle entrance at the center of the building. Most of 

the demonstrators left the building around 9:30 p.m. when Hosea Williams told them, 

“We can’t get arrested, we might as well go home.” By midnight, all were gone. 

[Caldwell, Earl, “Clark is Besieged by Poor in Capital,” The New York Times, June 4, 

1968] 

The following day, Senator Kennedy won the California Democratic primary, but was 

shot and killed. His assassin, Sirhan Sirhan, was wrestled to the ground by the former 

Attorney General’s supporters. Again, the Poor People’s Campaign fell further from 

public awareness and media interest. 

Campaign organizers had been planning a Solidarity Day mass march for June 19, but on 

June 6, the march director, Bayard Rustin, suspended activities until campaign organizers 

clarified the goals to avoid outbreaks of violence. The New York Times reported growing 

impatience among campaign organizers as difficulties mounted:

 

One highly placed Administration official said it was his belief that the Rev. 

Ralph Abernathy . . . leader of the campaign, “has lost control of the thing and is 

bobbing along like a cork in the current.” 

“The campaign desperately needs drama,” he said, “but there is no producer and 

no director.” [Franklin, Ben A., “Rustin Suspends His Role in March,” The New 

York Times, June 7, 1968] 

Rustin quit the march the following day. Reverend Abernathy appointed Sterling Tucker, 

director of the Washington Urban League, to replace Rustin. 

On June 19, 50,000 people (according to police estimates) participated in the Solidarity 

Day march – a short march, less than a mile long, from the Washington Monument 

grounds to the Lincoln Memorial grounds. The crowds had emerged from private 
230 

vehicles and 700 chartered buses. Organizers were pleased by the turnout and hoped it 

would reenergize the campaign, but The New York Times reported that, “Most of the 

speakers this afternoon appeared to sense a national mood of irresolution.” [Franklin, 

Ben A., “Over 50,000 March in Capital in Support of the Poor,” The New York Times, 

June 20, 1968] 

On June 23, Reverend Abernathy had a new problem. The campaign’s permit to camp on 

park land would expire at 8 p.m. that evening. He announced that he intended to stay 

beyond the permit limits, but the following day, National Guard troops closed 

Resurrection City. Reverend Abernathy and several hundred others were arrested, and he 

was sentenced to 20 days in jail even as the plywood hut city disappeared along with the 

remaining participants. Compared with the violent end of the Bonus March, the Poor 

People’s Campaign came to a relatively peaceful conclusion. In an article describing 

Reverend Abernathy’s sentence and the end of Resurrection City, The New York Times

added: 

The long-awaited mule train of the Poor People’s campaign, which left Marks, 

Miss., on May 13, finally entered the capital today after a week of grazing on 

Government park land in nearby Virginia. 

But the 11-wagon caravan, a colorful symbol of rural poverty, attracted little 

attention. [Franklin, Ben A., “Abernathy Gets 20-Day Jail Term; Capital 

Calmer,” The New York Times, June 26, 1968] 

Whether the Poor People’s Campaign would have been successful if Dr. King had lived 

cannot be known. What can be known is that it ended with few if any accomplishments 

at a time when the rift between advocates for nonviolence and adherents of the new Black 

Power philosophy was threatening the future of the Civil Rights Movement nurtured by 

Dr. King. 

Congress did not enact the Economic Bill of Rights. 

Bureau of Public Roads - Transition

During the first 50 years of its existence, the Bureau of Public Roads (BPR) and its 

predecessor agencies dating to 1893 had been involved primarily with rural roads. From 

the start, it cooperated with State and local officials throughout the country, including the 

Jim Crow southern States. Following creation of the Federal-aid highway program in 

1916, the agency’s partnership with State highway officials became part of its statutory 

mandate. Moreover, the State highway agencies had the primary role of project selection 

and development, subject to Federal oversight. 

What did officials and employees of BPR think about the civil rights of AfricanAmericans? Did they share the common views of the State of their origins? How did 

their views affect their work? Was the long career of the low level technician, William 

Grant, discussed earlier, an exception? Was the agency’s early support of chain gangs, 
231 

often shown in photographs to consist of African-Americans, evidence of racism, 

practicality, or indifference? To what extent did racism affect the program in the South, 

and how did BPR officials feel about it if so? 

We cannot answer these questions. 

As early as the 1939 report to Congress called Toll Roads and Free Roads, BPR leaders 

were clearly thinking about taking their primarily rural program into urban areas that 

were experiencing the greatest problems of congestion, decay, and loss of tax base. That 

report and Interregional Highways in 1944 described a rural interregional highway 

network that included an extensive urban component that would, the author’s thought, 

revitalize the Nation’s cities. 

Neither report discussed African-Americans, but by this point, their migration to cities 

outside the South had been underway for 2 decades. When the reports talked about 

building expressways to replace aging, decaying buildings housing the “humblest 

citizens,” they were referring to the homes of African-Americans as well as immigrants 

and poor white residents. African-Americans, whatever their economic level, had been 

subject to Jim Crow residential restrictions in the South and de facto restrictions in other 

parts of the country. As Carl Rowan explained, their life was centered on streets in their 

part of town, with the streets often in the least desirable areas – for example, near the 

railroad tracks, downwind from polluting industrial stacks and smells, most likely to 

flood, and last to get electricity and indoor plumbing. 

Where city statutes did not mandate racial segregation, real estate interests played on 

racial fears to churn neighborhoods for profit. If they could find one white owner willing 

to sell to an African-American, the “blockbuster” realtors would flood the neighborhood 

with salesmen to warn other white owners that the value of their home was about to be 

destroyed by an invasion. Entire areas could be churned from white to black in less than 

a decade, leaving the “humblest citizens” who had escaped their decaying housing only to 

find themselves once again living in a segregated neighborhood with limited power to 

secure city services.

Herbert S. Fairbank, the BPR official who was the primary author of Toll Roads and Free 

Roads and Interregional Highways, was a lifelong resident of Baltimore. Journalist 

Antero Pietila described blockbusting and other race-based tactics in Fairbank’s 

hometown in Not in My Neighborhood: How Bigotry Shaped a Great American City

(Ivan R. Dee, 2010). Long before the Interstate System entered Baltimore, real estate 

interests, with official city support and in line with policies of the Federal Housing 

Administration, determined where African-Americans and Jews lived, creating restricted 

neighborhoods that forced whites into city suburbs, and finally out of the city to suburban 

homes on former farms. 

