After you're finished your tour of the Web Site, you might wish to read these trip reflections by the students and faculty.

• Introduction to Reflections read

  At the top of this page of our web presentation about this trip, a brief introduction appears. It is true that on April 15, 2001, 36 Lincoln-Sudbury students and four teachers traveled to the "Deep South," to follow the trail of the Civil Rights Movement, and to explore a world beyond their own.

  To this must be added a myriad of personal motivations. Just why do students choose to go on a school-sponsored trip during one of their vacations? To be sure, there were students who had developed a strong academic interest in the Civil Rights Movement. More than half the trip participants had studied the subject, and the trip may have seemed to them a natural extension of their course of study. But there were also girlfriends who wanted to be with boyfriends (and vice versa). There were restless youth who perhaps wanted a brief vacation from parents. Take me- anywhere! There were those--perhaps all--who were also hoping for adventure, for excitement, for a chance at encountering the unexpected.

  Beyond the history of the Civil Rights Movement, we found some of all of these things, but we also found passion and pathos, emotions still warm, and people so real you could just reach out and touch them. Or be touched by them. We ended up traveling not only in pursuit of history, but through the history actually being made as we traveled. As our bus rolled, old confederate-inspired state flags were being challenged and juries were being selected in a continuing effort to make just an unresolved past. The trip was a powerful experience for most of us, adults included. But the nature of that power, even now, is elusive and hard to articulate. Layers were laid down. I'm not certain any of us have gotten to the bottom of it all yet.

  Upon our return, there was no transition period back to regular life as we had known it. Lincoln-Sudbury demanded our instant attention. We flew back on a Sunday, and the next day school resumed. For teachers, there were classes to teach; for students, papers to write and tests to take. How quickly even powerful experiences can seem to evaporate in the non-stop flow of our lives. Oh, the South? Hey, that was last week.

  The web site, the photographs, the music, the brief comments on each page, the longer pieces of reflection which some students prepared, and the documentary film which will soon be created--all these turn out to be acts of resistance against forgetting, and a grand collective effort at remembrance. Together, they say, as if in unison, "Once upon a time in April, 2001, we took a trip together, and during that journey, there were moments that seemed very important."

  Here is some of what we remember.

  Bill Schechter

• Deep South Trip Reflections by Nicole Angueira read

  A trip to the south that seems like an odd place to take a group of high school teenagers during their April Vacation. Still, everyday walking through the hallways at school, the bright yellow flyers advertising such a voyage never failed to catch my eye. Eventually, I stopped to read. In a nutshell, the flyer read, screw Europe and travel your own country. We had just finished studying the Civil Rights Movement in class, and frankly, I was sick of hearing about the states most thoroughly involved in the movement. Furthermore, I had no desire to visit such states during my vacation. Lucky for me, a few friends persuaded me to inquire about the in famous south trip. After I gathered all the necessary information, there was only one thing that stood in between me and Dixieland...my parents.

  I will never forget the day I came home from school and asked my parents if I could go to the Deep South on the school trip. My dads response, Why would you want to go there? Sparked a greater desire for me to be a part of the journey (it must have been that teen rebel thing showing up again!). After a few days of my mom and dad discussing the idea, they reluctantly decided to let me go. My dad, who grew up in a Puerto Rican neighborhood in the South Bronx, is not exactly the most open-minded person I know, and I understood his reluctant attitude towards the trip. Lucky for me, however, he put his own beliefs aside and paid the money so I could go. From then on, there was not a day that went by that I did not think about the upcoming trip.

  As departing day quickly approached, I had mixed feelings about the trip. Overall, I was excited, but I felt a bit nervous about traveling to a greatly different culture and also a bit sad that I was not going to be home for my last April Vacation with my friends. Yet, I was still anxious for April 15th to arrive, and finally, it did.

  We met at school on Easter Sunday at 2:15 in the afternoon. At this point I could not wait to escape the boring town of Sudbury and finally experience something new and different. As I boarded the bus with my friends, I somehow knew that there was no way that I would return from the trip the exact same person I was leaving as. Excitement overwhelmed me as we drove away from the school.

  My first impressions of the south came relatively soon after we landed inMemphis. A few friends and I decided to get a meal at Chilis. We ordered our food and patiently waited for it to arrive. We waited, and we waited; we waited some more, and then after we were done waiting, we waited even longer! No longer were we among the uptight, demanding, time-crunched people of the north,but among the laid back, easy going, good-natured people of the south.

  The next morning, we arose early and drove to the Lorraine Motel, the site of Dr.Martin Luther King Jr.s assassination. The motel was gutted, except for two rooms, and transformed into the most amazing Civil Rights Museum. As I walked through, the words of our tour guide captivated me. Sometimes, when studying history, I find it difficult to associate myself with the people of the specific time period I am currently studying. Being in this museum made me feel like I was a Civil Rights Worker, fighting for my rights,as well as the rights of thousands of others. The end of the tour showed the two un-gutted rooms of the motel. One was the room that Dr. Martin Luther King usually stayed in while visiting Memphis; the other room was the room that MLKhad stayed in on his last visit to the motel. The latter room has been kept in perfect condition, exactly how MLK left it before he was killed. As I peered through the Plexiglas, chills ran up and down my spine. The idea that a man so heroic and famous in my mind stood in the very place I was standing and died in a spot I was merely ten feet from was shocking to my soul.

  Luckily,after the emotional trip to the Lorraine Motel, we were off to Graceland. That was an experience within itself! First, we went to the mansion. It is absolutely beautiful. When you first drive up, it does not look big at all from the outside and then you go inside and it is absolutely enormous. They give you a Walkman, and you go on a personal tour of the house. After studying the influence that he had on rock and roll and theAmerican population as a whole, it was incredible to see many of his great achievements, such as his gold and platinum albums displayed with such high honor. We also saw his private jet, the Lisa Marie. I would have loved to travel to Tennessee on that!!!

  The next day we traveled to Clarksdale, Mississippi, œthe place where the blues were born. We went to a Blues Museum where we learned about the history of the blues, listened to various blues musicians and saw paintings, guitars and other memorabilia from famous blues artists. Before we attended this museum, I knew almost nothing about the age of Blues but reflecting back on the experience now, I realize that I learned more than I can imagine during the limited time we were there. The woman who spoke to us was authentic and captivating. For me, she really brought the blues home. Then we went to a place called a juke joint. It is a place where people go to hang out,listen to music, have a good time basically one big party.

  After the blues, we went to a place called Hopson Plantation. It is not in working condition now, but all the old buildings and houses are there. For me, it was shocking to see the slaves shacks. Imagining that an entire family lived in those tiny houses is truly amazing. The man who owns the plantation is a professional junk collector and inside one of the main buildings there is tons of the most random stuff on the walls. It did get a little scary though because there were confederate flags everywhere. At one point I had to use the bathroom, so I went and there were pictures all over the wall. There was one picture of the man who owns the plantation in a Ku Klux Klan outfit. It was very strange to see something like that.

  Next,we drove to a small town called Mound Bayou. The town was built and is currently run by black members of the community. I think it is astonishing that through the struggles that the black population endured during slavery and after, they were still able to build their own home and maintain it for over one hundred years. While we were there,the mayor of the town spoke to us. He gave us the entire history of the town and it was surprisingly interesting. When we first arrived, it was unclear to me why Mound Bayou was a significant place, but within ten minutes of hearing theMayor speak, the reasons became quite clear to me. Sitting inside the city hall, I could feel the strength and pride of the people who lived there permeating the walls. The next part of our voyage was the reason I enjoyed my week in the south so much. We met with a man named Hollis Watkins. He was one of the original freedom singers from the Civil Rights Movement. He was an incredible speaker. He described his experiences at the demonstrations during the movement and how they personally affected him. Before we even got off the bus, I did not really want to goI wa hungry, tired and not looking forward to another lecture. As we walked in and sat around in the tight-knit circle of chairs Mr. Watkins had set out for us, I had a feeling inside my stomach that this talk would be different. Immediately after he started speaking, I knew that feeling would hold accurate. He started by telling us his personal history and about the many demonstrations he attended. Then, he made us all stand up and for about forty-five minutes, while we sang freedom songs, holding hands. It was one of the most intense feelings I have ever had in my life. Standing there with some of my best friends, sharing something so special and so significant sent chills down my spine. I loved every minute of the two hours we were there, and it was well worth getting off the bus for! After all this history stuff we had been exposed to, it was time for a little fun! We went to New Orleans!!! I have never been in such a fun city. I am officially jealous of everyone who goes and is going to school down there. Anyway, we had an awesome time. We ate in French cafes and shopped for about four hours in the tiny shops on the side streets. Such atypical girl way to spend the afternoon!!!

  The next three days of the trip were my favorite (aside from Hollis Watkins). We went to Philadelphia, Mississippi, where three civil rights workers were pulled off the road, brutally beaten and murdered. We spoke to the man who was the editor of the newspaper at that time. Never in my life have I been so intrigued by someone who spoke so slowly. He told us his personally story and understanding of what happened and how the community reacted and responded. Later in that same day, we went to Meridian, Mississippi to visit the grave of James Chaney, one of the workers who were killed. A man spoke to us at Chaneys gravesite, and while he was talking, it was the first time during the trip that I felt the need to kneel down and say a prayer.

  The next day, we were in Selma, Alabama. First, we walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge. As I watched our group walk in two lines, side-by-side,I could not even begin to imagine the horror that had occurred there not even forty years ago. I began to question myself as a person, wondering if I had lived during that time, would I have the strength to do even half of what many before me had done? Honestly, to this very day, I cannot yet answer that question.

  After the bridge,we went to the National Voting Rights Museum. The woman who spoke to us while we were there had such an effect on the entire group and me. She had a way of making her point without saying much. For example, when we were sitting down in the room with the photographs of the famous women and she was asking the girls what we wanted to be, it started to hit me that once upon a time I could not be what I wanted to be. I would not have the money, the intelligence or the opportunity to pursue my goals. That really scared me, and I thanked God for giving me the opportunity to grow up in an age that I can be what I want to be, and not what someone else wants me to be.

  After Selma, we went to Birmingham. While there, we visited the 16th Street Baptist Church, where four little girls were killed in a bombing set by the Ku Klux Klan. We saw a movie (can't remember the name) that truly touched my heart. I began to wonder what these little girls could have accomplished had they lived. It made me sad for their death, yet I rejoiced for the short lives they had lived. After the church,we went to the Civil Rights Museum in Birmingham, which I found to be pretty much the same as the Lorraine Motel museum in Memphis. After the museum, we walked through the park across the street. It was incredible. As you walk through, you experience the different horrifying events that occurred in Birmingham during the Civil Rights Movement, such as the police dogs, the water hoses, children being thrown in jail etc.

  The last day was my eighteenth birthday so it was rather special. First we went to the site of Martin Luther Kings Grave, and the church where he and his father were once reverends in. Then we went to Atlanta and had an awesome time. We shopped, again, went to the Coca-Cola museum and went to the Hard Rock Cafe. It was a very relaxing way to end a very intense trip. Ironically, as we toured the south expecting to learn about history, we realized that it was not history, but merely part of the present, and the only difference is that it happened a few years ago. What I mean is that while we were learning all these new and exciting things, the same history we were learning about was changing right before our eyes. While we were in Birmingham, the jury was being selected for the trial of a man accused of being involved in the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church. Soon after we came home, one of the men involved in the murder of the three civil rights workers died from a freak accident. While we were in Mississippi, there was a vote held to change the state flag, considering it had a portion of the confederate flag STILL on it. The idea that history is forever changing really became clear to me upon reflecting on my journey. Overall, my journey to Dixieland drastically changed my perspective on life. Thinking about the thousands of people involved in the movement, what they were fighting for, like I said before, it makes me question the strength of my being. I can't help but wonder what I would do if I were put in ANY of the situations that black Americans encountered during the sixties. Also, how much of my will to fight would have deteriorated once Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the leader of the Civil Rights Movement, was assassinated. True, he was killed towards the end of the Movement, but many continued to fight for what they believed in. The trip also made me think a lot about death. About two or three days into the trip, it was becoming crystal clear to me the number of people who died fighting for their rights. At night, I started having intense nightmares where I was one of the thousands fighting for my civil liberties andI was killed doing so. These nightmares made me stop to think about the things that I call tragic in my life. How could I be so ignorant and naive to worry about petty things, such as having enough money to buy my new prom dress,or get my hair done at the salon, while people were suffering and fighting simply to be able to live.

  The last thing that I took away from the trip, though may seem insignificant to others is this: when I was a little girl, my father made it a point to make clear to me that a handshake is worth a thousand words and that shaking someone's hand in one of the highest honors a man (or woman in my case) can receive. Why didI think of this in the south? While we were in the Voting Rights Museum in Selma, the man who spoke to us, (I can't remember his name now for the life of me!), captivated me. He was so involved with Martin Luther King and the Movement; I found him and his actions astonishing. Not to mention that after fighting for his civil liberties, he got on with his life and became the superintendent of the public schools in Selma. After he was done speaking, I walked right up to him (even though my heart was beating a thousand beats per minute), put out my hand, told him how inspiring and honest I found him to be, shook his hand and thanked him for taking the time out of his busy schedule to talk to us.

  Nicole Angueira

• A Reflection of the South by Reem Assil read

  Introduction

  "Freedom has always been an expensive thing."
  -Martin Luther King Jr.

  Freedom is Coming, I do believe

  I will not be conquered, I will keep my strength
  For God is on my side, and His will is mine.

  Fire, blood, rage, grief, and despair
  Where is that light, I fear the day
  That I may forget,
  That light shines within me, everlasting
  And pure, it will shine for the whole world
  To see, I do believe.

  No more fear, I must be strong
  No more anger, I must be the bigger man
  If hate destroys, then love will mend
  I do believe, one day my
  Grandchildren will be rejoicing in the
  Treasures of Justice.

  They try to break us
  Tell us that we were not men
  That black is the color of evil
  That we will amount to nothing
  But I will not be broken for if
  I must, I will die a man.

  They hurt our children
  They convince them that they
  Are inferior. They laugh at them,
  Spit on them, shout at them,
  Cheat them, and isolate them.

  I see the tears of defenseless
  Children and I try to convince them
  That everyone is a child of God.

  No more, our children will be
  Symbols of greatness, we shall
  Overcome.

  The ugly sea of injustice surrounds me
  I swim in hopes that I will escape it
  But my arms become tired
  My legs exhausted, I wonder
  Many times if I can go on.

  But my soul is too proud,
  My heart is too committed,
  And my faith grows with every beat of it.
  And though I feel that I am
  Drowning in that sea of ugliness,
  I look to the heavenly skies
  And I know that glory awaits me.

  My neighbors tell me to leave
  That the North will give me more peace
  That I will get myself killed
  But if I die, I know that
  I will have at the least died for something.

  If I leave my home, they win
  I put more power into the white man's hand
  To lynch our children, to burn our churches
  To vandalize our homes, beat our men, and
  Rape our women, no I cannot do that.

  If I leave my home, I might leave the terror
  But the terror will not disappear
  I will betray my community
  For they will live that terror
  And I I will live the terror of knowing.

  No I will stay, I will pay that price
  They stole my freedom, and I will take it back
  For it is rightfully mine to claim, it is
  My God-given right.

  So I will pay the price for freedom
  For it has always been an expensive thing,

  And God is on my side, yes, He is
  I do believe.

  They teach us in school that history is always being made. As a lover of history, I have always believed this. However, I have never had such conviction of it as I do now. You have to witness history with your own eyes, you must see for yourself what kind of impact people can have on the fate of humanity. My experience down South has taught me that history is like a novel with many unclosed chapters. Each chapter is needed, however, to open another and change the direction of the novel. We should ask ourselves, what would have happened if the North had not won the Civil War? Or what would the fate of the blacks be in this country if courageous slaves had not spoken up or if the Civil Rights Movement had not occurred at all in the Sixties? The South is the way it is today because of history's doing.

