Chapter 8: The Violence of Desperate Men
After ascending the mountain on Monday night,
I woke up Tuesday morning urgently aware that I had to leave the
heights and come back to earth. I was faced with a number of organizational
decisions. The movement could no longer continue without careful
I began to think of the various committees necessary to give the movement guidance and direction. First we needed a more permanent transportation committee, since the problem of getting the ex bus riders about the city was paramount. We would also need to raise money to carry on the protest. Therefore, a finance committee was necessary. Since we would be having regular mass meetings, there must be a program committee for these occasions. And then, I reasoned, from time to time strategic decisions would have to be made; we needed the best minds of the association to think them through and then make recommendations to the executive board. So I felt that a strategy committee was essential.
From the beginning of the
protest Ralph Abernathy was my closest associate and most trusted
friend. We prayed together and made important decisions together.
His ready good humor lightened many tense moments. Whenever I went
out of town I always left him in charge of the important business
of the association, knowing that it was in safe hands. After Roy
Bennett left Montgomery, Ralph became first vice president of the
MIA, and has held that position ever since with dignity and efficiency.
In the early stages of
the protest the problem of transportation demanded most of our attention.
The labor and ingenuity that went into that task is one of the most
interesting sides of the Montgomery story. For the first few days
we had depended on the Negro taxi companies who had agreed to transport
the people for the same ten cent fare that they paid on the buses.
But during the first "negotiation meeting" that we held with the
city commission on Thursday, December 8, Police Commissioner Sellers
mentioned in passing that there was a law that limited the taxis
to a minimum fare. I caught this hint and realized that Commissioner
Sellers would probably use this point to stop the taxis from assisting
in the protest.
At that moment I remembered
that some time previously my good friend the Reverend Theodore Jemison
had led a bus boycott in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Knowing that Jemison
and his associates had set up an effective private car pool, I put
in a long-distance call to ask him for suggestions for a similar
pool in Montgomery. As I expected, his painstaking description of
the Baton Rouge experience was invaluable. I passed on word of Sellers's
remark and Jemison's advice to the transportation committee and
suggested that we immediately begin setting up a pool in order to
offset the confusion which could come if the taxis were eliminated
Fortunately, a mass meeting
was being held that night. There I asked all those who were willing
to offer their cars to give us their names, addresses, telephone
numbers, and the hours that they could drive, before leaving the
meeting. The response was tremendous. More than a hundred and fifty
signed slips volunteering their automobiles. Some who were not working
offered to drive in the car pool all day; others volunteered a few
hours before and after work. Practically all of the ministers offered
to drive whenever they were needed.
On Friday afternoon, as
I had predicted, the police commissioner issued an order to all
of the cab companies reminding them that by law they had to charge
a minimum fare of forty-five cents, and that failure to comply would
be a legal offense. This brought an end to the cheap taxi service.
Our answer was to call
hastily on our volunteers, who responded immediately. They started
out simply by cruising the streets of Montgomery with no particular
system. On Saturday the ministers agreed to go to their pulpits
the following day and seek additional recruits. Again the response
was tremendous. With the new additions, the number of cars swelled
to about three hundred.
Thousands of mimeographed
leaflets were distributed throughout the Negro community with a
list of the forty-eight dispatch and the forty-two pick-up stations.
In a few days this system was working astonishingly well. The white
opposition was so impressed at this miracle of quick organization
that they had to admit in a White Citizens Council meeting that
the pool moved with "military precision." The MIA had worked out
in a few nights a transportation problem that the bus company had
grappled with for many years.
Despite this success, so
profoundly had the spirit of the protest become a part of the people's
lives that sometimes they even preferred to walk when a ride was
available. The act of walking, for many, had become of symbolic
importance. Once a pool driver stopped beside an elderly woman who
was trudging along with obvious difficulty.
"Jump in, Grandmother,"
he said. "You don't need to walk."
She waved him on. "I'm not walking for myself," she explained.
"I'm walking for my children
and my grandchildren." And she continued toward home on foot.
