[written on the eve of the presidential election, 2016; these memories that come to me, and every election day]
I remember voting day in Highland Park, in the early 1960’s. Momma would set out in the afternoon on the way to the polls, the three of us kids with her; our youngest sib wasn’t born yet. She’d take her hair out of curlers, or maybe she’d just had a visit to the House of Beauty on Woodward and Euclid – a veritable palace of pulchritude, her Get Ready place before going to see the Motown acts with my father and her sisters and brothers in law, at the 20 Grand Ballroom on the West Side.
As usual, we reveled in the rays of her beauty that shined on neighbors and passersby too, as we walked on the way to vote (for if she voted, that meant we voted). Mama was slightly slew footed, just enough, in her shell and capris, to rock her wide-hipped, small waisted walk from side to side. She was built like a Coke Cola bottle, my Daddy would say.
She sashayed with us in tow, and we walked one block and turned from John R onto Massachusetts Street, past our neighbors homes; we all lived in big houses under the canopies of elm trees. We passed Mr. Harvard, on the corner, who had made big auto inventions, side-by-side with Henry Ford, but got no fame because he was Colored. Tall and brown now, an older man, we kids had never seen him do anything except manicure his lawn and hedges, which he seemed to do daily, with engineering exactitude.
We passed the yellow brick home of Mrs. Ashford, my first grade teacher – her husband died, and in that time and place of stability and innocence, I was unsettled by such a loss – I hardly knew of a home without a father (but their fine brown mother married a nice man a few years later, thank you very much).
There was the sandy-headed Williams clan, and the McKinneys, a musical family, every one. The Blackwells lived in the next block – their father looked White and he, a Republican (the party that freed the slaves) later became our Mayor. Down the street, the Lee’s were a handsome brown family, pretty caramel girls and the cutest boys in the world; their mother was a doctor, which was unheard of. There were many white kids, too; kids of all colors really – in the years before the bottoming out of “white flight” we lived in a rainbow world of children.
We were proud of our mother’s beauty, bashful in its shadow – I thought that some looked at me and wondered how was I her child, so light was she and me so brown. We walked behind her playing, being kids; but also alert, trying to protect her against what? Whistles? Stares? Men who might steal her away from Daddy? leaving us to run home without her and having to explain to him?? But all she did was smile and wave as she walked by the jitneys and neighborhood men, like a sunflower turning towards the rays of the sun.
We got to the end of the Massachusetts block, and passed the home of the beauty shop lady who did hair in her basement, in the days in which, by way of work, most Black women did hair, or cleaned White houses. She was always so pleased at how her worked turned out on my Mama – good advertising – and Mama reflected the admiration that came her way, upon all those who gazed upon her.
We got to McGregor library, the center of the universe as far as I was concerned, an edifice that looked like the buildings in the pictures of the Greek gods, full of books and wonders – a giant doll house, a massive globe, the stereopticons – the 19th century Viewmasters, through which we could see 3-D-ish photos of amazing things around the world.
On election day, neighbors in suits and foundry coveralls gathered outside; it was a place of bunting and flags and straw boater hats of the campaigners, the red, white and blue iconography of Americana, even after the years when the voters were mostly Black.
We marched to the side of the library on the alley, a special entrance for such a special day. When I was elementary school age, the women who worked at the polls were all White ladies, with bright smiles but eyes tight, girded for the lines of more Colored people each year, arriving at the precinct to cast their ballots.
In later years, the women working the polls were increasingly Black, as serious as the women on the Mother Board at church; housewives who lived in the Arts & Crafts bungalows and mini-mansions of Highland Park that the Whites had left behind. There were working union ladies too and wives of union men – the UAW had a stronghold in the working class prosperity of Highland Park. They all carried out their duties with a stern, bustling officiousness that scared me, for the right to vote was dead serious to them, indeed.
Years later, in my thirties, I was a union lady myself, a union president in fact. One year, in 1985, I was asked to go down South on a speaking tour. Seems there were those there who wished to go back to the days of the 1950’s, to try to stop Black folks from voting. The leaders in their communities asked for help from across the country, and I agreed to go down; it was the dues I had to pay for the life that I was blessed to lead.
I landed in Mobile Alabama, and gave a speech to the leaders of a co-operative of Southern Black farmers who had been organizing for fair treatment for decades. We met in a circle in a barn on a hill, and with no ambient urban street light or sound, it was as dark and quiet as a womb. It was the first time that I had ever seen that dark, black dark of a Southern night.
It was a terrifying, yet comforting, star strewn dark, close as a blanket in the quivering heat, rising from the banks of winding creeks invisible til you walked right up on them, that made me understand for the first time, just how easy it had been to hide the evidence of terror and mayhem – and Black bodies – in the days of the bullwhip and the noose.
On that first day there, I dropped my self-righteous Northern activist judgment of the non-violent, southern Civil Rights Movement, and got my mind right about what my people had had to do to survive.
Then onto Birmingham; where I was taken to speak at an old, one-room school house, wispy cobwebs in the corners, that doubled as a Sunday school. Later, in another church where I was asked to rise, I had the honor of standing at the same pulpit where had once stood Dr. Martin Luther King.
Struck with the gravitas of the church and its Civil Rights history, as I climbed to the lectern, I suddenly didn’t know what to say. At just 30 or so, though I was a leader in my city, and called “one of the 50 Most Powerful Women in Detroit,” I was a mere child in the eyes of the deacons who greeted me, looking side-eyed at my flirtatious head-toss and young Northern naiveté.
