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' Journal Of A Trip South (Continued from Page 1) very presence — the white man’s presence in the Negro’s heme— cause trouble. What trouble? Certainly no trouble in the Negro community. We feel that if they gink to reprisals, then let them. Thai sounds dramatic — it is the reality of this place and this time. In here, Mozart and coffee and lamplight. Out there the night. Out there the threat of violence hangs like a stench over every thing — violence from racists who claim that Christ would bless them for any act they might com mit against us in order to per petuate this system. Is our host at supper this eve ning with his shotgun beside his bed? As we left his house, we re assured ourselves in whispesr: “I don’t think anyone saw us enter or leave this house.” “No—I'm sure no one saw . . .** “It doesn’t matter,” the host’s wife said. “We don’t care if they did see—what can possibly be wrong with this?” But we knew and w e die! care. MONDAY "It's six-ten, John.” Father’s voice aroused me from sleep. “Thank you. Father.” I groaned, mv eyes closed, struggling to come to wakefulness. Mass at 6:30. I walked through a soft cool light of dawn next door lo the Church. The air was still, j clear — no cars yet in the streets. | Mass in the low - ceilinged 1 church w ith only Father, two altar boys, a matron and myself. I fought the drowsiness that in sulated me from everything ex cept the animal need to sleep. Communion. A clumsy moment. If I got up and approached the altar rail first, the lady might hold back. (How quickly, when I was a Negro, I learned that hideous etiquette: you wait until the last White has received and returned to his seat before you approach East Side (Continued from Page 1) '‘when he stepped out of a group of people waiting for the bus. j Then I saw why he stepped out. A crippled Negro girl was having i trouble with the rubber tip on one crutch couldn't get it to stay on. “And this man stooped down and helped replace the rubber tip 1 for the girl. She thanked him prettily. But I noticed that he kept watching her as she struggled on up the street. And yes, the rubber tip on her crutch came off again. “The man strode out and caught up with her. Then he sat down on the curb, took a bit of paper or something out of his briefcase, ! wrapped it on the tip of the crutch, wrestled the rubber cap back on. wiggled it to see if it was tight, then handed it back to the crippled girl with a smile. But in the meantime he had missed his bus.” If that were you, the scanty identification given by the lady w'as all we knowT about you—except for one thing: A small deed, a little, nameless kindness such as that paints a much more luminous picture ©f you than reams of detail on physical description. . 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Y RD CHASE—“The Hans Christian Anderson & ? three “Jack Tales” of the southern mountains ? ve audience of children in a country school, y ales, known throughout Europe at one time, <S , in America in oral tradition. X :T FROM: FOLK-LEGACY RECORDS, INC., & HUNTINGTON, VERMONT I ACH Plus 30 Cents for Postoge ond Hondling ? the communion table. It offends him to receive next to a Negro. Sacramental lie.) But this matron surely knew who I was — such thoughts, such hesitations prob ably were not in her mind. Never - i theless, I waited until she knelt at the altar rail, and then 1 walked up and knelt beside her. Resentment that concentration on the Sacrament had to be spoiled by such considerations for her and for me. It quieted to deep silence at the moment of reception. Then I was aware of a movement beside me. The lady rose, genuflected and moved away. Floor boards announced each careful step she took in her effort to walk quietly back to her pew. There in the silence. I feit again the jolt of scandal, the true horror of some Catholic White who can feel and express protest when Catholic Negroes receive next to them. At such a moment of all moments— the moment of union w’ith the Host —how’ could any soul recoil against the presence of another soul merely because it is encased in a darker flesh? I heard the lady kneel behind me and outside somew'here in the neighborhood the cheerful cackling of chickens, j I returned here to the h o u s e f after Mass to fix myself a glass of strong instant coffee and for a IcllCi ui cciaio^i. In this part of the world, many j of us — white Catholics — are leaving Mass, going to breakfast, j to the routine of our lives. "We J will go out from Mass and con tribute our part to prevesting j Negroes from growing as men. from fulfilling their human po tential. We may not do this active ly, though many of us do; but we :ondone the system with our silence—we go along with it. Seven a.m. Two groups of citi zens, two groups of men made in j God’s image, prepare to go about the business of living and bread winning— both groups victims of this system that allows the one group to suppress the other in a pious fraud of staggering com pleteness. I am talking specifically about Catholics. We do this and never lose the illusion that we are in a state of grace, that God smiles