While the largest number
of drivers were ministers, their ranks were augmented by housewives,
teachers, businessmen, and unskilled laborers. At least three white
men from the air bases drove in the pool during their off-duty hours.
One of the most faithful drivers was Mrs. A. W. West, who had early
shown her enthusiasm for the protest idea by helping to call the
civic leaders to the first organizing meeting. Every morning she
drove her large green Cadillac to her assigned dispatch station,
and for several hours in the morning and again in the afternoon
one could see this distinguished and handsome gray-haired chauffeur
driving people to work and home again.
Another loyal driver was
Jo Ann Robinson. Attractive, fairskinned, and still youthful, Jo
Ann came by her goodness naturally. She did not need to learn her
nonviolence from any book. Apparently indefatigable, she, perhaps
more than any other person, was active on every level of the protest.
She took part in both the executive board and the strategy committee
meetings. When the MIA newsletter was inaugurated a few months after
the protest began, she became its editor. She was sure to be present
whenever negotiations were in progress. And although she carried
a full teaching load at Alabama State, she still found time to drive
both morning and afternoon.
The ranks of our drivers
were further swelled from an unforeseen source. Many white housewives,
whatever their commitment to segregation, had no intention of being
without their maids. And so every day they drove to the Negro sections
to pick up their servants and return them at night. Certainly, if
selfishness was a part of the motive, in many cases affection for
a faithful servant also played its part. There was some humor in
the tacit understandings-and sometimes mutually accepted misunderstandings-between
these white employers and their Negro servants. One old domestic,
an influential matriarch to many young relatives in Montgomery,
was asked by her wealthy employer, "Isn't this bus boycott terrible?"
The old lady responded:
"Yes, ma'am, it sure is. And I just told all my young'uns that this
kind of thing is white folks' business and we just stay off the
buses till they get this whole thing settled."
From the beginning a basic philosophy guided
the movement. This guiding principle has since been referred to
variously as nonviolent resistance, noncooperation, and passive
resistance. But in the first days of the protest none of these expressions
was mentioned; the phrase most often heard was "Christian love."
It was the Sermon on the Mount, rather than a doctrine of passive
resistance, that initially inspired the Negroes of Montgomery to
dignified social action. It was Jesus of Nazareth that stirred the
Negroes to protest with the creative weapon of love.
As the days unfolded, however,
the inspiration of Mahatma Gandhi began to exert its influence.
I had come to see early that the Christian doctrine of love operating
through the Gandhian method of nonviolence was one of the most potent
weapons available to the Negro in his struggle for freedom. About
a week after the protest started, a white woman who understood and
sympathized with the Negroes' efforts wrote a letter to the editor
of the Montgomery Advertiser
comparing the bus protest with the
Gandhian movement in India. Miss Juliette Morgan, sensitive and
frail, did not long survive the rejection and condemnation of the
white community, but long before she died in the summer of 1957
the name of Mahatma Gandhi was well known in Montgomery. People
who had never heard of the little brown saint of India were now
saying his name with an air of familiarity. Nonviolent resistance
had emerged as the technique of the movement, while love stood as
the regulating ideal. In other words, Christ furnished the spirit
and motivation while Gandhi furnished the method.
People responded to this
philosophy with amazing ardor. To be sure, there were some who were
slow to concur. Occasionally members of the executive board would
say to me in private that we needed a more militant approach. They
looked upon nonviolence as weak and compromising. Others felt that
at least a modicum of violence would convince the white people that
the Negroes meant business and were not afraid. A member of my church
came to me one day and solemnly suggested that it would be to our
advantage to "kill off" eight or ten white people. "This is the
only language these white folks will understand," he said. "If we
fail to do this they will think we're afraid. We must show them
we're not afraid any longer." Besides, he thought, if a few white
persons were killed the federal government would inevitably intervene
and this, he was certain, would benefit us.
Still others felt that they could be nonviolent only if they were not attacked personally. They would say: "If nobody bothers me, I will bother nobody. If nobody hits me, I will hit nobody. But if I am hit I will hit back." They thus drew a moral line between aggressive and retaliatory violence. But in spite of these honest disagreements, the vast majority were willing to try the experiment.