But, in an inspired instant, I started my speech by dropping the name of the Rev. C. L. Franklin and my father, Joe Von Battle, who had recorded all of Franklin’s albums in Detroit – and his young daughter Aretha’s first gospel songs – records played in Black church homes throughout the North and South. The elders sat back surprised and impressed, and nodded their heads in approval of my now established provenance.
Then onto Selma, where I, unaccompanied, walked across the Edmund Pettis Bridge, to see if I could feel what it was like when the marchers strode back in the day; then I visited a tiny Civil Rights museum, run by a movement veteran, Rose Saunders. Then to Marion, Alabama in Perry County, where Albert Turner was – for the Blacks – the unofficial mayor of the community; for years, he had been a general at war, in the voting rights struggle. In the midst of the dignitaries who had scrambled to be at the front of the funeral cortège of Dr. M.L. King, he had chosen to walk on foot and lead the mule-team at the head of his beloved friend’s bier, an act that hearkened not to the corridors of the powerful but to the days in the fields.
Dark and venerable, with a rubbery face and molasses drawl, Turner led our incoming voting rights troops from the North from a mobile home in a clearing in the middle of trees and knee high grass. A bricklayer who was, of late, an insurance man by profession, he wore a plastic pocket protector with lots of pens; his trailer’s office walls were covered in Black funeral home and insurance company calendars, flyers and office minutiae; a small business man’s clutter much like my father’s junk behind the counter of our record store. The amount of ephemera belied that fact that Turner’s prior office had been mysteriously burned down.
I was stunned at the mundane arcana of Turner’s occupation – this venerated right hand man of Dr. M.L. King, spoken of in awed tones. I stuck close to him, and stayed at his knee for days, soaking in his wisdom, and didn’t move unless led – because I was terrified; afraid – even as a grown woman – that I might face the fate of Emmet Till on one of those broiling hot Alabama nights or days.
He was kindly and patient, nonplussed by the invasion of hapless Northerners like me; black and white folks assigned to be witnesses, though probably in the way, more than anything (perhaps a reason why I’m patient with new Detroit white kids today). He wore giant, droopy glasses, the style for old men of the time, and every word he said had the import of centuries. He too, knew the work of my father and the coded messages he recorded of Rev. C. L. Franklin, making me puff up with pride at Mr. Turner’s high regard.
We visitors canvassed neighborhoods that were acres apart, through waist-high grasses, and stood up to nervous blue-haired poll workers as afraid of us as we were of being there. After poll watching on election day in a cupola’d white-washed courthouse on a hot, dusty square straight outta William Faulkner – we were successful in witnessing the voting go forth, unimpeded. I returned North, but I was changed.
Months later, I was honored to be the keynote speaker for the City of Boston’s official Dr. Martin Luther King Day celebration, at historic Fanuiel Hall – I was told that I was the first Black woman to speak in that hallowed place. At the podium, still pondering the lessons of my Southern visit, I meandered through my memories of that trip down South.
I remembered that dark, dark of Alabama; the old Black women that I met, who sat on their porches in the stifling heat, down the road a ways from city hall. The women told stories, especially the one where their neighbor – Jimmie Lee Jackson – was shot dead right over there – for trying to vote. They told these tales while they sat in the blazing heat, on their porches talking softly, fanning, fanning. I recounted, this on the stage in Boston, how they sat there, talking softly, fanning, fanning – a thrum of applause broke out at the visual that I had evoked.
I hadn’t know if those ladies had been telling me that to test my mettle, or if it was true (yes, it was) but for me, that’s when it got really real. They weren’t sepia-toned photos in Jet magazine; they were women sitting in front of me who had seen the blood be shed from their Southern front porches – right over there – for the right to vote.
I know it was the Blood...
I told the audience in Boston, how much I – flying into cities doing interviews, writing speeches in airport limousines, being feted at receptions – had been humbled at my realization of the relative comfort of my activism, compared to their real Jim Crow memories. Marsha, just who do you think you are? I rhetorically asked myself, in front of the Boston audience. I returned home from my speech at Fanueil Hall, as from a confessional.
So, on each voting day, I think of my late, beautiful mother, and how proud we were to walk to the polls behind her pretty self, to watch her cast a vote once denied her mother and her mother’s mother and their mothers and fathers before that.
I think of Albert Turner, who spent his life as a general in the war for the right to vote and, instead of riding in a funeral car, held the reins of a clopping mule in Rev. Dr. King’s funeral procession.
I think of the old mothers, on their porches, as they sat there talking softly, fanning, fanning, the memories of blood in their heads – for trying to vote.
Almost 30 years after I made that Southern visit, then later spoke in Boston, I was Googling, trying to find some trace of reference to that speech I made. After many searches, suddenly a woman’s name popped up – a Jewish woman – she had written a book about her world travels and the role of faith.
My name had, inexplicably, popped up here, and curious, I clicked on the excerpt of her story, and my jaw virtually dropped as I read how decades before, at Fanuiel Hall in Boston, the author once heard a young Black woman named Marsha who was from Detroit, who made a speech that had moved the her, taught her life lessons, changed her outlook in life.
In utter shock, I read on – the author said that this young woman talked about a trip to the South that she had made, and had been humbled meeting real people in the Civil Rights movement. The writer remembered, after all those years, that the young Black woman named Marsha repeated this refrain, “and they sat there talking softly, fanning, fanning.”
Marsha Music copyright 2016