Arsenault Raymond. Freedom Riders: 1961 and the Struggle for Racial Justice

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476 Freedom Riders

14, the Justice Department joined the NAACP’s appeal of the federal district

court’s refusal to grant an injunction enjoining the use of segregationist breach-

of-peace statutes in Mississippi. In a written brief filed with the United States

Supreme Court Associate Justice Hugo Black, Solicitor General Archibald Cox

complained that “hundreds of American citizens” had been “arrested and con-

victed for merely claiming their constitutional rights.”

Two days later, a long-awaited Supreme Court ruling on a Baton Rouge

sit-in case that involved similar misuse of breach-of-peace statutes tempo-

rarily raised hopes that the Court would grant at least a temporary stay of the

ongoing prosecution of more than three hundred Mississippi Freedom Rid-

ers. Reversing the convictions of sixteen blacks arrested for causing civil dis-

order in Baton Rouge, the Court’s reasoning seemed to open the door for

the ultimate dismissal of charges against all of the Riders convicted in Jack-

son. But on Monday, December 18, the Court stunned NAACP attorneys

and Justice Department officials with a unanimous ruling rejecting the re-

quest for a stay. Although the stated basis of the rejection was narrow and

hinged on a technical interpretation of legal standing—the three defendants

representing the class action had not been arrested for breach of peace—the

Court’s ruling sent a chill through movement and government leaders al-

ready weary from several months of seemingly unnecessary and gratuitous

complications. “It is important not to read too much into the Supreme Court’s

refusal,” a New York Times editorial counseled. But among those who had

grown accustomed to victory at the highest level of judicial review, this was

not easy advice to follow. Coming one week before the most cherished day of

the Christian faith, the unexpected twist of legal defeat provided yet another

reminder that unmerited suffering was the chosen fate of those who em-

braced the philosophy of nonviolence. For many of the Freedom Riders, the

trials and tests of tolerance would continue, literally and figuratively, for years

to come. And for some, even legal triumph and racial desegregation would

bring little satisfaction as long as the beloved community remained an unre-

alized ideal.

Epilogue: Glory Bound

Yes, we are the Freedom Riders,

And we ride a long Greyhound.

White or black, we know no difference, Lord,

For we are Glory bound.

DURING THE WINTER OF 1961–1962, the Freedom Riders exited from the

center stage of American public life. But they did not go quietly. If 1961 was

the year of the Freedom Rides, encompassing the heart of the drama, 1962

was the denouement. For the movement, and for the Freedom Riders them-

selves, the weeks and months following the initial implementation of the

ICC order were filled with legal, tactical, and other matters related to the

Rides. Indeed, for much of the nation—especially for white Southerners—

1962 proved to be a challenging period of adaptation and adjustment, a tran-

sitional era that saw the passing of old myths and the birth of new realities of

race, region, and democracy. In Washington, Justice Department officials

spent much of the year scrambling to meet—or in some cases deflect—the

rising expectations of movement activists, while the president and other ad-

ministration leaders dealt with the political fallout from the federal

government’s recent tilt toward constitutional enforcement and social jus-

tice. And in New York and Atlanta, civil rights leaders faced similar chal-

lenges as they strained to maintain momentum and a spirit of cooperation in

the face of new organizational realities—chiefly, the enhanced power and

vitality of CORE and SNCC.

The Freedom Rides had compounded and accelerated the changes ini-

tiated by the 1960 sit-ins, and the reconfigured world of civil rights activ-

ism—in which students generally took the lead while lawyers, ministers,

and other elders struggled to keep up—looked radically different from the

late-1950s movement led by the NAACP and SCLC. By the end of 1962

478 Freedom Riders

virtually all matters related to the movement—from generational and or-

ganizational lines of authority to ideological considerations of nonviolence

and interracialism—were in flux or undergoing serious reexamination. Not

all of this could be attributed to the success of the Freedom Rides, of course.

But, as Diane McWhorter later put it, the Rides seemed to be “one of

history’s rare alchemical phenomena, altering the structural makeup of ev-

erything they touched.”

The aftershocks from the Freedom Rides could be felt everywhere, but

the most obvious seismic shifts were in the Deep South, where the active

phase of the crisis lasted the longest. This was especially true in Mississippi,

where the weekly Freedom Rider appellate trials continued until late May

1962, and where the rumblings of black unrest and white resistance were

amplified by the unsettling influence of student activists affiliated with SNCC

and CORE.