In the reports, Fairbank described how Baltimore could be restored through the new 

model for urban transportation facilities. He had good reason to understand the pattern of 

development in his hometown, but he did not mention African-Americans. 
232 

Professor Raymond A Mohl, in his report on “The Interstate and the Cities,” noted the 

omission: 

Highway builders rarely mentioned African Americans specifically in their 

discussions about clearing out blight and slums. In fact, when these ideas first 

began to receive currency in the late 1930s the nation’s largest cities had not yet 

received the full force of the massive wartime and postwar migration of southern 

blacks. But that changed dramatically in the 1940s and after. By that time, when 

the highwaymen talked about clearing out central-city blight, everyone knew wha

they meant. The intent, the goal, was clear to most, even if it was rarely stated 

directly. Their intentions were clear from their statements, actions, and policies –

and the visible consequences of the highways they built are the best evidence of 

their intended goals. [Mohl, Raymond A., The Interstate and the Cities: 

Highways, Housing, and the Freeway Revolt, Poverty and Race Research Action 

Council, 2002, p. 29] 

The Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1944, which authorized designation of a 40,000-mile 

National System of Interstate Highways, also moved the Federal-aid highway program 

into urban areas. The legislation authorized $125 million for projects on Federal-aid 

highways in urban areas. BPR would now have a statutory role in shaping the Nation’s 

cities.

While working with the State highway agencies to identify urban projects, the Public 

Roads Administration (PRA, as BPR was known in the 1940s) was also working with 

them to identify routes to be included in the Interstate System. On August 2, 1947, PRA 

and its parent organization, the Federal Works Agency, announced Interstate designation 

for 37,681 miles of the Nation's principal highways, including 2,882 miles of 

thoroughfares to carry the Interstates through urban areas. To fill out the 40,000-mile 

Interstate System, the PRA reserved 2,319 miles for additional urban circumferential and 

distributing routes that would be designated later. 

Those designations would occur in September 1955, after PRA/BPR and State highway 

officials had worked closely with city officials to determine the best locations. 

Designating the Urban Interstates, on this Web site, described the coordination process 

t 

(http://www.fhwa.dot.gov/infrastructure/fairbank.cfm). 

By then, as Professor Mohl explained, racial issues had grown: 

The expressway era coincided with a massive migration of rural southern blacks 

to urban America. More than five million African Americans made that 

pilgrimage in the three decades after 1940. Many northern and Midwestern cities 

already had sizable black populations, but those numbers rose rapidly during the 

war years and after. Between 1940 and 1960, for instance, the black population 

of New York increased by 137 percent, Philadelphia by 111 percent, Washington 

by 120 percent, Chicago by 193 percent, Cleveland by 197 percent, Newark by 
233 

200 percent, Detroit by 223 percent, Denver by 286 percent, Los Angeles by 425 

percent, Oakland by 882 percent. The black populations of southern cities also 

rose substantially between 1940 and 1960. At a time when strict residential 

segregation prevailed everywhere, rising black population meant more intense 

overcrowding and consequent physical deterioration in the contained inner-city 

black ghettos. [Revolt, p. 29] 

From the start, the concept behind the urban Interstates had been to displace the 

“humblest citizens” to make room for an inner belt around the central business district. 

The inner belt would connect via radial “spokes” to an outer beltway that provided a 

bypass as well as a connector among the radials. The result would be an economic 

renaissance for the cities. This visionary concept, embraced by many urban planners and 

city officials at the time, turned out to have a different impact once construction began, as 

Professor Mohl described: 

Working within federal traffic engineering guidelines, but with few other 

constraints, highway builders at the state and local levels routed the new urban 

expressways in directions of their own choosing. Local agendas often dictated 

such decisions. In most cities, the result was to drive the interstates through black 

and poor neighborhoods. Urban blacks were heavily concentrated in areas with 

the oldest and most dilapidated housing, where land acquisition costs were 

relatively low, and where organized political opposition was weakest. Displaying 

a “two-birds-with-one stone” mentality, cities and states sought to route interstate 

expressways through slum neighborhoods, using federal highway money to 

reclaim downtown urban real estate. Inner-city slums could be cleared, blacks 

removed to more distant second-ghetto areas, central business districts 

redeveloped, and transportation woes solved all at the same time – and mostly at 

federal expense. [Revolt, p. 28] 

As Professor Mohl explained, BPR officials understood how State and local officials 

were implementing the visionary concepts – but that was what the concept had been in 

the first place.

While the country was coming to grips with the urban Interstates, BPR was facing a 

transition of its own. Under Presidents Kennedy and Johnson, BPR moved into the Civil 

Rights era. 

As the 1960s began, BPR was a largely white agency, with an entirely white male 

leadership. Numbers of African-American employees are not known, but the nature of 

the agency is clear from photographs in the agency’s newsletter, The News in Public 

Roads (and after April 1967, Federal Highway Administration News and finally FHWA 

News). The newsletter published many photographs of officials moving to new jobs, 

leadership and regional meetings, award presentations, retirees, and graduating classes of 

engineers, realty specialists, and urban planners. At the start of the decade, all depicted a 

white male organization. If an African-American appears in a photograph, it is in a 

support position such as secretary. 
234 

The transition to diversity would take a decade. 

Since 1949, BPR had been part of the Department of Commerce, now headed under 

President Kennedy by former Governor Luther H. Hodges of North Carolina. Born in 

Virginia in 1898, Hodges moved with his family to North Carolina at the age of 2. After 

college, he worked for Carolina Cotton and Woolen Mills in Leaksville until moving into 

politics. He was elected Lieutenant Governor in 1952, and became Governor in 

November 1954 when Governor William B. Umstead died after a long illness that had 

incapacitated him almost since his inauguration. Governor Hodges won election to a full 

4-year term in 1956. 

Based on his experience as a businessman rather than a politician, Governor Hodges 

gained a reputation as a moderate on civil rights issues who was focused more on 

promoting industrialization and education than encouraging racist elements in the State at 

a time of growing racial tension. Writer D. G. Martin said of Governor Hodges: 

Hodges led the state during the early stages of its adjustment to the desegregation 

directive of the U.S. Supreme Court’s Brown vs. Board of Education decision in 

1954. Today, fifty years later, some critics fault Hodges for moving too slow to 

integrate the state’s public schools. Back then, however, the majority of white 

North Carolinians probably thought he was too “soft” for not resisting the 

Supreme Court. While other southern states developed plans to close schools, 

Hodges committed to keeping them open in North Carolina. His success in 

keeping the schools “on a businesslike basis” may actually be one of his most 

important achievements. [Martin, D. G., “Our Governors – How Quickly We 

Forget,” Chatham Journal, June 20, 1005] 

The Governor understood that promoting economic development meant taking a 

moderate view on racial issues if he wanted to attract northern businesses to the “new

South.” Now, Secretary Hodges was part of an Administration that saw expanding civil 

rights as an important goal—political as well as moral. 