In a real sense, Montgomery's Negroes showed themselves willing to grapple with a new approach to the crisis in race relations. It is probably true that most of them did not believe in nonviolence as a philosophy of life, but because of their confidence in their leaders and because nonviolence was presented to them as a simple expression of Christianity in action, they were willing to use it as a technique. Admittedly, nonviolence in the truest sense is not a strategy that one uses simply because it is expedient at the moment; nonviolence is ultimately a way of life that men live by because of the sheer morality of its claim. But even granting this, the willingness to use nonviolence as a technique is a step forward. For he who goes this far is more likely to adopt nonviolence later as a way of life.
In spite of the fact that the bus protest had been an immediate success, the city fathers and the bus officials felt that it would fizzle out in a few days. They were certain that the first rainy day would find the Negroes back on the buses. But the first rainy day came and passed and the buses remained empty.
In the meantime, the city fathers and the bus officials had expressed their first willingness to negotiate. At a special session of the MIA executive board a negotiating committee of twelve was appointed and I was chosen to serve as their spokesman. It was agreed that we would present three proposals: (1) a guarantee of courteous treatment; (2) passengers to be seated on a first-come first-served basis, the Negroes seating from the back; and (3) employment of Negro bus operators on predominantly Negro routes. The aim of these proposals was frankly no more than a temporary alleviation of the problem that we confronted. We never felt that the first-come first-served seating arrangement would provide a final solution, since this would eventually have to depend on a change in the law. We were sure, however, that the Rosa Parks case, which was by then in the courts, would be the test that would ultimately bring about the defeat of bus segregation itself.
We arrived at the city hall and were directed to the Commissioners' Chamber. We sat down near the front. The mayor then turned to the Negro delegation and demanded: "Who is the spokesman?" When all eyes turned toward me, the mayor said: "All right, come forward and make your statement." In the glare of the television lights, I walked slowly toward the front of the room and took a seat at the opposite end.
I opened by stating briefly why we found it necessary to "boycott" the buses. I made it clear that the arrest of Mrs. Parks was not the cause of the protest, but merely the precipitating factor. "Our action," I said, "is the culmination of a series of injustices and indignities that have existed over the years."
As soon as I finished the
mayor opened the meeting to general discussion. The commissioners
and the attorney for the bus company began raising questions. They
challenged the legality of the seating arrangement that we were
proposing. They contended that the Negroes were demanding something
that would violate the law. We answered by reiterating our previous
argument that a first-come first-served seating arrangement could
exist entirely within the segregation law, as it did in many Southern
It soon became clear that
Jack Crenshaw, the attorney for the bus company, was our most stubborn
opponent. Doggedly he sought to convince the group that there was
no way to grant the suggested seating proposal without violating
the city ordinance. The more Crenshaw talked, the more he won the
city fathers to his position. Eventually I saw that the meeting
was getting nowhere, and suggested that we bring it to a close.
I soon saw that I was the
victim of an unwarranted pessimism because I had started out with
an unwarranted optimism. I had gone to the meeting with a great
illusion. I had believed that the privileged would give up their
privileges on request. This experience, however, taught
me a lesson. I came to see that no one gives up his privileges without
strong resistance. I saw further that the underlying purpose of
segregation was to oppress and exploit the segregated, not simply
to keep them apart. Even when we asked for justice
within the segregation laws,
the "powers that be" were not willing to grant it. Justice and equality,
I saw, would never come while segregation remained, because the
basic purpose of segregation was to perpetuate injustice and inequality.
Shortly after this first
negotiating conference, I called a meeting of the executive board
of the MIA to report the results. The members were disappointed,
but agreed that we should stand firm on our three proposals. In
the meantime, the mayor sent word that he was calling a citizens
committee to meet with the bus officials and Negro leaders on the
morning of December 17. Over a week had passed since the first conference
and the protest had still shown no signs of faltering.