  Another thing that I have learned about history is that it is a constant meeting of the past and present. If a chapter is unclosed in a book, then it is sure to be revisited later on. I witnessed this down South. At the very time we chose to visit Mississippi, the case to adopt a new Mississippian flag was denied. On that Thursday April 18th, the Mississippi Supreme Court ruled that the Mississippi state flag, which incorporates the Confederate battle flag in its design, does not violate the constitutional rights of blacks. Is it a coincidence that in this very week we were studying the Civil Rights Movement in the state of Mississippi? And while we are down South, news briefs about the church bombing in Birmingham emerge. The trial suddenly reopens and Thomas Blanton, the defendant in this 1963 bombing, will be retried. In addition to the Birmingham trial, the reopening of yet another trial involving a certain murder of three Civil Rights workers in Philadelphia, Mississippi, is requested. Finally, we come home to a newspaper article claiming that the Blues were dying in the place where they were born! History never has closed chapters; the past and present continue to meet one another. This was never more evident as it was in the South.

  Before this trip, I had given much thought to what I would take back with me. The theme of the trip was the Civil Rights Movement. In school we learn about the great men and women who led this movement. However, we never fully comprehend what it meant to take on the responsibility that they chose to accept. It was a responsibility indeed, for it is a difficult task to put your fears behind you even under the greatest terror. I knew the facts but this alone was not sufficient. Prior to going down South, I wanted to know that there was more to the issue of Civil Rights than what any person could learn in school. However, I never expected what I found.

  What did it really mean to be black in the South? We read about people like Anne Moody and we sympathize for her. However do we fully understand what kind of terror was imposed on her? We do not understand that terror for we have never experienced that fear of death because of our skin color. Living in the North, we are privileged. If we can somehow understand how much terror faced so many courageous black men and women, then we will begin to understand the spirit of the Movement. And the only way to catch the spirit of the Movement is to see for ourselves what kind of terror these people were battling. And so we begin our journey down South, in hopes that we will find some answers to our questions.

  The postcard at the Lorraine Motel gift shop in Memphis, Tennessee illustrated the trail of the fatal gunshot and then the trail of Martin Luther King's soul as it ascended to heaven. I pray to God that this illustration is accurate. The beauty of the Lorraine Motel lies in its incredible authenticity. The sight of the balcony where King was assassinated is heartrending. One looks up at that balcony and realizes that it was here where this great man's life was stolen but nevertheless where his legacy was preserved. Truly, there are no words to describe the feelings of those who pass the balcony that marks tragedy but it is easy to recognize it, both in yourself and in those who clearly feel connected to King's struggle for justice. As we neared the motel room where Martin Luther King Jr. stayed, intact and pure, we saw the tour guide pray like it was his last prayer. His beautiful brown eyes welled up with tears as if he were grieving for his father. Perhaps King was a father to many in his own way. He took care of is people, gave them a voice of hope, and provided for them a source of inspiration.

  The Lorraine Motel was kept in its original form so as to help visitors feel King's presence as they enter the courtyard. Giving a personal account, I can assure anyone that the realness of this place was affective for it assured me that I was in the presence of true greatness. I had not even entered the museum when a sudden feeling of speechlessness came over me. It was this place that ended King's streak of incredible speeches, successful protests, uplifting rallies, and inspiring sermons. I imagined what people must have felt in 1968. They would never hear his voice again except through audio and video. They would never get the chance to meet him now. Never again could they see him stand again among so many with such composure. They would never be able to touch him, shake his hand, tell him what kind of impact he has made on their own struggle for justice.

  One thing people knew, however, was that the power of King's words was everlasting. They knew they had to use what he had taught so many of them, to continue their struggle. They knew that King would want them to continue, for the success of the Movement does not depend solely on the greatness of one man but on the greatness of many. Even King said in his lifetime that he had never wanted people to glorify him. He was a man fighting for freedom just like any other person. I knew that there must have been collective grief over his death. However, I also knew that though the Lorraine Motel may have been the spot where King's life was terminated, it was also the spot where his legacy was continued. In my opinion, there was no better spot to put the Civil Rights Museum for it lies with a spot that holds meaning to so many people. Thus it gives the place the sort of energy and spirit needed to touch its visitors. And ultimately, it celebrates men just like King who were willing to give up their lives for justice.

  Departing from Memphis, we head towards Mississippi, a land that is difficult to describe with words. You enter the state and you enter a new world. Living in the North, I have been under the false impression that American culture was uniform. I admit that living in Sudbury most of my life adds to my sheltered nature. I did expect a difference but I did not expect the degree. I might as well have been visiting another country because Mississippi made me realize that I did not know America as well as I should have. If you wish to see the power of history and its mark, visit Mississippi for this is a land that is clearly marked for all to see. In a few days, we saw the place where the Blues flourished, the plantations where the blacks slaved and sweat, and the facility that they built for their own self-determination. We witnessed the juxtaposition of affluence and poverty, the spirited face of a freedom singer, and a town tainted with history of hatred and murder. It was much to absorb and reflect on. But I knew that if I did not do this, I would never fully understand what it means to live in this country.

  We begin our journey through Mississippi with a taste of culture. The Mississippi Delta, where the blues were born, awaits us. I was not prepared for I knew nothing about the Blues. I went into the Delta Blues Museum ignorant of this art form. However, I came out with a genuine appreciation for the richness of black culture. We learned about great musicians like Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Big Mama, and BB King. I have no doubt in my mind that much of the Blues came froslaves songs in the fields, filled with words telling of their extreme suffering and privation. I imagine that many of the blacks working on the field had their early songs that later evolved into the Blues. The blacks gave voice to the mood of alienation and oppression that prevailed in the South. It is not surprising that the Blues were born in an area where blacks were often forced to work on the levee.

  As we sat in the Delta Blues Museum listening to samplings of great musician's works, I closed my eyes and tried to absorb the Blues sound. We heard the original sound of the Blues, free of Western adaptation. As I listened, I noticed the free use of bent pitches on the guitar but nevertheless the beautiful simplicity of the tone. The lyrics were intensely personal. In a few minutesI heard lyrics that dealt with the pain of betrayal, desertion, and unrequited love. This beautiful outpour of emotion known as the Blues is a musical tradition that must have been rooted in the black experience of the post-war South. The Blues struck me as a form of oral history, a way to communicate the feelings of the past. I was very affected and am thankful that I had the chance to be educated about the importance of this great art form.

  As we finished traveling through Clarksdale, we witnessed the dwellings of African Americans on plantations. The movie that we watched the previous night put us into the context of our next stop, the Hopson Plantation. Everything laid intact for us to see. The tenement shacks were many times no bigger than a single room. They were nevertheless filled with life in their furnishing. The remarkable thing about seeing the plantation was my realization of just how hard it was to live there. I remember a segment of the movie where the lady talked about the pain and agony of cotton picking. She described the sharpness of the plant as she pulled the cotton out. There was no stopping for pain, however, for they had a whole field to pick and they had to ignore the pain and pick that cotton as fast as they could. I can imagine just one day of work on the plantation under the sweltering sun and the arid weather. I also learned that the workers were not finished until they picked out enough seeds in the cotton to fill a boot. This shocked me for the size of one seed is equivalent to an ant! No complaining was allowed, for when one has to survive, life itself becomes a luxury.Our next stop was Mound Bayou. Prior to visiting it, I was unaware of this place and its historical significance. Mound Bayou does in fact have a special place in the history of Mississippi and the entire United States. It was a successful social experiment that illustrated to the entire nation that African Americans deserved respect and equal treatment. It was one of the first all-black incorporated towns in the United States, established by slaves with great dreams. They wished to create a refuge for blacks in this area of many white-controlled cotton plantations and at a time known for racial violence. Not only did it provide for them a physical sanctuary but it instilled in its residents a sense of racial pride. I was amazed by its great success.

  However, something struck me about this place as well. I learned that the residents of Mound Bayou did not see themselves directly involved in the same fate as those leading the Civil Rights Movement. The mentality was that African American freedom and the promise of emancipation could only be realized in a segregated space, meaning blacks did not need the collaboration of whites in their pursuit of self-determination. They knew that they could achieve it alone and they did exactly this. By the time the Civil Rights Movement erupted in the Sixties, they had already seen themselves as liberated. They achieved that kind of self-determination in their own community, the kind of self-determination that blacks everywhere in the South lacked. I had never considered this , that once not all blacks were fully connected to the Movement.

  As we entered Jackson, Mississippi I looked around and I was astonished to find the state's capital to have official buildings standing tall and proud side by side with nearly run down homes. It was almost as if two worlds were standing side by side in the same city. It was the most extreme juxtaposition. Was the city unaware by the huge visible gap between affluence and poverty? This was one question that was never answered sufficiently.

  In Jackson, we met Hollis Watkins, a former freedom singer and still active Civil Rights worker. He heads the nonprofit organization Southern Echo, which provides young African Americans with the skills they need to advance themselves in society. It focuses on community building and providing a strong framework for education. This man was by far the most enchanting of the people I met on this trip. Very few have the ability to capture the spirit of the Civil Rights Movement. This man had that ability.

  He taught us freedom songs, shared with us his story, and showed us what real fear and courage meant. He told us, "We were being killed anyways, so we should at least die for something." The whole time I wondered how one would be so willing to put his/her life on the line. Hollis Watkins assured us that people had such an immense faith and God and conviction that He was on their side that they believed that He would protect them. In fact, spirituality was on of the driving forces of the Movement because it gave them power to overcome the fear imposed on them by the terror in the South. Another way people overcame the fear of standing up to injustice was to know that they were no alone in the struggle. People like Hollis Watkins knew that they were not the only ones fighting. Thus, the unity of blacks in their struggle to overcome was crucial for their success.

  Hollis Watkins did not share many specific facts about the Movement but he taught me more about it more than any class could, no matter how good the teacher may be. He conveyed the spirit of the Movement to us. He engaged us with his spiritual freedom songs. We sang songs like "Been Down into the South" and "We Shall Overcome.î As we were singing, I felt so uplifted. We were singing freedom songs and I really felt as though I was singing for my own freedom! These songs were not only specific to the sufferings of African Americans but also universal to the rights and dignity of every human being. The freedom songs also made me appreciate the courageousness of the ordinary people involved in the movement. The Movement required bravery and sacrifice not just from the heroes we know but from the ordinary people, who had their hearts committed to lifting one another's courage everyday. Hollis Watkins told us that song was embedded into African American culture; it possessed themes to which all of them could relate. Therefore, it was needed to add the spirit and momentum to the Movement.

  I will never forget Hollis Watkins, his bright smile, cute face, and lively speech. He was one of those ordinary people who were willing to put their lives on the line if it meant helping many others lead their lives several steps closer to social justice. He knew what kind of terror he was up against but he was willing to overcome that fear and help others do the same. And here he is today, president of a successful organization, and a living breathing inspiration to many young people such as myself. If I had the chance to speak to him once again, I swear to anyone who asks me, I would jump at it in a heartbeat. My journey continues and not even Hollis Watkins could have prepared me for what I felt in Philadelphia, Mississippi.

  It is important to understand the events that lead to the present state of Philadelphia, Mississippi. It started the fatal summer of 1964 when three civil rights workers named Andy Goodman, James Chaney, and Michael Schwerner came down to investigate the burning of the black Mount Zion Methodist Church in Lawndale. At three o'clock PM, they were stopped by deputy Cecil Price near Philadelphia. They were taken to jail for speeding and released later that night. When the men never phoned Freedom Summer headquarters, people suspected that something was terribly wrong. Freedom summer workers were supposed to call at regular fifteen-minute intervals.1 The men remained missing, and the town remained quiet.

  What made the town react in the way it did? Was there conspiracy of silence? People were not willing to admit the possibility of murder. When asked, the Sheriff Lawrence Rainy responded, "If they're missing, they're just hid somewhere trying to get a lot of publicity out of it, I figure." The disappearance of these men did in fact attract the attention of the nation. But many Philadelphians would not speak and many were convinced that it was all a hoax. A known segregationist had told a reporter, "when people leave any section of the country and go into another section looking for trouble, they usually find it." One author pointed out, "The cry of a hoax seemed a reflexive reaction, an expression of the region's inability to recognize the ungentlemanly truth about its own racial attitudes or the murderous excesses of some of its citizens." They did not want to believe these things and they did not want their town to be defamed...

  ...It is now thirty-seven years later. What has become of Philadelphia, Mississippi? Little has changed since the days when newsmen and television crews covered the aftermath of the crime that put the tiny community of Philadelphia into the world's headlines. One author writes, "Many of the same barbershops and drugstores and banks that looked out onto the square the summer evening Edgar Ray Killen and Barnett kept a rendezvous with a careful of Meridian Klansman remain today. On the square's shaded sidewalks, visitors still receive a penetrating glance from local residents.' I felt those penetrating glances. I have the feeling they knew exactly why I was there. They knew it was because of the unfortunate murder that tainted their town's reputation. They want to do anything possible to forget.

  It is sad in a way for the Philadelphians because they will never be able to erase history's mark. They cannot deny what happened there. But the were angry because they were pitched as a city of murderers. The mayor Charles McClaine said in 1984, "To me, it was sort of like a plane crash. It was just a part of history that happened near Philadelphia, and there's nothing we could do to erase it. However, the community, although not directly, was somehow involved in that murder. Their conspiracy of silence made them just as culpable as the Klansmen who pulled the trigger at the three brave civil rights workers.

  When she visited Philadelphia, Patsy Sims was able to articulate some of the things I noticed and felt:When I visited Philadelphia in 1976, Price was making deliveries. Most of the others were 'out',î too, or preferred not to talk, trying to forget the past. Blacks and whites passed on sidewalks, patronized the same stores, sat at the same lunch counters. Yet I sensed the underlying tension between the two races, an unspoken remnant of the past, a black should not get too far out of his place. There seemed still a hostility in the town's visible effort to forget.'But the inevitable truth is they have not forgotten. They will always be reminded. And a chill went down my spine as I thought of Price walking around on sidewalks of Mississippi doing another truck delivery, leading a normal life as if nothing had happened. As I passed white faces, I did not know who was a hater and who was not, there was no way of distinguishing. All I could see was penetrating glares and I suddenly realized the profound effects of the power of history. This town will always be a curse to some and a lesson to others.

  It was difficult to leave Mississippi knowing that there was so much to be covered. I would have never guessed the atmosphere in Mississippi in a million years. It was a revelation indeed. As we headed through Alabama, I started to find a theme forming in this trip. For the first part of the trip we had been given the context of the Civil Rights Movement and what the struggle was all about. We had been shown exactly what African Americans had been subjected to and the deep- rooted issues of racism in the South. It was far more complicated than I could ever imagine. Racism is still alive and well, I discovered. Why did I think otherwise? Perhaps it is more inconspicuous in the North and more blatant in the South. Whatever the difference was I knew that I could not even begin to imagine what it would be like growing up black in the South.

  The theme of Alabama would have to be empowerment, especially of the youth. We visited Selma and the Voting Rights Museum and one of the things I learned was that whatever I am going to be in life, I should be the best at it. And I must use my profession to somehow contribute to society, for I have the ability and more importantly the obligation. People marched on Bloody Sunday so that African Americans could have the liberty to vote today free of fear. Similarly, movements such as the women's movement made it possible for women like me to pursue professions that were unimaginable thirty years ago. I must take full advantage of this privilege. If we let those people devote their lives to making our lives more privileged all so that we can waste our blessings, then we should feel ashamed of ourselves. I have an obligation to give back to my society and I hope that I will have made the people, who fought for the security of my rights, proud. As the reverend who walked on the frontline told us, "Just look to God. He will make it possible if you can keep your faith." Perhaps I will use that. It takes much humbleness out of one man to say that all of his struggles and victories are at the hands of God. He was a voice of inspiration.

  My trip down South was a wake up call. I came back feeling a deep connection to God, to my peers, to history, and to the world around me. I have come back with this amazing determination to walk in the footsteps of those who have indeed made momentous changes. It can be done, we do have the power to make history. But I have also realized that it will require a lot of work to sustain this feeling of empowerment. I cannot give in to the sudden feeling of helplessness. I know that this is just the beginning of my personal journey of discovery. Even before this trip I knew that I wanted to be socially active but I felt that I had a long way to go for I was too young and not educated enough. However, the people that put the Movement into full gear were in fact the vibrant youth! Meeting and learning about a lot of these young activists in the Sixties made me realize that activism has no age requirement. The only thing initiation of change depends on is how deeply your heart is committed. I can proudly say my heart is more committed now then it has ever been.