On March 6, 1961, less than 3 weeks after taking office, President Kennedy approved 

Executive Order 10925 on “Establishing the President’s Committee on Equal 

Employment Opportunity.” Vice President Johnson was designated Chairman of the 

Committee, which included Secretary Hodges among its members.

Section 301 of the order required that in all government contracting, agencies were to 

include provisions prohibiting contractors from discriminating against any employee or 

applicant for employment based on race, creed, color, or national origin. Contractors 

were to notify each labor union or worker representative with which the company had a 

collective bargaining agreement or other contract or understanding of this commitment. 

This provision applied only to Federal contracts, such as those BPR administered on 

behalf of the National Park Service and the U.S. Forest Service, not to Federal-aid 

contracts that were awarded by State highway agencies. 
235 

On March 31, Secretary Hodges emphasized the goals of the Executive order: 

I want to make it emphatically clear that this Department of Commerce, so long 

as I shall be privileged to serve as Secretary, will share that dedication.

A year later, on March 16, 1962, Hyman H. Bookbinder, Special Assistant to the 

Secretary, wrote a memo to Commerce Department officials who participated in the 

Regional Conferences on Equal Employment Opportunity. He said: 

As a result of a year-end study which was made at the request of the Vice 

President, there has been revealed to us a situation in which we can have little 

pride. While there has been some measurable progress in the picture here in 

Washington, D.C., the pattern of employment in all Commerce Department 

activities outside of Washington is quite disturbing. There are so few Negro 

employees in Grades 5 or over in these out-of-Washington activities that it is 

hardly worth mentioning at all. 

While acknowledging that discrimination may not have been the reason for the shortage, 

Bookbinder said, “it is still a fact which is difficult to explain that there so very, very few 

–and in some activities none whatsoever – Negro employees.” Secretary Hodges had 

directed Bookbinder to “obtain a more determined effort” to correct the situation. 

Accordingly, BPR’s Deputy Employment Policy Officer, C. F. Barker, announced a 

survey on June 11, 1963. He asked BPR’s field leaders to furnish “(a) the total office 

employment and (b) a listing showing the position title and grade of each Negro 

employee” for every major office within a State. 

The results are not known, but a perhaps the results of the field review are implied by a 

headquarters photograph in The News in Public Roads for January 1963. It accompanied 

an article reporting that BPR’s Automatic Data Processing Division had installed a new 

medium-scale computer, the IBM 1410. The photograph depicted four white male 

officials, including Deputy Federal Highway Administrator D. Grant Mickle, watching as 

Miss Wilma Dodge, who was white, typed on the control console. Mr. Edward Lloyd, an 

African-American digital computer systems operator, is shown watching the computer in 

the background. [“Automatic Data Processing Division Installs New, Large Computer,” 

The News in Public Roads, January 1963, p. 10] 

(Barker requested similar information in December 1963, but again the results are not 

known.) 

Executive Order 11114, which President Kennedy approved on June 22, 1963, extended 

equal employment opportunity to federally assisted contracts. Federal Highway 

Administrator Rex M. Whitton informed field officials of the change on July 2, 1963. 

Whitton, who was from the same section of Missouri as former President Truman, had 

risen through the State’s highway agency before being chosen for the national post. 
236 

In January 1964, Whitton directed Joseph M. O’Connor, a former FBI agent now serving 

as Director of Audits and Investigations, to assume responsibility for administering the 

nondiscrimination program for all Federal-aid and direct Federal contract work, including 

Federal supply service contracts.

In late July, Secretary Hodges sent a message to all agency heads emphasizing the need 

“to secure equal treatment and equal opportunity for all Americans and to assure that no 

Federal program operates to encourage or support racial segregation.” He quoted 

President Johnson as saying, “As far as the writ of Federal law will run, we must abolish 

not some but all racial discrimination.” 

On July 29, 1964, Whitton used the Secretary’s message as the basis for a memorandum 

to all field heads titled “Federal participation in segregated meetings.” In accepting 

speaking engagements and participating in conferences, all BPR employees were 

instructed to follow these guidelines: 

1. No official should participate in conferences or speak before audiences where 

any racial group has been segregated or excluded from the meeting, from any 

of the facilities of the conferences, or from membership in a group. 

2. Requests received for speakers or for Federal participation under 

circumstances where segregation may be practiced require specific inquiry to 

be made as to the practices of the group before acceptance is given. 

Obviously, the Bureau of Public Roads should cooperate if any inviting group 

expresses a willingness to discuss modifications of their practices for any 

occasion.

3. The Bureau of Public Roads shall not sponsor, support or financially assist, 

directly or indirectly, any conference, convention, or meeting held under 

segregated circumstances.

Exceptions were to be cleared with the Administrator. “I am confident,” Whitton said, 

“that all of you will see to it that this policy is firmly carried out.”

On April 2, 1965, President Johnson informed his Cabinet that: 

The Federal service must never be either the active or passive ally of any who 

flout the Constitution of the United States . . . . Where there is an office or an 

officer of this Government, there must be equal treatment, equal respect, equal 

service—and equal support—for all American citizens, regardless of race, or sex, 

or region, or religion . . . . 

The Federal service asks no conformity—no uniformity of thought and no 

unanimity of vote. But where Constitutional rights are concerned, the country can 

ask no more—and accept no less—than uncompromising devotion to the 

Constitution itself.
237 

Secretary Hodges passed this injunction on to agency heads. On May 3, 1965, Whitton 

forwarded it to all BPR employees along with a message endorsing the sentiment. He 

added: 

We do have a distinctive role—not only in our official actions but in our personal 

actions as well. We are in a “showcase” and must set the example because we are 

the example.

Through this period, BPR sponsored an aggressive college recruitment program. On 

October 14, 1965, College Recruitment Bulletin No. 12 discussed Equal Employment 

Opportunities. In setting up visits to colleges and universities, recruitment coordinators 

should “emphasize our interest in considering all well-qualified candidates without regard 

to race, creed, color, national origin, marital status, sex, physical handicap, or lawful 

political affiliation.” The bulletin continued:

Visits to minority group colleges are to be made to acquaint the faculty and 

students with our recruiting needs, qualifications required of candidates for our 

several training programs or other professional positions in Public Roads. 