White members of the committee
began to lash out against me. They contended that I was the chief
stumbling block to a real solution of the problem. For a moment
it appeared that I was alone. Nobody came to my rescue, until suddenly
Ralph Abernathy was on the floor in my defense. He pointed out that,
since I was the spokesman for the group, I naturally had to do most
of the talking, but this did not mean that I did not have the support
of the rest of the committee. By trying to convince the Negroes
that I was the main obstacle to a solution, the white committee
members had hoped to divide us among ourselves. But Ralph's statement
left no doubt. From this moment on, the white group saw the futility
of attempting to negotiate us into a compromise.
That Monday I went home
with a heavy heart. I was weighted down by a terrible sense of guilt,
remembering that on two or three occasions I had allowed myself
to become angry and indignant. I had spoken hastily and resentfully.
Yet I knew that this was no way to solve a problem. "You must not
harbor anger," I admonished myself. "You must be willing to suffer
the anger of the opponent, and yet not return anger. You must not
become bitter. No matter how emotional your opponents are, you must
After the opposition had
failed to negotiate us into a compromise,
it turned to subtler means for blocking the protest; namely, to
conquer by dividing. False rumors were spread concerning the leaders
of the movement. During this period the rumor was spread that I
had purchased a brand-new Cadillac for myself and a Buick station
wagon for my wife. Of course none of this was true.
Not only was there a conscious
attempt to raise questions about the integrity of the Negro leaders,
and thereby cause their followers to lose faith in them, there was
also an attempt to divide the leaders among themselves. Prominent
white citizens went to many of the older Negro ministers and said:
"If there has to be a protest, you should be the leaders. It is
a shame for you, who have been in the community for so many years,
to have your own people overlook you and choose these young upstarts
to lead them." Certain members of the white community tried to convince
several of the other protest leaders that the problem could be solved
if I were out of the picture. "If one of you," they would say, "took
over the leadership, things would change overnight."
I almost broke down under
the continual battering of this argument. I began to think that
there might be some truth in it, and I also feared that some were
being influenced by this argument. After two or three troubled days
and nights of little sleep, I called a meeting of the executive
board and offered my resignation. I told them that I would be the
last person to want to stand in the way of a solution to the problem
which plagued our community, and that maybe a more mature person
could bring about a speedier conclusion. I further assured the board
that I would be as active in the background as I had been in the
position of spokesman. But I had barely finished talking before
board members began to urge me from every side to forget the idea
of resignation. With a unanimous vote of confidence, they made it
clear that they were well pleased with the way I was handling things,
and that they would follow my leadership to the end.
Afterward, as I drove up to the parsonage, more at peace than I had been in some time, I could hear Coretta's high, true soprano through the living room window. In the back bedroom Yoki, now more than a month old, was wide awake and busy discovering her fingers. I picked her up and walked to the front room, bouncing her in time to Coretta's song.
Such moments together had become rare. We could never plan them, for I seldom knew from one hour to the next when I would be home. Many times Coretta saw her good meals grow dry in the oven when a sudden emergency kept me away. Yet she never complained, and she was always there when I needed her. Yoki and Beethoven, she said, kept her company when she was alone. Calm and unruffled, Coretta moved quietly about the business of keeping the household going. When I needed to talk things out, she was ready to listen, or to offer suggestions when I asked for them.
The height of the attempt
to conquer by dividing came on Sunday, January 22, when the city
commissioners shocked the Negro community by announcing in the local
newspaper that they had met with a group of prominent Negro ministers
and worked out a settlement. Many people were convinced the boycott
was over. It was soon clear that this announcement was a calculated
design to get the Negroes back on the buses Sunday morning. The
city commission felt certain that once a sizable number of Negroes
began riding the buses, the boycott would end.
I began to wonder whether any of my associates had betrayed me and made an agreement in my absence. I needed to find out if a group of Negro ministers had actually met with the city commission. After about an hour of calling here and there we were able to identify the "three prominent Negro ministers." They were neither prominent nor were they members of the MIA.
It was now about eleven
o'clock on Saturday night. Something had to be done to let the people
know that the article they would read the next morning was false.
