I Still March: A Juneteenth Story of Resilience

Editor’s Note: The Emancipation Declaration issued by President Abraham Lincoln declaring enslaved people in the United States free became official on January 1, 1863. However, it would take two and a half years for the order to reach Texas, and so people remained enslaved there until the order was read out on June 19th. This day, known as Juneteenth, became a federal holiday in 2021. This article, written by a member of the Mayor’s Council on African American Elders, is a story about resilience and is a great reminder of the depth and significance of the Juneteenth celebration.

The crowd was hollering, “Go home!” followed by the most hateful slurs. “We don’t want you in our neighborhood! Go back to Africa!” someone shouted. “Watch out!” I could hear glass breaking. I looked around and all I could see were these white people with hatred in their eyes. I was screaming and hollering loudly. I felt like they wanted to kill us. They were shouting, “Go back to your own nasty neighborhoods! You are not coming to our neighborhood. We don’t want you stinking up our neighborhood!”

I could hear voices in the crowd singing, “We shall overcome, we shall overcome.” I can still hear that song in my head like it was yesterday. Bottles and eggs flew through the air. I was looking and ducking so I wouldn’t get hit. Suddenly, I was struck with something. I initially thought I had been hit with a rock. I put my hands up to my face and felt that it was slimy. Then I looked at my hands; they were slimy with eggs. I realized it wasn’t a rock, and I was grateful those fools didn’t hit me with something harder. I remember thinking they better stop throwing food—they’re going to need it.

I began to cry. I was scared. I remember my mother saying, “Claudia Mae, don’t you go to that march.” Did I listen? No! I was thinking to myself that “a hard head makes a soft ass,” and I was getting mine whipped now. Tears ran down my face like rain. I was shaking uncontrollably. I was so scared that a man walking next to me asked, “Are you alright?” I said “Yeah,” but I wasn’t alright. I was scared to death.

I didn’t want to let those prejudiced white folks see me cry. I started singing loudly, forcing the fear out of my voice. I looked at the families standing on their porches screaming so loud they were turning red. I began to look around and saw other white faces singing and walking along with us. I was reminded then that we were not alone. This is why we were marching: because we were human beings just like them, and we belonged in any neighborhood we wanted to live in.

Just because they were white didn’t give them the power to stop us from following our dreams of living where we wanted to! I remember them spitting and throwing bottles at us. We kept marching. All of a sudden, I heard people screaming and glass breaking. I jumped and looked at a man who had blood streaming down his face. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, smiled at me, and said, “It’s okay,” as he began wiping the blood off his face. At that moment, I realized that what I was doing was right. This man had blood dripping down his face, yet he kept going because he was fighting for his right to live anywhere he chose.

I knew then that these people weren’t going to see me cry again. I was going to be strong no matter what they did. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man with a water hose spraying us while shouting, “Go back to your own neighborhood!” I saw a boy who couldn’t have been much older than me walk up to a man in front of us, spit in his face, and disappear into the crowd. The man just looked at me, wiped the spit off his face with his hand, and kept on marching. I had stopped singing by then. I began to pray silently to myself: Please, God, take me home to my mama. I swear I won’t disobey her again.

All of a sudden, there was more screaming. I was walking, but my mind was numb with fear—fear of death. I could see children, parents, and grandparents screaming for us to go home. We were pushed and cursed at, but we couldn’t fight back because of what the movement stood for: nonviolence. I didn’t want to sing anymore because my voice was cracking, so I just kept on walking. I knew I was doing the right thing because I believed in what Dr. King was doing. There were so many people that I never got the chance to see him; I only saw the angry white people trying to stop the march.

I heard people shouting, “King, are you alright? Dr. King, are you alright?” I couldn’t see anything; I could only hear the piercing screams of the marchers. I didn’t see any policemen. All I saw was this angry white mob, and I remember them cheering, “He’s down! He’s down!” It was a sound I’ll never forget. They were happy to see him hurt. I felt so small in that crowd, but the energy changed from singing to a heavy, piercing fear.

Then, I heard the song again. “I ain’t gonna let nobody turn me around, turn me around…” Someone shouted, “Look out!” and I started gasping for air. Someone had thrown a cherry bomb into the crowd. People were screaming that Dr. King had been hurt. I remember everyone hollering and pushing, trying to get out of the way as more rocks, bottles, and all kinds of trash were being thrown at us.

And then I woke up in a sweat.

Even now, I remember how it all started. It was 90 degrees in Chicago on August 5, 1966—the day that would change my life forever. I was a freshman at Parker High School, out of school for the summer.

I was awakened by my parents’ voices in the kitchen. My mother was preparing breakfast for my father, who worked at the United States Steel Mill as a laborer. My dad was a hard-working man who went to work whether it was a hundred degrees or one below zero. I heard my father’s voice say, “Annie Mae, did you know Martin Luther King was coming up here today?”

My mother replied, “Yeah, I know. Who doesn’t know he’s coming, unless they’re dead or something?”

I could hear the plates being put on the table and my mother walking towards the front of the house. We lived at 7044 S. Halsted. It was a big apartment; we had three bedrooms and had converted the dining room into a bedroom. I woke up in a sweat, and I was remembering how it all started.

Epilogue

The reason we were marching was clear: word was out that Dr. King was coming to New Friendship Baptist Church for equal housing. We were going to march on Gage Park, where only white people were allowed to live at the time. Since I lived only a couple of blocks from the church, the movement was right there at my front door.

I remember getting on the bus all by myself. I don’t remember why none of my friends went with me, but as I think about it, I realize I was always an advocate—even in school. I remember when one of my friends didn’t get the chance to walk across the stage at graduation. I told the teacher this wasn’t right because the boys who were into sports hardly ever came to class, yet they were allowed to walk. She called my mother and complained about me. I remember my mother asking her what gave her the right to holler at me just because I asked a question.

That thought just came to my mind. Getting back to Dr. King: After the march was over and everyone got home safely, I remember hearing that King had been hit with a rock. He said Chicago was the most violent city he had ever marched in.

This contributor is a Mayor’s Council on African American Elder council member.