The Borning Struggle: An Interview with Bernice Johnson Reagon
Interview conducted by Dick Cluster
Through the story of the growth of the Civil Rights Movement in one town — Albany, Georgia — students get an insider’s perspective on how and why people got involved in the Movement, the collaboration and tension between groups, and the impact the Movement had on the town and its people. The interview also highlights the integral role of music as a unifying and strengthening force. As a native of Albany, an historian, a lifelong activist, and renowned songwriter and vocalist, Bernice Johnson Reagon is the ideal person to tell this story.
How did you first get involved in the Movement?
In Albany, Georgia, there’s a district called Harlem. It’s about three blocks long, and it’s a Black district Harlem’s Black wherever it is. There was a drugstore in Harlem. It was owned by whites and they wouldn’t hire Blacks. Not anybody to sweep nothing. So we formed, in the summer of 1960, a junior chapter of the NAACP; I was the secretary. We’d go to the drug store in Harlem, to talk to the owners and try to get them to hire a Black person. And they’d run us out, and then we’d go and meet and talk about what to do next.
What I’d known before then about struggle and the Civil Rights Movement centered around Autherine Lucy [the first Black student to enroll in the University of Alabama in 1956 only to be subsequently expelled], who affected me deeply. I think I was in junior high school, so I was 11 or 12, pulling for this woman to get into this university. She had been admitted, she was suspended, she was readmitted, and then they kicked her out again. I thought we were just beginning to fight . . . and then she got married to this preacher. I was real upset, because for me it felt like when she got married she got tired, like she had been so battered on and this preacher was marrying her and taking her away so she wouldn’t fight any more. I did not want her to be tired, and I didn’t want her to be taken away, and I didn’t want her to rest. I wanted her to go back.
Also I remember when the 1954 Supreme Court decision came, my father saying, “Now that’s the supreme law of the land!” Like, the Supreme Court, that’s it. I remember him reading from it in the house, and it being a really high time.
When I entered Albany State College the segregated state-run Black school in Albany we were already watching the other colleges. It was the fall of 1960, and the sit-ins had begun. Students involved in civil rights demonstrations were calling all the Black colleges in the South and asking the student governmentsAt the same time, on the campus there were several things happening. One was that white men would go to the girls’ dormitories to solicit women, and a few times women would find these men on the second or third floor. They would call the football team who would run down, catch the men, and hold them until the campus security guards showed up. On two occasions in that particular year, the guard held the gun on the Black male students and let the white ones get away. Also teenage white guys would drive on the campus and throw eggs on you as you walked. At the same time, we found rats in the tubs and in the dining hall food. We combined all of these issues and had a rally. The response was that student government activities were suspended. And at the end of the year Irene Asbury, a dean who had supported the students, was fired.
Fall 1961 was when the Albany movement got underway. There was one particular incident that clarified for me who and where I was in this society. I was a freshman dorm counselor at the college. I picked up the phone one day and this white guy said, “Do you want 20 dollars?” I said, “Yes” I thought it was a radio show. So he said, “There’s 20 dollars on the seat of my car.” And I thought, “Car?. . . Radio? . . .” until finally I figured out that he was soliciting, and, since I was a student dorm counselor, I was supposed to catch him! (Too much TV.)
I made a date with this man, went to my faculty advisor my music teacher and he said, “My God, child.” He went to the president who was reluctant to deal with it. Then he went to the Albany, Georgia police. Though I’d made the appointment off campus, the police said they couldn’t deal with it because it was a campus issue. The police told the campus security guards not to use weapons in dealing with the case. I was not informed of this. My advisor just said, “It’s going to be okay; you go ahead and we’re going to have the police there.” So I’m on this corner, waiting. I was saving the world, and saving all these freshmen. And here comes this man in this Volkswagen and he says, “Get in the car.”
I didn’t see the police, and I wouldn’t get in. I said, “Where’s the 20 dollars?” He said he had to go cash a check. I thought it was really good that I asked for the 20 dollars since he didn’t have it. He told me, “I can’t give you no money,” so I told him, “Well, forget it then.” I still didn’t see no police, so I decided I’d better start walking back to the campus. He was driving alongside trying to talk me into the car.
