The Petal paper. [volume], December 05, 1963, Page 3, Image 3

About The Petal paper. [volume] (Petal, Miss.) 1953-19??

Image provided by: Mississippi Department of Archives and History

                
Journal Of A Trip South
(Continued From Page 2)
mr, a staring glance full of despair
and pleading.
""Where you from, Mister?” he
asked.
"Texas,” I said.
"Niggers about to take over
there?”
"We don’t worry about it too
much,” I evaded.
"You sure as hell ought to,’
he said.
1 glanced toward the back of
the shop where a young Negro
worked on at the shoe-shine stand
as though he were deaf. I won
dered what his thoughts were, how
he restrained himself from walk
ing out. Yet, an air of almost
innocent concern marked the
meeting, as though the men were
sure the young Negro could not
be offended because they were dis- j
cussing the problem of protecting
him too from the “communist”
scheme of getting Negroes to ex
ercise their sights as citizens. It
was all too strange, strangest of
all the fact that these men can
not ,do not see that this ridicu- i
lous posture fools no one but
themselves.
The small downtown area is
“Old South,” a village surrounded
by cotton country. I drove back to |
the rectory through the Negro area
— what the Whites here call 1
“niggertown” — a clutter of grey
weathered houses and dust-pow
dered chinaberry and cotton wood
trees. The humid air carried fra- !
grance of fields into the town.
A place of blindness, ignorance,
anguish, and yet physically an
appealing place, redolent of the
past. The older ones cannot bear
to see it change—as though jus- !
lice and dignity for all men would 1
shatter the picture. They ration
alize by saying and finally be
lieving that restoration of civil
rights to all men would be the end
of what they know and love, the
end of the “southern way of life,”
and the beginning of communism.
What rot. But they talk of noth
ing else. And at night they can
still integrate with Negro women
whom the System prostitutes: it is ,
a cherishable part of the old ways.
1 recall Sterling Williams’ state
ment about whites: “Oh yes, they
are much more democratic in their
sinning than in their worship.”
LATER
Alter lunch I set out to make ;
some photographs of the town. I j
parked my car in front of the
barbershop I visited this morn
ing. The streets were almost de
serted, but the few’ men who were
out, watched suspiciously as I
made several shots, particularly
one of Negroes at a Loan Agency.
I hoped they would take me for
a tourist, and I shot my pictures |
openly, obviously, the way a tour- j
1st would. But why should a
tourist come to this little town?
Certainly it was not a tourist
attraction.
I felt sure that every Negro in
the area knew who I was and
that I was staying under the same
roof with a Negro priest. This j
was all right. I could stay as long
as no whites found it out and
began to “worry” about it.
When I returned to the car, I
got none of the usual friendly
nods. I felt the chill of their
looks, changed from the warmth
I had experienced earlier in the
day. 1 thought I had better get
away from the downtown section
before they questioned me too
closely.
But my battery was dead. The
car would not start. I sat in the
jfurnace of the front seat and tried
«t intervals to get the motor going.
No one offered help or advice.
Finally, 1 went into the barber
shop and asked whom 1 could <
telephone to come and get me
started. They gave me a number
to call. The answering voice said
he would be there in a moment.
A strange, uncomfortable silence
filled the shop after I replaced
the receiver on its hook.
"Thank you for your help,” I
said as I headed for the door.
"Glad to help,” an older barber
said.
After a moment a large,
heavily-muscled man arrived in
a truck. He had a good face and
he set about working on the car
with great willingness to help.
We finally got it started, both of
us sweating through our clothes,
and I followed him to his Service
Station to have the battery
charged.
I parked the car outside and
took my camera case into the
Service Station. An older man
sat at the desk.
"Do you mind if 1 leave this in
here w'hile he fixes the car?” I
asked.
He studied it intently for a
time and read my name on the
leather casing.
"Are you John Griffin?” he
asked with interest, such interest
T fparp/1 hp linpu uihn 1 wa.c
“Yes . .
“Well, let me shake your hand,”
he said with a broad smile.
I put the camera case dow n on
his desk and, mystified, shook
hands. Surely it was not every
day that a southern white man
would show such enthusiasm over
meeting me.
“What you got in that case — a
bomb?” he asked, beaming now
with pleasure.
“No — a camera and films,” I
said. “I was afraid the heat would
damage the negatives.”
“Oh, I thought it was a bomb
and you were headed for Bir
mingham,” he said in a dis
appointed tone. “I was going to
give your gasoline free if it w^s.”
“Not this time,” I said, wonder
ing w hy, if he knew- me by name,
he would think I could be in
volved in such an action. Then it
occurred to me that he perhaps
thought I was that other John
Griffin—a man noted in the South
for his Klan activities. Surely
that was it, for he began to talk
compulsively about the “niggers”
and what we could do about them.
They re gening worse cveiv
day here, Mr. Griffin,’’ he said.
The younger man came in to join
us. His amiable face cramped
with disgust when he heard us
speak of the “niggers.”
“I tell you what—and for sure.
They do just one more thing and
I’m ready to go home and get my
shotgun and just clean them out,
he said earnestly.
“What they been doing?” I
asked.
“Hell, you know,” the older
man said. “They getting stiff
lipped that’s what”
“Oh that,” I said as though I
knew what he meant. “How’re
they' getting stiff-lipped around
here?”
“You know—they’ve gone to
calling their nigger women Negro
ladies and our white ladies White
women. Damnedest thing you
ever saw.”
He told me that he was trying
to get Negroes fired from jobs
held around town—to teach them
a lesson. He ranted against Ken