I asked one group to call all the Negro ministers of the city and
urge them to announce in church Sunday morning that the protest
was still on. Another group joined me on a tour of the Negro nightclubs
and taverns to inform those present of the false statement. For
the first time I had a chance to see the inside of most of Montgomery's
night spots. As a result of our fast maneuvering, the word got around
so well that the next day the buses were empty as usual.
With the failure of the attempted hoax, the city fathers lost face. They were now desperate. Their answer was to embark on a "get tough" policy. The mayor went on television and denounced the boycott. The vast majority of white Montgomerians, he declared, did not care if a Negro ever rode the buses again, and he called upon the white employers to stop driving Negro employees to and from work. During this period all three city commissioners let it be known that they had joined the White Citizens Council.
The "get-tough" policy turned out to be a series of arrests for minor and often imaginary traffic violations. Faced with these difficulties, the volunteer car pool began to weaken. Some drivers became afraid that their licenses would be revoked or their insurance canceled. Many of the drivers quietly dropped out of the pool. It became more and more difficult to catch a ride. Complaints began to rise. From early morning to late at night my telephone rang and my doorbell was seldom silent. I began to have doubts about the ability of the Negro community to continue the struggle.
I did not suspect that
I myself was soon to face arrest as a result of the "get-tough"
operation. One afternoon in the middle of January, after several
hours of work at my church office, I started driving home with a
friend, Robert Williams, and the church secretary, Mrs. Lilie Thomas.
Before leaving the downtown district, I decided to make a quick
trip to the parking lot to pick up a few people going in my direction.
As we entered the lot, I noticed four or five policemen questioning
the drivers. I picked up three passengers and drove to the edge
of the lot, where I was stopped by one of these officers. While
he asked to see my license and questioned me concerning the ownership
of the car, I heard a policeman across the street say, "That's that
damn King fellow."
Leaving the lot, I noticed
two motorcycle policemen behind me. One was still following three
blocks later. When I told Bob Williams that we were being trailed,
he said, "Be sure that you follow every traffic regulation." Slowly
and meticulously I drove toward home, with the motorcycle behind
me. Finally, as I stopped to let my passengers out, the policeman
pulled up and said, "Get out, King; you are under arrest for speeding
thirty miles an hour in a twenty-five mile
zone." Without a question I got out of the car, telling Bob Williams
and Mrs. Thomas to drive on and notify my wife. Soon, patrol car
came. Two policemen got out and searched me from top to bottom,
put me in the car, and drove off.
As we drove off, presumably
to the city jail, a feeling of panic began to come over me. The
jail was in the downtown section o: Montgomery. Yet we were going
in a different direction. The more we rode, the farther we were
from the center of town. In a few minutes we turned into a dark
and dingy street that I had never seer and headed under a desolate
old bridge. By this time I was convinced that these men were carrying
me to some faraway spot to dump me off. "But this couldn't be,"
I said to myself. "These men are officer; of the law." Then I began
to wonder whether they were driving me out to some waiting mob,
planning to use the excuse later on that they had been overpowered.
I found myself trembling within and without. Silently, I asked God
to give me the strength to endure whatever came.
By this time we were passing under the bridge. I was sure now that I was going to meet my fateful hour on the other side. But as I looked up I noticed a glaring light in the distance, and soon I saw the words "Montgomery City Jail." I was so relieved that it was some time before I realized the irony of my position: going to jail at that moment seemed like going to some safe haven!
A policeman ushered me in. After depositing my things and giving the jailer the desired information, I was led to a dingy and odorous cell. As the big iron door swung open the jailer said to me: "All right, get on in there with all the others." For the moment strange gusts of emotion swept through me like cold winds on an open prairie. For the first time in my life I was thrown behind bars.
As I entered the crowded cell, I recognized two acquaintances, one a teacher, who had also been arrested on pretexts connected with the protest. In the democracy of the jail they were packed together with vagrants and drunks and serious lawbreakers. But democracy did not go so far as to break the rules of segregation. Here whites and Negroes languished in separate enclosures.
When I began to look around I was so appalled at the conditions I saw that I soon forgot my own predicament. I saw men lying on hard wood slats, and others resting on cots with torn-up mattresses.