Finally, along comes Mr. Chadwell’s (my music teacher’s) car. That’s all. No police, no sirens. I couldn’t believe it. I had this crook right here; I thought everybody should come and catch him. I mean, that’s the way it happens on TV. That’s the way the American system works. I felt like I was plugging right into the American system. The security police[man] jumped out of Mr. Chadwell’s car, put his hand on the white man’s car, and said, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The guy drove off.
I went down the next morning to the police station, and the police said, “We’re glad you brought this to our attention because we want to stop this, but his wife says he wasn’t home. He was out of town.”
Two weeks later, I was involved in demonstrations. I was down at the police station, and the major part was getting on your knees and praying. I’m on my knees, picketing the station and praying. There was Chief Pritchett in front of me, asking, “Weren’t you in my office, uh, just the other day?” And I said, “Yeah.” And he said, “Well didn’t we try to help you?” And I said, “No you didn’t catch him!”
That was my awareness, graphic awareness, of what side I was on. I’d always been afraid of police, knew you weren’t supposed to run into them, but on some level I must have thought that you really could call on that system and it would [be] me on one side, and a lot of other people, that I really didn’t know a lot about, on the other side.
How did the demonstrations begin?
The Albany movement came about as a result of two Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee [SNCC] field secretaries, Charles Sherrod and Cordell Reagon, who came down to work in the Black Belt area. SNCC had decided to do voter registration campaigns and they located the areas of this country that had more Blacks than whites. Theoretically, if those people were voting they could run those areas. With that information, Cordell and Charles came down.
I remember when Charles Sherrod came to me and said, “What do you think of Terrell County?” I said, “It’s a little bitty town.” Another man who was from Terrell said, “That’s tombstone territory.” After a few excursions into those surrounding communities they knew this it was too tight, the fear was too great, they would be dead soon. So they thought they’d better center in Albany.
When the SNCC people first came to Albany, they began coming to our NAACP junior council meetings. This caused a clash with the NAACP. Because I was the secretary of the chapter, I went to the NAACP district meetings in Atlanta. They asked me, “What have you been doing in your community?” We had just picketed and done some other things. I thought things were about to happen and I thought I made a good report. They smashed into me and said I better be careful because these people come in and get you stirred up and leave you in jail and the NAACP has to pay the bills and blah, blah, blah, blah.
I was real upset, I didn’t know what was happening. At that point I didn’t have the ability to deal with the “Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee.” Those words had no meaning for me. I couldn’t pronounce them; I couldn’t even remember to say “Snick.” The NAACP might have been a different group, but it should have been the same from where I stood.
I said, “We’re working for the same thing, aren’t we?” What an answer I got! The Regional NAACP came down to a meeting of our chapter [then Florida Field Secretary] Vernon Jordan, [Southeastern Regional Director] Ruby Hurley, and the junior district director and blasted SNCC. These people thought it was important enough to stop SNCC that they came down to Albany to tell us how SNCC would lead us wrong. We had to vote on whether we would go with SNCC or the NAACP. I just couldn’t figure out why we were making that decision. I voted to stay with the NAACP because it was familiar, but I never went to another meeting.
In November, we decided to test whether the Interstate Commerce Commission would enforce its new ruling that had come out of the summer Freedom Rides, that bus and train stations could not have segregated facilities. The NAACP chapter voted that one person would go into the lunchroom, be arrested, and be bailed out; then they would have a court case to test the ruling. SNCC decided that they would test the ruling, but the people would stay in jail.
Bertha Gober and Blanton Hall, students at Albany State, tested the ruling. At this point people were going home for Thanksgiving from the college, and the dean of students was going down to the bus station, making sure that Albany State College students went in the colored side. So what I’m describing is not a Black against white situation per se. I’m describing a system that was held intact by almost everybody in it, including major people in the Black community. Bertha was suspended from school right after she got arrested.
