Saturday, March 7, was the anniversary of Bloody Sunday when protestors were met with extreme violence as they attempted to cross the William Petit Bridge in Selma Alabama in 1965. Their intent was to bring attention to the voting rights of Blacks that were being trampled in areas all over the United States. When the peaceful marchers came over the horizon of the bridge they were met with snarling dogs and angry white men ready to beat them over the heads with clubs. It was an horrific incident that burned into my sixteen year old brain and cemented my determination to spend my life providing opportunities for all people. 

Years later I was in the final days of my life as a mathematics teacher working at a school that sponsored a Civil Rights tour of the south for students who had just completed their freshman year. The high school was the first of its kind in the KIPP Charter School system and most of the students came from minority neighborhoods in Houston, Teas where life was often difficult. When I was asked to be one of the chaperones for the trip I looked forward to sharing the tour of historical places that I only knew from the news of my youth when I was not much older than the students with whom I would share the trip. 

I had told a group of the young people how devastated I was witnessing the events of Bloody Sunday on my family’s black and white television. I mentioned that I cried every time I saw old films of that horrific day and that I would probably be moved to tears once again when we visited the place in person.

We first stopped at Toogaloo College in Jackson, Mississippi where we heard from a minister who had accompanied students who took part in sit ins back in the sixties. From there we traveled to Memphis, Tennessee and went the the hotel where Martin Luther King was assassinated. My emotions were jumping all over the place and I felt as though I was experiencing a sacred pilgrimage with my Black students as we visited each site. Eventually we traveled to Selma, Alabama to walk across the bridge that was so burned into my memory. 

We left the buses in front of the church where the original march began. We walked slowly and solemnly down the street with cars from the local police following us. As we came upon the bridge the old images of the people who had been there on March 7, 1965 flooded my brain. Somehow it felt right that I was honoring them with my students who also seemed to understand the impact of that moment in history. 

When we had walked the length of the bridge and gathered in a nearby field one of my students came up to me where I was standing alone deep in my thoughts. He hugged me and asked, “Are you alright, Mama B?” That is when the dam holding back my tears broke. 

I retired a few years later and time passed. It was 2020, and Covid 19 had overtaken the world. On a day in May a man whom I might otherwise have never known died at the hands of a police officer after crying out that he could not breathe while entreating his mother to help him. Once again I was mesmerized by the film showing the cruelty of the police officer whose knee bored down on George Floyd’s throat without pity.

Soon afterwards I received a private message from the student who had comforted me on that journey over the William Pettit Bridge. He begged me to help his people as he believed I would. That is when I began writing about political issues and justice. I was on fire in my defense of the frustration and anger that our Black citizens were feeling so many decades after the Civil Rights efforts had seemed to bring prejudices to an end. I realized that we were still fighting the same kind of battles in our nation that were so violent back when I was a teen. It was as though I had circled back to a time that I had naively believed was long gone. 

My student awakened me in that moment. I realized that I had assumed that the fights for justice for all people in the United States were over. I had travelled in circles where I was sheltered from prejudices even though my students and many of my minority colleagues had insisted that the battles were not yet over. I wore rose colored glasses that fooled me into thinking that all of the civil rights issues were settled. In May of 2020, I finally faced the truth. 

It has been tough for the past six years because an underbelly of our nation has come roaring back with confidence that they can roll back many of the programs that insured that all people of all races and beliefs would be free to express themselves. I have watched with a certain level of guilt as many of the old prejudices have resurfaced often from the man who serves as our president. It has broken my heart but not my spirit to see such things. Now on the anniversary of Bloody Sunday, the day after the funeral for freedom fighting Jesse Jackson, I see that our work is not done until all people whomever they may be are respected and given an equal chance just to be. Because I believe that human rights are not optional I will carry on as long as there is still work to be done. None of us can afford to look the other way as long as any of as are being treated unfairly.