Despite the removal of Jim Crow signs across the state, compliance with

the ICC order was haphazard at best, and in many Mississippi communities

anyone asserting the constitutional right to equal access to transit facilities risked

arrest for breach of peace. NAACP attorney and future Harvard Law School

professor Derrick Bell discovered this on January 10, when he was arrested for

loitering in the white waiting room of the Jackson railroad terminal, and three

weeks later the police arrested Ernest McBride, a black soldier from Los Ange-

les, for a similar infraction at the Jackson Greyhound station.

Such arrests became less common after February 26, when the U.S. Su-

preme Court issued a unanimous and definitive ruling in Bailey v. Patterson,

the NAACP class-action desegregation case filed by the NAACP on behalf

of Samuel Bailey and three other Jackson blacks in June 1961. Annulling the

two-to-one decision of the three-judge federal district panel, the Court stated

plainly: “We have settled beyond question that no state may require racial

segregation of interstate or intrastate transportation facilities.” Once again,

however, the situation was muddied by the Court’s refusal to issue an injunc-

tion staying the prosecution of the Freedom Riders arrested in Jackson. Ac-

cording to the Court, since the plaintiffs were not actually Freedom Riders

and had never been arrested as such, Bailey and the others had no standing to

enjoin the prosecutions. Though technically correct, this decision created

confusion and ensured continued resistance on the part of Mississippi segre-

gationists interested in preserving Jim Crow transit.

Part of the problem was a poisonous statewide political atmosphere that

implicitly sanctioned vigilante and extralegal enforcement of segregated

mores. Emboldened by defiant White Citizens’ Council leaders and dema-

gogic politicians, individual bus drivers, station agents, and police officers

routinely ignored federal mandates, dismissing them as illegitimate infringe-

ments of local control and states’ rights. Believing that intimidation and even

violence were acceptable means of maintaining segregation, many white

Mississippians felt empowered to do whatever was necessary to counter the

Epilogue: Glory Bound 479

efforts of perceived troublemakers. On April 26, for example, a policeman in

the southern Mississippi town of Taylorsville shot and killed Corporal Ro-

man Duckworth after the young black soldier failed to move to the back of a

bus. Although Duckworth was unarmed and had the legal right to sit wher-

ever he pleased, there were no legal consequences for the policeman, and the

local and state press all but ignored the incident. The fact that Duckworth

was a Mississippi native returning home to visit a sick wife did not seem to

evoke much sympathy among white segregationists, who saw him as just

another good Negro gone bad. In the wake of the Freedom Rides, any black

Mississippian with experience outside the state was suspect, and Duckworth’s

violation of segregationist traditions simply confirmed the suspicion that

virtually all of the state’s racial problems could be attributed to outside

influences.

During the weeks and months following the Rides, Mississippi segrega-

tionists felt that they were still under siege from outside agitators, and to

some extent they were right. Even though the vast majority of Freedom Rid-

ers had long since left the state, the dozen or so who remained were part of a

growing movement presence in Mississippi. Though modest in comparison

to Freedom Summer 1964, when nearly a thousand student activists descended

upon the state, the rising spirit of the “Move on Mississippi,” as SNCC called

it, was palpable in 1962. Even in Jackson, where the concentration of visiting

activists was greatest and where CORE field secretary Tom Gaither returned

in January to reorganize the Jackson Non-Violent Movement, the number

of those involved was small. But the mere presence of “professional agita-

tors” such as Gaither was unnerving to white Mississippians, many of whom

were beginning to realize that the state was no longer off-limits to the na-

tional movement. Martin Luther King drove this point home in early Febru-

ary when he chose Clarksdale, Mississippi, in the heart of the Delta, as the

first stop in a region-wide “People to People” tour aimed at recruiting a

“nonviolent army” known as the SCLC “Freedom Corps.” Visiting seven

communities and delivering a dozen speeches in three days, King served no-

tice that the local activists who had been struggling for years to bring change

to the Delta were no longer alone.