Bertha and Blanton were held in jail, and when they came to trial we had the first marching and praying at city hall. We announced the demonstration on campus, and then we went through the halls trying to get people out. I remember one teacher we called “Ma Lat,” Trois J. Latimer, told her students, “Get out of here and go and march for your rights!” “Ma Lat” was ancient, you know, but I remember her yelling at people to go. I remember Bobby Birch taking Mr. Ford and picking him up and moving him out of the way just so we could get out of his class. We started from the campus and there were like just a few little people, and I said, “My God, I guess we failed.” We had to cross a bridge to get to the jail, and by the time we got to the bridge we couldn’t see the end of the line. It just kept growing. When we got to the city hall, we weren’t even sure what to do. We were saying, “Circle the block, keep moving....” We couldn’t decide whether to sing or be silent. Nothing like this had ever happened before in Albany.
At the end of that march, we needed to meet someplace. The Union Baptist Church on the corner near the college campus allowed us to meet there. Students did not have any place to meet in that city except in the Black churches. NAACP meetings had been held in a church. When SNCC began to do nonviolence workshops, that was in Bethel AME Methodist Church.
Students had to go to other institutions in the community because we did not control the campus or the college buildings and we could not get access to them. I was in the student center when the dean saw Cordell and Charles Sherrod there and said, “Get off this campus!” It was like I was sitting with the bogeyman. They really said, “Get off or I’ll call the police!” These men could not walk on campus. So the student movement could not exist except for the larger community.
In December, there was a further testing of the ruling by SNCC. A number of Freedom Riders came down on a train from Atlanta to support us. There was James Forman, Tom Hayden, [and] Sandra Hayden (they had just gotten married).1 Bertha Gober was arrested a second time. After her first arrest, there had been a meeting. She’d gotten up and talked about spending Thanksgiving in jail. This time, with all the Freedom Riders present, I remember her standing up and saying, “Well . . .” It was like, here she was again. Julian and Alice Bond were there. Irene Asbury, who later became Irene Wright, was there. The main speaker was Dr. Anderson who was president of the Albany movement.
After the train riders were arrested, there were more demonstrations, and more arrests. I was arrested in the second group of demonstrations. Each time, as news of the demonstrations and arrests came out newspapers and TV Black people came to the mass meetings from just everywhere. It seemed to break loose something basic.
The demonstrations didn’t happen in a vacuum. The news, for over a year, had been full of these sit-ins. They had come behind things like Autherine Lucy and the Montgomery Bus Boycott and Little Rock, Arkansas. 2 Everybody was praying for Dr. King when he got stabbed. It was like, “Oh, it’s finally gotten here!”
So, Albany was not simply a student movement. There were just swarms of people who came out to demonstrate, from high school students to old people. And there was so much that you got from finding that some older people backed you and were willing to put up bail and things of that sort. That made the movement much stronger. It was a mass movement.
A lot of the older people in the Albany movement were entrenched in Black cultural tradition and not as much into the Black culture you’ll find in colleges rhythm and blues and arranged spirituals. A lot of the sit-in songs were out of the rhythm and blues idiom or the arranged spiritual idiom. Those songs, as they went through Albany, Georgia, got brought back to the root level of Black choral traditional music. Albany, Georgia, in addition to all that it did in terms of a mass movement, also became a place where the music was so powerful that people became conscious of it. People who came to write about the movement began to write about the singing and not even understand why. They couldn’t understand what the singing had to do with all the other, but it was so powerful they knew it must have some connection.
What did the music have to do with the strength of the demonstrations?
That was not a question for people who were doing the singing. If you get together in a Black situation, you sing and, during that period, you would pray. If it’s Black, that’s what you were gonna do.
There is a kind of singing that happens in church that is really fervent, powerful singing. And when people get out they say, “Ooh, wasn’t that a good meeting!” Ordinarily you go to church and you sing but sometimes the congregation takes the roof off the building. Every mass meeting was like that. So the mass meetings had a level of music that we could recognize from other times in our lives. And that level of expression, that level of cultural power present in an everyday situation, gave a more practical or functional meaning to the music than when it was sung in church on Sunday. The music actually was a group statement. If you look at the music and the words that came out of the Movement, you will find the analysis that the masses had about what they were doing.
One song that started out to be sung in Albany was, “Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me ’Round.”
Ain’t gonna let Pritchett turn me round
I’m on my way to freedom land.
If you don’t go, don’t hinder me.
