For most of the local black participants, the workshop might have seemed anti-climatic after a week of soul-stirring mass meetings. But I soon realized that these working sessions were the nuts and bolts of the movement. Here were the people who went out and did the actual work. The meeting began with a brief prayer and a welcome by Reverend Abernathy. Then the congregation divided into smaller groups which went to various rooms of the church or corners of the sanctuary to discuss voter registration, direct action, fund raising, and other subjects. Each session was led by an experienced person. We five Huntingdon students had a brief discussion on which workshops we would attend. We all wanted to go to the direct action session, but we decided to split up and go to different ones, so we could report their contents to each other.
The others deferred to my desire to go to the session on direct action. There I met, for the first time, some of the SNCC people. Strangely, I don’t remember who they all were, though they made such an impression on me. I had known church people strong in the faith, but until then I had never seen such dedicated soldiers. It was clear that they did not fear death. This gave them an aura of invincibility and a charisma I had never experienced. SNCC kids were powerful. I was so new and naive, and the day was so exciting. When the Freedom Riders came to Montgomery the following spring, in May 1961, and were brutally beaten by a KKK-led mob, I visited the wounded at St. Jude Hospital. I had the definite impression that I had met some of them before at the workshops, including Jim Zwerg and Bernard Lafayette. I know John Lewis was there—the John Lewis who two decades later became a Georgia congressman.
After the morning session, the ladies of the church furnished an incredible dinner (lunch is called dinner in the South and dinner is called supper) and as we ate we compared notes on the morning sessions and talked with the movement people. I don’t know who was more interested in whom—the black students in us young white Southerners, or we in them. Of course the white students from Nashville, like Susan Wilbur, her sister, and others from Scarritt College and Vanderbilt, had been working all along with the black movement and had participated in the sit-ins and nonviolence training. We were delighted to meet some of the characters we had seen on the front pages of our papers and on television—the same students who had dressed themselves neatly in suits and trench coats and gone to sit quietly at lunch counters, reading their books, waiting to be served.
Following the afternoon sessions, the closing plenary turned out to be an inspired worship service with a sermon preached by Dr. King. I welcomed the worship service, relieved that we could truthfully say we had been to church. I learned that church services had historically been used in the black community to facilitate, and sometimes to mask, political activity. The reality that political work was being accomplished in our workshop did nothing to diminish the spiritual dimension. It strengthened the spirit of the occasion, especially for the five of us, having been affected in one way or another by the same social gospel that had nurtured Dr. King. His sermon was particularly inspiring because I realized that this assemblage, here in Montgomery, was part of the heart and the guts of the burgeoning civil rights movement.
This was where it had all started and these were the organizers who had carried out the daily slogging struggle of the bus boycott and the sit-ins. E. D. Nixon, the fearless leader of the local movement before King assumed the role, was present, as was Mrs. Rosa Parks, the gentle soul made of granite, who had helped to ignite the movement in the first place. We were introduced to these great people. We had previously been unaware of them, and even as we were introduced, we didn’t know that these were the quiet ones who would live in legend.
I looked at Townsend floating through this, four hundred pounds of him, and then at the face of Joe Thomas. I didn’t know this experience would shape Joe’s life in the ministry, taking him to far places in the world, and then out of the ministry. I thought of John Hill and Bill Head, realizing that if they never did anything else in the movement, this day would remain with them. We were sky high, and Martin Luther King was soaring to one of his exuberant rhetorical climaxes which would become familiar to the whole world at the March on Washington three years later.
Suddenly Reverend Abernathy approached our little group, motioning for us to follow him. Huddling with us in a small room behind the pulpit, Abernathy explained quickly that the police had the church surrounded and were threatening to come inside and arrest the “white trouble makers” from Huntingdon. We heard the roar as King finished his sermon. Then King was there, his face glistening, concern in his voice. He was breathing in gulps from the exertion of speaking or from anxiety for what was about to happen. “What’s the story?” Dr. King inquired. “What’s happening, Ralph?”
“The authorities are all excited about Zellner and the students being here; I think they may barge in here and try to arrest them. If they do, I’m afraid our Montgomery people are going to lie down in their path, then we’ll have lots of people in jail, and I don’t know what we’ll do with them.”