SCLC’s profile in Mississippi never quite matched the promise of King’s

speeches, but an emerging alliance of SNCC, CORE, and the NAACP picked

up at least some of the slack. Less than a week after King’s speaking tour,

Bob Moses of SNCC, Tom Gaither of CORE, and Medgar Evers and Aaron

Henry of the state NAACP conference met in Jackson to reorganize the

Council of Federated Organizations established the previous May. Search-

ing for “a unifying force,” as former Freedom Rider Dave Dennis later put it,

and anticipating the distribution of Voter Education Project (VEP) funds

through the Southern Regional Council, the new COFO founders crafted an

umbrella organization to coordinate voter registration projects and other

movement initiatives across the state. With Henry as president, Moses as

480 Freedom Riders

program director, and Dennis as assistant program director, COFO soon

put the VEP funds to good use, establishing or expanding existing voting

rights projects in ten communities spread across six counties. Four of the

counties were in the Delta, where SNCC and NAACP organizers took the

lead, and two were in southeastern Mississippi, where CORE was given pri-

mary responsibility.

All of the projects involved collaboration between local and visiting stu-

dent activists, and several were staffed by former Freedom Riders, including

Lester McKinnie in Laurel and the newly married Jim and Diane Nash Bevel

in Cleveland. Even when Freedom Riders were not involved, many local

whites and blacks assumed otherwise. In Greenwood, for example, project

leader Sam Block was routinely misidentified as a Freedom Rider, a mistake

that compounded the difficulty of organizing fearful black citizens. “People

would just get afraid of me,” Block later explained to Jim Forman. “They

said, ‘He’s a Freedom Rider.’ ” They didn’t want “to have anything to do

with me . . . because I was a Freedom Rider. I was there to stir up trouble, that’s

all.” As Block and many others discovered, being identified as—or even associ-

ating with—an outside agitator could have severe consequences in Mississippi.

Arrested seven times during his first eight months in Greenwood, Block suf-

fered several beatings at the hands of white vigilantes or policemen, one of

whom characterized him as “the most dangerous nigger in Mississippi.”

At one time or another, similar characterizations were applied to other

militant activists, including Moses, Medgar Evers, and Dave Dennis, who

became CORE’s Mississippi field secretary in the summer of 1962. But for

many white Mississippians the most unsettling and confounding activists of

them all were the Bevels, a husband-and-wife team that symbolized the con-

tinuing influence of the Freedom Rides. Indeed, Diane Nash Bevel’s status

as the most visible female “agitator” in the state was especially perplexing to

white supremacists unaccustomed to tongue-lashings and moral challenges

from twenty-three-year-old pregnant women. After spending several frus-

trating weeks in Jackson and Laurel, and facing an upcoming appellate trial

for her alleged corruption of underage activists the previous summer, she

confounded prosecutors and other white officials on April 30 by abandoning

her appeal. Surrendering herself to authorities, who promptly arrested her

for sitting in the white section of the Hinds County courtroom, she released

a public statement explaining why she was ready to begin serving a two-year

term in jail:

To appeal further would necessitate my sitting through another court trial

in a Mississippi court, and I have reached the conclusion that I can no

longer cooperate with the evil and unjust court system of this state. I sub-

scribe to the philosophy of nonviolence; thus to one of the basic tenets of

nonviolence—that you refuse to cooperate with evil. The only condition

under which I will leave jail will be if the unjust and untrue charges against

me are completely dropped. Some people have asked me how I can do this

Epilogue: Glory Bound 481

when I am expecting my first child in September. I have searched my soul

about this and considered it in prayer. I have reached the conclusion that in

the long run this will be the best thing I can do for my child. Since my child

will be a black child, born in Mississippi, whether I am in jail or not, he will

be born in prison. I believe that if I go to jail now it may help hasten that

day when my child and all children will be free, not only on the day of their

birth, but for all of their lives.

Though destined to become a part of movement lore, this eloquent tes-

timonial did not have the intended effect among black or white Mississippi-

ans. After three weeks of private consultation with local and state leaders,

Judge Russel Moore stymied Bevel’s attempt at martyrdom by denying her

right to drop the appeal. Even more discouraging was the lack of reaction

from the local black community. Two student activists, Luvaghn Brown and

Jesse Harris, expressed their support by challenging the segregated seating

patterns in Moore’s courtroom, an infraction that earned them forty days at

the Hinds County prison farm. And four others were arrested in downtown

Jackson on June 2 during a protest against Brown’s and Harris’s treatment.

