A mother's pride, a daughter's protest

Crisis, The, Sep/Oct 2003 by Walker, LaVerne Turner

When Hurricane Hugo tore through my hometown of Charleston, S.C., Sept. 22, 1989, it brought to light unexpected keepsakes. My mother, who died of complications from diabetes in 1971, was not one to praise her children or acknowledge our accomplishments. But tucked away inside a damaged, water-logged china cabinet in our home, I found a treasure trove of memories she had saved.

In my mother's collection was a manila police records envelope containing a tag that had been attached to my personal items and a lengthy article from the Nashville Banner dated March 3, 1960. My name was noted on the second page of the article under the heading "11 Convicted." Upon reading it, memories of my participation in the student sit-ins in Nashville during my sophomore year at Fisk University came flooding back to me.

I cannot recall what influenced me to go to the downtown church that day where students were rallying. I do remember that after being there for only a short time, news came that students sitting at the downtown lunch counters had all been arrested. A challenge was sounded to fill the jailhouse. Not thinking immediately of my parents' response to me being in jail, I joined the call to action.

Being rather shy, at 5-foot-2 and only about 105 pounds, humorously, I was installed as the leader of a group of Tennessee State University football players. They assured me of their commitment to nonviolence and assumed complete responsibility for my protection.

We walked about 20 blocks from the church to the downtown lunch counters as the second wave of students to sit-in. If the first group of students had caused violent reactions, the sight of the second group unleashed indescribable fury.

I was scared to death (with my eyes staring straight ahead) and thought of what could happen. I heard bodies being hit and the sound of students thudding to the floor. But I was not harmed. All I heard were taunts such as, "Nigger, you don't belong here" and "Why don't you go where you're wanted?"

Mercifully, the police came after about 20 minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. We were hauled away in vans to jail. Upon processing me, the jailer joked that I had just missed juvenile detention. I had turned 18 on Feb. 23, and we were arrested on Feb. 27.

The women were grouped together to full cell capacity. The dean of women from Fisk came to encourage us to take bail and return to the university. The group, however, decided to remain in jail. We sang the Negro spirituals for which the Fisk Jubilee Singers were so well known. The melodies reassured us and comforted other inmates, who even started singing along with us.

Fisk faculty members appeared outside the jail to show support. My aunt sent a very inspiring telegram that I shared with other students, and my older brother, who was chairman of the music department at Stillman College in Tuscaloosa, Ala., came to Nashville in a show of family support.

We spent several nights in jail. I remember the toilet in the corner and the horrible, gray-looking beans we were served with white bread.

The day of the trial, there was a flood of people outside the courthouse. I had never seen so many African Americans head to head like that. The students had to squeeze our way through the crowd to get into the courthouse.

The trial lasted several days. We were tried one by one on charges of conspiracy to obstruct commerce. The court sessions seemed endless. The city's prosecuting attorney, frustrated at students pleading the Fifth Amendment, in a "surprise" maneuver named me as a witness for the city. I was asked seven questions to which I also pleaded the Fifth Amendment. The prosecutor used this tactic with each successive student late into the evening, while the judge fell asleep on the bench. We were maintained in jail until the charges, which could not be proved, were dropped.

My experience during the sit-ins will remain with me the rest of my life. That I have this 43-year-old article documenting my experience to pass on to future generations is an extraordinary gift from my mother. I will relish this discovery forever as her demonstration of pride and as the long-awaited warm hug that I had always desired from her.

LaVerne Turner Walker, a diversity administrator, lives in Clarksville, Tenn.