Come and go with me to that land where I’m bound.
There ain’t nothing but peace in that land,
Nothing but peace.
There was a lady who sang that song who had a voice like thunder. She would sing it for about 30 minutes. She would also sing the song in church meetings on Sunday. The song, in either place, said, where I am is not where I’m staying. “Come and go with me to that land” had a kind of arrogance about being in motion. A lot of Black songs are like that, especially group ones. If you read the lyrics strictly you may miss the centering element, the thing that makes people chime in and really makes it a powerful song. Singing voiced the basic position of movement, of taking action on your life.
It was also in the Movement that I heard a woman pray and heard the prayer for the first time. It was a standard prayer:
Lord, here come me, your meek and undone servant
Knee-bent and body-bowed to the motherdust of the earth.
You know me and you know my condition.
We’re down here begging you to come and help us.
We had just come back from a demonstration. The lines said, “We’re down here you know our condition. We need you.” All those things became graphic for me. They were graphic in my everyday life, but when I heard those prayers in a mass meeting, it was like a prayer of a whole people. Then I understood what, in fact, we (the Black church) had been doing for a long time. The Movement released this material, songs and prayers created by Black people, that made sense used in an everyday, practical way, and in a position of struggle.
In jail, the songs kept us together. I was in jail with about 60 women, and there were teachers in there, and educated people, uneducated people, [and] a few people who had been drunk in Harlem and just ran. One lady said she was with her husband and the march was going by and she says, “Look, there goes my people!” and he says, “You better stay here” and she ran and caught up with us and ended up in jail, and she says, “What did I do that for? I ain’t never gonna drink no more.”
So there were real class differences between the Black women in jail, and music had a lot to do with breaking down those things because there were several women in there who could lead songs, of different ages, and everybody would back everybody up. It was the first time I led songs and felt totally backed up by a group of Blacks. If you’re growing up in a Black church you can background, but I mean the leaders are so powerful, the real songleaders, the old ones, that you think of the day someday when you’re gonna do “Let me ride Jesus” or something, but you don’t strike out on it. Maybe when you join the church you’re so ecstatic, you might lead a song if people will sing with you, but you know you really can’t pull the weight.
There was something about the Civil Rights Movement, where leaders were defined by their activism, not by their age or their class. So within the Black community, people began to look up to students, to ask students what should they do about x, y, and z, and follow the leadership of all sorts of different people based on what they perceived to be an integrity and commitment to struggle, and stick with that particular struggle.
What would you say was the feeling of people who became involved in the demonstrations? What were they trying to accomplish? What was this movement that you had joined?
There was a sense of power, in a place where you didn’t feel you had any power. There was a sense of confronting things that terrified you, like jail, police, walking in the street you know, a whole lot of Black folks couldn’t even walk in the street in those places in the South. So you were saying in some basic way, “I will never again stay inside these boundaries.” There were things asked for, like Black police and fire people, and sitting where you wanted on the bus. There was a bus boycott and we closed the bus company down and brought it back with Black bus drivers. But in terms of what happened to me and what happened to other people I know about, it was a change in my concept of myself and how I stood.
It was an experience that totally changed the lives of people who participated in it. There were people who did every march, every mass meeting, their whole lives became centered around the Movement. People who lost their jobs, who lost their homes.
A lot of studies of Albany have focused on evaluating the tactics of Pritchett, the police chief. They have called him a “nonviolent police” because he locked people up. He just locked you up, and when there was no more room in the city jail he sent us out to counties.
When I read about the Albany movement, as people have written about it, I don’t recognize it. They add up stuff that was not central to what happened discussion about Pritchett, discussion about specific achievements, discussion about whether it was a failure or success for King.3 For me, that was not central. I had grown up in a society where there were very clear lines. The older I got, the more I found what those lines were. The Civil Rights Movement gave me the power to challenge any line that limits me.
I got that power during that Albany movement, and that is what it meant to me, just really to give me a real chance to fight and to struggle and not respect boundaries that put me down. Before then, I struggled within a certain context, but recognized lines. Across those lines were powers that could do you in, so you just respect them and don’t cross them. The Civil Rights Movement just destroyed that and said that if something puts you down, you have to fight against it. And that’s what the Albany movement did for Albany, Georgia.
