A Rested Soul: Marching for Equality in the 1980s

On January 17, 1987, a small group of black and white folk held a March for Brotherhood in Cumming, GA, a city whose last black resident had been lynched decades earlier. The peaceful group was turned back by an angry mod of militant white racists. Coretta Scott King decided that a second, peaceful march was the best answer to the violent outburst. So, less than two weeks later, I and a group of fellow Habitat for Humanity volunteers from Americus, GA drove to Atlanta, where people converged from all directions. We gathered at the grave of Martin Luther King, Jr. to begin the march. The King Center had predicted that 2000 people would march on that January 24, but as we loaded onto the 100 busses waiting to take us to Cumming, it was clear that far more than 2000 had shown up that day.

We drove to Cumming, GA. My bus included young and old, white and black. We rode in a nervous hush toward our destination. When we arrived, we unloaded from the bus and gathered at the starting point of our mile walk. The leaders told us that we would walk in complete silence. No matter what taunts we heard, no matter what happened, we were to walk silently together, linked arm and arm, until we reached the end, where various luminaries would speak. In rows we began to move forward. Our way was lined with National Guardsman in full riot gear, their rifles at the ready, their faces covered by clear masks. I knew that, unlike a few decades ago, these men were here to protect us. But even so, their presence felt ominous, implying--as it did--there was something frightening we needed to be protected from.

I fell in step next to elderly black gentlemen, probably in his 70s. I nodded, and we linked arms. On my other side, a linked arms with a young white man about my own age. The three of us walked quietly, our thoughts our own. Soon the protesters came into view. They held signs saying: “Go back to Africa, nigger” and other taunts. They screamed and yelled at us. I glanced at my black companion, at whom these words were truly aimed. His chin was held high, his gaze steady. His purposeful stride reminded me of the famous quote from the Montgomery bus boycott: “My feet may be tired, but my soul is rested.” Then I furtively examined our tormenters. Young men, mostly. They wore Nazi t-shirts and jeans. Their faces held such anger as they waved their signs and screamed. I didn’t want to look them in the eye, afraid what eye-contact might lead to. But I wondered what I would see if I gazed deeply into those eyes. Not a rested soul, certainly.

The newspapers reported that 20,000 of us marched that day. We far outnumbered the Neo-Nazi contingent. I was proud of myself and my fellow-marchers. Proud of our strong silence, our steady gazes, our determination to move forward no matter what the resistance. But I kept wondering about those boys, and what I would have seen if I had looked deeply into their eyes, if I had bothered to get to know their souls. I imagined those eyes weren’t so much filled with hate as with fear and sadness and desperation. The more I thought about those angry men, the more I wondered what kept us separate. Surely deep in their hearts, they would have rather been filled with the awesome sense of purpose and dignity and love that flowed through the silent marchers. Yet something kept them screaming on the sidelines. When I started my Buddhist practice, I included those boys--now middle-aged like me--in my daily compassion meditation. And sometimes I wish I could go back to Cumming, GA, and invite them to link arms with me and walk in silence toward a rested soul.