But the general failure of the Jackson Non-Violent Movement to rise up in

protest convinced the Bevels that their energies might be better spent in

other areas of the state. Moving to the Delta town of Cleveland, where they

joined forces with longtime activist Amzie Moore, the determined couple

spent most of the summer and fall coordinating voter registration among

rural blacks.

With Moses overseeing a general movement of SNCC operations into

the Delta and with Jim Bevel serving as SCLC’s state field secretary, the

Voter Education Project in Cleveland, along with those in the nearby coun-

ties of Coahoma, Leflore, and Sunflower, made a valiant effort to bring a

measure of democracy to a benighted region during the second half of 1962.

But, in the absence of a solid guarantee from the Justice Department to shield

civil rights workers and black registrants from white supremacist intimida-

tion and violence, it was all but impossible for a small vanguard to accom-

plish much beyond the symbolic victory of survival. By the end of the year

the lack of progress in the face of determined, often violent, white resistance

had forced COFO leaders to scale down their expectations and to suspend

operations in several of the most dangerous counties. Like the Freedom Rid-

ers of the previous year, the Mississippi Voter Education Project workers

and their local allies had demonstrated their willingness to put their bodies

on the line. This time, however, the sacrifices of committed nonviolent ac-

tivists did not lead to a timely government mandate for racial progress.

In Mississippi the ICC mandate yielded relatively little in the way of

actual desegregation by the end of 1962. Here, more than anywhere else,

movement leaders had to deal with a ferocious form of white supremacist

resistance paradoxically fueled by a combination of outside intervention and

the apparent futility of that intervention. In the long run the ICC order would

482 Freedom Riders

lead to grudging desegregation and ultimately to new social mores, but in

the short run, the perceived emptiness of the Freedom Riders’ victory en-

couraged continued resistance on all fronts, including voting rights and school

desegregation. With the help of meddling federal officials, outside agitators

had invaded the state, yet the Mississippi way of life remained intact. Among

white Mississippians in 1962, this was the primary lesson conveyed by the

Freedom Rides.

For some, this delusional sense of invulnerability to fundamental change

began to fade in the fall of 1962 following the court-ordered integration of

the University of Mississippi by James Meredith, a plucky air force veteran

and Jackson State student who had enlisted the support of the NAACP

Legal Defense Fund during a long legal struggle to breach the barriers of

Mississippi’s most hallowed bastion of white privilege. For many others,

though, the fact that Meredith’s arrival at Ole Miss precipitated a major

riot later known as the Battle of Oxford—that the enrollment of a single

black student required the deployment of more than three thousand fed-

eral troops—simply reinforced the notion that Mississippi was a land apart

and beyond the reach of effective outside intervention. With military guards

shadowing his every move, Meredith remained at Ole Miss for a full aca-

demic year, graduating in the spring of 1963. But the Battle of Oxford and

its aftermath left a legacy of racial polarization and distrust that heightened

white Mississippi’s sense of alienation. Most tragically, as the historian John

Dittmer has observed, the backlash from the Meredith crisis struck the dis-

franchised and dispossessed blacks living in “movement” communities such

as Greenwood with special force. Economically and physically vulnerable,

without the benefit of political power or constitutional protection, they

“would bear the brunt of white rage over the defeat suffered at the hands of

the federal government.”

At the close of 1962, the same could have been said of the Freedom

Rides, which seemingly had produced more resistance than progress, leaving

local blacks in a precarious position once the mass of Freedom Riders had

left the state. In the case of transit desegregation, however, the balance sheet

soon shifted toward compliance and genuine progress, providing even Mis-

sissippi blacks with tangible gains that justified the provocations and intru-

sions of 1961. Despite the federal government’s continuing reluctance to

interfere in other areas of public life, the combined efforts of the Justice

Department, the ICC, and the federal courts to desegregate the state’s bus,

rail, and air terminals proved successful by the summer of 1963. Early in the

year the Justice Department filed lawsuits against the police departments of

Greenwood and Winona, which had persisted in enforcing segregation at

local terminals, but in June the department reported that its investigators

“knew of no rail, bus, or airline facility still maintaining segregation,” in Mis-

sissippi or anywhere else. While de facto and self-segregation remained com-

mon, especially in communities where unmarked but duplicate waiting rooms

Epilogue: Glory Bound 483

and other facilities survived, and many Mississippi blacks were still wary of

asserting the right to sit where they pleased, the age of systemic, legally en-

forced transit segregation was over. Nearly two years after the Mississippi Free-

dom Rides, the results could be seen as a civil rights milestone, despite a

rear-guard legal action to punish the individuals and organizations involved.