The toilet was in one corner
of the cell without a semblance of an enclosure. I said to myself
that no matter what these men had done, they shouldn't be treated
They all gathered around to find out why I was there, and showed some surprise that the city had gone so far as to arrest me. Soon one man after another began talking to me about his reason for being in jail and asking if I could help him out. I turned to the group and said: "Fellows, before I can assist in getting any of you out, I've got to get my ownself out." At this they laughed.
Shortly after, the jailer
came to get me. As I left the cell, wondering where he was going
to take me, one of the men called after me: "Don't forget us when
you get out." I assured them that I would not forget. The jailer
led me down a long corridor into a little room in the front of the
jail. He ordered me to be seated, and began rubbing my fingers on
an ink pad. I was about to be fingerprinted like a criminal.
By this time the news of
my arrest had spread over Montgomery, and a number of people had
headed for the city jail. The first to arrive was my good friend
Ralph Abernathy. He immediately sought to sign my bond, but the
officials told him that he had to bring a certified statement from
the court asserting that he owned a sufficient amount of property
to sign a bond. Ralph pointed out that since it was almost six-thirty
at night, the courthouse was already closed.
Indifferently, the official retorted: "Well, you will just have to wait till tomorrow morning."
Ralph then asked if he
could see me.
The jailer replied: "No, you can't see him until ten o'clock tomorrow."
"Well, is it possible,"
said Abernathy, "to pay a cash bond?"
The jailer reluctantly
answered yes. Ralph rushed to call someone who could produce the
Meanwhile a number of people had assembled in front of the jail. Soon the crowd had become so large that the jailer began to panic. Rushing into the fingerprinting room he said, "King, you can go now," and before I could half get my coat on, he was ushering me out, released on my own bond.
As I walked out and noticed
the host of friends and well-wishers, I
regained the courage that I had temporarily lost. I knew that I
did not stand alone. After a brief statement to the crowd, I was
driven home. My wife greeted me with a kiss. Many members of my
church were waiting anxiously to hear the outcome. Their words of
encouragement gave me further assurance that I was not alone.
From that night on my commitment to the struggle for freedom was stronger than ever before. Before retiring I talked with Coretta, and, as usual, she gave me the reassurance that can only come from one who is as close to you as your own heartbeat. Yes, the night of injustice was dark: the "get-tough" policy was taking its toll. But in the darkness I could see a radiant star of unity.
Almost immediately after
the protest started we had begun to receive threatening telephone
calls and letters. They increased as time went on. By the middle
of January, they had risen to thirty and forty a day.
From the beginning of the
protest both my parents and Coretta's parents always had the unconscious,
and often conscious, fear that something fatal might befall us.
They never had any doubt about the rightness of our actions but
they were concerned about what might happen to us. My father made
a beaten path between Atlanta and Montgomery throughout the days
of the protest. Every time I saw him I went through a deep feeling
of anxiety, because I knew that my every move was driving him deeper
and deeper into a state of worry. During those days he could hardly
mention the many harassments that Coretta, the baby, and I were
subjected to without shedding tears.
As the weeks passed, I
began to see that many of the threats were in earnest. Soon I felt
myself faltering and growing in fear. One day, a white friend told
me that he had heard from reliable sources that plans were being
made to take my life. For the first time I realized that something
could happen to me.
One night at a mass meeting, I found myself saying: "If one day you find me sprawled out dead, I do not want you to retaliate with a single act of violence. I urge you to continue protesting with the same dignity and discipline you have shown so far." A strange silence came over the audience.
One night toward the end
of January I settled into bed late, after a strenuous day. Coretta
had already fallen asleep and just as I was about to doze off the
telephone rang. An angry voice said, "Listen, nigger, we've taken
all we want from you; before next week you'll be sorry you ever
came to Montgomery." I hung up, but I couldn't sleep. It seemed
that all of my fears had come down on me at once. I had reached
the saturation point.
