Excerpt From “The Jazz Preacher”
Tuesday, July 28th, 2009The following is an excerpt from Chapter One in my book “The Jazz Preacher”.
The Civil Rights Days
One of the most profound experiences of my childhood happened because of my mother. My mama believed that “people were people.” Skin color didn’t matter, everyone was worthy of respect and dignity. With the unwavering support of my dad, she put her beliefs into action in the 1960’s, in the
south, in Mississippi!
Those were the torrid days of the KKK, segregation, lynching, cross burnings and fire hoses, boycotts and riots. My mother got very involved in the Civil Rights Movement, one of the few white women in the town (or the state for that matter) to do so.
Dad had to endure the stares and slurs of some of his coworkers at Armstrong Tire and Rubber Co. Some of the men he worked with day in and day out were fervent members of the K.K.K.
One of the black men that worked at the same factory lost both legs to a car bomb planted in his vehicle. My father remembers placing small pebbles on the hood of his car to help him determine whether or not his automobile had been tampered with.
Periodically the Klan would roll up one page newsletters filled with malicious gossip that we called “hate-sheets” and leave them in peoples’ driveways. When I was a small boy, I would pick them up on occasion to find that my own family was the subject of the vilification. Fortunately, at age five or
six, I was too young to comprehend much of what was going on.
Along with Mom and Dad, my older siblings, Mary Jane, Philip and Rose Ann, bore much of the brunt of the ostracism and name calling. The threat of violence hovered like an ominous cloud over most small Mississippi towns in the early 1960’s.
One night my sister Rose Ann was walking in our neighborhood with some of her friends. A car filled with white men they had never seen before was driving back and forth down our street. After a few runs up and down, the driver pulled over and asked my sister if she knew where the Baroni’s lived. My sister smartly misdirected him and ran home to tell my father.
What happened next has become a favorite part of ourfamily history. My usually peaceful dad got his shotgun; (unloaded, but those guys didn’t know that), and ran out to the strange car, pointed the shotgun at the ashen-faced driver and in no uncertain terms commanded him to get out of there and not
come back. He rapidly complied and we never saw him again. Go dad!
We Shall Overcome
It was in that environment that my mother began to take me to voter registration rallies. These were events held in small black churches. Much of the impetus of the Civil Rights Movement came out of the African-American church, which was a strong unifying and galvanizing force in the black community. The rallies were held to encourage black people to register to vote. Though by this time they had a legal right to vote, some black folks were subjected to intimidation and harassment if they tried to register.
Most of the time my mom and siblings and I were the only white people to attend these meetings. It was an almost surreal atmosphere. People would use funeral home fans to try to wave away the stifling summer heat.
As a young boy, I didn’t understand most of what was going on. I can’t remember the speeches and other items on the agenda, but there was one thing about those meetings I will never forget: the singing.
Between speeches the choir would sing. It was usually a small choir, from 20 to 30 voices. There was no P.A. system, no microphones. They did not need amplification! As passionate voices were raised singing “We Shall Overcome” and “Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me ‘Round,” the congregation and choir alike would weep, sing, shout and celebrate like nothing this young white child had ever seen, heard or felt!
I didn’t realize it then, but God gave me gifts in those sweltering churches. I experienced the passion in music, songs delivered with emotion and honesty. I heard music employed to serve a cause greater than merely to draw praise to the singer or entertain the crowd. I received the ability to appreciate people’s differences and celebrate the many things we have in common.
Those wonderful people gave me the bequest of faith-filled songs that transcend suffering and give hope in the midst of struggle and despair. I didn’t realize it at the time but seeds of destiny were planted in my heart, and many gifts were poured like living water into this young man on those hot,
humid, Natchez nights.