on us. I think of the story I heard here recently. A well - dressed Negro Catholic from out of the area went to Mass in a nearby' town in an “all-white” Catholic Church. An elderly white woman : remarked loudly to her daughter: ‘Did you see that nigger push his way up to the altar rail. I could nave spit in his face.” It was not >o. He w aited to go last. But the A’oman, I am sure, found her -ighteous anger in no way incon sistent with her state of grace. I found myself remembering he words of that Negro tenant armer whom Lillian Smith nentions. He was thrown off of lis farm in midwinter, with no money and no place to take his amily. He fell on his knees in he snow and prayed: “Oh God, >reak their hearts, give them ears.” I heard myself muttering hose wmrds for those of us who >re white Southerners. “Oh God, . >reak our hearts; give us tears.” j Somehow', it is our only hope, our i >nly health now'. But who among is will feel it, see it?. To most , juch a prayer makes no sense at ill. LATER A brief walk outside. Father prays in his office alone in the tittle cracker-box church. Hunger c>egins to trouble me. I return as Father’s housekeeper arrives. The smiles, the welcome — “It’s good Lo have you here, Mr. Griffin.” But her eyes look searchingly at cars that pass, white men’s cars some of them; and I can see that she wishes me inside. All around us in the morning sun, the un painted wooden houses, the trees, the dusty streets. I walk into the house, wonder PRESIDENT KENNEDY President Kennedy, Whot is the remedy For onxiety ond bote? Quickly! Nimbly! Hopefully! (But not in boste) Is your deoth but just o bitter toste? All fingers ond thumbs, Our numb heorts rifle through Your words for comfort; Quiet souls, ot this lote dote, Becouse the sound of your own voice Is shot silent. Here, now, is the morrow we feored. All things stronge to your new seoson Hove reored up irrelevontly. And thrown the whole wide unreosoning world In sorrow. This Age of Spoce is spent On follies it did not prevent But more thon blood its brow is bent Becouse the Age is of Consent. Slowly, grumbling, ond with o groon. This old ond oiling moss Grosps for o cushion To its grief In whot you so id. § Con we believe the lilt— | Now you ore deod— jl With which you'd tilt the windmills? 1 Take we relief that Youth At leost begon his deeds? Those seeds Hove not sprung weeds, As yet, Lest we forget; Eiku. (c) 12-3-63. ing what it is that makes all rectories feel and smell the same. Across the entrance hall, I can see into my room, the bed still un made — a room in a rectory, simple, fragrant with cedar. In the kitchen, I prepare another glass of instant coffee w-ith faucet water while the house keeper watches. I carry it to the front room office. Now’ the house promises break fast. I hear the sizzle of eggs; the odor of bacon enlivens the atmosphere. Father has entered the kitchen through the side door. I hear the housekeeper tell him: “Well, I saw7 coffee made a new7 w7ay this morning — with just tap water.” Then some laughter and more talk. “Yes, he drinks coffee all day and all night,” Father says. Breakfast in the kitchen. The sunlight poured in over my shoulder onto the table. It cast a magnificent light on the starched, flowered tablecloth and dazzled the glasses of orange juice, the plate of eggs, bacon, biscuits, but ler and honey. LATER NOON The heat rises. The sun bakes the land, but despite the bril liance, a softness remains in the atmosphere. The air is still. Katy dids raspy loudly in trees. I drove to town for a haircut, rhe barbershop was filled with ‘sitters.” They talked in quiet, concerned voices about the “nig gers” and the “half-communist Federal government.” I heard all Df the tired cliches, all of the old southern cultural myths. Middle aged and elderly men, their weatherworn faces seamed with worry, talked about “winning,”’ talked about fighting for “our rights” all in condemning Negroes for seeking their rights. Apparent ly they are incapable of seeing such a contradiction. It would destroy them to see this truth that nevertheless stands before us and shouts to be seen. They talked with an almost tearful sincerity. “We can still win yet, if we'll just stick togeth er.” This said in a melancholy tone that implied he knew the old way w as lost. “If we’d all stood behind Faubus at Little Rock, we w-ouldn’t be having this Birming ham mess. No, we haven't stuck - together — so now each State has to stand up and fight all over again.” A young man stood up and sajd: “We'll win, old man, don't you w'orry They’s plenty of us and w-e're strong. "We’re going to see the niggers don't get the vote.” The old men, consoled, looked sadly at their hands. “God damn, we better wake up, that’s all I can say,” one of them mumbled. He looked up toward (Continued on Page 3) The Petal Papei THE PETAL PAPER: Printed month ly by THE SOUTHERN FARMER, INC., Montgomery, Ala. Published by East Publications Co., Box 1486. Hattiesburg, Miss. Entered as second class matter at the Post Office at Petal, Mississippi, under Act of March 8, 1879. REENTERED AT MONTGOMERY, ALA. 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