There were some established adult professionals in the leadership of the Albany movement, but other successful Blacks, like the school administration, opposed it. Did this surprise you?
I’ve found it real surprising to people outside the South. I’d say I was suspended from school and they’d say, “Oh, it was a white school, a white principal?” If you grow up Black, you know that the manifestations of the system closest to you are Black. We had known Dean Minor (the dean at the bus station and at the jail who made lists of students breaking the segregation barriers) and President Dennis for a while. It was really just behavior that we had always seen.
What we did not know, though, was the numbers of people on that same level who were fighting. I think that’s always an unknown until there is a fight. You never know who will stand for you until the issues are really on the line.
You can always figure out the people who are executing the system. It appears that almost everybody’s executing it, even you are executing it until you fight against it. The positive thing I experienced was the numbers of people who risked everything they had to work in that movement. People of all classes. People who absolutely couldn’t afford to take those stands, did. The most independent people were the ministers of those Black churches which supported Civil Rights Movement activities. But people who were working and were losing their jobs, that was another thing.
It’s now been 17 years since SNCC went to work in Albany. What is Albany like today? How do you see the difference that the movement has made?
There are hundreds of specifics. Albany State College is integrated. Dennis died very shortly after he suspended us; I still think that’s connected. You can ride in white taxicabs. There are Black policemen and white policemen (policemen are still policemen), Black firemen and white firemen, Black bus drivers. Schools are integrated. There are Black telephone operators. I wouldn’t have to go all the way to Belk’s department store to go to the bathroom downtown; there used to be only two stores with restrooms for Blacks Silver’s ten-cent store and Belk’s. All those things have happened.
Albany, for Albany, as well as the Civil Rights Movement for whoever was affected by it, raised and answered some questions in ways that changed how people would be dealt with. So that, you know, I could get a job at the Marine base as a secretary. Those are things that you take for granted in Albany now, but I remember when my sister got a job at the Marine base and it was a first. They hired manual laborers at the base, but they didn’t hire Black women.
Those are the specifics. Behind those specifics are people who have greater responsibility for who and where they are, and [who have] slightly more chance to fight for difference in their lives. In some way the Civil Rights Movement exposed the basic structure of the country that, as it’s set up, cannot sustain itself without oppressing someone. The change in the Movement later toward riots, Black Power, Black nationalism, feels to me like it had to do with some learning we did about this country during that first period. It was like learning about the Constitution; quoting the Constitution, saying “All we want is our rights in the Constitution.” After Albany, I began to look in the Constitution, and to realize that every time they dealt with property, they were dealing with the slave question. So in the Constitution, I am primarily property. And our depending on that Constitution is like me waiting on the corner for the Albany police to save me from that man.
But that was where we were. So one thing the Civil Rights Movement did was give us a lesson in the structure of this country the most graphic kind of civics lesson you can get and we began to really see that there were some problems. If you watched TV and watched all them Black people getting beat for all those years, you knew that yours was coming next week. And it became much more difficult to handle that nothing else was coming, and especially that, in some real way, the economic order was not changed by the Civil Rights Movement.
When I say you can work in the Marine base and you can work at the telephone company, the implication is that something basic has changed in the economy. But if you look at where Blacks stand, economically, in the society, it continues to be a society that has maintained itself on the exploitation of groups of people. Though I get the feeling that the groups may be slightly breaking down; maybe now all workers are beginning to find themselves terrified for their jobs, which used to be the way Black people felt all the time if you had a job, you were scared any day something would happen so you wouldn’t be working.
What about the effects of voter registration work on the power relations?