  Reem Assil

• Deep South Trip Reflections by Lauren Barth-Cohen read

  I don't remember a specific reason why I wanted to go on the trip. It might have been a whim; it might have sounded cool that particular day Mr. Schechter brought it up in class. I had a vague notion of civil rights history, and about learning as aspect of American history, in the area it effected most, but the main reason I wanted to go was to see a new part of the country. As stupid as this may sound, I want to have visited all 50 states, and I'm keeping a running tally. After the trip it's up to 22.

  I'd had this romanticized image of the Deep South before the trip. I think It was mostly shaped from a couple books I've read, To Kill a Mocking Bird, Anne Moody, Huck Finn, and As I Lay Dying, by William Faulkner. And, one movie stands out in my mind, Forest Gump. I've never seen Gone with the Wind, the traditional southern movie, but I've absorbed its message in American culture. In Forest Gump there was these great scenes of giant trees and sweeping green lawns and hot summer nights where the breeze flowed through the curtains. In many ways I was expecting to see all the things I had imagined in these media pieces; but I also knew that they were 'fake' images and that reality was going to hit me. <DIV></DIV>I wasn't expecting the airport to scream of the south. I've been in enough by now to realize that air ports all look the same, unfortunately. The first night, when I went to eat at Chilis Restaurant, (I think) I was a little taken aback. In my mind I had just landed in some place I had never been before. Well, I wanted food I had never had before too. However, then I came back to reality and realized that it was late at night, people were hungry, and most important, chain restaurants livid in the south too. Some how I had been keeping up a faint glimmer of hope that chain restaurants didn't live in all parts of this country. I still have 28 states to go.

  Over the whole week I found myself acutely aware of the L-S world that lived inside the bus, and the southern world that existed outside the bus. When we were stranded on the bus for long periods of time, all the students would engage in typical teenage activities that were similar to activities we did at home, gossiping about friends, discussing college plans, listening to popular music, playing car games etc. Therefore in some ways it felt as if the bus was an extension of L-S, and our everyday normal lives. However, when we exited the bus to visit a sight, museum, or listen to a guest speaker, we were no longer in the familiar world of L-S. It felt like all these important issues and events involving the civil rights movement occurred outside the bus, and inside we were just a bunch of teenagers doing stereotypical self-centered activities. Although, we did occasionally watch movie clips about the civil rights movement, it was still a minimalist effect, compared to all the hours of gossiping we participated in. By the end of the trip I found myself feeling very fragmented. I'd had seen all these amazing things and was trying desperately to digest and make sense of it all; but I still found my friends absorbed in what shoes they were going to wear to the prom.

  I think other students were aware of this persistent irony, and may have dealt with it on their own; I too found a way to deal. Some may have belittled its effects my talking with their friends about the places and people we meet, but by the end, I wanted to get out of the bus, and take public transportation more then I have ever wanted to in my life. (In fact I don't know if I have ever really wanted to take public transportation before) On the last full day in the south, Maggie, Emily, Fletcher, Graham, and I took a walk out of the main tourist section of the Coca-Cola museum and walked towards the CNN studios and Sentinel Park. While at the park we joined lots of little inner-city kids playing the water fountains. The fountains were on a cycle of lots of stronger and then less forceful amounts of water, that repeated every 5 minutes or so. When the water had slowed down Maggie ran into the middle of the fountain, she was the only white girl there, and by far the oldest, as most kids barley came up to her waist. When the water suddenly came on in a forceful manner she was trapped with a strong wall of water all around her. After her initial freaked out reaction, and hoping to avoid getting totally drenched, a small soaking wet girl standing near by saw Maggie's fright and offered to step on one of the spouts so Maggie could get out of the fountain semi dry. Myself and the three other remaining dry L-S students were standing a distance away, laughing, with our camera aimed at Maggie, and when we shot our pictures, I don't think we ever expected to capture that simple act of kindness from a stranger. <DIV></DIV>Although we came to the south expecting to learn about civil rights history, this one incident opened my eyes to something I had not noticed before. I had previously spent lots of time starring out the bus window, wondering if I would see any racism, but I never thought to look and see if I would see any actions that would give me the impression that the southern mannerisms had changed a great deal. I also saw from this incident that at 18 I could still safely pretend to be a child. However, as we all know, children see the world differently, that little girl didn't seem to notice that Maggie was white, and spoke funny. But I do notice when some is a different color then me, and I am aware of other accents, so I wonder, can I still be a child? Or have I lost that indifferent or innocence long ago?

  The stop that I think I enjoyed the most was the Cheney grave. Everything I had seen in the south up till that place had existed on pavement and in a street corner. Being in the woods, in the field, with the bugs, ticks, etc, while viewing his grave, gave me a glimpse of nature in the south. Some who I felt that what I most needed to do was walk in the woods, and say to myself, I'm no long in New England woods, I'm in Southern woods. I wonder if I were to close my eyes, and then forget where I was, could I figure out I was in the south? Or would the woods look the same?

  Unfortunately, I didn't greatly enjoy some of the speakers we heard. But the ones that I found most interesting involved that day in Philadelphia, and the man who spoke to us at the Cheney grave. Often I find it hard to connect with speakers; some of the historical events they discuss seem so far away, in the past, and geographically. But in Philadelphia, I was able to connect with the guest speakers. I loved hearing them talk of an event, and then looking out the window, knowing that the three boys, dept. sheriff, and all the towns' people had been to the same Library. The realization that the person in the soda fountain has witness a part of history, or the guy we passed on the street might remember where he was that day make me feel like I am experiencing something much more alive then any other experience I have had with history. The man we talked to in the Library was especially emotional about the event, and all of us could sense his feelings and pain about that era. However, he was also an old man, and us, being teenagers, unfortunately can have a hard time understanding a person who has seen so much more in life, then we have yet begun to experience.

  At one point in the trip, I don't remember when, someone asked our group if we had experienced much racism in the south. Myself, similar to most of the students probably shook my head and said 'no,' but Ms. Stewart said 'yes.' At the time I thought about it for a minute, and then forgot, continuing with my normal thoughts. However, on the morning of the last full day in the south I asked Ms. Stewart what she had experienced. Her answer surprised and shocked me I was expecting a very tangible experience, similar to stories I had heard in history class, and in the newspaper. She said that she had noticed when we (36 students and 4 adults) were places she had felt looks from southern people. She had felt that in restaurants and stores that people were looking at her in a 'racist manner.' I did not understand what she meant at the time. Were people staring funny? Giving her the evil eye? Making her feel uncomfortable? Like she wasn't welcome? Or was it because she was with a group of predominantly white kids? Did southern think it was queer to see an African American teacher with mostly white student? I don't know which, if any of these things were really occurring. Or was it slight paranoia?

  What I have been able to figure out is that I don't know what it feels like to be made uncomfortable in a public establishment. Sure, a couple of times I've been made to feel uncomfortable by my embarrassing parents, or a male who stares to long at a females chest, but those are not the same things. There is that quote by Emma Goldman that fits in really well with this idea, (on the wall of the classroom) which I can't remember. But I think that I do understand that some aspects of the trip and places we went the civil rights movement and of history in general, I will never be able to understand as long as I live in my current skin. I can learn all about them have sympathy, compassion and sorrow for what happened, but I will never truly understand what it felt like to have it happen to me because I was not there. With a historical event there are facts, and places, and people who could teach you all about what happened, but to feel what they truly felt is near to impossible. I don't know if I will in time, with more life experiences be able to understand and reflect with greater clarity and depth, possible. Maybe then I will be able to have a complete understand on how this trip influenced my life, but I am still working on it, maybe when I figure it out I'll write another reflection paper. But, Mr. Schechter, thanks for taking us on the trip, it was a wonderful experience I will never forget. I hope other students had as positive time as I did, and I hope future student will experience it to.

  Lauren Barth-Cohen

• Deep South Trip Reflections by Jessica Browne read

  Saturday, April 15

  There was excitement in the air as I arrive at Lincoln-Sudbury Regional High School. I have been anticipating this trip since I heard about it from Mr. Schechter in the beginning of the school year. I had wanted to go on a school trip but did not want to go to a different country, because I would rather do that with my family. I wanted to do something that I would never again have the chance to do again. Never would I think of taking a trip to the Deep South to follow the civil rights movement. I knew that this was the trip for me. I was also interested because I knew the basic facts about the movement, but I wanted to see the sights, and maybe meet the people. I could not believe that the day had finally arrived when I went to meet the bus. I did not know what to expect, but I knew that it was going to be fun. The bus ride seemed to fly by, as did the flight, before I knew it I was in Memphis, Tennessee.

  Monday, April 16th

  We woke up pretty early to make sure we had time to see everything there was to see. Our first stop was the Lorraine Motel and the National Civil Rights Museum. This was one of my favorite sights on the trip. It was amazing to see where Martin Luther King was shot. The museum was excellent also. It covered many of the same facts that we had learned in Post War and it had many more that were interesting too. The museum seemed to cover everything; it even had a pretend bus. The bus was supposed to be the famous bus that was bombed during the freedom rides. The museum had video clips playing all over it. Including the more famous clips, for example Martin Luther King's "I have a dream" speech and less famous video coverage of Birmingham. We were able to see the room that MLK had stayed in on the fateful night; the owners had not changed anything. The room had a double bed that was still messy, and the "food" left over from that morning. It seemed as though the room was the same as the day he died. They also kept the room he usually stayed in. By the room he stayed in the night before he died were two photographs. The first photograph was when he was a making a speech on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel, and the second picture was right after he was shot. This photograph was terrible to look at. I had never seen this picture before and it was bizarre. Those photographs were taken with in minutes of each other, and in those minutes, a tragic death occurred. They also had two of the cars that were in the parking lot. The museum really encaptured what the civil rights movement was all about. Even thought I had heard all of the facts it made them more lifelike and I think it opened many people's eyes. We visited Graceland that afternoon. I had a different idea of what it was going to be like. I thought that it was going to be all on one large property, but actually, there was a major road splitting the house from the rest of the amusements. When we took the bus over to the house, it was weird. The house was not exactly what I thought it was going to be. I thought the area was going to be larger and the house was going to be bigger. It was cool because we were able to see what the house looked like when he actually lived there. The mirrored walls and the shag carpets. Everything seemed to be made out of gold. The television room was cool because there were three of them and you could watch three shows at once if you so wished. I liked the jungle room the best in the house. It had carpet on the floor and the ceiling. There was a waterfall, and the chair was definitely my favorite. I thought that it was very special the Elvis and his mom and dad were buried on the property of Graceland. The inscriptions were lovely and the garden around the burial sights was spectacular. I thought the eternal flame was cool because I had never seen one before. I am impressed by the fact that they could even do that. We also looked at Elvis's two airplanes. I was very impressed by the decorating. The fact that he had 24 caret gold belt buckles was amazing. The gold sink was also very impressive. Everything was decorated so lavishly, I think it would be fun to be able to decorate your own plane. Everything about Graceland was different than I expected. It was a great experience because it is a place everyone should visit at sometime or another.

  Tuesday, April 17th

  We arose early and headed off to the Delta Blues Museum in Clarksdale. Mississippi was where the blues were born. The person in charge of the museum played some CDs of blues music. We were able to listen the first blues singers, and then we heard some other singers that we were familiar with. After listening to some amazing blues, we were able to look around the museum. It had pictures, and farm machinery, dolls, and everything else imaginable. I think that the most interesting thing was the wax sculpture of Muddy Waters. It was so lifelike that it scared you the first time you looked at it. It seemed as though the eyes were following you around the room. Not connected to the museum, but right next to it was a refurbished bar. This is like a place where the black people in the town would go to at night to listen to blues and talk with your neighbors. It was a place where they could congregate and not feel the pressure of the white people. We were able to go inside it before it was completely finished, and it was cool. They had decorations, a couple pool tables, and a place for a band to play. They actually might record blues singers there. I think that it was the novelty of being able to go and look at it, before it was open that really impressed us. The next place we stopped was an old plantation, Hopson Plantation. We went into a large room, which is a bar, as well as a place where the owner stores all of his antiques. The owner talked to us a bit, and then we were able to roam around that room, in the tenant farmers houses, and around the property. Walking around that room was interesting. I saw many interesting artifacts, but the thing that surprised me the most was the amount of Confederate flags. We counted over 15 in this room. There was a big flag hanging from the ceiling as well as little flags scattered around the room. It was frightening because people who have Confederate flags are usually racist, and I would never want to spend anytime with anyone who believes that they are better than people with different colored skin. Outside was beautiful, with a fountain, large lawns, and fields surrounding the property. We went into an old tenant farmers house. They were tiny, there was no where to actually live. I cannot believe that they could stand living in those quarters. He told us an interesting story. He said that the people who lived in these houses covered the walls in newspapers. He had presumed they did this for insulation, but he was told just a little while ago, why they really did it. They thought that spirits were curious and if they had nothing to occupy themselves with, they would hurt the people living in the house. So, in order to keep the spirits amused they put up newspaper so the spirits could read them and not bother the occupants of the house. This story really stayed with me because the owner was oblivious to what the tenants believed and because the story was fun. I love learning about different theories that different cultures and people have. This was the day that we met and talked with one of the most interesting people on the trip. His name is Hollis Watkins, and he was a freedom singer. He started off by talking to us about the movement. He talked about how he got into the movement, and what had happened to him. His parents did not want him in the movement but he went against their wishes and joined anyway. He was an alternate singer. So when one singer could not go he was there to help. He sang quite often and loved it. He was so much fun to talk to because he was so passionate about the movement. He is still working to help black people get the rights they deserve. He works for a group called Southern Echo, which works to help the black people receive the same rights that the average white person receives. He never gave up his goal of helping his race and people who are less fortunate than he is. The best part of the visit was when he stood up and decided that it was time for us to start singing. He taught us a song, before long we were singing, and we did not sound very bad. He was able to get all of us involved and made all of us feel good. We were all so impressed and taken aback by his energy we did not know what to do at first, but before long we did not want him to stop. He had us so enthralled with every word that came out of his mouth. The best moment of all was when he had all of us cross our arms and hold hands. He began the theme song of the movement, and it made me feel as if just singing makes a difference. I felt that it did not matter what was happening in my life all that mattered at that moment was singing and that one day we all shall overcome. I left that building feeling that we all need to help people who are struggling, it does not matter how old you are or how young. Everyone can help in one way or another, even if it is just lifting everyone's morale by singing.

  Wednesday, April 18th

  We all had fun this day. We were able to do our own thing in the French Quarter of New Orleans. We had had a very structured trip so far, where we could only stay at one place for an allotted time. This day was much more relaxed and we could go at our own pace. We were able to walk around and take in the sights. There was a lot to look at and there were many shops. There were shops that are standard, for example Banana Republic and Virgin Records, but there were many other boutiques that were very fun. The gardens were spectacular the flowers were in full bloom and had a lot of color. We were able to lie outside and look at the people who were all around. It was nice to be able to relax because we had been non-stop since we had all arrived at school. The food was amazing. We ate in a little French café and it was perfect. We had had fast food the entire trip so this was a major treat. In New Orleans, there are many street performers. I saw a man who had metal all over his body and I saw an angel. They would move if you gave them money, but otherwise they would stay perfectly still. You could also get your palm read or a fake tattoo. At times it was a bit nerve-racking, because we had strange men come up to us and try to talk to us. We had to make sure we did not get ourselves in trouble, and we had no trouble with them. All in all New Orleans was one of a kind and fun to see.

