by Grace Austin MeachamSpecial to the Tri-State Defender  |
Grace A. Meacham
|
Much to my maternal grandparents’ dismay, my mulatto mother and her ebony-hued husband decided in 1943 to migrate upriver from Helena, Ark. to Memphis, which she considered a Promised Land. She had in tow four young children, the product of her failed marriage to my alcoholic father.
Even at three years old, I sensed this marriage held no promise for my siblings or me. At the time of their union, mother was an alumna of LeMoyne Junior College, the University of Colorado, and a former student at Meharry College’s Pharmacy Department. Her husband was a fourth grade dropout who forbade her to work for fear she would meet and unite with other college-educated men.
Upon our arrival in Memphis, we settled in a multi-unit flat with a communal bath on Mississippi Blvd. Shortly thereafter, we found suitable housing in the Foote Homes Housing Projects on Wellington Street and lived there until 1956 when we relocated to Neptune Street near LeMoyne College, which soon became my alma mater.
After graduating from St. Augustine in 1957, I became the first of my siblings to attend college. LeMoyne was next door to St. Augustine, a Eurocentric-based school. Thank God it was down the street from our home or else I would have had to walk miles to the school, as I had done getting to Catholic school for 11 years, rain-shine-sleet-or-snow, passing by the neighborhood schools on the daily trek.
Poverty eventually placed me on campus where I could be part of the local student group that challenged the segregated system of Jim Crow with sit-ins and protests in 1960.
Those were very different times. Blacks could only visit places, like the zoo, on one day of the week. For the library, we had to use the Vance Avenue Branch, no matter where in the county we lived.
The most significant phase of my life occurred on the campus of LeMoyne College where I was baptized in African-American culture during a meeting with other students who, like me, had been moved to act by the courage of our peers in places like Montgomery, Ala. and Greensboro, N.C.
We gathered that day to launch a sit-in movement in Memphis, not knowing where it would lead or what would become of us. Marion Barry, one of the leaders, returned to campus from Nashville telling us about the movement there. The spark inside of us had been ignited. When President Hollis F. Price (of LeMoyne) threatened us with punitive action if we defied him and joined in, he was ignored.
Everyone stood singing, “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” from memory. I was instantly consumed with amazement, embarrassment, wonder, and anger! How could everyone know the song except me?
Peers closest to me explained it was the “Negro National Anthem,” a song they had learned growing up in churches and at public school. Wow! I spent 12 years as an honor student at St. Augustine Catholic School across the street from the college, yet I never even knew blacks had an anthem! I promised myself that, by the next meeting, I would know that song.
I secured a copy of the anthem and set out to memorize it. At the next meeting I felt so proud of myself for being able to join in. One of my greatest joys, years later, came while teaching English to secondary students. My extensive lesson plans included a unit on James Weldon Johnson and his brother, Rosamond, who wrote and set the song to music. The students were amazed, as I had been, to learn the song had been written for President Abe Lincoln’s birthday celebration in 1900.
My parents, as did most others, warned me not to join the ‘sit-inners’, but I could not miss being a part of a group of pathfinders whose actions would change the status quo, not only in Memphis and Shelby County but also across the nation.
Being arrested at Walgreen’s and other lunch counters was bold! Our lives were at stake, but we had to keep focused on the prize! We didn’t always win, yet we kept moving forward. The old Walgreens on Main Street, for example, removed its lunch counter from its only local store rather than integrate. Victories were sometimes elusive.
My quest for freedom was certainly worth the taunts and threats of the mobs outside. I’ll never forget the cold jail cell and the awful meal of bologna, cold grits, and black coffee the next morning. Even when I think of the punitive measures taken against those of us with bachelor degrees, I would do it all over again.
My first job was as a domestic because still civil rights protestors were blackballed for demonstrating. Finally I was hired as a teacher in Marked Tree, Ark., 40 miles away, still being punished. It took until 1963 for me to become a teacher in Shelby County.
Alonzo Weaver Sr. called me after reading my letter of application; the rest is history. In 1991, I retired from teaching with Memphis City Schools.
Our police records remain intact though we were told they would be expunged. Now, however, I relish my record and consider it as a badge of honor and proof of participation. Many people now pretend they were a part of the movement.
Our young people should know that not every black person joined us in risking our lives. In fact, no movement ever has 100 percent participation. However, I would not have been able to look myself in the mirror had I not united with the group.
All was not business; I married one of the spokesmen too, Eddie Meacham, and produced two wonderful children, Monique and Emil. Many others married too.
Though our movement was important, our campaigns failed to attract the honors and attention awarded other heroic efforts for liberty. Moreover, we have not recorded our story. However, I am part of an audio-visual project that is soon to be released. Also, many of us are working to have some historical markers and monuments erected.
Many negative labels were assigned to us, too, such as militants and radicals. Isn’t it ironic though that some of the same people who labeled us eventually joined a host of groups that patterned themselves after us and used our tactics, like the gays, women’s movement and the students for a democratic society?
