Vacation to the Present Past

We met James Armstrong, 83, in Birmingham. Although later in the week, we would visit Mobile, New Orleans, and Little Rock, a chance meeting of Armstrong is the part of the trip I will relive again and again. The beautiful azaleas of Bellingrath Gardens, the devastation of New Orleans, the optimism of its residents, and the story told by the Clinton Presidential Center did not penetrate my mind and soul as much as Mister Armstrong.

He volunteers every Sunday afternoon at the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute located across the street from the historic Sixteenth Street Baptist Church. Of course you remember the significance of Birmingham's Sixteenth Street Baptist Church - the church that was bombed on a Sunday morning in 1963 killing four little black girls, Sunday School classmates of the now radical Angela Davis.

Across the street now, the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute tells the story of the injustices African-Americans lived and suffered under during those days when the meanness of white people ordained black heroes like Martin Luther King, Jr. Among the displays in the Institute is the jail cell door behind which Dr. King wrote his public Letter from a Birmingham Jail to the clergy of Alabama; pictures of water cannons and dogs being used against citizens who merely wanted a cup of coffee at a lunch counter, access to public schools, to vote in a democracy, and to enjoy the blessings of freedom.

Armstrong pointed to a picture with a father holding the hands of two sons as they tried unsuccessfully to enroll at an all-white school in their neighborhood. Without any prompting, he said, "That's me and my two sons." My wife and I were spellbound by his recounting of that day and by his present lack of bitterness. I asked myself how a man, a father, go through the difficult times when his children were rejected and belittled without bitterness. His answer to that silent question was, "That was a long time ago. People change."

A few days later, we visited Little Rock Central High School where the governor in 1957 ordered the Arkansas National Guard to stop black students from entering the school building. As the newspaper clippings and photos in the National Historic Site across the street showed the ugliness of white students and parents screaming at black children, I tried to remember what I was doing in September 1957.

While thinking of my life in those turbulent times, I thanked God I wasn't one of those bigots who bombed churches and killed little girls or called young people derogatory names because they wanted what every child in America deserves. I was glad my picture wasn't displayed as one of the opponents to fairness, equality, and decency.

I thought about Governor Faubus using the National Guard, not to guard but to harass citizens, I wondered about his life after the 101st Airborne Division allowed the doors of Little Rock Central High School to open for nine black children. I asked the Park Service Guide about his funeral and how big it was. The guide didn't know the number of people who expressed their respect by attending his funeral, so I let my imagination suggest an answer.

I imagine Gov. Faubus and "Bull" Connor of Birmingham were church members, and held a high position in the minds of most of their constituents. And I guess their funerals were attended by lots of people, some of them who had attended lynchings earlier in their lives.

More questions popped into my mind. Did anyone have a change of heart and later regret their convictions in 1957 or 1963?

This time, the Park Service Guide could answer my question. She said, "The screaming woman in the picture apologized to the black girl she had harassed and I think the press made a big deal of her public apology."

"When was that?" I asked.

"1997."

"It only took forty years, huh?"

As I turned to look at an African American standing near me, I sarcastically said it again, "Only forty years." The black skinned man said nothing, but just turned his head and looked at the floor.

I gained a lot from my short trek through the South. Knowledge, sympathy, regret, and respect and admiration for those who suffered indignities and real hurt because of the meanness of my race.

I also lost something. I now repent of my conviction that morality and goodness cannot be legislated. No longer am I committed to the false idea that a change of heart is necessarily followed by changed behavior. Sometimes legislated morality precedes the change of heart.

So it seems to me.

How does it seem to you?