Minority group colleges not producing graduates meeting our needs because of 

curriculum deficiencies should be made aware of our requirements in order that 

they may give consideration to adjusting their curriculum so that their graduates 

can meet our requirements.

College Recruitment Bulletin No. 16, dated January 25, 1967, noted the tough 

competition for college graduates and suggested several steps to strengthen BPR’s 

recruitment efforts, including:

Expand recruiting contacts to include predominantly Negro and smaller colleges. 

Competition may be less and the quality high at small, lesser known institutions.

The bulletin included a list of “Predominantly negro colleges and universities” to aid 

recruiters.

In March 1966, BPR established the Equal Opportunity Division within the Office of 

Audits and Investigations to administer the equal opportunity program under the Civil 

Rights Act of 1964. On May 31, 1966, Whitton extended a Civil Service Commission 

program to BPR to establish a record of minority group status. Each employee would 

receive a computer punch card with his name, organization code, and employee number. 

He or she was to punch out the one block on the card describing race or national origin. 

The card was to be returned to the Automatic Data Processing Division in a sealed 

envelope. Data collected on individuals would be confidential. 

Gradually, African-Americans began to fill higher level positions. The employees often 

came from outside the organization, reflecting the lack of African-American employees 

ready for advancement to leadership roles. The September 1966 issue of The News in 

Public Roads announced the appointment of four Equal Opportunity Officers, three of 
238 

whom were white males. The fourth, Kermitt E. Wheeler, was an African-American 

native of St. Paul, Minnesota, who had previously held a similar position with Chicago’s 

Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. 

On September 28, 1967, FHWA informed employees that a new employee, Leon C. 

Watkins, had been appointed Equal Employment Opportunity Officer. Any employee 

with a complaint based on race, creed, color, or national origin could contact Mr. 

Watkins. According to Federal Highway Administration News on October 31, 1967, Mr. 

Watkins was a native of Danville, Virginia, who had graduated from a historically black 

university, Johnson C. Smith University in Charlotte, North Carolina. Before joining 

FHWA, he had been a vocational rehabilitation counselor with the District of Columbia 

Department of Vocational Rehabilitation.

Another milestone occurred in July 1968 when Edward J. DePina became Division 

Engineer in Connecticut (head of FHWA’s State office, a position that is now called 

Division Administrator), the first African-American to hold that title. He had joined BPR 

in 1965 after serving as a Captain in the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and a stint with 

the Massachusetts Department of Public Works. 

The agency continued to add African-Americans to its ranks in 1968, the year when the 

transition finally became evident in photographs appearing in the agency’s newsletters. 

The issue of Federal Highway Administration News dated September 30, 1968 

announced several African-American appointees:

Alexander D. Gaither took office as Chief, Equal Opportunity Division. A native 

of Knoxville, he had graduated from Knoxville College, a historically black 

college, in 1932. Before assuming his new position, he had been Equal 

Employment Officer for FHWA’s Region 3 since 1966. 

Flynn M. Wells was appointed Chief of the Relocation Assistance Staff in the 

Office of Right-of-Way and Location. A Detroit native, Wells had been a real 

estate broker and appraiser before joining the Michigan Department of State 

Highways. 

Marshall Jacks, Jr., a registered professional engineer in Michigan, joined the 

Traffic Control Devices Branch. 

On August 23, 1968, President Johnson approved the Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1968 

reauthorizing the Federal-aid highway program. Section 22 of the Act added Section 140 

on “Equal employment opportunity” to Title 23 (“Highways”), United States Code. It 

required assurances from each State highway agency that employment on Federal-aid 

projects would be free of discrimination. It also required the States to “include in the 

advertised specifications, notification of the specific equal employment opportunity 

responsibilities of the successful bidder.” The law also gave the Secretary of 

Transportation authority to require, where necessary, the States to assure “that there are 

in existence and available on a regional, statewide, or local basis, apprenticeship, skill 
239 

improvement or other upgrading programs . . . which provide equal opportunity for 

training and employment . . . .” 

The bidding provision of Section 140 had begun in the House Committee on Public 

Works as a response to actions by the Office of Federal Contract Compliance in the 

Department of Labor. The Office had required that after the State selects a low bidder on 

a Federal-aid contract, but before the contract is awarded, the contractor must submit an 

affirmative action program for the employment of minorities. This requirement violated 

the Federal-aid requirement for competitive bidding because bidders were not competing 

on the basis of all contract requirements. Pilot projects using the Labor Department’s 

requirement had been delayed or blocked. 

The Senate Committee on Public Works had also addressed the post-bid problem and 

added the training requirement so that those who wished to become qualified applicants 

could participate in registered apprentice and skill training programs. 

The Conference Committee to resolve differences among the House and Senate versions 

of 1968 Act combined the two versions of the equal opportunity provision into the new 

section of Title 23. It also amended Section 112 of Title 23 on construction contracts to 

add the House requirements, while broadening the prohibition on adding requirements 

not included in the advertisement by prohibiting them from being a condition of award of 

the contract to the bidder. 

By 1968, photographs in Federal Highway Administration News routinely depicted

African-Americans. Although they remained a small but growing segment of the 

employment roster, they had become an integral part of the routine activities of the 

agency. 

In January 1969, the Subcommittee on Roads of the Senate Committee on Public Works 

held hearings on civil rights and equal opportunities. The subcommittee recommended 

that FHWA assume leadership in demonstrating to the States the importance of equal 

employment opportunity. In response, Francis C. “Frank” Turner, a native of Fort Worth, 

Texas, who had risen through BPR’s ranks to become the only career employee to hold 

the title of Federal Highway Administrator, appointed Gaither to the new post of Special 

Assistant to the Administrator for Equal Opportunity in March 1969. He also created the 

Office of Civil Rights in June with responsibility for internal and external concerns. 

Special Assistant Gaither became the first Director of the Office of Civil Rights.

