Thorns Of The Roses

As they approached the crest of the bridge, the walkers in front of them slowed their forward movement and began bunching up. What’s slowing them down? Tommy John wondered, anxious to cross the bridge, hoping to distance themselves from the hecklers lining the street. The column began to widen out as the marchers from behind pressed forward. They were now four to six abreast as Tommy John and Ralph slowly edged forward. Now, at the apex of the bridge, they were able to view the other side of the river. Waiting for them on the other side were helmeted state troopers. The Dallas County Sheriff and his deputies, some on horseback, had also positioned themselves in front of the marchers. For a brief moment Tommy John smiled and felt relieved. Oh good, he thought, they’re here to protect us and keep order. And then he saw the gas masks strapped around the necks of the troopers. A hush fell over the marchers as they slowed and then stopped when the sheriff lifted a bull horn to his mouth. “Listen up people,” his voice screeched out, intensified by the power of the megaphone. “By order of the honorable George Wallace, the Governor of the great state of Alabama, you are hereby required to end this unlawful demonstration. It will be detrimental to your safety to continue this march. You have been officially ordered to disband.” The sheriff lowered the horn to his side, hesitating for a moment as the marchers stood their ground. Lifting it once again, his voice quivering in anger, he rebuked them. “This is your final warning, you are ordered to disperse. Go home or to your church. This march will not continue.” Tommy John felt his initial queasiness return as the two sides stood their ground. It seemed much longer, but a few seconds later Mr. Williams and Mr. Lewis fell to their knees in prayer. As they did, a signal was given by the sheriff and the deputies raised their gas masks to their faces and pulled the straps tight. In disbelief and horror, Tommy John watched as they raised their nightsticks, whips and cattle prods. Waving them in the air, they advanced into the mass of marchers. A nightstick swung from above and landed with a crack on the head of John Lewis. He crumpled forward onto the roadway, his cheek torn by the asphalt, his skull fractured. Many in the crowd of marchers stood frozen in disbelief as the troopers plowed into those in front of them, swinging nightsticks, bullwhips and rubber tubing wrapped in barbed wire. Others panicked; they turned to run, falling and stumbling over the walkers behind them. Shrill screams of terror erupted from the marchers as they cowered under the advance of heavy boots, dogs and horses’ hooves. What had been a quiet and orderly line of marchers was now a mass of beaten, trampled and bleeding bodies. Then another frightening sound was heard as tear gas canisters exploded like gun shots, sending clouds of billowing gas over the roadway. Cringing, crying and coughing, bloodied bodies—male and female, young and old, some white but mostly black— scrambled or crawled to retreat from the terror and away from the bridge. Vulgar jeers from bystanders rained down as they tried to flee. In the confusion and panic of the moment, Ralph stumbled and fell as he retreated from the bridge. Tommy John, seeing a trooper approaching on horseback, spread himself over his godfather to shield him from an impending blow. “Ow!” he grimaced as the trooper’s nightstick struck heavily across his backpack. “Quick, Mr. D, let’s get out of here before he comes back,” Tommy John yelled, watching the trooper ride off into the crowd of fleeing marchers, swinging his baton, striking others along the way. “Go boy, don’t worry about me,” Ralph urged. “I don’t think I can walk. My ankle may be broken.” “I’m not leaving you here. Grab my hand, and stand up on your other leg.” “Ouch! Oh my!” he cried out as he attempted to stand. “You go on without me, son, my ankle hurts too much. I’ll never be able to get back to the church, hobbling on just one leg.” “I’m not going without you,” Tommy John repeated, hunching over. “Now, as best you can, climb up on my back, and I’ll carry you away from here.” “Ow!” Tommy John yelled out as his godfather climbed onto his back. “That’s better. Just don’t push too much on my backpack, maybe I’ve got a broken rib.” The crowd at the intersection, which had been cheering while troopers chased and whipped marchers as they ran from the bridge, began laughing even louder when they spotted Tommy John wobbling away from the bridge. Someone shouted out, “I’ll bet two dollars on that little darkie there carrying that big ol’ monkey on his back.” With that, more laughter and racial taunts erupted from the crowd. “Giddy up, little doggy!” “Hey boy,” another voice erupted from the crowd, “do you know you got a nigger growing out of your back?” Tears were welling up in Tommy John’s eyes as he rounded the corner and hurried away from the jeers and laughter. The tears didn’t form because he was hurting or tired, or even frightened or angry. Tears flowed because his spirit had been wounded. He couldn’t hate these folks; they were all God’s children. But he could hate what they were doing, and he did. He vowed, at that moment, that he would strive to do everything possible to change that hate into love, so that something like this would never happen again.