Rosa Parks Civics Lesson
When I was a sophomore at Center Point Jr. High School I took a civics class taught by Lilith Starns, a thirty-something year old transplant to the south by way of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The class focus was to be American government and what it means to be a citizen of a democracy. I knew the class was going to be interesting, when she volunteered to sponsor the annual Christmas play and required the students to paint the sets in deep mauve, navy blue, and orange.
Her first assignment to the class was to start a portfolio of newspaper articles and photos about government issues based on sociological impact of the subject we chose to focus on for the semester.
Since Rosa Parks had initiated a bus boycott in Montgomery, Alabama, I picked her story. She was a maid in Montgomery and used the bus each day to go to and from her home to the upper class section where she was employed at the home of one of the state senators who worked in the capital.
When i first read her story it seemed to replicate the civil disobedience of Gandhi and seemed very straight-forward. It took her hours to complete her trip to and from work and she was tired frequently.
By the time she got on the bus, often carrying packages and groceries which she bought before starting her trip back. One day she noticed that the front of the bus where the white folks were supposed to sit was almost empty while the part behind the color line was overflowing with black folks. She was exhausted and instead of moving to the back of the bus, she sat in the front part toward the middle. There must have been a moment when the world flew off its axis in the universe, because this had never happened before and like a boulder moving down a mountain it was to start a series of events that led to an avalanche, although she probably didn’t foresee that at the time.
When I told my parents about my school assignment, my mother objected strenuously, saying the topic was too controversial and dangerous for my involvement. I admitted that it was an unusual choice for a southerner, but defended my choice. Although my mom threatened to “have a talk with that Yankee teacher”, she was too busy raising three kids herself and working a full-time job to take any action.
At the time, my school was segregated and I only knew only one black person: someone who lived within five miles of our house and helped my mom with household chores like washing and ironing clothes, cleaning the car, planting flowers in the yard. She was paid $20 dollars a week and she worked about two days a month, which seemed like a lot of money in those days.
The first article I collected was from The Birmingham News about a boycott of performances of black singers like Nat King Cole and Chuck Berry. Cole planned to perform at City Auditorium but protesters from White Citizens Councils boycotted the performance and broke his records at a bonfire on First Avenue. Cole then boycotted his own performance.
Hundreds of protesters lined the streets on different days. Protest became the hot word the moment. My parents attended meetings of a white citizens council but did not attend any protests. Bull Connor was the police commissioner at that time and most people were afraid that race riots might explode during the summertime because city swimming pools had threatened to close if integration was attempted. Summer came and the pool at East Lake closed. Photos of empty pools flooded the front page. Because I often spent hours at East Lake Pool with my cousin Wanda I admitted to feeling more annoyance at the inconvenience than real anger. The more things changed the more articles filled my file for class.
However I didn’t get what the big fuss was all about until I had to take a bus from Birmingham to Center Point. I was dragging a large suitcase with me when I boarded the bus and there were no seats available in front of the color line. Without thinking of the ramifications of the situation I found myself in, I walked slowly but steadily toward the back of the bus and sat down next to an elderly black woman (she could have been anyone’s grandmother).
She looked horror-stricken but said nothing as most of the riders turned their heads to see what was happening. A hush spread across their collective faces, as I registered the searing glances of those seated nearby. My heart hammered loudly in my chest. I smelled my own fear welling up between my breasts as tiny tears of sweat crawled down my bra. I sat there holding my breath as the bus trudged forward in its trip toward the outlying neighborhood, waiting for the 30 minutes to tick itself off my watch, waiting for my exit stop to be called It occurred to me that both the blacks and whites were both hating me for this obvious violation of southern rule and culture. Before the driver had the words Center Point out of his mouth, I was already moving, struggling to pull my suitcase forward and down the stairs, to escape the insanity of the position I did not want to participate in. Mostly I felt bewildered and thought perhaps others felt the same thing, although there was now a current of anger flagging from certain quarters. At the exit stop, I jumped out, threw my bag down, thanked the driver and waved goodbye. I had made it home. I ran to my mother’s arms throwing my own arms around her neck, having no idea how to explain the joy I felt to be safe and home.
I did not tell her then, or later, or ever, about my bus trip. Looking back at that moment some thirty years later and the history of the civil rights movement, I could imagine what Rosa Parks felt when she made that step when she refused to sit in the back of the bus. It was the first time I understood that segregation hurt both blacks and whites and I felt hopeful. My research for my civics class was the beginnings of my own personal journey my baby steps in my revolution against the status quo and I saw that I had taken my first step of a thousand miles toward change.
Rita Ayral
March 28, 2018