King grinned and put his hand on Abernathy’s shoulder. “Relax, Ralph, I don’t think that’s going to happen; if it does, maybe it’s not so bad an idea. We haven’t given this Montgomery power structure a good licking for a while now.” King turned to me with a faint smile, “Are you all prepared to go to jail?”
“Well, Dr. King,” I said, “you remember we talked about this before when we first discussed coming to these meetings.”
“I remember,” he said.
“Okay, Dr. King,” I said, “we said we were willing to be arrested because we felt we had every legal and moral right to attend any meeting of our choice, but that we did not want to court arrest. We did not intend to ‘demonstrate.’ We were doing research for our paper. Well, we’ve talked it over and we are willing to be arrested if it comes to that, but I feel that we owe it to our parents and the school to make an attempt to escape.”
The others had been quiet, leaving the talking to Abernathy, King, and me. Now Townsend said, “Look, if we make an effort to get away, and they arrest us, then it’ll be their fault. If we walk out the front door with you, Dr. King, then it will look like we want to be arrested. It’ll look like one of those demonstrations.”
Joe looked at Abernathy and asked plaintively, “What about using the back door?”
Abernathy said quickly. “I’ve got an idea. Martin, you go up front with what’s left of the congregation. Take the SNCC people and go out the front door. When you do, I’ll let Zellner and them go out the back. The cops are back there, but at least these students will be able to say they tried to avoid a confrontation.”
“All right, Ralph,” King said, “but be sure to give them Attorney Gray’s number so they can call him from the jail.”
King looked at us and smiled, “It’s been great having you. I think this is more than a research paper for you, so if and when they get you, we’ll be right down to bail you out. This should be a great test case. Welcome to the movement.”
Dr. King started for the front of the church while we stared morosely at the back door. Reverend Abernathy seemed to be counting slowly to himself. There was a sudden sound of movement outside the door, and I thought, “What the hell—here goes nothing.” Abernathy opened the back door and we looked up a short flight of steps leading to the sidewalk to see the retreating backs of three city cops.
“Go!” Abernathy said in a stage whisper, while we hurried up the steps. The coast was momentarily clear. A mob of cops, feds, and reporters converged on the front door, so we knew that King had just stepped outside. The cops expected us to come out behind him.
We turned left and walked slowly down the sidewalk, feeling that every eye in the world was staring at our exposed backs. But we had allies. People from the church would drive by and whisper, “Go one more block straight ahead; there’s no cops there.” Then another car, and someone would say, “Turn right at the next block.” They kept us apprised of the moves of the police.
We couldn’t believe we were getting away with it! Then someone remembered we had parked across the street from the church.
“Man, we are screwed!” Bill Head said.
“Hold on,” I said, “They haven’t caught us yet; they must think we’re still in the church. We only have to walk in a square until we get to the car on the other side of the street. We can check out the action at the church, get in the car, and quietly leave. We’ll be coming from the other direction!”
It was easy. We simply walked in a big square, arrived at the car across from the church, looked at the crowd, got in and drove away.
Back at campus, we used different doors into the dining hall, and sat in different parts of the room. About five minutes into dinner, I saw Dean of Men Charles H. Owens III dart into the hall, peering in all directions. I watched while he picked out Townsend. Then he scanned for Joe Thomas, Bill Head, then John Hill. Finally his eyes locked on mine.
Owens walked straight towards me. Dean of Students Charles Turner was also zeroing in on me. Dean Owens puffed up to my table. His harried look, eyes bulging and face red with anger, startled the students at my table, as he practically shouted, “Meet me in Dr. Searcy’s office in forty minutes.”
Dean Turner—“the Silver Fox,” students called him—fairly purred into Owens’s flushed face, “Have you told the others yet?”
“No,” hissed Owens, “but they are all here. I’m going to corral them now.”
I had worried the others might bolt at this powerful display of administrative might, but they held their ground as Dean Owens stopped and spoke briefly to each.
When the brass left the hall, we hurried to gather near the exit. Everyone else in the dining hall, by now, wondered what was afoot in our quiet, peaceful old college.
A short time later, we trudged single file into Dr. Searcy’s office. I was exhilarated until despair gained the upper hand. I realized that the entire college administration—President Hubert Searcy, academic deans Stone, Turner, and Owens, Dean of Women Julia Harper, even Librarian Glenn Massengale, and a few others—was crowded into the president’s office.