  Thursday, April 19th

  We talked to another amazing person; he was a reporter when the three civil rights workers were killed. He knew so much information and could have talked for much longer. He had so much to say and everything he said made an impression. You could tell that it hurt him very much to think about those innocent people who were killed. He even said that he had thought about it everyday for 30 or so years. He knew the men who had killed them, and often still saw them around town. It was hard for him to see them and know they were not punished as badly as they should have been. It seemed to be the same everywhere we went, everyone we talked to still carry the memory of the movement, and some are continuing their work. We also went to the grave of James Chaney. Obie Clarke, who had a lot to say about Chaney, brought us to it. This was one of the most touching parts of the trip. James Chaney's grave was on the top of a hill in the middle of nowhere. It seemed to be in the middle of a field with the forest surrounding it. It was a gorgeous place to put him to rest. He does not deserve to be put in a crowded cemetery, but to put in a place that is special. When Obie Clarke was talking to us, he got very choked up. James Chaney and what he was fighting for is very special to him, and he wants to do anything and everything in his power to keep Chaney remembered. He was telling us about Chaney's grave and what people had done to it. For a long time, there was not much of a gravesite. Some years-back people Meridian pooled their money, bought a large and beautiful gravestone, and put in an eternal flame. People continuously went back and trashed the gravesite. They knocked down the gravestone so many times that finally; the community put in steel supporters to make sure it would not be moved again. People also ruined the eternal flame, so it is no longer usable. The fact that people would trash a gravesite is unbelievable. They have total disregard for the deceased, and it is just cruel. I wish they would have more respect, and just let the dead rest in peace.

  Friday, April 20th

  We were not able to walk across the Pettus Bridge as we had hoped on Thursday so we were able to fit it in on Friday. I am very glad we were able to walk it and go inside the Voting Rights Museum. Before we walked across, I did not really feel the need to. However, after we walked across I was glad I did. Although all we did was walk, I felt like I had accomplished something in a weird way. I was glad that Mr. Schechter asked us to. We did not know whether or no we would be able to go into the Voting Rights Museum, and I am so happy that we were able to. The woman who greeted us was a character. She had a mind of her own and did not hold anything back. When we walked in there was a mirrored wall with hundreds of post-its all over it. People who were there signed them all. There were people who walked across, and people who watched other people walk across. I even saw one by a police officer who was there. That was a shocking one, because most likely he had beaten the people who tried to walk across. There was another room, which had clay imprints of feet from people who had walked across the bridge. Another room was dedicated to strong women in the movement. One room was tiny, she made all 40 of us get inside it, and we barely fit. She told us that this was the size of the average cell and there were usually more people than we had in it. That was a surprise for us, because we never really thought about it in terms of that. We were then able to talk to Reverend Reeves, who talked to us about the walk over the bridge. It was interesting because he asked Martin Luther King to come and help him. He then he had the privilege to walk with him. I did not expect this part of the trip to be so interesting and touching but it was. We also saw a memorial for the civil rights movement. I thought that it was so amazing. It was so simple yet seemed to be a good choice for the movement. The upside down cone was weird but it worked for me. The fact that the designer put all of the major events around the outside was nice because you could learn from the monument and not just look at it. The quote on the back wall was terrific it seemed perfect. We continued on to Birmingham where the four girls were killed in the church bombing. A camera operator and a reporter met us there, we were interviewed because of the trip we were taking and because the reporter was originally from Sudbury. We went into the church and sat down to watch a quick film of the bombing and the girls. It was a very touching film. It made you want to find the people who did this and ask them why they could do such a thing. Four innocent girls were killed for no reason, except that their skin was a different color. There was also a museum there. The museum was very good, but by that point, we had seen many museums. They had some extra exhibits; for example, they made two sets of things, like a schoolroom. The first schoolroom would be clean, new, and stocked with everything a child would need. The other schoolroom would have old used equipment and not enough supplies for all the children. This was to portray what it was like in the different schools, and that black children did not receive the equality they deserved. Outside of the museum was a little park. I walked around it and there were a couple of sculptures, which were very interesting. The first one was you walked through a doorway and to your left were two black children and they were being blasted by a fire hose. It was so impressively done, because the reaction on their faces was frightening. There was also a sculpture where there were two walls and when you walked between them, you had to move out of the way of the metal dogs that were jumping out at you. The dogs looked so real that I almost could not walk through. They had the teeth bared and looked as if they could eat you. I do not know how the people fighting in the movement could handle all the things that the police threw at them. One more sculpture was two black children behind bars. They looked to be about 7 and 12 very young. It was all very touching.

  Saturday, April 21st

  The actual grave of Martin Luther King JR. was very beautiful. It was in a giant pool with a fountain at the top and little waterfalls coming down. It was so pretty and peaceful. There was also an eternal flame going for him. The museum was good, and I especially liked the exhibit featuring the clothes of King and his wife. We then were able to walk around Atlanta and eat dinner, which was a nice end to this terrific trip. Sunday, April 22

  The original church was there but we were not able to go in because they were renovating it. The church built another church because the congregation was getting so big and there were so many visitors. It was weird to be outside of the church where such an influential person was the pastor. I chose to rise early and go to a service at the Ebenezer Baptist Church. We were greeted and sat down, and a man came over to ask who we were so they could introduce us when visitors were welcomed. The beginning of the service was interesting. They sing a lot and we were able to participate a little. Then they introduced us as the Christian Group from Lincoln-Sudbury Regional High School. Mr. Schechter did not know what to write down so he said that we were the Christian group. Then the entire congregation stood up, went over to all the visitors, and shook our hands. There were three other groups visiting. I thought that this was thoughtful and made me feel like a part of the church. When the pastor spoke was when they rather lost me. I did not understand what he was talking about and so I zoned out. It was a great experience I am truly thrilled that I was able to do that. That was our last outing on our trip to the Deep South. It was sad when it was over because we had the time of our lives, and learned so much. I hope that someday I will be able to go back bring my children and show them all the places I went and everything that I learned.

  The Edmund W. Pettus Bridge was made famous in 1965, because of people trying to gain the right to vote. As a form of protest, people decided to walk from Selma, Alabama to Montgomery, Alabama. However, the only way to get to Montgomery was to cross the bridge. The police were not pleased with the idea of people making that walk, so they attacked them. This was the beginning of the Pettus Bridge struggle. In the 1880's, the people of Selma decided that a bridge should be built because there was enough traffic. The Selma Bridge Corporation was formed in 1884, and they built the bridge and made it public, but the public would have to pay tolls to pass over it. By 1940, the amount of traffic was too much for the horse-and buggy bridge, and it was decided that a new bridge would need to be built. On May 25, 1940, a brand new bridge was opened. It was referred to as the "finest bridge between Savannah and San Diego." It was named the Edmund Winston Pettus Bridge. Pettus was a great person and did many great things for the city of Selma and Dallas County. March 7, 1957 was a day that will go down in history as one of the most horrifying events in the civil rights movement. This day is referred to as "Bloody Sunday" because of the actions the state and local police officers took on them. About 525 people began from the Brown Chapel AME Church and were aiming for the state capitol in Montgomery. They were demonstrating for the right for black people to vote and to commemorate the death of Jimmie Lee Jackson. Jackson was shot three weeks earlier by a state trooper while trying to protect his mother at a civil rights demonstration. The Dallas County Voters League, the Southern Christian Leadership Council, and the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee were all in Alabama trying to push voting registration, so they thought that this would be a help in their effort. John Lewis headed SNCC's voter registration effort and it was he and fellow activist Hosea Williams who led the silent group to the Pettus Bridge. They were attacked with billy clubs, tear gas and the police officers pushed them back into Selma. A positive aspect of this day was that there were television crews and reporters there when the marchers were attacked, and they got everything on tape. ABC television interrupted a Nazi war crimes documentary, Judgement in Nuremberg, to show footage of the violence in Selma. This ironic situation made the people of the country very upset. Within forty-eight hours, demonstrations in support of the marchers were held in eighty cities and thousands of famous leaders flew to Selma to help the marchers. On March 9, King decided to lead a "symbolic" march to the bridge. Where they knelt, prayed, and then returned to Brown Chapel. That night white vigilantes killed a northern minister, who was in Selma to march. More and more people wrote and called the White House and Congress. They were being pressured to do something to help these people. In Montgomery, Federal Judge Frank Johnson Jr. temporarily restrained everyone in order to look over the case. On March 17, he decided that the demonstrators would be allowed to march. On Sunday, March 21, about 3,200 marchers set out for Montgomery under the protection of a federalized National Guard. They walked about 12 miles a day and slept in fields along the way. When they reached the capitol on Thursday, March 25, they were 25,000-strong. After this event, the U.S. Congress passed the Voting Rights Act of 1965, guaranteeing every American over the age of twenty-one the right to vote. This demonstration was an important event because it moved the country. Like the freedom rides, freedom summer, and the Birmingham bombing, they made the rest of the country aware of the struggles of the black population. All of these events outraged many people in the United States, and they all wanted to help. In the end, the black people received all of the same rights as their white neighbors. African-Americans are still not completely equal and are sometimes still looked at as not as good as white people, but they have made progress. There is a lot more to be done, but we will hopefully one day succeed in all being equal.

  Jessica Browne

• ONE WEEK IN THE SOUTH,OR HOW MY EYES WERE OPENED by Kate Fiorucci read

  Prologue

  I can't remember now why I signed up to go in the first place. It sounded cool, probably, and I had never been to any southern state except Florida, which I don't think really counts anyways because Miami is so incredibly commercial that it's like a northern city relocated to an area where sunshine in freely available throughout the year. My scant knowledge of the South, the real South, I mean, came mostly from books and movies. Gone With the Wind, a 1,024 page volume that I tore though with a voracious fervor in fifth grade formed the basis of my understanding. I knew Georgia intimately, I thought. I was on familiar terms with plantation life, Antebellum balls and "beaux," corsets and hoop skirts, the hardships of the Civil War, Atlanta and Reconstruction, the Klan and even the venerable Society For the Beautification of the Graves of the Glorious War Dead. I knew Mississippi and Alabama from the Roll of Thunder Trilogy (a school assignment under the tutelage of Mrs. Hollis in seventh grade) and Louisiana from an obscure book called New Orleans Legacy, which was set in the 1850s and I believe was more of a torrid romance than anything else. Other sources that filled out the breath and depth of my understanding of the South were American Horizons, an 800 page history text book from my sophomore year that weighed approximately 11,000 pounds, the movie Fried Green Tomatoes, and my friend Rachel, who had visited West Virginia for an entire week when we were freshman.

  So, as is probably apparent, I truly did not have a clue what I was getting myself into. Add to this already skewed perspective what is probably a typical bleeding-heart Northern notion: the South isn't racist anymore! They had the Civil Rights Movement, didn't they? Essentially, I saw Dixie as New England all over again, but warmer with endlessly more polite people and no Revolutionary War Memorials. Ignorance? Sort of. I think it was more childish naivete than anything else. Of course, whatever it was, it didn't last very long.

  Exactly three weeks to the day from when I left for Oregon and Washington, I found myself back at Logan International waiting for another plane. The past month had been some sort of bizarre travel circus, what with my West Coast college visits, trips to see two separate sets of grandparents, and my attendance at my cousin;s (second) wedding. I hadn't spent more than three nights in a row in my own bed for much longer than I would have liked, but off I went for another week of hotel hopping and seeing of sights that were completely unfamiliar. The end of school was a month away, my history term paper loomed large, and I was not even close to picking a college. I had left at home mountains of unfinished work on which my graduation was riding, friends embroiled in further ridiculous melodrama, a mountain of lines I did not yet know for the LSB Player's spring production, which was a mere two weeks away, and parents who were starting to forget what I looked like.

  Before I left, I had asked them, in a voice that echoed childish inquiries made under the assumption that parents knew everything, "What will the South be like?" Beneath the text book rhetoric and Northern ignorance they attempted to discharge into my brain, I discovered that really, neither of them had a clue. So. I would be the first member of my family to see the "Heart of Dixie," which suited me just fine. It was a bit of unexplored territory, alien to my father (who had been to Biloxi, Mississippi once on business and dragged from strip bar to strip bar) and my mother (who claimed to have been on a plane in the early 80's that was laid over in New Orleans, which she maintained felt distinctly Southern even though she hadn't actually left the airport.) Tennessee, Mississippi,Alabama, Louisiana, and Georgia were, as far as they actually knew, little colored squares with unnecessarily long names on the US map.

  All this aside, at 1:00 pm EDT on Sunday the 15th of April, we-- meaning the thirty or so students and four teachers who were journeying South-- sat around Northwest Airlines terminal, reading airport magazines and listening to music on headphones. I had situated myself between old and recently made friends and contentedly stitched away at patchwork skirt I was making while I waited for our plane. I wasn't thinking about the trip that had, in essence, already begun. I'm famous for traveling and not really realizing that I'd gone anywhere until I'm back home again, a disconnected concept of reality that has caused me to enjoy many a trip far less than I should have. But while I sat there in that monstrously uncomfortable airport "chair," I resolved that I would not let another week slip by me, unnoticed, until I was back to where I'd started from.

  When our flight was called, I bid Boston the fond, airport-y farewell that I was becoming well accustomed to and boarded the plane without looking back. If I was going to the South, I was going to do it completely and totally, with my whole heart in it from beginning to end.

  * * *

  An open mind. It was the most valuable thing I brought with me, endlessly more indispensable than the $200 in cash that were folded into my CD case , the last good cup of coffee I had in Boston, or even my journal, which I am constantly jotting feelings observations into. I made sure I had it the moment we landed in Memphis, after an uneventful three hour flight during which I had played a loud game of Slapjack and spent a fair amount of time standing, unsanctioned, in the aisle of the plane. No, it hadn't gone anywhere-- I had swept the chambers of my psyche clear of as many preconceptions as I possibly could have.

  About an hour and a half after disembarking in Tennessee, when we had gotten all of our luggage and figured out where we belonged (one drawback of group travel-- everything takes AGES.) We made our way out of the airport and toward a large blue bus with the words "Callahan Charters" and a quartet of magnolia blossoms stenciled on the side. The bus would be, in large part, our home for the next week. It would be the only constant as we hopped motels, cities, states, and time zones. Our driver was a caricature of the Northern conception of a Southerner-- Mr. Crowell had fine white hair combed carefully over the thinning region at the crown of his head, tiny wire rimmed glasses, and a bristly white mustache. The breast pocket of his button down shirt billeted the requisite pack of Marlboro Light 100's, which he would smoke without fail at every single stop our bus made, including James Chaney's grave in Philadelphia where even I did not have a cigarette, so caught up was I in the atmosphere of it. He spoke with a lilting Alabama accent and called all the girls "Miss" and all the boys "Sir" without a hint of irony. He also gave us our first taste of that famous Southern politeness-- helping everyone with their luggage and welcoming us to the South as if it belonged to him and he was proud to share it with us. He had that silent, stoic manner I remembered from Gone With the Wind, a stereotypical southern gentleman through and through.

  Fifteen minutes later, we were in Mississippi. I was shocked. When we'd learned all the states and capitals in sixth grade, I hadn't paid too much attention to the layout of the South. I'm really not sure why, but I was fairly unsure of what bordered what. That Memphis was only a quarter of an hour from Mississippi-- well, I hadn't had a clue. We stopped at a roadside plaza and got dinner from a series of fast food places I'd never heard of-- Steak 'n'Shake, Shoney's, and something called Waffle House (little did I know at the time that the entire country south of the Mason-Dixon line is cobbled together by them.) And then there was a motel (I can't remember which, Days Inn maybe) with an incredibly strong air conditioner to defend us from the sticky Southern heat. (Which was a nice change from the snow we had left in Boston.) We went to sleep early, partially from the heat but mostly from the craze of travel. I don,t care if you,re sitting all day, if you've been in a plane you're tired by the end of it.

  * * *

  The Lorraine Motel. I could remember pictures of it from Post War, and from the same tired old film strip that was trotted out year after year on Martin Luther King Day in the ridiculously racist Connecticut town where I grew up-- a small, run-down motel in Memphis painted aqua and white with a balcony on the second floor that was wreathed with flowers forever after Dr. King's assassination. But standing there in the courtyard of the actual motel was nothing like seeing pictures or movies of it. My visit to the Lorraine Motel was my first encounter with a sensation I would grow well accustomed to by the end of my trip-- the awareness that I was standing on a place where the turbulent history of the Civil Rights Movement was written. But, since this was the first time I'd felt that strange feeling, I was literally left breathless with it. I stood, feeling rather stupid and useless without a camera to document the moment for posterity or even anything to keep my hands busy, gazing up at the balcony. He stood there. He rested his fingertips on that metal rail and looked out over that street to those buildings. And he died there, in a flurry of gunshots and a pool of blood.