nedy, said he wouldn’t be sur
prised if someone assassinated
the President if he ever dared
come into that area. Another man
entered and the station attendant
introduced me as though 1 were
a visiting celebrity.
“Well, we’ve got a good town,
Mr. Griffin,” the newcomer ex
plained. “We’ve all been good to
pur niggers—always been above
ooard with them, always paid
them fair wages, and fiankly, we
ain't about to tolerate the way
they’re acting these days. Why, 1
heard the niggers here are all
saving money every month out of
j their w ages to buy guns and am
munition. It's going to be violence
here — bad violence — but they’re
inviting it.”
“We can take care of them,”
the older service-station man
said. He lowered his head,
glanced about to make sure w>e
were not overheard, and said,
“Mr. Griffin, we've got this plan.
When it comes March, it gets
windy around here. Well, if the
niggers haven’t cut out all this
ungodly crap about their rights by
then, there’s about fifty of us
going to meet here some night,
each of us take five-gallon cans
of gasoline. And we’ll put on
masks and go right dowm through
nigger to wm and burn the whole
place out.”
“Yea . . .” the younger man
nodded, “just get rid of the w'hole
bunch. That’s the only way to do
it now.”
I wondered how this harmon
ized with their previous claims of
having always been open and
above-board wdth Negroes.
The visitor shook our hands
and left.
“He’s a good man,” the older
one said warmly.
“Damn good,” the younger one
agreed.
“This town’s full of good i
people,” the older one said. “They
I been patient but they won’t stand
for any foolishness.”
“You just let the niggers try to
put one of their kids—just one—
over here in our white school,”
the younger one said, his voice
rising in exasperation. “By
God . . ”
“I’ll tell you this, Mr. Griffin,”
the older one continued. “If they
try that, we’ve got five hundred
vchite men and we'll walk should
er to shoulder through niggertown
and kill every man, woman and
kid—just like they was dogs.”
“And we’re going to get rid of
some of these damned white
nigger - loving preachers, too,”
the younger one said.
"They’re the worst of all,” the
older man said.
"How’s that?” I asked.
"Do you know w hat it says in
the Bible about Simon Peter, Mr.
Griffin?” the younger one asked.
“You know% Simon Peter could
walk on the water all right as
long as he kept his eyes on Jesus.
But the moment he took his eyes
off Jesus, he just sanx rigm unuti
the water. Well, that’s the way
with our preachers here. As long
as they kept their eyes on Jesus,
they were fine. But they’ve done
taken their eyes off of Jesus now.
They’ve sold out for money to
those integrationist bastards.
We’re going to get rid of every
one of them.”
“They just plain turned their
backs on Jesus—so let them sink,
the older man said. “We got no
use for that kind of preacher
here.”
A pick-up truck stopped at the
gas tanks out front. Both men
walked out to service it. I watch
ed them closely, for the driver
was a Negro. They laughed, ex
changed pleasantries, and the two
service station men opened up
the front of the car and worked
hard to repair whatever was
wrong. Their willingness to help,
their expression of relaxed good
will with the Negro were wholly
incongruous to the attitude they
had shown inside the station.
The truck-driver accompanied
them inside to pay.
“Now, we done you a special
favor, didn’t we?” the attendant
asked.
“Yes sir, you sure did,” the
Negr© said eagerly.
“Now you’re going to be like i
6)1 the rest and keep coming back '
| wanting more and more special
| favors,” the older one said in a
half-joking way.
I watched the driver carefully.
His eyes hardened, but his voice
remained respectful. “No Siree,”
he said. “Now 3'ou know I've
never asked you any Special
favors before. I'm not like that.”
"You’re all just alike,” the
older man laughed, “—get any
thing you can out of a white man.”
"Not me. No sir. Not me,” the
Negro said, his eyes glowing
hatred, his voice wheedling. “I
appreciate a favor. I don’t ever
abuse one. You know that.”
The two attendants appeared
unaware of the Negro’s fury. The3’
believed the sound of his voice
rather than the look in his eyes.
When the pick-up had driven
off, the older one turned to me.
“He’s a good nigger,” he explain
ed. “We always treat good nig
gers good—do anything we can
for them.”
I open my mouth to ask, 'Tio
you call that ‘treating him good’?”
But 1 did not say it. He had seen
only what he wanted to see in
the driver’s reaction. He would
not understand my question.
We talked more—the old anec- j
dotes about how God separated
the birds and other animals—as
though that had anything to do
with Man. Finally, when my car
was fixed, I took leave of them
in an atmosphere of almost un
believable "Christian - Brother
hood” warmth, as though we were
leaving a church meeting instead
of one laden with violence and
hatred.
I returned here to the rectory
and told Father about the talk.
When I repeated what they said
about marching through the Negro
area and killing every man,
woman and child "just like they
was dogs,” Father smiled and said
gently: "Well, of course, we just
might have something to say
about that. Do they think Negroes
here are just going to sit there and
let themselves be massacred?”
My car was now known, and
my name. We discussed biding
my car for fear someone would
see it in front of the rectory and
noise it around town that the
white man in whom they had
confided was visiting the Negro
priest. We decided no, we would
hide nothing. "You’ve got every
right to be here, and I have every
right to have you in my home,”
Father said.
I asked him if there were any
communication between the Negro „
community and the whites.
"Of course not,” he said, "noth
ing except the superficial give
and take that we have every
where in the South.”
"Then howT can this kind of
violence be avoided,” I said. "If
you don’t know one another, if
(Continued on Page 4)
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