On July 28, 1969, the American Association of State Highway Officials (AASHO) 

sponsored a meeting in Chicago bringing together State highway officials and 

representatives of The Associated General Contractors of America (AGC), the American 

Road Builders’ Association (ARBA), and FHWA. Participants included equal 
240 

opportunity officers from FHWA and the State highway agencies. An account of the 

meeting in FHWA News stated:

AASHO President Ross Stapp [of the Wyoming Highway Department] moderator 

of the meeting said that since the early 1940’s the contract documents of Federalaid highway projects have all contained a rather innocuous statement to the effect 

that the project would be administered without regard to race, color, creed or 

national origin. The statement, he added, did little to change the normal process 

and procedures; however, such things will be changed and are being changed by 

the Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1968. Mr. Stapp said the Act called on the 

Federal-aid highway program to assume its share of correcting some of the 

Nation’s most pressing social-economic problems by training and bringing into 

the highway program minorities, especially blacks, who have all but been 

excluded in the past, except for low-paying jobs. 

Turner told participants that the new system must work to take advantage of the full 

participation of the States in developing programs responsive to the unique needs of 

each State.

The account continued: 

A. D. (Jake) Gaither, Director, Office of Civil Rights, FHWA, noted that, a year 

ago, a meeting of this kind was not possible. Mr. Gaither reported that paperwork 

has been completed—policies and procedures have been promulgated—and the 

stage is set for operating a viable program.

AASHO endorsed FHWA’s Civil Rights Program, while all participants agreed that “a 

coordinated effort would have to be made on the part of the private sector, AASHO, 

AGC, ARBA, and all involved Federal-aid State agencies if this program is to realize its 

ultimate goal of achieving equality of opportunity in the highway industry.” [“AASHO 

Endorses FHWA Civil Rights Program,” FHWA News, August 19, 1969, p. 2] 

Based on Executive Order 11478, signed by President Richard M. Nixon on August 8, 

1969 (“Equal Employment Opportunity in the Federal Government”), the Office’s 

responsibilities were strengthened to include development of affirmative action plans and 

procedures for processing discrimination complaints and equal employment opportunity 

counseling activities.

Disadvantaged Business Enterprises

On October 13, 1971, President Nixon approved Executive Order 11625 (“Prescribing 

Additional Arrangements for Developing and Coordinating a National Program For 

Minority Business Enterprise”). It began:

The opportunity for full participation in our free enterprise system by socially and 

economically disadvantaged persons is essential if we are to obtain social and 
241 

economic justice for such persons and improve the functioning of our national 

economy. 

Among its instructions on achieving full participation, the order stated: 

Each Federal department or agency shall, within constraints of law and 

appropriations therefore, continue all current efforts to foster and promote 

minority business enterprises and to support the program herein. 

In response, FHWA issued a regulation requiring States to take affirmative actions to 

increase participation of minority business enterprises (MBE) in Federal-aid highway 

construction programs (23 CFR 230, Subpart B). 

Progress increased after Secretary William T. Coleman, Jr., became the first AfricanAmerican to serve as Secretary of Transportation (1975-1977). On July 23, 1975, FHWA 

and the Commerce Department's Office of Minority Business Enterprise signed a 

memorandum of understanding on ways to increase participation of MBE’s in Federalaid construction programs. Among other things, FHWA agreed to review the feasibility 

of setting goals for MBE contracts and subcontracts and assist in identifying capable 

minority construction contractors, vendors, suppliers, equipment dealers, and service 

companies. 

FHWA issued regulations on November 21, 1975, to promote increased use of MBE’s in 

Federal-aid highway activity. States would have to identify MBE's, ensure prime 

contractors using subcontractors took affirmative action to consider MBE's, and report 

MBE participation to FHWA quarterly.

In the Notice of Proposed Rulemaking (NPRM), published in the Federal Register on 

May 17, 1979 (p. 28928), the Department explained its decision to include womenowned businesses (WBE) among MBE’s. Women comprise 51 percent of the population, 

and so are not a minority, but at the time they owned only 4.6 percent of businesses; the 

gross receipts of women-owned businesses totaled 0.3 percent of all United States 

business receipts in 1972. The notice continued: 

Because there was never before a program for woman-owned businesses, 

statistics on their participation in DOT contracts are not available. It is clear, 

however, that their degree of involvement is minimal. Women have not 

traditionally participated in either the construction or transportation fields in 

which the bulk of DOT contracts are let. 

On March 31, 1980, the Department issued a comprehensive regulation that required all 

recipients of Federal funding to adopt an MBE program, including setting goals for MBE 

participation in Federal-aid contracts and provisions for helping MBE’s succeed in 
242 

carrying out the contracts. The regulation extended the definition of “MBE” to include 

women’s business enterprises. The preamble to the Final Rule explained: 

The final rule refers to small business concerns owned and controlled by one or 

more minority persons or by women. The Department is aware that women are 

not by definition a minority. But to simplify drafting, we will include businesses 

owned and controlled by women under the general heading of MBE. This will 

avoid the necessity of repeating “minority-owned enterprises and women-owned 

enterprises.” The Department, however, has retained the substantive provision of 

the NPRM that requires recipients to set separate goals for businesses owned and 

controlled by minorities and women. As several commenters noted, separate 

goals are necessary to permit minority-owned and women-owned firms to 

participate equitably in the program. 

Contracting with MBE’s gradually increased, from $27.8 million in FY 1975 to $366.5 

million in FY 1981 or 4.23 percent of approximately $8.75 billion of obligated funds for 

the year. Federal Highway Administrator Ray Barnhart summarized the results:

Without the level of dedication and involvement, the FHWA’s MBE program in 

FY 1981 would not have achieved such results. The MBE program is not a 

deferred dream of FHWA. Our record shows a positive escalation of minority 

involvement in the highway industry. This is encouraging progress in 

participation and increased opportunities by minority business firms.” [Johnson, 

William E., “Minority Business Enterprise Shows 1981 Gains,” FHWA News, 

June 1982, p. 1] 

The Surface Transportation Assistance Act (STAA) of 1982 formalized this 

administrative requirement, thanks to Representative Parren J. Mitchell (D-Md.) of 

Baltimore. Mitchell had taught sociology at historically black Morgan College (now 

Morgan State University) but his family had been involved in the Civil Rights Movement 

for many years; his brother Clarence M. Mitchell, Jr., worked for the NAACP in 

Washington. In 1970, Mitchell defeated nine-term Democratic incumbent Samuel 

Friedel in the primary by 38 votes, aided by a third candidate who siphoned votes away 

from Friedel. When Mitchell won the election in November, he became the first AfricanAmerican to represent Maryland in the U.S. House of Representatives (January 3, 1971, 

to January 3, 1987). [Not in My Neighborhood, p. 205] 

On December 6, 1982, he introduced an amendment on the House floor during debate on 

the STAA that required that not less than 10 percent of the amounts authorized “shall be 

expended directly with small business concerns owned and controlled by socially and 

economically disadvantaged individuals.” 