  I was roused from my reverie and led inside to the National Civil Rights Museum, which did not disappoint, as I was sure it wouldn't. It was an amazing amount of information packed into a tiny space; the walls were literally painted with words, papered with famous documents, and covered with pictures. I remember seeing the signs for each exhibit and feeling like I was walking though my Post War notebook, so familiar were all the important events. It had a peculiar feeling of walking though history, condensed into the present and turned on its side so I could walk, linearly, through it. Perhaps the eeriest part of the entire museum was Dr. King's room, preserved exactly as he had left it more than thirty years earlier, with the bedcovers turned down and an unread newspaper obscuring a partially finished room service meal on the bedside table. I was lucky enough to enter that particular area of the museum when no one else was there, and a spent a good ten minutes lingering, dumbfounded, before anyone else appeared. I will admit that the same way many of the people I know revere pop singers and movie stars, I am awestruck (in a way that is actually sort of stupid) by historical figures, and that I did not truly understand that Martin Luther King Jr. was a real person until I saw the carelessly tossed roll of toilet paper and cigarette butts that he had touched in his last hours.

  When the room filled up with gawking tourists (who I almost felt were disrespecting Dr. King by gaping this "memorial" in such a way) I wandered across the hall and looked down on a model of the garbage workers' strike (that I did not realize until much later was representative of the reason why Dr. King was in Memphis in the first place) for about half an hour, having polite conversations that I do not remember with various other members of our group and devotees of Dr. King who had made their "pilgrimage." I was still reeling from that feeling I had experienced in the courtyard of the Lorraine Motel-- which had grown only stronger as I drifted through the inside.

  We went to Beale Street, "Where Jazz Was Born", and where I got my second favorite souvenir of the entire trip-- a blue, 25c matchbook that reads "A Hard Man in Good to Find." After that it was Graceland, all fluff. Pleasant, appealing, extravagant fluff, but fluff all the same. It both amazed and amused me that there were people going practically into religious ecstasies over Elvis (a person so well known, I just discovered, that his name is in my computer's spell check dictionary.) who was, after all, just a man. But I suppose their lingering, entranced, in the barn that housed Elvis' special television costumes was tantamount to my awestruck, thoughtless, speechless presence at the Lorraine Motel that morning.

  The late afternoon and early evening was spent on the bus on our way to Clarksdale. When we arrived, we checked into our hotel and struck out for dinner. Several friends and I settled on Papa Gino's and, after buying a little plastic cross from a quarter machine for the sheer novelty of the fact that Mississippi had quarter machines that dispensed only crosses, I went outside to have a cigarette before our food arrived. No sooner had I lit it when a small black boy who looked no older than ten appeared (and I literally mean appeared. One moment I was alone and the next, I was not.) beside me. He spoke quickly, and with a heavy accent, and I had to ask him to repeat himself a few times before I understood him. He was asking for a cigarette, so I gave him one. "How old are you?" I asked, partially because I had never ever seen anyone that young smoke a cigarette, and partially because I was curious. "Fourteen," he answered. Well, he wasn't as young as I had though. "How old are you?" His accent still made it hard for me to decipher his words, but I worked diligently at it. "Seventeen." "You married?" I was absolutely shocked. "No, I'm seventeen." I stressed it, just in case he had misunderstood me. "My sister nineteen and she been married two years." I was completely stunned. "Really?" It was all I could think of to say. He nodded vigorously. "And dey got two babies and one of dem is named after me, even though I'se just his uncle." "That's cool. Have you lived here your whole life?"

  He launched into a complicated story about his family, about frequent moves back and forth between Mississippi and Alabama. It took me a minute to realize that I had sort of been thinking of them as one state, of the entire South as one state, really.

  I finished my cigarette and went inside, genuinely wondering what I had just met. Were all the young teenagers in Mississippi like this kid? Or was he different than the rest of them? It occurred to me, just then, that I had absolutely nothing to base my judgment on. I knew that one would stand very little chance of finding a kid like that in the North,but in the South? I was just starting to realize that I didn't have a clue. * * *

  It was the nicest hotel we had stayed at, and the nicest we would stay at for the entire trip. We regretted having to leave the Comfort Inn, whose managerial staff had made us mountains of popcorn and furnished the conference room in which we were watching movies with the first cappuccino maker I had seen since we had arrived in Memphis and given us run of the entire building. But we accepted the necessity of travel if we wanted to see everything we had come to the South for, so off we went.

  We were starting to bond as a group. Out of the North for only two days by this point, (and one was spent in the air) the only thing around us that we really understood, that made sense to us by our own "Yankee" standards, was each other. So we toured the Delta Blues Museum as a group, joking and admiring our way through the buildings. The blues, I decided, gave rap some credibility. Blues was people talking about their lives, how they thought and what they felt, and it was sort of the earlier form of the "art" that would come from "musicians" such as Nelly and Ludicrous, who did pretty much the same thing. Well, suck as they did, their "music" came from noble roots.

  Back onto the bus (which was starting to feel like home) and on to the Hopson Plantation, whose only distinguishing characteristic now, in my mind, is the amazing amount of CRAP in the main barn. It was truly astounding, really. Everything from vintage barber poles to stolen fraternity flags to turn-of-the-century children's books to broken records to empty, antique liquor bottles. Also on the plantation was a painted VW bus, which Lauren coerced me into taking three pictures of with her standing in front of it. I was a bit shocked to see it there-- I didn't really think that hippie sensibilities had reached all the way to Mississippi. But I rationalized that probably the plantations owners had bought it to supplement their collection of crap, well, whatever it was , I wasn't sure how I felt about it-- that a symbol of a miraculous movement in an era gone by was being collected on the same level as license plates? It didn't sit well with me, but, I didn't really get to think about it too much, because we had to leave.

  * * *

  It was really a shame that Milburn Crowe was not a dynamic speaker, because he had an interesting story to tell. Mound Bayou, a black owned town in the Mississippi Delta, was one of the most interesting things I had ever heard of, and it was also our next stop. I hadn't the faintest idea that such a thing ever existed (are we noticing a trend in my cluelessness?) nor that, if it had, at one point, that it was still functioning. Established by freed slaves during Reconstruction and exclusively black owned and operated forever after, Milburn Crowe, Mound Bayou's mayor (he affectionately called it "Moun Bie") maintained that the Civil Rights movement had not really affected his town. Mound Bayou was one of the most enigmatic places we visited because it felt very cut off from everything I knew (or thought I knew, or had recently learned) about the South. In the history of Mound Bayou, there were no Scarlett O' Hara's, Ku Klux Klansmen posing as respected citizens, no violent battles for civil rights. Mound Bayou was like a tiny nation of its own, completely separate from the rest of the south. I sat in the Mound Bayou city hall with the rest of the group, half listening and half observing what was going on around me-- as it was a city hall, police officers, town officials, and various paper pushers were milling around. Most shocking to me was the fact that not a single one of them was white. I knew that the town was "black owned," but it still stunned me when Mayor Crowe told us that the only white people who lived in the town were nuns. I hadn't really understood the concept of a place like Mound Bayou, or seen the relevance of it in todays world. But hey, I also thought a lot of things that were proved wrong on my trip.

  * * *

  Jackson was a long way from Mound Bayou, but we had already grown accustomed to seemingly interminable bus rides. We passed the time playing a series of extremely loud games and later napping (or attempting to, as the bus was not the best place to sleep.) It was very strange, really. The bus was like a little piece of Massachusetts, because when we were on it, we were just us-- teenagers from Sudbury and nothing else. Fins and I discussed the upcoming opening of Mercadet (and the fact that we were woefully unprepared) and some other seniors and I rapped about graduation and college and such; we traded CDs and braided each other's hair and read and worked on homework, discussed prom dresses, ate Pop tarts (actually Sam's Choice Toaster Pastries, because that was all WalMart had) and bitched about how short vacation was going to be and thought ahead to dinner. (Food stops broke up the monotony of bus rides.) When we were on the bus, we weren't ignorant Northerners stumbling blindly though a place we knew nothing about but pretended to anyways. We weren't a tour group to be squired around and impressed. We weren't white people who didn't have a clue about black life in the South. Well, really we were, but while we were on the bus, we were not as acutely aware of all of these things.

  The Jackson you see pictures of and hear about on TV is only about four square blocks. The capital building is right in the middle, flanked by a few streets of government buildings, lucrative businesses, and a few luxury apartment complexes. Literally about four blocks out, the ghettoes begin. Houses with windows shot out and doors torn from their hinges and replaced with sheets of plywood line poorly tended streets. Stores with rusty neon signs stood on street corners, their metal grating pulled down over the windows even in the daytime. I remembered what my father had said when we'd been in Olympia a month ago, about the capitals of states always being nice, even if they were small. Well, he had never been to Mississippi. We parked the bus and Mr. Crowell got out to smoke a cigarette (I feared for him, that scrawny little white man wandering a Jackson ghetto) while we proceeded inside. In the basement of a building with bullet-proof windows, Hollis Watkins awaited us, sitting patiently in an orange plastic chair. Mr. Schechter attempted to introduce him as a "freedom singer," but Mr. Watkins quickly made it clear that he did not identify with that title-- he had just been in the right place at the right time with a nice voice. His quiet, commanding voice laid down for us the story of an idealistic teenager who grew into an equally idealistic man at a time of great social and political upheaval. He spoke of his first protests, his arrests, demos he'd participated in and songs he remembered. Every so often, we paused for a song break, and Mr. Watkins would rise to his feet and sing for us, dancing along to a rhythm that came from deep inside of him somewhere. For the last twenty or so minutes we were there, Mr. Watkins coaxed us to our feet to sing and dance along with him. I wondered, as I stood there, what he thought of all of us. Were we, to him, as out of place as I felt? I judged that we had no right, really, to be singing songs like "We Shall Overcome," because, in reality, not a single person in the room (excepting, of course, Mr. Watkins, and perhaps one or two of the teachers) had a clue what the song was really all about. What can rich suburban kids have to overcome? Family problems, surely, rough friendships and school, but could that even remotely compare to a struggle for basic human rights? I didn't think so. All the same, Mr. Watkins appeared to have enjoyed our company immensely. He shook hands with or hugged each of us as we filed past him out the door. It was, if I remember correctly, a very quiet bus ride to our next hotel. I would really have liked to know what some of my fellow travelers though about the whole Hollis Watkins thing-- did they feel justified in singing his songs with him, or like they were trespassing, unbidden, on sacred ground, as I felt we might have been? I didn't get to ask. We were all completely absorbed in our own activities, from school work to sleeping to staring vacantly out the window, as I was doing. The answer to that question is one I never got, not even after we got home.

  * * *

  There were A LOT of churches in the South. Most of them were Baptist, but I saw a few Pentecostal and one or two Catholic. Most of the small towns we'd passed through, even the ones with a couple of stores (usually pawn shops) and a run down bar comprising the downtown area, had at least two churches. If Jesus were to be resurrected today, I'm sure the Southern towns we passed through would have no trouble making him feel right at home. But in New Orleans, a two hour bus ride from Jackson, there was not a single church to be found. But there were (and this is only a partial list) at least twenty strip clubs, more bars than I could have counted, hundreds of tacky souvenir stores, three head shops, a series of art galleries, an outrageously overpriced boutique called Violets that had only one article of clothing not decorated with rhinestones (a sock, hidden behind the register) tons of restaurants, two voodoo shops, a witchcraft bookstore, cheap cigarettes, a lot of drunk frat boys (yes, even on a Wednesday afternoon) and a vague longing for something I couldn't name. "Nu Awlins" was a mindless day, filled with excessive running around and excessive buying and excessive eating. (It's funny, I very clearly remember the spectacular (vegetarian) red beans and rice I ate for dinner that night. I had never even seen that on a restaurant menu before. Damn, there were definitely things the North was missing out on!) At that night's hotel, I got my last decent sleep of the entire trip. There was just too much else to do.

  * * * The next morning, it was on to Philadelphia. Philadelphia, Mississippi was a name I knew, whose letters I always imagined decorated with dripping blood like the titles on all those trashy Christopher Pike horror books I used to collect but never read. But it was just like most of the other one horse towns we had visited while we had been in Mississippi-- a few streets of shopping (but Philadelphia had the $10 Store which set it apart from the rest, a bit. That was one cool store.) with a parade of older cars traversing the pockmarked roads, and, of course, a Baptist church. While we were sitting in the "city square" (really just four benches arranged around a skeletal tree that was magically growing up out of the pavement.) Tracy harassed various locals (who, I can say here, attempted to look down her shirt while she spoke) about the now-infamous killing of three civil rights workers in the late 60's that had made Philadelphia a universally known name. No one really answered her, but one man did say, about black people: "I'll stay in my place if they stay in theirs." (at this point, and I swear I am not making this up, he adjusted his suspenders and spat at my feet before walking away.) We walked down to the Philadelphia library after that, where we gathered around the children's reading area to speak with the editor of the Neshoba Democrat, Philadelphia's newspaper. A soft-spoken, surprisingly liberal Southern gentleman, he introduced me to an aspect of the Goodman/Schwerner/Chaney episode that I had never really considered-- the time between, the forty-four days from their disappearance to the discovery of their bodies. Rumors, he told us, were not flying as thick and fast as one might have expected. The entire town of Philadelphia, while vaguely curious, had known it was one of their own, and had sat back contentedly to the rest of the country to deal with it.

  It was terrifying, really, to conceptualize that those three boys had been pulled of the same highway we had driven, beaten and slaughtered in the woods now right before our eyes, and lost there for more than a month. Spanish moss climbed lazily over thick, drooping branches that extended from tress with wide, rough trunks. Tiny green leaves sprouted from everything, and it was quite easy to see how the area off the highway had been obscured. All the same, it literally made me shiver.

  We were hustled back onto the bus after that and led off to James Chaney's grave back in Meridian. James Chaney was the only Mississippi native among the Freedom Summer participants who were butchered that night in Philadelphia, and, after a lot of controversy, was buried in a black cemetery (as no desegregated ones existed at the time.) Everyone was hot and cranky and no one really wanted to get back on the bus or go another minute without eating, so I think it was with grudging acceptance of our fate that we allowed ourselves to be taken up a steep hill after picking up Mr. Obie Clark and a little girl (probably his granddaughter or some such) to visit James Chaney's grave.

  This being the case, I don't think anyone was prepared for the grave. It was in a secluded little spot just off the road, a simple headstone with a granite burial slab over where the casket had once been lowered into the ground. I read somewhere that the reason people can get all patriotic about the American flag is because so many people have looked so passionately towards that symbol for hundreds of years to instill them with patriotism and love for their country, and have filled the flag with those energies. The air around James Chaney's grave practically crackled with the violent clash of energies that had surely surrounded it. Obie Clark did not speak much, but left us to ponder the electric silence in a stupor that I'm sure he got a lot from people that went up there. I stood, once again, completely dumbfounded, trying to feel James Chaney's restless spirit and to understand what it could possibly have been like for him to die in the way he did for the reasons he did. While the people around me snapped photos and whispered to each other, I stood stock still by the grave, reading the inscription on it over and over. I can't remember it now, but I remember that it, very tritely, I admit, brought tears to my eyes. Before we left, Mr. Clark told us that he was in the phone book and that if we were ever in Meridian again, we should look him up. It took me aback, partially because no one had ever really said anything like that to me before, and partially because, even if they had, they would not have meant it, as this man did; it would have been mere polite formality. I was quickly catching on to the fact that the Southern mentality was much more honest that the Northern-- they didn't seem to mess around with conventional crap, but instead came right out with whatever they wanted to get across. (and I met the epitome of this philosophy later, but that will come in its place).

  We were supposed to do a lot of other things that night. We were supposed to go to Selma and walk the Pettus Bridge, visit a variety of museums, and even meet with the mayor. But it wasn't going to happen. Instead we checked into our hotel early, went out for fast food, and crawled back to our rooms to watch TV and talk and be teenagers again. The sobering realities of this trip got to you sometimes, they really did. But, all the same, even curled in the covers of our motel beds wondering what it was we had been experiencing for the past five days, I think we were staring to forget the context of our lives. It was a strange feeling.

