On Friday night, Curry and Paul picked up people from the countryside and brought them to the courthouse green, and families with their own trucks and cars drove themselves. It had to be intimidating, I thought, driving into the lily-white county seat of Carlisle, but they did it. Word had gotten out, and soon we had a group of about fifty people that swelled slowly to a hundred, maybe more, and my excitement grew along with the crowd. I felt so proud of them all for coming, and so proud of us for making it happen.
Rosemary, Jocelyn, and I gave out the protest signs, but many of the people brought their own handmade signs and they seemed to know exactly what to do. We all walked in a huge circle on the courthouse green, chanting, “Open the doors; give us the vote!” Greg held a microphone attached to a finicky speaker to talk about equality and nonviolence and with every other sentence, more people joined the line of protesters.
I’d spent the afternoon canvassing with Win, but I’d spent the morning crying at Miss Georgia’s kitchen table. I was still stinging from my father’s visit. Miss Georgia said she saw the look in his eyes before I left the cafeteria with him and she knew he was going to try to take me home.
“You got to think what this is costin’ you, honey,” she said. “It’s somethin’ my people learned early on. We learned to weigh and measure the cost of everything. You got to decide what’s worth fightin’ for. When your daddy left alone, I knew you’d made your choice. I was proud of you. But it’s a decision you’ll have to make over and over again, not just once, and nobody’s gonna blame you if you change your mind.”
I thought about her words now as I marched around the courthouse green, snapping pictures with my camera and shouting for voting rights. What I was fighting for had changed in a few weeks’ time. I’d joined SCOPE to honor Aunt Carol’s memory as well as to ease my guilt over what happened with Mattie. Now my reasons were a whole lot bigger than just myself, and as I watched so many determined people walking around the courthouse green—some of the folks familiar from my canvassing, some of them strangers to me—my heart felt full.
A few people shouted ugly things from cars as they passed by, and a couple of hecklers paced on the sidewalk without saying a word. I found their behavior even more disturbing, but did my best to tune them out.
Greg talked about the importance of SCOPE being in Derby County and how we’d let everyone know the second the voting rights bill was signed. We’d pick them up and drive them to the courthouse, and we’d stand in line with them in solidarity, and we’d celebrate with them when they were handed their registration card. I felt happy and excited and anticipatory.
As dusk started to fall, we made a huge circle in the courtyard. Curry turned on a spotlight, but the moon was full and I could see everyone’s face nearly as clear as day. We laid down our signs and held hands as we began to sing. I stood between little DeeDee and Ben. The children in the circle knew the words to many of the songs. A few nights ago, I’d taught DeeDee and Ben the couple of songs unfamiliar to them, so that on this night, their high voices rang out loud on either side of me, touching me, making me smile with the joy I always felt in a song circle.
But the darkness seemed to give the hecklers courage. More came, as if word had spread about the protest. Although I kept my focus on our song circle, I felt the energy mounting in the street and on the sidewalk.
“Which one is the Round Hill girl?” someone shouted.
“Hey, Blondie!”
I knew they were shouting at me. I was the only blond in the courtyard. My palms started to sweat. Would they turn their shouts into action? I thought of Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner.
I spotted a couple of policemen on the sidewalk, each with a hand wrapped around the billy club at his waist, and I hoped they were eyeing the hecklers and not us. You never could tell. We kept singing. Just kept right on going. But I was scared, for myself and for the people we’d encouraged to join us here. I wanted to escape, but there was nowhere to go. I thought of the protest on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill. How we stood our ground. I clutched DeeDee and Ben’s hands. Along with everyone else, they were singing “I Love Everybody” at the top of their lungs.
An object suddenly whizzed past my head. I heard a yelp from somewhere in the circle. Then another. Then a rock broke the front window of the courthouse. The sons of bitches in the street were throwing things at us! Bottles. Rocks. Stones from the gutter. Whatever they could get their hands on, they threw. People in the circle stopped singing, let go of one another’s hands, covered their heads, and the circle turned into a sea of confusion, with people running this way and that, shouting, panicked, and I thought, Guns. What if someone has a gun? Still clutching DeeDee and Ben’s hands, I went rigid, as if I could make my skin tough enough to fight off a bullet.
“Hey Blondie,” someone shouted. “Look over here!” Like a fool, I turned to look. Something whizzed past me, and DeeDee suddenly let out a scream. I looked down to see blood running over the front of her ruffled white blouse and she pressed her hand to her cheek. I let go of Ben.
“Let me see, DeeDee!” I shouted, bending close to her. “What happened?”
She was sobbing. Miss Georgia grabbed her to examine her face. There was a deep gash on her cheek below her eye, gushing blood. Completely on impulse I pulled my white sleeveless top over my head and pressed it to the little girl’s cheek to try to stop the bleeding.
“Oh, sweetie,” I said above the din. “I’m so sorry!” I heard the wolf whistles. Turned my back to the street as I continued pressing my bloody shirt to DeeDee’s cheek.
“Here, put this on.” I turned to see Win next to me in his undershirt, holding the green shirt he’d been wearing out to me. Miss Georgia took over pressing my bloody white shell to DeeDee’s cheek and I slipped into Win’s shirt, only taking the time to fasten two of the buttons.
I looked at Win. “We need to get her to the hospital,” I said.
“Leland ran to get the truck,” Miss Georgia said. She looked out at the street. It was too dark now to see how many people were out there but the bottles and missiles and shouting seemed to have stopped, or at least slowed down, and our group was dispersing, some of the people running, others calm, and a few holding steadfast with Greg, who stood by the courthouse steps singing “We Shall Overcome” over and over in his deep and steady bass. “Don’t know how we gonna find him in this mess.” Miss Georgia looked worriedly toward the street.
“Which way did you park?” Win asked, and she pointed to the right.
“Not more than a block,” she said.
Win looked at me. “You don’t see him in a few minutes, come find me.”
We waited, huddled together, DeeDee crying in her mother’s arms, Ben holding my hand, leaning against my leg. I glanced toward the street where darkness had descended in the last few moments, and the white men, as best as I could see, had evaporated into the night. The few people who remained in the courtyard stood close to Greg, singing with him, and the words to “We Shall Overcome” filled this little patch of downtown Carlisle. I wasn’t singing. I wasn’t listening. At that moment, I was only thinking about DeeDee, hit by the rock that I knew had been meant for me.