Dean Turner indicated five chairs clustered at the end of the table and we took our seats. Dr. Searcy sat at the other end of the long table, facing us; administrators lined each side. They all stared at us. What followed was like a movie interrogation by a totalitarian dictator and his gang.
Searcy started in on us, his face beet red. He told us we were in big trouble and suggested that we would have been in jail if school officials hadn’t intervened. He demanded to know why we went to the church, what we were thinking, how we got away. He had decided I was the instigator and turned to me. “What on earth is happening here, Zellner? Can you please explain it to me?”
The president of our college screamed, practically choking on the words, “Who gave you the right, young Mr. Zellner, to take our students to an integrated meeting and breach the law in Montgomery, Alabama?”
“You did,” I said, “in a way.” He turned purple. “We went to the meeting for an assignment in Sociology 402. That’s Race Relations 402,” I reminded him. “Actually I said ‘you’ to mean Huntingdon College collectively and our teacher Dr. Arlie B. Davidson specifically. We talked to Dr. Davidson about going to the meeting and . . .”
“Dr. Davidson said you could go to the meeting?!” asked President Searcy, practically apoplectic by now.
“Well, not exactly,” I said. “He ‘suggested’ we not go because of the likelihood of our being arrested.” I eased up on Dr. Davidson because he could lose his job over this.
“Go on,” Searcy said impatiently. “If I didn’t tell you that you could go, and Davidson didn’t tell you that you could go, then who said you could go?”
He paused to glare at Owens and whisper hoarsely, “Go to his house and tell Arlie B. to come here immediately.”
“Where were we?” Searcy asked, looking like a man who was slowly losing control without understanding why.
“It all started,” I said, “with a discussion of vertical and horizontal integration.” Townsend and the others perked up when I mentioned horizontal integration.
I told Searcy that Dr. Davidson had said vertical integration such as standing in a hall talking to Negroes was all right. Apparently, as long as you didn’t sit down there was no breach of the segregation law. The professor, I told him, said please don’t cause trouble by going to an integrated meeting.
“Why’d you go then?” Searcy asked.
“Because,” I said, “we explained to Davidson that scholars from all over the world journeyed to Montgomery to study the budding civil rights movement. We felt we wouldn’t have a decent intellectual product if we failed to investigate the local situation, especially since the bus boycott was right here in our backyard and many of the principals were still here.”
I could not be sure that Searcy was taking in all that I said. The most he could manage was, “What was that you said about ‘horizontal integration’?”
“Oh that,” I said. “That’s when you integrate horizontally, lying down, you know, like in bed. That’s why, I guess, we have so many different shades of Negroes here in Montgomery—that’s what our professor called ‘horizontal integration.’ I’m still puzzled, though, Dr. Searcy, why the in-between kind of integration causes so much trouble. Why does the simple act of sitting down with a Negro, with or without food and drink, cause so much consternation in Montgomery? We have a lot to learn in this sociology class, Mr. President.”
Searcy exploded, “That’s quite enough, Mr. Zellner. Thank you for your levity.” My compatriots next to me on the dunce seats shook with silent mirth, but Dr. Searcy went on sternly. “What you boys did was very serious, and if you do that again, you will be arrested, the law says, and there’ll be nothing we can do for you. Therefore I am immediately restricting each of you to this campus until you resign from this school which I am requesting you to do now. From this time until you resign and are gone, you are not to leave this campus for any purpose whatsoever unless you have written permission to do so or are accompanied by me or one of the other members of the administration.”
There it was. They planned to get rid of us.
With that on the table, the meeting turned into a spirited debate about due process and free speech and why these didn’t apply on a private school campus. But Bill Head got everyone’s attention when he mentioned the American Association of University Professors.
“What’s that you’re saying about the professors, Mr. Head?” Dr. Searcy asked sarcastically. “Since you’re supposed to be the smartest student here at Huntingdon College, I guess we can’t be spared the benefit of your wisdom.” Several of the more prescient administrators tried to head the president off.
When the hubbub began to die down, Head said quietly, “I just suggested that the American Association of University Professors might be interested in five top students being expelled for carrying out a school assignment.”