I got out of bed and began to walk the floor. I had heard these things before, but for some reason that night it got to me. I turned over and I tried to go to sleep, but I couldn't sleep. I was frustrated, bewildered, and then I got up. Finally I went to the kitchen and heated a pot of coffee. I was ready to give up. With my cup of coffee sitting untouched before me I tried to think of a way to move out of the picture without appearing a coward. I sat there and thought about a beautiful little daughter who had just been born. I'd come in night after night and see that little gentle smile. I started thinking about a dedicated and loyal wife, who was over there asleep. And she could be taken from me, or I could be taken from her. And I got to the point that I couldn't take it any longer. I was weak. Something said to me, "You can't call on Daddy now, you can't even call on Mama. You've got to call on that something in that person that your Daddy used to tell you about, that power that can make a way out of no way." With my head in my hands, I bowed over the kitchen table and prayed aloud. The words I spoke to God that midnight are still vivid in my memory: "Lord, I'm down here trying to do what's right. I think I'm right. I am here taking a stand for what I believe is right. But Lord, I must confess that I'm weak now, I'm faltering. I'm losing my courage. Now, I am afraid. And I can't let the people see me like this because if they see me weak and losing my courage, they will begin to get weak. The people are looking to me for leadership, and if I stand before them without strength and courage, they too will falter. I am at the end of my powers. I have nothing left. I've come to the point where I can't face it alone."
It seemed as though I could hear the quiet assurance of an inner voice saying: "Martin Luther, stand up for righteousness. Stand up for justice. Stand up for truth. And lo, I will be with you. Even until the end of the world."
I tell you I've seen the lightning flash. I've heard the thunder roar. I've felt sin breakers dashing trying to conquer my soul. But I heard the voice of Jesus saying still to fight on. He promised never to leave me alone. At that moment I experienced the presence of the Divine as I had never experienced Him before. Almost at once my fears began to go. My uncertainty disappeared. I was ready to face anything.
Three nights later, on January 30, I left home a little before seven to attend our Monday evening mass meeting at the First Baptist Church. A member of my congregation had come to the parsonage to keep my wife company in my absence. About nine-thirty they heard a noise in front that sounded as though someone had thrown a brick. In a matter of seconds an explosion rocked the house. A bomb had gone off on the porch.
After word of the bombing reached the mass meeting, everybody attempted to keep it from me. People looked at me and then away; one or two seemed about to approach me and then changed their minds. Soon I noticed several of my fellow ministers going in and out of the church in a rather unusual manner, and from this I surmised that something had happened. Unable to restrain my curiosity any longer, I called three of my closest associates and urged them to tell me what had happened. I assured them that I was prepared for whatever it was. Ralph Abernathy said hesitantly, "Your house has been bombed."
I asked if my wife and baby were all right.
They said, "We are checking on that now."
Strangely enough, I accepted the word of the bombing calmly. My religious experience a few nights before had given me the strength to face it. I urged each person to go straight home after the meeting and adhere strictly to our philosophy of nonviolence. I admonished them not to become panicky and lose their heads. "Let us keep moving," I urged them, "with the faith that what we are doing is right, and with the even greater faith that God is with us in the struggle."
I was immediately driven
home. As we neared the scene I noticed hundreds of people with angry
faces in front of the house. The policemen were trying, in their
usual rough manner, to clear the streets, but they were ignored
by the crowd. One Negro was saying to a policeman, who was attempting
to push him aside: "I ain't gonna move nowhere. That's the trouble
now; you white folks is always pushin' us around. Now you got your
.38 and I got mine; so let's battle it out." As I walked toward
the front porch, I realized that many people were armed. Nonviolent
resistance was on the verge of being transformed into violence.
I rushed into the house to
see if Coretta and Yoki were safe. When I walked into the bedroom
and saw my wife and daughter uninjured, I drew my first full breath
in many minutes. Coretta was neither bitter nor panicky. She had
accepted the whole thing with unbelievable composure. As I noticed
her calmness I became more calm myself.
The mayor, the police commissioner,
and several white reporters had reached the house before I did and
were standing in the dining room. After reassuring myself about
my family's safety, I went to speak to them. They expressed their
regret that "this unfortunate incident has taken place in our city."
