Everyone perked up at this suggestion, and all four joined in. "We're a fixing to kill us a nigger-lover. Let's kill a nigger-lover." This on the main street of Selma, a town of 30,000, at 6 o'clock on a Saturday evening.
After ten minutes, the chanting ring in Selma broke up; no one was hurt. But the incident was valuable as an indication. After it was over, as we sat together in the "house with the niggers," it began to seem comic, but the laughs were strained.
After Ted's adventure in Selma, I felt a little left out. If a civil rights worker's credo was: I am harrassed, therefore I exist, what was I doing? Why didn't any rednecks resent my presence and want to threaten me?
Ironically, my brushes with Southern terrorism came at the times when I was threatening Southern life the least. Nothing happened when I was working on a news story, trying to expose some flagrant abuse or discrimination. Perhaps it is too much to demand logic from the terrorists; but it made it even more chilling to find that violence often had no relation to the potential danger I posed.
Two weeks after visiting the Silver Moon, I left for a short swing through Mississippi. My job was routine and harmless; I was simply trying to find places that would sell the Courier. In practice, that meant finding black communities on the back roads, convincing a grocery store or a small black boy to sell the paper, and leaving sample copies to jolly up the local readers. Then I drove on.
Charming Meridian
My problems started in Meridian. Meridian is a sprawling, ugly town. The major reason for its existence seems to be that it graphically proves that towns need neither culture nor beauty to exist. Meridian also provides a showcase for some of the raunchiest elements of Southern culture, and for that, perhaps, it is worth-while.
I had come to Meridian to sleep. Not to make trouble, to stir up the blacks, or to yell at whites. Just to go to sleep. But I made a big mistake, I chose to sleep at the BF Young Hotel, run by the city's richest Negro. After I had paid for the room, I went out to see the city's sights. On my way, I stopped at King Phillip's service station for some gas.
A glance at King Phillips should have convinced me to leave. His belly was large and flapping, his accent was grating, and his office was wallpapered with pictures of George Wallace. I went into the office to get a Coke while the car was getting filled, and King spoke.
"Y'all's not from round here, are ya?" A quiet no. Where you from boy?" I'm from California sir. "What choo doin' down here in our part of the country, boy?" Just travelling through sir. "How you like our niggers, boy? You ain't one of them nigger lovers, are ya now?" An inaudible reply. "Well ah'm sure relieved to hear that. We've got so sick of all these hippies and nigger lovers that come down here. Just makes you want to bash 'em and clean the town up--just like killin' the rats so's decent people can have a place to live."
As King filled me in on his philosophy of life, his Negro attendant put the cap on my gas tank and closed the hood. King saw the chance for a little show. "Now you watch that nigger over there. Watch what he does."
"Hey nigger," he yelled out the door. "C'mon in here a minute." The man came. "Now you just stand here nigger. Look at this poor nigger. And all these nigger-lover bastards come down here and they want to hug these niggers and put 'em into white houses. I hate them damn nigger lovers. The only thing worse than a damn nigger is a goddamn bastard nigger-lover. Ought to be shot."
I thought a quick return to the hotel would be the safest plan, but I hadn't reckoned with redneck wilyness. As I neared the black part of Meridian, I realized that a pick-up truck was following me. Not thinking too well, I decided that the best thing to do would be to get out of town--I hadn't left anything in the hotel, and maybe my renunciation of BF Young would convince potential rednecks I was harmless.
Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die
That also turned out to be a bad decision. The pickup was not being subtle now, and it repeatedly rammed the rear bumper of my car. I saw in the mirror that Confederate flags flew from each of two radio antennas. In a speedless Volkswagen, I could never run away. So I stopped.
By the side of a Mississippi road the truck pulled up behind me. Three men were riding in the front, three in the back. They all jumped out, and I saw to my horror that they were Klansmen. Uniformed ones. This all seemed a little absurd; what had I really done? At the time, though, the "absurdity" was nudged out by a more persistent thought: I Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die. I sat still in the car as they gathered around.
"Get out." I got out. "Who are you." My name. "You the guy been makin' all the trouble in town?" Mumbling. Fright. "We hear you been stayin' with the niggers and stirrin' up trouble." No, sir. Now some action; two of the men began looking through my car. That wasn't good, since I had 500 copies of the Courier sitting on the back seat. They didn't know what the paper was, but they could tell they didn't like it.
"You got a damn nigger paper here." Terrified silence. "We're gettin' so sick of you nigger lovers." This was beginning to sound familiar. "Why don't you get out of our town--why don't you go back where you belong. We hate you so much. We want you to stay away. We don't want you and your white nigger friends comin' here." Just one line was missing from the ritual, and it came in a minute. "We're gettin' just about ready to kill us one of you nigger lovers. You think we should kill you?" No thank you. Two of them who were holding my arms took up the refrain. "We're gonna kill one of you guys. We're gonna kill."
The ceremony continued, rising in intensity. I tried to think of minor consolations--I wouldn't have to take junior generals at college; all my worries about studying and the draft would be over. But after everyone