For at least some of the Riders arrested in Jackson and McComb, and for the

attorneys who represented them, the legal ordeal of appeals, continuances, and

court appearances continued until 1965. But by that time the first major civil

rights victory in the nation’s most hidebound state was secure, suggesting that

the Rides were only a prelude to further struggle and ultimate triumph.

NO OTHER STATE MATCHED Mississippi’s general and persistent pattern of de-

fiance and delay in the aftermath of the Freedom Rides, but for a time there

were pockets of determined resistance in the nearby states of Louisiana, Ala-

bama, and Georgia. As the intended final destination of the original Free-

dom Ride, Louisiana harbored more than its share of angry white supremacists,

many of whom felt that their state had been singled out for abuse. Most of

the active resistance to the ICC order was in the northern and central parts

of the state, especially in Shreveport and Baton Rouge, where local CORE

chapters were pressing for enforcement. During the Freedom Rides, the

Shreveport police had been among the most aggressive in the South, main-

taining strict segregation in all city facilities and arresting anyone who chal-

lenged their right to do so. This spirit of outright defiance continued well

into 1962, making Shreveport one of the last cities in the region to comply

with the ICC mandate. Only after a Justice Department suit and a June 4

Supreme Court decision setting aside the convictions of six Freedom Riders

did the police force and the white community begin to countenance even

token desegregation. And it would be several years before local blacks could

comfortably exercise the rights guaranteed by the ICC without risking eco-

nomic retaliation or police harassment.

The situation was not much better in Baton Rouge, where the effort to

test compliance with the ICC order became entangled with a broader move-

ment to desegregate Baton Rouge’s downtown business district. Led by former

Freedom Riders Dave Dennis and Ben Cox, a series of mass demonstrations

by Southern University students in December 1961 resulted in hundreds of

arrests and several confrontations between marchers and police squads armed

with tear gas and attack dogs. After university administrators expelled seven

students affiliated with CORE and temporarily closed the school, the dem-

onstrations ceased, but in late January a Baton Rouge judge sentenced Cox

and fellow Freedom Rider Dion Diamond to long jail terms. In Diamond’s

case, the conviction was for “criminal anarchy,” since, according to the pros-

ecutor, the young SNCC veteran was a member of “an organization known

to teach, practice, and advocate the overthrow of the government of the State

of Louisiana by unlawful means.” When SNCC chairman Chuck McDew

484 Freedom Riders

and field secretary Bob Zellner visited Diamond in jail in mid-February, they

too were charged with criminal anarchy. All were eventually released on bail,

and after SNCC mounted a national campaign to protest harassment of its

leaders, the charges were reduced to the standard breach-of-peace variety.

But officials in Louisiana’s capital city had served notice that they were not

going to coddle activists who challenged their authority to enforce local or

state Jim Crow laws. In the end, the prominence of the capital ensured that

transit desegregation would come earlier than in Shreveport, but this achieve-

ment was cold comfort for an embattled black community with a long his-

tory of civil rights activity that included a 1953 bus boycott predating the

struggle in Montgomery.

The pace of change was also disappointingly slow in New Orleans, where

both the Freedom Rides and a bitter struggle over school desegregation had

reinvigorated a tradition of racial extremism. With a moderate mayor, a large

and vigilant local movement, and the judges of the Fifth Circuit on hand as

observers, city police and transit employees had little choice but to comply

with the letter of the law. But the overall tone of the white community’s

response to the Freedom Rides and the ICC order suggested that nonviolent

activists had failed to dispel the fear and parochialism that had plagued the

city during the school crisis of 1960. To the dismay of the city’s outnum-

bered moderates and liberals, the New Orleans metropolitan area became a

center of symbolic resistance to the Freedom Rides during the spring and

summer of 1962. Long known as a unique center of creativity, the city and its

environs produced an imaginative but gratuitously cruel countermovement

known as the Reverse Freedom Rides.