“Also,” I said without missing a beat, “the publicity alone, if we file a complaint, could be very critical for the school.”
“Wait just a doggone minute,” President Searcy pleaded, “I didn’t say you were expelled! I just said you should resign for your own good and the good of the school. That’s all—if you don’t believe me, I’ll have Jan read back that part,” looking to Jan Gregory, who was busy taking shorthand notes.
I hadn’t realized the meeting was being recorded, but I told Dr. Searcy I was delighted there would be a record of the meeting, because I wanted to make a statement. I was sure the others would also.
“Wait a minute, hold on there. The only statement that will be needed is the one I’m about to make. . .”
Searcy did everything but pound his chest as he said, “The Association of American Professors doesn’t mean do-do on this campus. Anyway, this is my ultimatum to you boys. While you remain on campus you are not to have contact with Negroes publicly, privately, directly or indirectly. You are forthwith restricted to campus until further notice. That’s all, class dismissed, no more need be said, end of discussion, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye. This meeting is over!”
Nobody moved while Searcy tried to gather up his papers.
Thinking of the record, I took a deep breath and said, “Dr. Searcy, before we go, I need to get something straight.”
“Bob, I said this meeting is over. Please listen to me. In the name of all that is decent, are you all completely out of control?”
“Yes,” I said, “we are beginning to be out of control. We’ve been under control much too long now, certainly as far as this subject of race is concerned.”
“Race! I didn’t say anything about race!”
“Now, Dr. Searcy,” I insisted gently, “You are telling us we have no First Amendment rights. What you are saying to us five is that we cannot, in Montgomery, Alabama, at Huntingdon College in 1960, avail ourselves of the most basic rights guaranteed to citizens of the United States—the rights of assembly, freedom of speech, and religion. According to you we can’t practice any of our civil rights or liberties—including academic freedom?”
“Right, you can’t do that and remain a student at Huntingdon College,” Searcy stated finally. “Are you that naive, Mr. Zellner? Don’t you realize how you all have embarrassed this institution? We’ve managed to keep a low profile in all this mess, and now you boys go and do this to us. You have no idea what danger you were in—what danger you are in now. Do you think the Klan will hesitate to march on this campus and get you, especially you, Mr. Zellner? We don’t know if we can protect you on this campus, much less off it. I’ve tried to keep from saying this, but your lives are in danger. The newspapers have already gotten hold of this and they are asking me for a statement of school policy regarding you boys. What am I to tell them?”
John Hill, the youngest of the five now spoke up, “Dr. Searcy, Professor Davidson already tried that one on us. He said if we had a meeting with any colored people, and the Klan found out, then we might be beaten up and charged with disturbing the peace. The threat of violence is no reason to give up one’s civil liberties. If that was the case, Dr. Searcy, we would never have won these liberties in the first place.”
“Don’t be naive, John,” Dr. Searcy said. “That’s just stuff you read in books. It doesn’t work like that out here in the real world. Now you’ve stirred up a real big-time hornet’s nest here, and I’m the one dealing with the buzzing bees!”
When I arrived at church in the Chisholm community the next morning, I found out that Dr. Searcy had given a statement to the newspapers. The little cotton mill community of Chisholm was a Klan stronghold on the north side of Montgomery—not the kind of place you want to be greeted with a cheerful, “I see you made the paper this morning.” The Methodist church in Chisholm was pastored by the Reverend Floyd Enfinger, an old friend of Daddy’s, and I worked my way through college by helping at Floyd’s church. I was the choir director, the Sunday soloist, youth director, and all-round janitor and yard man.
I didn’t know the extent of the damage until Reverend Enfinger handed me the Sunday Montgomery Advertiser-Alabama Journal and I saw the headline: “Huntingdon Students Asked to Leave School.”
The paper quoted Dr. Searcy saying the five students were trouble-makers. We were hoodlums who were not representative of Huntingdon College. The paper said the five of us were observed attending a nonviolent workshop held at Reverend Abernathy’s church, and that Reverend Abernathy and Dr. Martin Luther King had helped us escape a cordon of police trying to arrest us for violating the segregation laws and causing a disturbance of the peace. Dean Charles Turner had obviously opened his files to the press because the paper listed every infraction any of us had ever committed. We had thrown water balloons from Massey Dorm aimed at pedestrians. We had engaged in fire extinguisher fights. Townsend signed a false name checking out a book, “T. Elbridge,” and we had all killed rats at the city dump.