I think we’re still seeing it and I’m not sure what the result will be. There have been some differences in power relations with so many Black elected officials, but the changes are limited. In Charleston, South Carolina, Septima Clark sits on the school board that around 1919 refused to let her work as a teacher in that city. Mayor Daley’s little clique was unseated by a Jesse Jackson-led group at a Democratic National Convention. That was 1972, when McGovern was nominated for president, and that was the year of “This is really gonna make a difference; we’re gonna turn this party around and make it a people’s party.” There were all those fights, and then, next time around, 1976, Mayor Daley’s back. The Democratic leadership were so glad to have him back, they didn’t know what to do.4
So you can talk about power changes that occurred that put Fannie Lou Hamer in the Democratic National Convention, that kicked Mayor Daley out for a little while.5 It means something; it is more helpful to have more Black people in these positions. But also it means that we’re in a system that’s very flexible and can absorb some demands based on how much you hammer for them: if you are ever-visible, hammering, you will not totally be ignored. You will either be let in or destroyed. And then, sometimes the system lets in a certain number and then destroys the radical fringes of it. But the structure has not changed and human beings are still terribly exploited in this country. This is not a country that’s focused on human beings.
The other thing that the Civil Rights Movement has done is make Black people see beyond themselves, to see some parallels in the experiences of other people and other groups. If you’re Black and oppressed, you’re also isolated. When I joined the Civil Rights Movement everything was Black and white. There were Black people and there were white people and that was it. The Civil Rights Movement has taught at least some activist part of the Black community internationalism, something about the world, and has made the world not so distant and not so irrelevant to our own position. It is like beginning to analyze society and understand where you are in it.
How have you personally been affected by your participation in the Albany movement?
I learned that I did have a life to give for what I believed. Lots of people don’t know that; they feel they don’t have anything. When you understand that you do have a life, you do have a body, and you can put that on the line, it gives you a sense of power. So I was empowered by the Civil Rights Movement.
There have been many times since then that I’ve felt other levels of oppression; for instance, doors that open for me as a Black person, but have another slant on them for me as a woman. I now move through a different level of the society than I did then. I’m seeing what happens when you’re Black, when you’re a woman, when you are outside of categories that are comfortable. Like I have a doctorate in history, but doctorates are not supposed to sing, and if they sing they’re not supposed to sound the way I do, using Black traditional vocal techniques. There are just a hundred different ways of clashing. Yet I somehow know that I have a right, almost a responsibility, to struggle to be all of those things. If I don’t work out in my lifetime who I am, and fight for that space, then I will never be. I will be somebody else’s representation or the society’s representation of what it will tolerate me to be.
© 1979 Dick Cluster. Reprinted with permission from The Borning Struggle: The Civil Rights Movement, They Should Have Served That Cup of Coffee: 7 Radicals Remember the 60s, Ed. Dick Cluster (Boston: South End Press, 1979).
Endnotes
James Forman was executive secretary of SNCC from 1961 to 1966. Tom Hayden was participating in and reporting on the Civil Rights Movement as field secretary of Students for a Democratic Society. Sandra “Casey” Hayden was a white SNCC staff member from Texas.
In 1957, nine Black schoolchildren attempted to attend the all-white Central High School of Little Rock, Arkansas, in accordance with a court-ordered desegregation plan. Blocked by National Guard troops acting under the orders of Arkansas Governor Orval Faubus and then by white mobs, they succeeded in entering the school only after federal troops were sent to protect them. The following year, Governor Faubus closed the school entirely in order to delay desegregation.
Martin Luther King Jr., invited to Albany by the executive committee of the Albany movement, led a large demonstration in December 1961 and was jailed. He also attempted to negotiate with the city commission on behalf of the Movement.
At the 1972 Democratic National Convention, which nominated George McGovern for president, the Illinois delegation headed by Chicago mayor and political boss Richard Daley was disqualified because it did not give sufficient representation to minorities and women. It was replaced by a delegation headed by Black community activist Rev. Jesse Jackson. Daley and other party bigwigs and fundraisers refused to work on McGovern’s presidential campaign against Richard Nixon, which was one reason for McGovern’s devastating defeat in November. Afterwards, all but the most left-leaning of the Democratic liberals quickly made peace with the old-line conservative forces in the party, and relaxed the rules about minority and female participation.
Fannie Lou Hamer of Ruleville, Mississippi, became a leader in SNCC and the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party (MFDP) after she was evicted from the B. D. Marlowe plantation, where she had lived and worked as a sharecropper for 18 years, for registering to vote. In 1964, the Democratic National Convention refused to seat her and other members of the MFDP in place of the segregationist Mississippi delegation led by Senator James Eastland. ■