Mitchell explained that a similar measure had been added to the Public Works Act of 

1977. The Supreme Court had found the measure constitutional in a 1980 case and 
243 

“the amendment met with enormous success”:

In light of the disproportionate unemployment enjoyed by minorities as of this 

time, and in light of the success of the public works amendment in mixing 

together county, State, and local governments with minority business provisions, I 

would urge the passage of my amendment. 

The Nation had been in a prolonged recession that had begun in the late 1970s. Mitchell 

shared the concern about unemployment. He said that “the November unemployment 

figures [show] 10.8 percent of Americans are out of work,” but for black Americans 

unemployment was “an atrocious level of 20 percent.” That total did not include the 

“millions of individuals who have given up total hope and thus are no longer seeking 

employment.” 

While the 1982 STAA was expected to create nearly 300,000 jobs, Representative 

Mitchell was concerned that “the twin forces of racism and economic discrimination will 

once again raise their ugly heads.” He added that small businesses owned and controlled 

by socially and economically disadvantaged individuals had made major contributions in 

the past. “The small minority business community can play a major role in assisting this 

Nation to reduce the 20-percent black unemployment figure.

The House agreed to the Mitchell amendment, which was modified in conference with 

the Senate and incorporated into Section 105 (“Authorizations”) as subsection (f): 

Except to the extent that the Secretary determines otherwise, not less than 10 per 

centum of the amounts authorized to be appropriated under this Act shall be 

expended with small business concerns owned and controlled by socially and 

economically disadvantaged individuals as defined by section 8(d) of the Small 

Business Act (15 U.S.C. section 637(d)) and relevant subcontracting regulations 

promulgated pursuant thereto. 

Implementing this provision was a challenge for the Reagan Administration, which 

opposed affirmative action mandates. Given the introductory clause, “Except to the 

extent that the Secretary determines otherwise,” the Department treated the provision as 

requiring each State transportation department to establish a goal that it would try to 

attain – as long as accumulated national contracting equaled 10 percent. States with 

small numbers of minorities set low goals, while others set goals far exceeding 10 

percent, allowing FHWA to comply with the statutory requirement. Because the firms 

involved were small and often inexperienced, they would be used mostly as 

subcontractors to nonminority, nondisadvantaged prime contractors. 

The Surface Transportation and Uniform Relocation Assistance Act of 1987 continued 

the 10 percent DBE goal, and stated that, “women shall be presumed to be socially and 

economically disadvantaged individuals for purposes of this subsection” (Section 106(c)). 
244 

Congress has included variations of the Mitchell DBE provision in subsequent legislation 

and so it remains a key part of contracting. The FHWA approves each State's DBE 

program and its annual goals to ensure compliance with all DBE program requirements. 

The main objective is to ensure that DBE firms, including WBE firms, have an 

opportunity to participate in Federal-aid contracts.

Rodney E. Slater – Beyond the Dreams

Rodney E. Slater was born in Tutwiler, Mississippi, on February 23, 1955, but soon 

moved with his unmarried mother to her native State where they lived in Marianna, Lee 

County, Arkansas. He grew up as an African-American in the final years of the Jim 

Crow era that would come to an official end less than 10 years later. On June 16, 1993, 

he became the first African-American to hold the post of Federal Highway Administrator, 

and would serve in that post until he became, in 1997, the second African-American to 

serve as the U.S. Secretary of Transportation after William T. Coleman, Jr.

Although he never knew his father, Slater grew up with his mother Velma and stepfather 

Earl Brewer, a mechanic and maintenance man. When he was in the third grade, his 

family moved to a brick duplex on Anna Strong Circle in a new public housing project on 

the edge of town. As a profile of Slater in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette explained, 

“By the standards of time and place, the homes on Anna Strong Circle looked good. One 

longtime acquaintance says the duplexes, with their indoor plumbing, were a definite 

improvement over much of the available housing.” Slater told the reporters he recalled 

sitting outside his new home and wondering where the passing cars were headed. 

(Anna M. Paschal Strong was a native Arkansan, an educator and principal, an Assistant 

in the Arkansas State Department of Education, and a staff member at Tuskegee and 

other universities and colleges.) 

At age 6, he earned money in the cotton fields—$2.50 to $3 per hundred pounds of cotton 

picked—to buy a red Schwinn Bicycle. His mother said, “He was so proud” of the 

bicycle he had bought with money he had earned on his own. 

He attended the Anna Strong Elementary School for African-American children. The 

newspaper profile explained: 

Slater’s contemporaries are quick to correct what they feel is a misperception 

about the Delta of those days. Far from the hopeless picture often presented of 

the region, they say Marianna was a place where black children, though poor, 

were pushed and expected to succeed. Part of that was a legacy of segregation—

the self-reliance of black farmers, educators and small-business owners. Part of it 

was the push for civil rights. The dreams Martin Luther King Jr. had spoken of 

were in the air.

When Slater was in the 10th grade, Marianna’s white and African-American schools were 

consolidated. “In grade school and junior high,” the profile indicated, “he longed to 

compete with children from the other side of the color line, to test his academic and 

athletic skills against theirs.” As he put it, “I always wanted to know how I stacked up.” 
245 

In elementary school, Slater enjoyed competing in speaking contests, displaying a strong 

competitive spirit as students read from the works of African-American writers such as 

James Weldon Johnson and W. E. B. DuBois. 

By the 7th grade, he had secured his mother’s permission to play football. His play at Lee 

High School–in one game, he ran a 98-yard kickoff return despite having his helmet 

knocked off during the run—earned him a scholarship to Eastern Michigan University in 

Ypsilanti, Michigan. He turned down a track scholarship to the University of Arkansas. 

“Eastern Michigan gave me a chance to get away,” he explained. “I wanted to be on my 

own and see things I’ve never seen before.” [Kiely, Kathy, and Stumpe, Joe, “Slater 

Takes High Road All the Way to the Top,” Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, February 9, 

1997] 

After graduating in 1977, he attended the University of Arkansas School of Law in 

Fayetteville, receiving his law degree in 1980. Slater would serve in several State posts, 

including Assistant Attorney General for Arkansas, but his future would become 

entwined with Governor Bill Clinton. In 1982, Slater left his State job to work on 

Clinton’s campaign to regain the post he had lost in 1980. After Clinton began his 

second term as Governor, he appointed Slater his special assistant for community affairs. 

Slater would later serve as director of governmental relations at Arkansas State 

University from 1987 to 1993. 