The brainchild of George Singelmann—the head of the Greater New

Orleans Citizens’ Council and a close associate of the infamous Plaquemines

Parish demagogue Judge Leander Perez—the proposal for Reverse Freedom

Rides created a sensation when it was first announced in mid-April.

Singelmann’s original plan, advertised on handbills distributed throughout

southeastern Louisiana, offered “Free Transportation plus $5.00 for Expenses

to any Negro Man or Woman, or Family (No limit to size) who desire to

migrate to the Nation’s Capital, or any city in the north of their choosing.”

On the back of the flyer, Singelmann printed a list of the addresses and phone

numbers of welfare departments and NAACP and Urban League offices in

Washington and four other Northern cities, ostensibly to help the Reverse

Freedom Riders find a job after they arrived. Although he and other Citi-

zens’ Council leaders claimed that they were acting in the best interests of

Louisiana’s black citizens, they did not deny that their primary aim was to

tell “the North to put up or shut up.” Decrying the hypocrisy of Northern

liberals, they predicted, often with a wink and a smirk, that the northward

migration of unemployed blacks would promote interregional understand-

ing and confirm the benefits of racial segregation for all Americans.

Epilogue: Glory Bound 485

Louis and Dorothy Boyd and their eight children, the first family to take

advantage of the Citizens’ Council offer, arrived in New York City on April

20. An unemployed longshoreman, Louis Boyd soon found work as a handy-

man for a Jersey City electronics firm and told reporters he “couldn’t be

happier” with his decision to relocate in the North. Many of those who ar-

rived later in the year would have an entirely different experience, but this

initial success encouraged Singelmann to expand his proposal to include a

one-way “freedom train” that would transport “1,000 Negroes” northward.

Claiming that he had secured twenty thousand dollars from local philanthro-

pists to underwrite the train, the jubilant Citizens’ Council leader soon re-

ceived an enthusiastic endorsement from Louisiana’s senior senator, Allen

Ellender. Responding to an NAACP official’s criticism of the plan, Ellender

defended the idea of Reverse Freedom Rides as a legitimate response to the

provocations of the past year. “Now the Freedom Riders are North-bound

and they are Freedom Riders in the truest sense of the phrase,” he told re-

porters on April 24, “for not only are they riding free but of their own free

will. Why doesn’t the NAACP want these free people in the North? Is it

possible the NAACP has no genuine interest in the advancement of colored

people?” Angered by this sophistry and outraged by the Citizens’ Councils

plans, Senator Jacob Javits of New York immediately denounced the “cast-

ing off of destitute Negroes” as “a shocking and shameful act,” predicting

that the “American people will be aroused by this heartless display of

theatricalism at the expense of the innocent.”

Javits’s prediction was accurate, and most of the national press and pub-

lic commentary on the Reverse Freedom Rides was sharply critical, includ-

ing a May 9 press conference statement by President Kennedy characterizing

them as “a rather cheap exercise . . . in publicity.” In some areas of the white

South, however, the Reverse Rides attracted considerable support. While

the freedom train did not materialize and the actual number of Reverse Rid-

ers never quite matched Singelmann’s grand projections, the countermove-

ment soon spread beyond greater New Orleans and Louisiana. On April 27

the Mississippi legislature passed a resolution urging the state’s White Citi-

zens’ Councils to follow Singelmann’s lead; and on May 19, delegates to the

Citizens’ Councils of America’s annual conference, meeting in New Orleans,

formally endorsed the Reverse Rides. But by that time several local Citizens’

Councils—including the councils of Shreveport, Baton Rouge, Birmingham,

Montgomery, Selma, and Jackson—had already announced plans to sponsor

groups of black migrants.

Among the first to send Reverse Riders northward was the Capitol Citi-

zens’ Council of Little Rock, which came up with a notorious variation of

Singelmann’s plan later copied by the Baton Rouge and other chapters. Begin-

ning in mid-May, virtually all of the Reverse Riders from Little Rock were sent

to Hyannis, Massachusetts, the Cape Cod summer home of the Kennedy