  Early morning again, and we were in downtown Selma to walk the Pettus Bridge. It stretched across the Alabama, which was deep blue accented with swirling eddies of brown and lined with great weeping willows, and visible for a few miles to our right and left. Four lanes of traffic raced by us in two directions and, as I stepped onto the bridge to begin my crossing, I tried to imagine myself on that very spot several decades earlier, attempting to follow Dr. King from Selma to Montgomery. It didn't work.

  We crossed the bridge without incident (lost no one into the river or the street. This is quite amazing considering how tired we all were.) and, when we reached the other side and were about to slingshot around to make our way back, I caught sight of an innocuous street sign, green and white like on all of America's state highways. Above several other city names on the relatively small sign, reflective metal letters and numbers spelled out "MONTGOMERY-- 57." I had seen that sign before. In pictures, on movies, in history books and in several of the museums we'd visited. The marchers on Dr. King's famous Selma to Montgomery March had attempted (and failed) to cross the Pettus Bridge twice before they actually made it to the other side on their third try. That picture that I was so familiar with was an image of triumph, and here it was, not a hundred feet away from me. Back came that strange sensation that I was traversing history, the sensation that I had first experienced at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis and grown well accustomed to by the time we arrived in Selma. (I think I had goosebumps for a good 75% of the trip.)

  I was in sort of a daze on my way back to the bus, half walking half floating along, my mind spinning with all I had seen in the past few days. I did a lot of wandering while I was in the South. I don't exactly mean physical wandering, although I did that too. My mind meandered aimlessly-- when I was in a big group or all alone, whether I was talking to people or writing in my journal-- all the time. I was sort of traipsing though the caverns of my mind, digging out bits of information about the Civil Rights Movement that I had long since pigeon-holed away and was sure I had forgotten, dusting them off and reexamining them as if they were suddenly of the most dire importance. (Which, in a way, they were.) I was floating along, my mind on just such a journey, when I found myself shepherded into what looked like a small office building on the left side of the street. My reverie had slowed me down enough that I was at the back of the group and so it took me a little while to catch on to where we were and what we were doing. I really didn't think I was going to care about anything called the Voting Rights Museum, but I was proved wrong probably about fifteen seconds after I thought it by a wall to my left. It was made of smooth mirrored panels covered with what appeared to be little white post-its. Upon closer inspection, I discovered them to be little notes written by people who either had or were family members of people who had been on Dr. King's Selma to Montgomery March. There were a few lighthearted comments about the museum and the Movement , but most of the notes were more serious, such as this one, whose text I copied into my journal:
  I was there.
  I was clubbed by a police officer
  And I stayed on my feet.

  We have been standing in that front room no more than a few minutes when someone entered to take us around. She was tall, but not too tall, standing probably about 5' 10" in heels. Her ample figure was clad in a lime green dress and matching jacket, and she spoke with authority and her hands on her hips. She explained in clipped, businesslike sentences that she had been "there:" at the Selma to Montgomery March and at various other battles of the movement, and that she had opened the Voting Right Museum to tell her story to others so that it wouldn't be forgotten. This woman, this loud, brash, no-nonsense woman, directed us around. Through a variety of clever demonstrations (such as fitting forty people into a tiny room that she said was roughly the size of the jail cell she and about fifty others had been held in when she was first arrested, and commanding a roomful of people to sit flat on the floor and, when people did not comply, compelling them to with a single look to do so in order to demonstrate true power.) she explained to us the messages behind the exhibits, from the "memorial" to those slain in the Movement to plaster casts of the feet of the "everyday" people who accompanied Dr. King from Selma to Montgomery to the actual full dress "uniform" of a Ku Klux Klansman to a room with portraits of black politicians elected to Congress during Reconstruction. In ten minutes, this woman managed to cut though all of the bullshit and present the Movement, as she saw it, to us straight-- without any PC-ness or evasion of important issues. She was an absolutely staggering individual.

  But she had another group to tour, and so she deposited us in a small room off the central corridor and left us to wait for Rev. F.D. Reed, who was due to speak with us briefly before we left Selma for Birmingham. He appeared several minutes later, well dressed and smiling widely. He spoke to us for only about fifteen minutes, but he spoke very well, (Most priests speak well, in my experience.) showed us a famous picture of the frontline of the Selma to Montgomery March(where he walked, a few spaces over from Dr. King) and told us that if there was anything the Movement could teach us, it was that God will be there when he is needed. I am not religious in the least, but this speech sent chills through my body. It was all very surreal, I reflected, as I shook Rev. Reed's hand and exited the building. After a whirlwind morning that had taken less than two hours but had felt like an entire day, we were back on the bus, this time heading East. Selma? It was if it had never happened, except for that feeling that I had been sucked up into a tornado and dropped back to the ground again. But by this point, I was getting used to it.

  * * *

  Birmingham. Bombingham. We were in the South visiting towns and cities I had only been sure existed in books, and it would not have been complete without stopping in at the site of some of the most violent protests of the entire Movement. The park that took up an entire city block across form the Birmingham Institute was scattered sculptures that commemorated the bloody fight-- the most powerful, in my opinion, one of four large, fairly life-like, blue metal police dogs that appeared to be propelling themselves across the pathway that snaked through the park. The museum, while endlessly better funded than any of the other museums we had seen, was rather disappointing, save for one intense exhibit. Metal ramps led through a cement room "decorated" with long plastic sheets with pictures of people-- housewives, baseball players, nurses, businessmen, etc. etc. etc. From every direction inside the room, hidden speakers blared all sorts of racial slurs. I also will admit that I rushed a bit through the Birmingham Institute because I am not overly fond of being filmed and we had a local news station documenting us that day- unfortunately, the camera man had decided to attempt to follow me, so I missed more of the museum than I meant to. A few blocks away was the 16th Street Baptist Church. I was just getting used to the way history seemed to have arranged itself around areas. I had always thought of all the things that had happened in Birmingham during the Movement as separate entities, but it was time I comprehended that they were linked by time and place. The 16th Street Baptist Church was beautiful, with huge stained glass windows, sturdy oak pews, and crimson carpets. It struck me as very sad that an entire Baptist Community was forever scarred by what had been done to their house of worship more than thirty years ago. Acts of hate do not recognize time limits-- they cause damage for as long as they please.

  And after that, we drove to Atlanta. That evening, while locked deep in a philosophical religious conversation with Mr. Schechter, Kristina, and Reem that ended up lasting more than three hours, I noticed my brain attempting to wander back to the day I had just had, only to discover that the entire thing had already melted in my mind. It was a strange phenomenon, really, the way I was starting to forget things as soon as they occurred. Looking back even now that I've been home for more than a month, the days are exactly as sun-bleached and faded as they were three hours after they were over. * * * Atlanta and shopping, a visit to the beautifully executed King Memorial, (I have never seen a more beautiful monument in my life.) a Baptist church service and another day in the sky. I honestly have no distinct memories from our last day and a half in the South, just a lot of impressionistic images that I would paint if I had any artistic talent at all. So many colors, images, smells, and sounds, and then the next thing I remember is the airport.

  Epilogue

  And then, all of a sudden, I was conscious of being home. Suddenly, it was over, and I was back in a land without grits, 1,000 miles from the nearest decent biscuit. For perhaps a week, I avoided thinking about my trip to the South, not because I didn't want to think about it, but because I knew that I had to, and once I started, I was going to need a good long time to make it to the end.

  The Thursday after we returned home, I went to bed early with a notepad and scrawled thoughts down, in list form, for nearly three hours. Everything that popped into my head, no matter what it was, got written down and read aloud into my empty room when I was finished so I could laugh, cry, and think.

  I came to one major conclusion about the whole thing-- it opened my eyes. I went down to the South with a vision of a place that simply did not exist, and in seven days, had that picture completely obliterated and a whole new one erected in its place. I met people who were like no one I had ever imagined, seen places that I hadn't ever dreamed were real, and realized what it was to be in a place where history was made. I had never appreciated Boston before in the way I did when I first journeyed downtown after I got home from the South.

  But the greatest thought I had about the whole episode occurred to me after I got home, #142 on the list I made. Right after my realization that when you are with a group of people in such foreign surroundings for more than a few days, you lose sight of everyone else you know, and before the wry joke I made about Cracker Barrel and my oral fixation, I wrote these words: "Unless you can feel a thing, you can never guess its meaning." It's a quotation that's hung in my history classroom since the beginning of the year, one I always looked at and never though much of. But suddenly, it made a lot of sense. We went down South to try to understand it on a level that no book or movie ever would have given us. To understand the South, and the Civil Rights Movement, and what it all really meant, we simply had to be there.

  So that was my trip, documented not so much through where we went and what we did, exactly, but through was what I felt and what I thought. But isn't that, after all, all the human experience really is?

  Kate Fiorucci

• "BEEN DOWN INTO THE SOUTH" An intimate reflection of my experience by Kristina Riordan read

  Kristina Riordan

  It has been an intense few weeks after arriving home from my journey. I think that journey is the only way to describe it. Trip sounds too cheap, too touristy. I remember how excited I was at the beginning of the year when Mr. Schechter told my Post War class that he wanted to plan a trip into the Deep South. The south seemed so different so intriguing. I immediately jumped on board and had one hell of a time trying to find thirty six kids willing to venture with us into an area in this country so rarely understood or given thought to. I remember the nervous anticipation in the month of November. Were we going to get enough people to sign up? Again in January and March when the final payments were due. Was anyone else going to pull out? Was this fascinating journey really going to take place? Were we really going to go? Those are a few of the questions that ran through my mind in the early months.

  As the trip approached us in early March and April, there was so much excitement and intrigue. What really lay before us seemed a sort of mystery that was only to unfold when we arrived in Memphis. I think that most of us just hoped Mr. Schechter knew what was going to happen and how it was all going to happen. It seemed as though we had so much planned and such a sort period of time to work with, just eight days. We were to travel into five separate states and criss-cross two time zones. It all was so puzzling how it was to finally fit together, but that was why in the early months, there was always a sense of camaraderie among the group. Whatever was going to happen, which none of us knew of could have anticipated, we were going to go through it together.

  I went down into to the south, hopeful, wishful, and certain that we were all going to come home a little more enlightened and moved by what we had experienced. I remember praying the night before we left that we would all have a great experience, get along, and come home moved by the spirit of the movement to help create change in our own communities. And oh, how my prayers were answered. I feel that before I left I was just a little more naive, and a little more sheltered than I am today. I went expecting the best and the worst at the same time, if that makes any sense at all. After my experience in Honduras this summer I felt that I had seen the worst of what the world had to offer people and the best of what the spirit had to bring. I did not think that we had the kind of spirit I saw in Honduras, the passion for living everyday to the fullest, here in America. I was wrong, though, because I have seen it, I have now experienced it. It is just buried down a little bit deeper into our history. It is just a little more south than Boston. Thus, our journey into the deep south began a journey that will never be forgotten.

  We flew into Memphis Tennessee, with excited and tired bodies. There were howls of excitement on the plane when the pilot informed us all that the local temperature was in the mid-eighties and we were ready to absorb whatever the south had to offer. And so we were introduced to Mr. Crowell and the big blue Callahan, and the state of Mississippi. We slept a comfortable night at the local Motel 6, in Lake Horn Mississippi, and then awoke with our first day ahead of us. The Callahan swept us away, back to Memphis to visit the Lorraine Motel, the site of Martin Luther King Jr.'s, assassination, and one of the best Civil Rights museums in the country. I will always remember the sun shining bright that day falling gently over the building that was preserved just so. The gates that were still closed because we had arrived early, the old motel sign, probably the one Martin Luther King saw as he drove up to the motel on his last night on this planet. The big beautiful leafy tree's that lined the small street. And the old lady that just won't give up her protest of the museum that took the place of her home, her determination to fight for what she thought was unjust. There were so many emotions in just sections of surveying the exterior of the site. It was them that I realized what we were really in for. I knew that this experience was going to be a most powerful one. One that would impact how I thought, felt, acted for hopefully the rest of my life.

  The museum was amazing. So was our tour guide. So young and energetic about civil rights, so knowledgeable about the events of the movement and what preceded it. He was full of emotion at every turn, happy, sad, tragic, exuberant, reflective. Standing by the window and seeing the spot four feet away from me where one of the greatest men to ever grace this earth was so brutally shot down was almost too much for me. Looking into the room he last slept in. How it had been preserved to the last minute detail was eerie and profound at the same time. Knowing all the happened, all that had come before, all that was to come, hearing in the back of your mind, and literally in the background the speech he gave the night before he was murdered was something hard to ever describe.

  After a lighthearted jaunt on Beale Street and excursion to Elvis Presley's Graceland we headed south to Clarksdale Mississippi the heart of the Mississippi Delta. After a most comfortable stay at the Comfort Inn, which allowed us to experience first hand some excellent southern hospitality, we traveled to the Delta Blues Museum. This was really fascinating because it gave great insight into the culture that surrounded and shaped the African Americans before and during their struggle for justice. We had a great sampling of various blues musicians and got to see a real life juke joint co-owned by Morgan Freeman and the home that Muddy Waters grew up in. After a quick stop at the Hopson Plantation we headed to Mound Bayou, a town built by former slaves. There the Mayor, Mr. Milbern Crowe, spoke to us of the town's history that I found totally engrossing. The town was beautiful, big fields, beautiful magnolia and maple trees, lots of flowers, old dirt roads, but was also extremely poor. One of the many juxtapositions we saw during our stay in the south.

  After a found farewell from Mr. Crowe we set out toward the capital of Mississippi, Jackson, to meet one of the original freedom singers. The bus ride to Jackson was one of the longest but was possibly most fun we had on the bus. After numerous car games, chats, singalong's, and lighthearted laughter we arrived in Jackson. Jackson was a handsome city. A beautiful State House, big leafy trees, grassy parks, and nice old homes. We pulled up to a building not far from the State House which you could almost see, to find a scene that immediately reminded me of some of the homes I got used to seeing in Honduras. In the third world, not in America did I ever expect to find housing like I saw. Another juxtaposition of images, to one side the lovely Sate House and city park, to the other homes in shambles, trash on the side walks on the streets, stray cats and dogs roaming around looking half-starved to death. It was almost too much for me. It brought me right back to Honduras, to that sickly smell of poverty that I came to associate it with. The smell I remember from Africa, and Central America was right in my own country in a state capital no less. The somber mood I walked into that building with did not last for long however, for soon we were to meet Mr. Hollis Watkins.

  We sat down in a large circle of chairs that had been placed their for us previous to our arrival. Everyone was tired, hungry, and just a little bit uneasy about sitting down for another hour or so after being on the bus for over four. I think it is safe to say that as soon as Mr. Watkins opened his mouth all those feelings seemed to melt right away. Time seemed to fly right by as we sat in that large room listening to a man that took our breath away with his sweet gentle voice. Every word re-creating the movement, the different protests, the mood of the movement the morale at different times. Hearing first hand of the courage this man faced, what he gave up, how not even his own extended family would have anything to do with him after he had been arrested for the first time. What it was like to be a freedom singer, what they did, and the consequences of fighting for ones rights. When he started to sing he became ageless it seemed as though it could have been 1962, when we sang with him it felt as though we really were part of that movement fighting for freedom. Again it is hard to describe the emotions, the mood of that room, the camaraderie I felt at that point. It felt as though right at that moment nothing else in the world mattered. That time had almost come to a screeching halt so that we could sing freedom songs with Hollis Watkins and hear his stories of one of the most profound movements in the history of this country. It is rare to find a person who makes you feel the way Hollis Watkins makes you feel. It is rare to have so much respect for someone you have never met before, someone up until that day you never knew existed, but you know you will never forget. It proved how much this movement was fueled by everyday citizens willing to give up everything, even their own freedom for that of the larger majority, as much as it was by the Martin Luther Kings's.

  After spending the night at Shoney's Inn and getting a taste of the breakfast bar the next morning, we headed to New Orleans for a day of fun, sun, music, shopping, and great Cajun cooking. The splendor of the Mississippi countryside took my breath away. It was so beautiful and peaceful and natural. No big developments full of the same five luxury houses you see as you drive through Sudbury, but rolling hillsides, rives, lakes, fields, magnolia trees, simple but nevertheless elegant farm houses, old cottages with rap around porches. I spent the ride in total awe of the beauty of this region. After our fun and relaxing day we spent he night in Meridian Mississippi at a sub-par Econo-Lodge. We awoke the next morning and decided to by-pass the Waffle House and eat again at Shoney's. This was our fatal mistake. Several hours after first arriving at the Shoney's we were all on our way to the town of Philadelphia Mississippi, to learn about the case of the three civil rights workers murdered there in 1964.

