Day 5 -- Selma

Civil Rights Memorial and Center (Southern Poverty Law Center), Brown Chapel, Edmund Pettis Bridge, Voting Rights National Museum


We realized last night that we have shifted into Civil Rights information overload. Our minds are full. Our legs are weary. Names and stories are getting confused in our minds. Jim even said, "I'm getting tired of reading plaques" (words that I never thought I would hear). We have read a lot and learned a lot and experienced a lot. Thankfully God gave us an unexpected blessing that raised our excitement for this endeaver again today.

We finished up our time in Montgomery with a visit to the Civil Rights Memorial and Center. While we were in the neighborhood we did also venture away from the Civil Rights and into the Civil War with a visit to the First Confederate White House which was just two blocks away. (Yesterday's visit to the Alabama State Capital also included the senate chamber where the southern states voted to secede from the Union.)

After wrapping up Montgomery we hit the road to the small city of Selma, Alabama where "Bloody Sunday" and the Selma-to-Montgomery March marked the political and emotional high point of the Civil Rights movement. We have been looking forward to this visit for a long time. Specifically, we were most eager to walk across the Edmund Pettis Bridge. This is a "bucket list" moment for people like us. If you are not familiar with this series of three marches starting with "Bloody Sunday" which arose out of the murder of Jimmie Lee Jackson by an Alabama state trooper, please take the time to read the history of this pivotal moment here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Selma_to_Montgomery_marches

It was a thrill for us historically to follow the march from the steps of Brown Chapel through the city of Selma and over the Edmund Pettis Bridge. It was even more moving as we tried to put ourselves in the shoes of John Lewis and Ralph Abernathy as they led the long line of 600 marchers. What did they say to each other when they crested the bridge and saw the local posse and state troopers waiting for them at the bottom of the hill with clubs and tear gas? What were their thoughts as they realized that they very well might be walking into another beating? What did they feel knowing that this could be the moment they are killed for what they believe in? The conviction and commitment it took for them to walk over that bridge and for 600 others to follow them is astounding. The cameras that delivered footage of "Bloody Sunday" to the nation and to the world turned the tide of history.

Walking that bridge was a significant enough experience to satisfy us for the rest of the day as we continued our drive to Jackson, Mississippi. However, on the walk back into Selma we decided to stop into the Information Center just to see what they might have to offer -- we didn't expect too much. Soon after we entered we were invited to join a tour group listening not to a movie or a park ranger or a historian but to a local woman who at age 11 was one of the 600 who marched on "Bloody Sunday" and Turnaround Tuesday and the start of the final March and whose 14 year old sister was the youngest person to complete all 51 miles of the final Selma-to-Montgomery March. To hear her story was priceless.

As an 11-year old her experience transformed quickly on "Bloody Sunday". She liked the walking and the singing and the excitement of being a part of the action. That was fun. But then came the tear gas. Then came getting knocked down and knocked out. Then came getting stained by her sister's blood before her gash was sewed up with 28 stitches. And then, two days later, both of them again walked on "Turnaround Tuesday". This time she was rightfully scared instead of blindly excited. It was the hands of her 14 year old sister who pulled her over the crest of the bridge refusing to let her give in to fear and turn around. As a result, she experienced the true joy of having the same troopers who had attacked them protect them on the third march towards Montgomery. It was a treasure to hear the story of someone who was there and humbling to hear about the courage of a child.