One of the trustees of my church turned to the mayor and said: "You
may express your regrets, but you must face the fact that your public
statements created the atmosphere for this bombing. This is the
end result of your `get tough' policy."
By this time the crowd
outside was getting out of hand. The policemen had failed to disperse
them, and throngs of additional people were arriving every minute.
The white reporters were afraid to
face the angry crowd. The mayor and police commissioner, though
they might not have admitted it, were very pale.
In this atmosphere I walked out to the porch and asked the crowd to come to order. In less than a moment there was complete silence. Quietly I told them that I was all right and that my wife and baby were all right.
We believe in law and
order. Don't get panicky. Don't do anything panicky at all. Don't
get your weapons. He who lives by the sword will perish by the sword.
Remember that is what God said. We are not advocating violence.
We want to love our enemies. I want you to love our enemies. Be
good to them. Love them and let them know you love them.
I did not start this
boycott. I was asked by you to serve as your spokesman. I want it
known the length and breadth of this land that if I am stopped this
movement will not stop. If I am stopped our work will not stop.
For what we are doing is right. What we are doing is just. And God
is with us.
As I finished speaking
there were shouts of "Amen" and "God bless you." I could hear voices
saying: "We are with you all the way, Reverend." I looked out over
that vast throng of people and noticed tears on many faces.
After our many friends
left the house late that evening, Coretta, Yoki, and I were driven
to the home of one of our church members to spend the night. I could
not get to sleep. While I lay in that quiet front bedroom, with
a distant street lamp throwing a reassuring glow through the curtained
window, I began to think of the viciousness of people who would
bomb my home. I could feel the anger rising when I realized that
my wife and baby could have been killed. I thought about the city
commissioners and all the statements that they had made about me
and the Negro generally. I was once more on the verge of corroding
hatred. And once more I caught myself and said: "You must not allow
yourself to become bitter."
Midnight had long since passed. Coretta and the baby were sound asleep. I turned over in bed and fell into a dazed slumber. But the night was not yet over. Some time later Coretta and I were awakened by a slow, steady knocking at the front door. Through the window we could see the dark outline of a figure on the front porch. I pulled myself out of bed, peered through the curtains, and recognized the stocky, reassuring back of Coretta's father.
Obie Scott had heard the news of the bombing over the radio and had driven to Montgomery. He came in the house with an obvious sign of distress on his face. After talking with us a while he turned and said: "Coretta, I came to take you and the baby back home with me until this tension cools off:" In a calm but positive manner Coretta answered: "I'm sorry, Dad, but I can't leave Martin now. I must stay here with him through this whole struggle." And so Obie Scott drove back to Marion alone.
Just two nights later, a stick of dynamite was thrown on the lawn of E. D. Nixon. Fortunately, again no one was hurt. Once more a large crowd of Negroes assembled, but they did not lose control. And so nonviolence had won its first and its second tests.
After the bombings, many
of the officers of my church and other trusted friends urged me
to hire a bodyguard and armed watchmen for my house. When my father
came to town, he concurred with both of these suggestions. I tried
to tell them that I had no fears now and consequently needed no
weapons for protection. This they would not hear. They insisted
that I protect the house and family, even if I didn't want to protect
myself. In order to satisfy the wishes of these close friends and
associates, I decided to consider the question
of an armed guard. I went down to the sheriff's office and applied
for a license to carry a gun in the car; but this was refused.
Meanwhile I reconsidered.
How could I serve as one of the leaders of a nonviolent movement
and at the same time use weapons of violence for my personal protection?
Coretta and I talked the matter over for several days and finally
agreed that arms were no solution. We decided then to get rid of
the one weapon we owned. We tried to satisfy our friends by having
floodlights mounted around the house, and hiring unarmed watchmen
around the clock. I also promised that I would not travel around
the city alone.
I was much more afraid in Montgomery when I had a gun in my house. When I decided that I couldn't keep a gun, I came face-to-face with the question of death and I dealt with it. From that point on, I no longer needed a gun nor have I been afraid. Had we become distracted by the question of my safety we would have lost the moral offensive and sunk to the level of our oppressors.
The Estate of Martin Luther King, Jr.