  Learning about the case in my AP America course sophomore year, again in my American Literature class Junior year and in Post War, I felt I was pretty solid on my facts. I remember watching the numerous documentaries on it in Post War and in American Lit, and the movie Mississippi Burning. I remembered vividly the scene of the highway they rode on in the final minutes of their lives, I thought on the bus as I looked out the window, they could have been driving right here. These were the last trees they saw, this might have been where they were pulled over. Knowing what happened, knowing how big an impact their deaths had on the country it was indescribable how I felt as we rode down this quite stretch of road shaded by big green leaves on both sides. Arriving in Philadelphia was something else. The town looked as though it had not aged at all in over thirty years. That made everything some how all the more eerie. This is what it looked like when those boys were killed. This is what my parents, the nation saw on TV every night when they were searching for the bodies. It was a town stuck in the past, trapped by the horror of what had happened there so long ago. A few of us traveled into the under ten dollar store for a lark and came out with arms full of wonderfully cheap treasures. At the check out a kind old lady made conversation with us, and made us promise we would come back and see her the next time we were visiting. I couldn't help thinking if this woman lived in Philadelphia when everything went down, had she known anything? We then met up with the group and traveled to the town library where we were to meet the retired newspaper editor to help shed some light on how the town reacted when the murders took place. Mr. Deermont was amazing. He remembered everything down to the most minute detail. What day of the week it was, what must have happened, it was like a play by play of the whole ordeal. He too spoke with such emotion, so much heartache almost. When he told us he thanks God everyday that something bad didn't happen in Mississippi, it made my head reel. Is that what it has really come down to? Is that the mark that this has made on the community and those that lived through it? Just thanking God nothing bad happened in Mississippi, and feeling deep down that it will happen a thousand other places before it happens there again.

  After a brief photo-op with Mr. Deermont we were heading back to Meridian to meet with Mr. Obie Clark who was to take us to James Chaney's grave site. Mr. Clark was another sweet southern gentlemen with one of the cutest granddaughters I have ever seen. He lead us up to the grave site on a long and winding shady road to a small and remote grave yard with only around a dozen graves, Chaney's the largest by far. He told us again of the murders of the Chaney family and what they went through after James was murdered. He spoke to us of the struggles they faced to bury James and the grave yard switch, of the violence that has followed his remains and how even now he can't live in peace. We saw the beautiful grave, with its shiny granite looking back at us. You could feel the gentle wind blow through your hair as you listened once again to the tale of such hate, and the hate that hasn't ended. You could hear the wind rustle the shady tree's and feel the seclusion of the site, so calm and so violent at the same time, another one of those juxtapositions. I remember staring down at that inscription for a long time, "There are those who are alive, yet will never live. There are those who are dead, yet will live forever. Great deeds inspire and encourage the living." It moved me in a way I don't think I can even put into words. The whole scene it was so emotional, it was to profound... There just aren't any words to describe what I felt at that moment. The hands joined together, the shot out photo, the rocks of the visitors, the solace and the violence, knowing that the past is never the past and the future is only a glimpse of what has already occurred.

  We spent the next few days in Alabama visiting the Edmund Pettus Bridge. Walking across it was symbolic and a nice tribute, something that you will always remember when you study the voting rights movement, hey I walked across that bridge. The voting rights museum was interesting and the women that took us around Ms. Bland, if I recall was great. the perfect image of the big strong black woman so often stereotyped. I loved her. Their exhibits were fascinating and different. The footprints and notes of those who walked that Sunday, the room kept as a tribute to the victims of the movement and so on. Then we traveled to Montgomery and Birmingham to see the monuments that they have erected in honor of the movement. Seeing the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, knowing what had happened there, being in the spot of so much hate, it was moving. The Birmingham Institute was another example of a superb museum that must have taken ages to construct, with its every attention to detail. From Birmingham to Georgia we went, changing time zones once again, singing "Proud Mary," on the way. Passing Nascar rallies with miles of trailers, motorcycles and confederate flags, was like a slap across the face that racism is still alive and well in some parts.

  Visiting the King Center in Atlanta the next day was one of the more moving points of the trip for me personally. Here is the grave of one of my heroes someone who gave his life for what he believed was a moral and just cause. His grave site and reflecting pool were inspiring, the museum and church were also beautiful. I was so humbled just sitting by the pool looking up at the tomb. Remembering John's Gospel, "There is no greater love than this, to lay down one's life for his friends." That is what he did, give up his life, make the ultimate sacrifice so that some may live better, so that some may finally have justice. The scenes of the documentary shown to us right before we arrived on site kept spinning in my head, his casket pulled by a sharecroppers wagon through the streets of Atlanta, the song they played "The king of love is dead" ran through my mind, it was so sad. Almost as if it had just happened.

  So now that the journey has ended what has it taught me? I think first and foremost I have been given the unique opportunity to experience a different kind of culture. I have been given the chance that very few have of seeing a part of this country so rarely seen by northerners. I have been to small country towns and large corporate cities. I have met people who I know will always have an impact on how I see the south, myself, and my goals. I have been given a chance to see the south for what it really is, a place unlike any other, full of a unique culture all its own, history both triumphant and tragic, and people always smiling and willing to help you out. This journey has taught me to always fight for something, always fight for what I feel is right and just. Never be afraid of something that seems to be to conquer anything can be conquered. And never think that just because I am one person that I am insignificant and do not count. Everyone counts, taking that first step is harder than taking the many that follow. I know that I am different because I have seen a land full of such potential that has come so far but still has so far to come. Not just in the south but in the north as well. Racism is not dead, the struggle that I have seen with my own eyes is not over and needs my help. Groups and organizations like Southern Echo need my help, they need everyone's help. In the north racism lies under a blanket and we ignore it and pretend it doesn't exist, but it is still there. In the south it may be more blatant but no more hurtful and it needs to be dealt with. Most of all I feel I have been blessed enough to share even for a few moments the lives of so many amazing individuals, so many have given their own lives so that mine can be better and I owe them and myself to give back to them to help them with their struggle, which now has become my own.

• We Shall Overcome . . The Deep South by Doug Toomer read

  When I first heard the proposed trip down south to study the Civil Rights Movement up close, I wasn't interested. I'd been down south before, and being the son to two African-American parents from the south, I knew about many things that had happened. "Why would I want to waste my last Spring Break of my high school career trekking through the muck they call 'The Bible Belt?" I thought to myself. My mother looked at the noticed handed-out to the students and said that I was basically "Freedom Riding." Not knowing what it meant at the time, I began to become very intrigued. As she began to explain to me what Freedom Riding meant, I realized that all the time I had traveled down south to visit family and friends; I had never really explored the historical aspect of it. I wasn't quite sure what I'd find down there that I couldn't learn from reading a book. Ultimately, I was hoping to go down there and simply have a great time and "soak-up" the environment around me. What I had found down there was something in describable that I will treasure forever, both as a high school student and an African-American.

  My first trip down south was when I was five-years-old. For the first time, I was going to visit my grandmother and see cousins of mine on my father's side of the family that I had only heard about. I remember getting out of bed an hour earlier than usual and making sure my mother packed everything I need. I was excited to say the least and couldn't wait to see what the south would bring to me. My dad decided to drive down their in his brand new Mercedes, so that he could spend some quality time with me and my brothers. We traveled from Boston to Mobile, Alabama, which felt like it took forever when I was five. As we got closer and closer to Mobile, I noticed that the environment around seemed almost alien. The dirty turned red; the air smelled different and there wasn't a skyscraper for in sight. I didn't know if I liked the south or really wanted to visit the people who lived there, but I didn't complain as we drove on down the freeway. After about a dozen more trips down to Mobile and Atlanta, Georgia, I felt as though there was nothing major in the south to "jump up and down about." The other students of my Postwar American History class seemed to be experiencing the same exciting urge I first felt when I was five. Watching them and seeing their desire to experience something new, sparked something within me. I wanted to share that feeling with them and be "reborn" to the south. Around 99% of the students had never been to the south before in their life. The students soon began to ask me questions about the south and how southern people live. To make sure they didn't have a prejudice over the south, I told then nothing really of my previous experiences. In a way, I wanted to go down south just to see how they would react to the new world around them and if they would have the same feelings I had when I first went down there.

  When April 15th came around, I couldn't wait to get to Logan Airport. With a group consisting of four chaperons and around 50 to 60 students, we were anything but a motley crew. We basically all knew each other and with a full-week trip like this, it's good to be with friends and people one knows. Just sitting at the airport terminal waiting for boarding proved to be a fun activity. Everybody was talking about what he or she were anticipating to see and learn on the trip and what they had brought along during the times of leisure on our journey. The people in the group I stuck with the most were six or seven fellow students who sat next to me in class. Oddly enough I had never really had a true conversation with them throughout the school year that didn't consisted of "Did we have homework last night?" It's amazing what one can find out about their classmates when they have time on their hands. That very night, we entered Memphis, Tennessee. My seven or so close friends decided that we wanted some fine homemade, down south cooking; we went to Chili's. I had never really noticed it before, but the south seemed to consist of "fast-food" restaurants and all night Waffle Houses.

  From that first night till the last day, we ate nothing but junk food. In the morning, we went to places like Shoney's and ordered the buffet. One of the funniest things one could ever see is the look of a northerner's face when he/she looks down at their plate and sees grits. Since my parents grew up in the south and brought their southern cooking with them to feed my siblings and I, I was designated as the explainer to what exactly a "grit" was. As though it came from an alien planet, my schoolmates would pass their grits on to me, as though I was a human garbage disposal. I didn't mine, if only the knew that if they were prepared and seasoned just right, grits are actually good; I'm sure MLK (Martin Luther King Jr.) ate them.

  The first historical place we visited was the Lorraine Motel/Museum. Looking up at the exact spot where MLK was assassinated, I couldn't really imagine what it must have felt like for people who were actually there at the time. The building remains the same on the outside since his death, giving it an eerie '60s feel. With the inside gutted into a museum, we were taken through the history of the C.R.M. (Civil Rights Movement) dating back to the time of slavery. We must have spent about two hours walking through the whole museum, but the most interesting aspect was the tour guide assigned to us. Our tour guide, whose name I can't remember, seemed to take us along with him as though he was showing something that actually happened to him. With his thick southern accent and the expression on his face of disgust, he told us the Till Case in such a powerful way, that no one, not even the people who'd studied that particular incident for weeks could turn away from him. One could definitely see that the case was something special to him.

  Mr. Emit Till was a teenaged African-American kid from Chicago who went down south to visit family in the Delta. With the north being more liberal, blacks and whites integrated and communicated better. Coming down south was a true shock to him to see that blacks only communicated with other blacks while whites stuck to themselves too. Emit laughed and told his friends that he talked to white people all the time and had white friends. When he went as far as to say something along the lines of him having a white girlfriend or that he had kissed a white girl. Believing him to be telling lies, some sort of bet or dare happened and Mr. Till walk straight up to a woman coming out of a convenience store and said something along the lines of, "Hey Baby." or "Ciao Baby." A white man heard this and began to grow furious. That very night, as Emit walked along the side of a road, he was asked by a white man if he wanted a ride. It would later turn out to be the last ride of his life. He was taken out into the woods and basically mutilated. Bones crushed and blood poured as he was beaten senseless.

  Days went by without hearing a word from Emit and the family began to grow restless. Soon, a report came in that they had found the boy's body floating in a river. With horror, the body had been in the water long enough for it to become bloated with water. When Mrs. Till, his mother, came down to identify him, it was near impossible. She held an open casket funeral so that the world could look down and see this African-American teenager whose body was beaten beyond recognition and bloated just because he apparently talked to a white woman the wrong.

  A trial was held and the people accused were put on a trial with all white juries. The only black witness put on the stand was an elderly man whose speech was so incoherent that nobody could make out what he was saying. In the end, the all white jury found the accused to be innocent. The whites of the town found the trial to be completely ridiculous in the first place, openly admitting that Emit Till got what he deserved. Black organizations tried as best as they could, but this all happened during the earlier stages of the movement, before powerful people like MLK could get involved.

  The grand finale of the tour was MLK's actual room in the hotel the day he was assassinated. Looking at his actual hotel room through the glass wall gave me an eerie feeling as though the incident happened only days ago. Seeing the newspaper he was reading, the covers on his bed a little roughed up as though he woke up a few minutes ago, and the cup of coffee on the little nightstand gave the viewers of today a sample of what went on that morning. It truly is one thing to read about and another thing to actually see it with your own eyes.

  Across the street one was able see to an African-American women having a little grudge against the civil rights organizations for what they did to the hotel. Apparently, the hotel had been a place for poverty stricken people to go to. Once it was renovated into a museum, the people who stayed there periodically were left homeless. For years, this homeless woman has been protesting what happened to the hotel after the assassination. One can see witness her across the street with her little push-cart and signs everywhere saying such things as "Dr. King died for our rights, but what about the homeless!?!" Oddly enough, she even had her own website for people to look up information about her and possibly help her in her campaign against the museum if they wanted to. One would never think to see a black person filled with anger over such a historical landmark. In a way a sympathized with her about how they simply kicked her out, but overall, it was for a good cause.

  When the meeting was held a few weeks before the actual trip, many people noticed that Elvis Presley's Graceland mansion was one of the sites we would visit. The trip to Graceland blatantly had nothing to do with the C.R.M., but the whole experience was entertaining. Where else will one find green shag-carpet on the ceiling and three TV sets in a row on a wall so one could watch multiple channels at the same time besides Elvis' home? Elvis might have been crazy too, for who would shoot a TV simply for target practice? The hype over Elvis is definitely overrated when one steps back and looks at his life.

  In the matter of minority relations, he was the first white man to sing and dance to a black beat. Elvis single-handily brought rhythm and blues to whites in America and renamed it Rock N' Roll. When we visited the Delta Blues Museum later in the trip, it was interesting to see the names of such famous artist like Bob Dylan, The Beatles, and Rob Stewart praise Elvis Presley for Rock N' Roll music when in fact African-Americans invented it. All he did was make it "cool" for whites to listen to. I don't hate Elvis, however, a few months before the trip, I visited my Aunt in Alabama. I told my Aunt how one of my favorite songs was an Elvis Presley song. With rage in her eyes, she told me the story about what Elvis had apparently said on an old radio broadcast about how her felt about black people. He said something along the lines of, "The only thing the black man can do for me is shine my shoes and buy my records." Including my family, I had heard this from numerous black people about him saying something like that and how black southerners especially didn't and still don't like Elvis until this very day and don't buy his music. I only told a few people on the trip about this seeing how many of my schoolmates were Elvis fans. Personally, I believe he said it, but that as the years went by, he changed and probably regretted ever making that comment.

  What can one say besides the fact that he's "The King". Many famous people have died, but how many among those people have an audio-tour of their house for tourist to go through when they die? How many people have a street named after them, not one but two airplanes shipped into the area around their house, a whole museum dedicated to the cars they owned, and an eternal flame at their gravesite? Elvis is making more money dead than alive, and as I witnessed with a few of the students in the group, making more fans of his work too!

  The night before visiting the Delta Blues Museum, we watched a video. In the video one could see black laborers in the field after the Civil War going into places called "juke joints." One could see them in such movies as The Color Purple. They were little black-owned shacks usually in the middle of nowhere where people would go to listen to some live blues, drink, and dance the night away. In the video, we saw people walking through the woods and going into these little shacks and having a good time.