In 1987, Governor Clinton appointed Slater to the Arkansas State Highway Commission, 

which sets policy and oversees the activities of the Arkansas State Highway and 

Transportation Department. The first African-American to serve on the commission, 

Slater also was the first to serve as its chairman in 1992. 

After defeating President George H. W. Bush in the election of November 1992, 

President-elect Clinton appointed Slater the new Federal Highway Administrator. He 

took the oath of office on June 16, 1993. His wife Cassandra Wilkins and daughter 

Bridgett, along with his mother, were on hand for the ceremony. 

During his tenure as Federal Highway Administrator (1993-1997), Slater strongly 

supported the National Highway System (NHS)—160,000 miles of principal arterial 

roads and intermodal connectors, including the Interstate System, that serve as the 

backbone of America's intermodal transportation system. He played a key role in 

securing congressional passage of the National Highway System Designation Act of 

1995. 

In addition, he strengthened FHWA’s commitment to Intelligent Transportation Systems, 

intermodal transportation, effective emergency response, innovative financing and 

contracting, and environmental enhancement, and made significant improvements in 

motor carrier and highway safety. He also coordinated FHWA's responses to several 

major natural disasters, including Midwest flooding in 1993 and the 1994 Northridge 

Earthquake in California. 
246 

Slater led the FHWA’s most extensive outreach effort in its history by touring America to 

look, listen, and learn from people who use, build, and maintain our roads and bridges. 

His initial tour was in 1993 when he lead a 14-day, 14-State road tour demonstrating the 

potential of the NHS. During this tour, he stopped in Henning, Tennessee, to visit the 

Alex Haley Museum, dedicated to the memory of the African-American author whose 

best known work was Roots. At the author’s gravesite, Slater was taken by six words on 

the headstone: “Find the Good and Praise It.” They would become his watchwords in 

coming years. He saw them as a companion to a sentiment he would express many 

times:

While I found much good [on the road tour], we all have to continue working 

every day to meet the transportation challenges of the 21st century.

Because transportation is not just about concrete, asphalt, and steel. It’s about 

people, the people we serve today and tomorrow. [Slater, Rodney E., “Find the 

Good and Praise It,” Constructor, June 1994] 

Other outreach trips included a road tour through the Southeast and a tour from San 

Francisco to Washington in 1996 to commemorate the 40th anniversary of the Interstate 

System. 

Throughout these years, his emphasis was on putting people first by helping them not 

only to meet their transportation goals, but to achieve the American Dream. FHWA, he 

said, must remain a visionary and vigilant Agency as it faces the challenges of the 21st 

century. He worked to demonstrate, in words and actions, that transportation is about 

providing all Americans with access to opportunities. 

Following President Clinton’s reelection to a second term in 1996, he chose Slater to be 

the 13th Secretary of Transportation—only the second FHWA Administrator to be 

appointed Secretary, after John A. Volpe. In nominating Mr. Slater, the President said, 

"He has built bridges both of steel and of goodwill to bring people closer together." 

Slater, then 41 years old, would serve as Secretary from February 14, 1997 to January 20, 

2001. The Department’s historian, Dr. Dale Grinder, summed up Secretary Slater’s 

tenure:

During Slater’s first year and a half at DOT, Congress passed the largest public 

works legislation in history–the Transportation Equity Assistance Act for the 21st 

Century (TEA-21); airline and railroad mergers—with proposed limitations—

again became fashionable; Department negotiators helped to avert a strike against 

Amtrak—and Congress mandated the [National Passenger Rail] Corporation’s 

overhaul; [the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration] issued 

regulations allowing consumers to turn off their airbag switches where necessary; 

and the United States finalized a long-sought, liberalized aviation agreement with 

Japan. Also, in keeping with his conviction that transportation was about “more 

than concrete, asphalt, and steel,” Slater announced the Garrett A. Morgan 
247 

Technology and Transportation Futures program to encourage students to choose 

careers in transportation; a "Safe Skies for Africa" Initiative to promote 

sustainable improvements in aviation safety and airport security in Africa; and on 

October 8, 1998, proposed the idea of creating a unified Department–ONE DOT, 

able to act as an integrated, purposeful leader increasing transportation efficiency 

and effectiveness. 

While still Federal Highway Administrator, Slater addressed an FHWA audience during 

the Black History Month Kick-Off Program on February 3, 1994. The theme that year 

was:

African-Americans:

Rich in Heritage, Strong in Contribution, 

Pioneering the Future 

Slater talked about the contributions African-Americans had made to the Nation’s 

infrastructure. He spoke of the contribution of African-American troops to the Alaska 

Highway “despite military segregation, substandard equipment, and severe weather 

conditions.” He spoke of the African-American trailblazers who “risked jail and death 

during the civil rights movements of the 50s and 60s, and laid the foundation and paved 

the way so that the generations who followed might have opportunities that they and their 

forefathers were denied.”

He mentioned some of the agency’s own trailblazers and told the story of the Voting 

Rights March along U.S. 80 between Selma and Montgomery, Alabama. It was, he said, 

“a story about a bridge and about a road and about Martin Luther King, Jr.” He told 

about the death of Jimmie Lee Jackson, the Bloody Sunday beatings on the Edmund 

Pettus Bridge, the abbreviated march onto the bridge that Dr. King turned back for fear of 

a trick, and finally the march across the bridge for the trip along U.S. 80 to Montgomery. 

He quoted Dr. King’s speech in this version: 

Last Sunday more than eight thousand of us started on a mighty walk from Selma, 

Alabama. We have walked on meandering highways and rested our bodies on 

rocky byways. They told us we wouldn’t get here, and there were those who said 

that we would get here only over their dead bodies. But all the world together 

knows that we are here and that we are standing before the forces of power in the 

State of Alabama, saying, “We ain’t goin’ let nobody turn us around.” 

Slater concluded:

Today the generation that came after that march enjoys – and perhaps sometimes 

takes for granted – the rights that were gained only by the sweat and strain of a 

march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge, along U.S. 80 through heat and rain. 

Highways and bridges, you see, can play a part in our history far beyond the 

dreams of their engineers.
248 

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Tye, Larry, Rising from the Rails: Pullman Porters and the Making of the Black Middle 

Class, Henry Holt and Company, 2004. 

Vlack, John Michael, “Above Ground on the Underground Railroad,” Passages to 

Freedom: The Underground Railroad in History and Memory, Blight, David W., ed., 

Smithsonian Books, 2004. 