On the way to breakfast Monday morning I passed a burned cross on the green, a large expanse of lawn and trees in the center of campus. I was surprised to see it and wondered what or who it was for. I didn’t connect the hideous symbol with myself at all.
I was soon joined by Townsend, who told me there were three other crosses outside the dorm. “Are you happy now?” he said.
“Happy about what?”
“They’re meant for you, you know.”
“Why just for me? There’s five of us involved, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Townsend said bitterly as we continued across the green toward the dining hall. “Bob, everybody is blaming you. They say you put us up to it and Thomas implied that Dean Turner hinted you called the press so it would be a big story.”
I told Townsend I was crushed that he and the others would fall for such divide-and-rule tactics, especially without even talking to me about it. We hushed when we joined the line picking up breakfast trays; everybody had stopped talking to listen to us. I guess we were the number one topic of discussion anyway.
Townsend and I found our way to the table where Joe Thomas, Bill Head, and John Hill sat. They were sticking together, they told us, since hearing that some of the basketball team were planning to beat them up. Joe, the smallest of the five of us, looked at Townsend sadly and said, “You and Bob don’t have anything to worry about. Nobody in his right mind would mess with either of you.”
Townsend exploded, “Who has threatened you, Joe? I’ll just go right now and break every bone in his body.” Tee was big on breaking every single bone.
“Hold on, Townsend,” Joe said, “nobody has actually threatened me. We just heard there were threats.”
I put my hand on Tee’s shoulder, “Yes, and Townsend, what about nonviolence? Aren’t we trying to be nonviolent? You know, in the spirit of the movement?”
“It’s okay for a demonstration,” Townsend shot back, “But, Bob, these Mississippi plowboys don’t play no nonviolence. It’d be wasted on them. I’m going to tell Doc and Henry Marcus and the rest of that yahoo bunch that if Joe so much as slips down and hurts himself, I’m holding them responsible.”
The strain was showing. Since the mass meetings, the workshop on Saturday, and the newspaper articles, events were piling up.
The night after our breakfast meeting, I was settling in for some much-neglected study, when George Waldron from next door ran into my room out of breath. Waldron, a nephew of grocery tycoon Alfred Delchamps, the Huntingdon board chairman, spoke rapidly, “The Klan is gathering down at the corner. They’re burning a big cross and Townsend thinks they’re going to come on to the campus to get you.”
Thinking he was kidding, I said, “Who told you this? Where is Townsend? I thought he was at the library.”
“He was,” George gasped, “but, he’s coming up the stairs now with Thomas and John Hill. Nobody knows where Head is.”
The door burst open. Joe and John propelled Townsend into the room. They had helped him run up the stairs. Tee had a wild look in his eyes, “Don’t you think you’d better hide someplace?”
“I’m not going to hide,” I said. “There’s nothing to hide from. These are just rumors. I think you guys are panicking over nothing. What have you heard exactly, what’s this about Head being missing?”
“Bob,” Thomas said solemnly, “these are not rumors. They shouted into the library that a cross was burning down the street from campus. We ran to the front arch and looked down Fairview Avenue. There’s a hell of a big fire down there, and noise from what looks like a lot of people.”
Just then a strange and wonderful thing happened. We looked up to see a small crowd gathering around our door. When Townsend saw John Ed Mathison and big Henry Marcus from the basketball team, he said under his breath, “Oh, hell!”
John Ed looked in and said, “Zellner, can we come in?”
“Yeah, John Ed, y’all come in,” I said.
“Bob, they’re burning a thirty-eight-foot cross down there on the corner of Court Street, and there’s talk of coming on campus to get you.”
“How do you feel about that, John Ed?” I asked.
“Well,” John Ed drawled, looking at Marcus and the other jocks, “the way we feel about it is that you are a first class son-of-a-bitch, but you’re our son-of-a-bitch and no two-bit bunch of Klansmen from off this campus is going to lay a hand on you.”
Townsend breathed a sigh of relief, and I joined Thomas and Hill in a big cheer. We were far too gallant to ask these newfound friends how they knew the cross was exactly thirty-eight feet tall.