  While looking around the Delta Blues Museum, we caught word that a brand new juke joint was opening down the street. In it's final stages, we walked in to see a place that little "low-brow" yet a place that looked like one could find some real entertainment. The place had a stage for performers and a bar for drinks beside the pool tables. It amazed me to know that even in the 21st century, little clubs called juke joints still existed and still brought in many people coming from their workday. Many African-Americans who went to juke joints came from a hard-day's work in the fields of a plantation. The Hopson Plantation was the only plantation we visited on the trip. Upon entering the main building, we could see raw cotton wrapped up and ready to be sent away. Around the main building were these little cabins that apparently some of the workers lived in. Renovated into little "getaway" cabins, the little houses actually serve now as a place for inspiring writers and artist to go to in order to get away from the rest of the world. We walked into them and then some that hadn't been refurnished. To look around and know that huge families lived in these little cabins that were poorly made, stuck a cord in me. How could a race like African-Americans, who basically built the U.S., be treated so badly for so long? There wasn't much to see there and I was happy to leave and get back on the bus.

  I don't know what people are talking about when they say flying is better than driving! It's weird, for on the bus I made friends with people who had had known before the trip but really never bonded with them. To sit on a bus and realize that the "quiet kid" in class is probably one of the funniest people one could ever meet is a great revelation. Unlike my first trip down south in my dad's Mercedes, the Greyhound-like bus became a part of us whether we liked it or not. It was there on that bus my classmates and I found a common interest in things outside of school. It was there on the bus that young couples felt so comfortable that they began to make out. The best sleep I had in weeks was on that bus! Our trip had a theme song and it was there on that bus that we sang it and grew to love it. We laughed on the bus as we watched our history teacher pose at "The Crossroads" with his harmonica blowing as though to call the Devil to sell his soul. There was no need really for TV's on the bus for we entertained ourselves and talked about the places we just came from. We traveled over real swamp lands to get to New Orleans on the bus, but the most important thing about the bus was the fact that we were traveling in a land that only a few of us had actually been to. On the way to Mount Bayou and Jackson, Mississippi, we took a long road trip on the bus. If one wasn't playing a game in the back of the bus, they were looking out the window. Outside I could remember seeing what looking like endless farmland with only one little old house standing in the middle of it all. I remember the baffled looks of students as the bus took an alternate road along a dirt road and seeing native southerners standing out on their porches. "Do they always do that?" was the question one had asked me upon seeing African-Americans laying back in their chair on the front porch watching us go by with a look in their eyes as though seeing us was the highlight of their day. I don't believe there was any fear or anxiety about getting off the bus in such rural places in Mississippi and Alabama and walking amongst the locals.

  At night in the hotels that we stayed at, we spent the night laughing and having fun, yet w were considerate enough to make sure we weren't too loud. The guys integrated with the girls in either our room or theirs. Whether it was playing cards, watching the Sopranos, or just talking about the other people in the trip, we couldn't stop enjoying ourselves. When the time came to sleep, most people just couldn't do it. I remember laying in bed wide-awake and talking to my roommates about what we had experienced that day. We talking about the C.R.M. aspect of the places we visited and how important it was in the fight for equal rights. We wondered if blacks in the south ever had a town to go when things go really bad. I can remember the first thought that popped into my head when I first saw Mount Bayou: "How sad." One of the first black-owned towns in America seemed to have turned into a rundown ghetto. The Town Hall stuck out like a sore thumb in the area. The thought, however, that it was the first and that it was in the south, is indeed something to applaud over. The speaker seemed to know his facts but the overall experience could have been better somehow with a little more exploration of the actual town itself. While the speaker talked to us, I couldn't help but wonder what had happened to the glorious town Mount Bayou once was It had been in itself a utopia; escaping from the rest of the world during the C.R.M. and any other American event.

  Hollis Watkins was one of those people who one can only meet once in a lifetime. Located in Jackson, Mississippi, it reminded me of Washington D.C. where across the street from the White House, there are homeless people begging for food. In think Jackson's capital building is the only thing in the area that didn't look like it was part of the neighboring ghetto. Mr. Watkins will out live us all -- not in a physical form, but in his spiritual music that has moved the C.R.M. through many turbulent times. Yes, after a while I just wanted to sit down after singing song after song after song, but to see the happiness in both my teacher, Mr. Schechter's and Watkins' eyes were enough to keep me going on. The songs he sung were songs that children could come up with but they were effective nonetheless. "Ain't scared of your dogs cause I want me freedom. I want my freedom. I want my freedom. Ain't scared of your dogs because I want my freedom -- I want my freedom now." African-Americans who lived through the '60s and participated in the movement often sing the songs that Mr. Watkins sung to us. For me, they just seemed like sound, but to hear it coming from them, I see now that they were the plea of a nation ready for change and equality.

  Both New Orleans and Atlanta were likes trips going back home. "City of Sin," New Orleans is always the place to be. I learned to never get in a group with girls who must stop at every single store on the famous Bourbon St. even though you tell them that they are identical! Took a few photos, ate at a couple of places whose names I can't pronounce, and tried not to stare at street performers and pictures of naked men and women in window displaces was the name of the game while we were down there. It's the New York City of the south. Atlanta seems to be becoming the world's largest mall. Everywhere one went, there seemed to be a mall. After going to the famous Underground Mall, my close group of friends visited the Coca-Cola Museum. Nothing but blatant advertising and "brainwashing" all around, but hey, we got free Coke.

  The other side of Atlanta that the city has to offer is the unbelievable memorial and final resting-place of MLK. To be entombed surrounded by shimmering water is something that speaks for itself. MLK was a great man who died before his time. Unlike the place of his death, the MLK center and the actual house that he was raised in, was an uplifting experience. We celebrated his life and honored what he did for race relations in America. Know one could have expected that an above ground coffin surrounded by a pool of water with an eternal flame near by would be considered a gravesite. Unlike many leaders, MLK touched every America when he was alive, and he continues to do so after his tragic death.

  MLK's gravesite proved to be even more uplifting after we had visited the grave site of a true victim of a hate crime. James Chaney was a good black man who should have never been murdered back in the racial red-hot south. Mr. Deerman, who was a reporter at the time of the incident told us his side of the story and how he feels today about it. We met him in Philadelphia, Mississippi which looks like it's stuck in the 1950's with the old shops lingering around. I'm was sure the kids who lived in Lincoln/Sudbury sure were glad they had more stuff than that town. Mr. Deerman was a great speaker. The expression on his face told it all. One could literally see the remorse on his face and in the air around him for what happened to Chaney and the others.

  Mr. Obie Clark was kind enough to meet with us at the actual gravesite of Mr. Chaney. Looking at him, one could see that he was a man who had went through a lot in his lifetime. Riding the bus going up a hill in the middle of the woods and suddenly seeing this beautiful tombstone on the side of the road is a sight I'll never forget. He talked about how the church was kind enough to give the family of Chaney that piece of land, however he told us about the vandalism that has since plagued the site. There are sick people in the world. What kind of monsters would repeatedly over the years ruin a gravesite? To have people knock over tombstones and even shot at it is something no decent human being would do. It's a clear example that racism is still alive. I have hope though, for seeing Mr. Clark's granddaughter in a way let me know that things will be for the better and true freedom and equal rights will come.

  As our incredible journey continued, we made use of the VCR on the bus and watched the horror of the deadly march that happened in Selma, Alabama right before arriving there. While walking over the historical Pettus Bridge, I sadly never got the sense of what it must have felt like back in the actual march. I looked mostly at the scenery and the calmness of the area, which I'm sure at the time, was anything but calm. The calmness would soon die when we met Ms. Bland whose sassiness was both delightful yet demanding. She made a stand in a small, tight-packed room and told us the jail cells were just like that, which really was a wake-up call me for to acknowledge what people went through in the name of freedom. Rev. Reese who survived the deadly march and later stood next to MLK on the successful march from Selma to Montgomery was another delight to see. One could still see the hopes in his eyes for the future generations. The rest of the trip seemed to go by in a blur, however, I will never forget the trip. The friends I've made, the people we've met, and the overall bond that I felt with people is something that I will treasure forever. Going to school the week that followed was the real "culture shock!" Yes, there was racism down there but they were nice us; never once did I get a sense of sarcasm or cynicism on the people we met down there while it thrives in every person up here. Going down south at least once, whether it be to study history or just for a vacation is something I highly recommend to any northerner.

  Doug Toomer

• Reflections by Nicole Digenis (faculty) read

  I will never forget this trip...it was both thought-provoking and bitter-sweet for me personally. Bitter due to the reminders of an ugly part of our nation's history AND present, from the Voting Rights Museum at the Pettus Bridge in Selma to the recent voting down of a new state flag in Mississippi. Ephemerally sweet when I encountered glimmers of hope and promise, such as the determination and strength of Hollis Watkins, former (& still active) freedom singer/activist.

  There were a number of emotional moments during our tour but listing them would not do them justice. I tried explaining the trip to people when I came back but found words woefully inadequate. Seeing, meeting, feeling, hearing, and tasting the Deep South was a complex experience. We saw James Chaney's grave, with it's shot-out likeness of the man and metal supports holding it up. We heard the sadness of the south at the Delta Blues Museum. We stood in a small room, elbow to elbow, where Ms. Bland told us about being jailed as a child in an equally small space with 40 other freedom fighters.

  How do you explain such experience to one who was not there? It does not seem to be to be fully possible. Which simply makes me realize that what I understand of the South is just a glimmer of its real self, as much as I witnessed and felt I understood.

• Closing Thoughts by Bill Schechter (faculty) read

  
  Resisting the magnetic compass pull
  to home, we set off
         Deep South in search of the country
          beyond New England snows,
  traveling together down whole
              highways of pain and
          wide deltas of grief,
           marking the spot where Dr. King's
  life bled away,
            in a Memphis motel so sweetly named
                    Lorraine, and where a tour guide's passion
  
  foretold what lay ahead, and, wandering, wondered
        just what I would learn if Beale St. could talk, as we moved
  on to Graceland, where a certain someone with
        gyrating hips seemed to lack the grace
  to give credit where credit was
                    due, hips at rest now,
      midst plastic flowers and chlorinated fountains,
            so onward, onward we pressed
      past the "devil's crossroad" of Rt. 61 and Rt. 49,
           where the blues were born, that a people's
                  suffering might flow through harps
  and guitars, preserved now forever in a museum
  
               in Clarkesdale, where Big Mama Thornton
     finally set Elvis right, with the real deal "Hound Dog,"
                  right here in
           Mississippi, nightmare lynch mob state
  of my youth, whizzing by through
               big bus picture windows, the soybean fields,
  the catfish farms, the vast flat fields, the sharecropper shotgun
                  shanties, now collapsing onto themselves, right
                                         next to those cotton gins of
  injustice,
        and then we found a place called Mound Bayou,
              where ex-slaves built a dream that Mr. Milburn
  Crowe described, a dream shattered but still
                       alive, and the road ran on
       to Jackson, supreme
  capital of indifference, whose large gold
   dome cast shadows on
  
                hovels that not even one fellow
  citizen should live in for a day, and amidst it all
  there was Hollis Watkins, who taught what no
  history book can teach, and helped us,
        hands joined, sing our way to the meaning
  of a Movement, recounting, between
  militant melodies, his 55 days in Parchman, maximum
           security, death row,
              with a voice that still spoke with a calm
         resolve to see justice done, and some
                             even returned to ask, "Can I
         hug you?" before hurtling down to
  
               New Orleans, to music in the street,
   to creole cooking, to elegant iron balconies wrought by slaves,
                and bales of cotton rolled up ramps to paddle boats called
        Natchez and River Queen, place which pushed the blues to the
  unconquerable,
                throbbing big four beat of jazz, thence the music of a
  nation,
                         from this city which defies
                    all categories, as if it was washed down here by the
  mighty
  Mississippi, somehow getting snagged on the shoreline,
      or maybe just a great bubbling gumbo
  cooking under southern
  
  sun. Whew!  And, why are we going back to Mississippi,
       some one whined? Personal business, I thought to myself,
     three boys killed a lifetime ago, two from my city, one from
             my school, the whole business of
                              which needed to be tracked
  to its source, tomorrow,
         in Philadelphia, Miss., and so I relented to video movie,
                         "Meet The Parents," while I napped, preparing
  perchance
        to meet the killers, or their friends, or townsmen. Waking
        without an alarm, with only the loud ring of pure
  
  anticipation, we made straight to Shoney's,
  for classic southern breakfast
      to fortify us for trek ahead, and found ourselves
                   held hostage for several hours in
  classic Klan plot to discourage further
             pilgrims' progress,
  
  but history's pull was stronger,
                   and there we were on same highway
       where they were stopped, the blinding lights of death
  in their rear view mirror, before they were
  completely disappeared. Suddenly there was the
        courthouse, and the sheriff's office, just
     across the street from the charming old soda
  fountain store and quaint five & dime of
                            this small southern town,
  so genteel and so murderous,
  bent over forever by the burden of its past
               oh, look away, look away, away down south
                                              in Dixie,
  
  and we heard an aging editor say, that is, we heard
             the barely audible Mr. Deerman say,
                              the heavy breathing, the accent, the tears
  collecting
           just below the wells of his eyes, we heard him saying, with
                  effort, "There hasn't been a day
                         in 36 years that I haven't thought of those
  
  boys," and later to me privately: "Would you like me to take you
             to the spot they were killed?" And, if a pin had
       dropped, the whole library where we gathered
  would have exploded, and then we saw the ancient
              headlines, how the story played out, but this time
  we already knew the ending, and
  
  the clock was running, so back down
                  to Meridian we rode, and I turned slowly
          to check for headlights, so no one would
  notice, and now we had to find Obie Clark's
       funeral home, because he alone could guide us
                                                  to James Chaney's grave,
  and
  
  with him leading, off we went, deep into the
         countryside, over bridges no 26,000 lb. bus would
  sanely cross, but they held that day, which was good,
       because it was so important to get
                        there, to a small church plot,
  
                 nearly empty but for a lonely massive stone, and there we
  were before it, as Mr. Obie Clark, holding his
  grand-daughter's hand, told us how the grave had been placed here
      because the "home church" was just too afraid, how the original
           smaller stone had been thrown in the woods, how the
                   eternal flame had been destroyed,
            how the massive new stone has been erected only
                  to be pushed over, how his picture was shot out, how a
  steel beam was
         put in to hold it up, all this in the last few years, how the man
  who
  pulled the trigger walked free for so long, and then he read
                   the inscription, and told us why it was important to
  remember,
         in a quiet voice, all while holding his granddaughter's hand,
  
  yes, here was James Chaney, age 20,
          and Rufaro led us in a chorus of "We Shall Overcome,"
  and we placed stones on the grave as if to say, "We were here, James
  Chaney,
                    you are remembered," and climbed quietly into the bus,
  which sped off
        to Selma...to Alabama dead ahead,
  
  where we walked over the Pettus Bridge, ah, so much easier this
  time round, no police dogs or mounted police, and into the
  tiny Voting Rights Museum, where Ms. Bland frightened us
        'till she made us laugh, and Rev. Reese who marched
                             arm-in-arm with King, described what happened on
  "Bloody Sunday," when they stopped Americans
  
     from walking where there feet could carry them, and we rolled
  
  
       along their march route to Montgomery, with only
  Nicole Angueira noticing the spot where Viola
            Liuzzo was killed, and there we saw the great
                             memorial to all those slain, and stood by the
  waterfall
                                    which whispered of waters rolling down
  like
       justice, and the water was cool, but we had promises to keep,
  and the road led us on to Birmingham, or was it Bombingham,
  and we sat in the church where four little girls
      died, saw another museum, and park sculpture
  that spoke to the aesthetic beauty of
         historical remembrance,
  
  and the next day we pulled into Atlanta, to Dr. King's resting
     place, to his old neighborhood, and to the
       Ebenezer Baptist church,
  
  and now the trip was over, or perhaps just
  beginning. There had been boundaries crossed,
           between states and time zones, between past and present,
      and back again, until who could say which was which,
             for while we traveled, Mississippi voted down a new
         flag, James Chaney's case was re-opened,
  and Birmingham was choosing a new jury to
                        try a few more old men who once made a
             bomb that ended four young lives, and, upon our return,
       a frontpage New York Times article greeted us with
                             news that the blues were dying in the delta
  land
              of its birth, in Clarksdale, so
  
            we went in search of the country beyond
  New England snows, in search of history,
                found a road, found people, found a country
       beyond our imagination, found history on
       the loose, saw things, and were moved
             by much more than a bus.
  
  Then we flew back into blue week.
  
  
  
  Bill Schechter - April 25, 2001