Washington, James Melvin, editor, A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and 

Speeches of Martin Luther King, Jr., Harper One, 1991. 

Woodward, C. Vann, The Strange Career of Jim Crow, A Galaxy Book, Oxford 

University Press, 14th Printing, 1965. 

Wright, Richard, 12 Million Black Voices: A Folk History of the Negro in the United 

States, Viking Press, 1941. 
250 

Magazine and Newspaper Articles, plus Miscellaneous

“51 Years of Service,” The News in Public Roads, November 1955, p. 1. 

Arnold, Martin, “Road Facilities to Aid Caravans,” The New York Times, August 28, 

1963. 

Associated Press, “3 Rights Buses are Stoned,” The New York Times, August 29, 1963. 

“AASHO Endorses FHWA Civil Rights Program,” FHWA News, August 19, 1969. 

“Automatic Data Processing Division Installs New, Large Computer,” The News in 

Public Roads, January 1963. 

“Bureau of Roads Aide Retiring After 50 Years,” The Evening Star, November 26, 1955. 

Caldwell, Earl, “Sanitation Strike in Memphis Ends,” The New York Times, April 17, 

1968. 

Caldwell, Earl, “Abernathy Plans a ‘Massive’ March,” The New York Times, April 22, 

1968. 

Caldwell, Earl, “Campaign of Poor Begins in Capital,” The New York Times, April 30, 

1968. 

Caldwell, Earl, “High Court Building Stormed in Demonstration by the Poor,” The New 

York Times, May 30, 1968. 

Caldwell, Earl, “Clark is Besieged by Poor in Capital,” The New York Times, June 4, 

1968. 

“The Colored Man and the League,” Good Roads, April 1894. 

Franklin, Ben A., “Congressmen Bid Poor Restrict Drive,” The New York Times, May 4, 

1968. 

Franklin, Ben A., “5,000 Open Poor People’s Campaign in Washington,” The New York 

Times, March 13, 1968. 

Franklin, Ben A., “’City’ of the Poor Begun in Capital,” The New York Times, May 14, 

1968. 

Franklin, Ben A., “‘Financial Crisis’ Forces a Delay in March of Poor,” The New York 

Times, May 18, 1968. 

Franklin, Ben A., “18 Arrested in Protest by Poor Near Capitol,” The New York Times, 

May 24, 1968. 

Franklin, Ben A., “Rustin Suspends His Role in March,” The New York Times, June 7, 

1968. 

Franklin, Ben A., “Over 50,000 March in Capital in Support of the Poor,” The New York 

Times, June 20, 1968. 

Franklin, Ben A., “Abernathy Gets 20-Day Jail Term; Capital Calmer,” The New York 

Times, June 26, 1968. 

Gifford, Bill, “The Great Black North,” Washington City Paper, October 8, 1993. 

Hallifax, Jackie, “Historians plan reunion for black soldiers who worked on Alaska 

road,” Associated Press, date unknown, but probably September 1990. 

Herbers, John, “Rights Conference Averts Showdown on War Policy,” The New York 

Times, June 3, 1966. 

“Hotels on the Highway,” Ebony, June 1955. 

Johnson, William E., “Minority Business Enterprise Shows 1981 Gains,” FHWA News, 

June 1982. 
251 

Jones, Theodore, “Tired New Yorkers Head Home Full of Praise for Capital Rally,” The 

New York Times, August 29, 1963. 

Kelly, Fred C., “The Great Bicycle Craze,” American Heritage, December 1956. 

Kenworthy, E. W., “Senator, 70 to 30, Invokes Closure on Voting Rights,” The New York 

Times, May 26, 1965. 

Kenworthy, E. W., “Democratic Bill on Voting Passed by House, 333-85,” The New York 

Times, July 10, 1965. 

Kenworthy, E. W., “Johnson Signs Voting Rights Bill, Orders Immediate Enforcement; 4 

Suits will Challenge Poll Tax,” The New York Times, August 7, 1965. 

Kiely, Kathy, and Stumpe, Joe, “Slater Takes High Road All the Way to the Top,” 

Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, February 9, 1997. 

Lindo, Tresha, “Troops re-united for highway’s 50th anniversary,” The Famuan, January 

13, 1992. 

Loftus, Joseph A., “Delays are few and Short-Lived,” The New York Times, August 29, 

1963. 

LoLordo, Ann, “Black GIs helped carved a road across frozen hell,” The Baltimore Sun, 

July 4, 1992. 

“Marcher From Alabama,” The New York Times, August 29, 1963. 

“Marchers Sing and Voice Hope on Way to Washington Rally,” The New York Times, 

August 29, 1963. 

Martin, D. G., “Our Governors – How Quickly We Forget,” Chatham Journal, June 20, 

1005 

Mohl, Raymond A., The Interstate and the Cities: Highways, Housing, and the Freeway 

Revolt, Poverty and Race Research Action Council, 2002. 

Olsenius, Richard, “Alaska Highway – Wilderness Escape Route,” National Geographic, 

November 1991. 

Powledge, Fred, “Alabamians Gay on Bus Journey,” The New York Times, August 28, 

1963. 

Rasmussen, Frederick N., “Racial bias revealed along U.S. 40 in 1961,” The Baltimore 

Sun, October 8, 2005. 

Reed, Roy, “Meredith Begins Mississippi Walk to Combat Fear,” The New York Times, 

June 6, 1966. 

Robertson, Nan, “President to Sign Voting Bill Today,” The New York Times, August 6, 

1965. 

Schuyler, George S., “Traveling Jim Crow,” The American Mercury, August 1930. 

“Throng Gets Quick Start” and “3 Youths Stone Marchers’ Bus,” The Evening Star, 

August 28, 1963. 

“Voting Right Bill Sent to Johnson,” The New York Times, August 5, 1965.. 

Weingroff, Richard F., “The Genie in the Bottle,” Public Roads, September/October 

2000. 

Woodard, C. Vann, “The Birth of Jim Crow,” American Heritage, April 1964. 

Government Publications

America’s Highways 1776-1976, Federal Highway Administration, 1976. 

Annual Report of the Federal Works Agency, 1944. 

Interregional Highways, House Document No. 379, 78th Congress, 2d Session, 
252 

Government Printing Office, 1944. 

Toll Roads and Free Roads, House Document No. 272, 76th congress, 1st Session, 

Government Printing Office, 1939. 

To Secure These Rights: The Report of The President’s Committee on Civil Rights, 

Government Printing Office, 1947.