KU KRUX KLAN
1. Summer of '61, somewhere deep in the Old South, the fourth day of our "freedom ride." Our dilapidated bus rolls down the narrow back road, a choking cloud of red-hued dust marking it's passage.
It's nearly noon and I am feeling the first pangs of hunger. Bored, I stare out the open window at the seemingly endless sun-baked fields interspersed with patches of southern pine. Telephone poles whiz by in rapid succession. A rush of warm air swirls in through the open window, sending unruly strands of my long brown hair whipping across my face.
The heat is unbearable., and the humidity too. Tiny rivulets of sweat trickle down my back, and dark spreading stains mark the armpits of my dark blue shirt with its little white-stitched-monogram sporting the initials: "BM".
I tug at my short gray skirt, which has ridden up once again to expose the bare skin on the backs of my thighs and knees to the clammy stickiness of the cracked vinyl seat. I kick off my penny loafers, stretch my legs, and take a long swig from my half-empty bottle of warm Pepsi to ease the dryness in my mouth.
The bus slows as we enter yet another sleepy little southern town. I had signed on to the "ride" just as all the others on this bus had done, full of idealistic enthusiasm and righteous indignation over racial injustice. The civil rights rallies at my small Midwestern college had filled me with purpose; I had come away from them convinced that only by taking action could change ever be affected. I would join the crusade!
The "Freedom Ride" had been a heady experience at first ... living up to its promise with news media attention, cheering well-wishers as we departed, and a sweet sense of camaraderie among myself and the other dozen or so "riders" on the bus.
By the third day, however, the excitement and joy had evaporated ... heat, thirst, hunger, cramped hours on the bus, hostile receptions, and bed-bug infested cheap "ma and pa" motels had all taken their toll. The spontaneous and impassioned group singing of civil rights anthems had all but ceased. Apathy and boredom, and a dose of growing unease, had set in.
On this day word of our arrival has preceded us. I scan the faces of the people who have gathered along our route ... sullen, scowling, hateful, spiteful faces. Some carry crudely made signs, filled with epithets, written in the vilest, most loathsome language imaginable.
Our bus slows, and suddenly lurches to a halt. "Roadblock!" someone shouts from the front of the bus. As in so many towns before, the guys rise from their seats. The bus door flies open and they file out to speak to the crowd. We girls stay behind on the bus in case there is trouble.
Things are tense out there ... more so than on previous days ... much shouting going on. This is not going well, I think to myself. The windshield suddenly explodes in a cloud of shards as a brick sails through it. One of the girls behind me begins to shriek hysterically.
The crowd surges angrily forward, closing in on the bus, banging on its metal sides with fists, and here and there even with a stout length of iron or wood. The bus begins to rock to and fro. Everyone on board begins to scream.
I turn and jump to my knees on the seat, reaching up to hastily slam the window shut. Through the grimy glass I watch as our "guys" are dragged around to my side of the bus by a gang of good old southern boys ... who set themselves to viciously kicking or beating their victims with clubs and fists.
Our guys go down under the rain of blows, their faces covered with blood. My hands go to my face in horror. Behind the rampaging youths a line of policemen, wearing helmets and riot gear and holding back snarling dogs on leashes, look on as my friends are beaten to the ground.
I recoil at the expressions of amusement and satisfaction painted on the officer's faces. They are doing nothing to stop the violence; they are in fact condoning what is happening through their inaction. I look around frantically at the others on the bus ... all college coeds like myself ... shock and terror written all over their faces as fearful glances are exchanged.
Fists beat on the door of the bus. Demands to open up are shouted. Moments later the door is wrenched open. Red-faced young toughs stream onto the bus. "Get these fucking Yankee whores outside with the others!" someone screams at the top of his voice.
I hunker down, cowering in my seat, unsure of what to do. Within seconds I am grabbed by the hair and yanked out into the aisle. I protest and swing my fist at the lout who has me by the hair. He parries the blow easily and punches me in the stomach, knocking the wind from me.
I go down on hands and knees in the narrow aisle, only to be jerked back to my feet by the collar of my shirt, the force of which pops the front open, buttons flying. He pins my arms behind my back and frog-walks me out the front of the bus and into the milling crowd.
Once outside, someone in the crowd reaches for my open shirt and tears it completely away; another grabs my ankles and lifts them high. I am carried through the crowd like a prize pig; held on high by feet and shoulders, twisting and squirming helplessly in just my bra and skirt, the latter wrapped high around my hips.
I am cursed, spat on, mauled and poked as they carry me around to the far side of the bus and dump me unceremoniously to the hot pavement, where I sprawl amongst the beaten and bloody guys. The other girls, sobbing and struggling vainly, arrive one after another, clothing ripped and torn, until all the "riders" huddle together on the street surrounded by the murderous crowd.
Only then do the police take action, moving in quickly to disperse the mob. The police chief, who looks every bit the corrupt southern cigar-chomping stereotype, yells at us through a bullhorn, "on your feet, hands behind your backs ... you all are under arrest ... charged with disorderly conduct and disturbing the peace ... cuff them men!"
I rise unsteadily to my feet, smooth my rumpled skirt, and obediently place my wrists behind my back. Seized by an officer, I am forced to bend forward as he brusquely cuffs my wrists and the pale milky swells of my breasts shake and jiggle against the cups of my bra.
"Ooooieeee, would you look now at them pair of Yankee knockers!" coos a young pimply-faced fellow officer in a long drawn-out southern drawl.
"Move 'em out," barks the Chief.
TO BE CONTINUED
1. Summer of '61, somewhere deep in the Old South, the fourth day of our "freedom ride." Our dilapidated bus rolls down the narrow back road, a choking cloud of red-hued dust marking it's passage.
It's nearly noon and I am feeling the first pangs of hunger. Bored, I stare out the open window at the seemingly endless sun-baked fields interspersed with patches of southern pine. Telephone poles whiz by in rapid succession. A rush of warm air swirls in through the open window, sending unruly strands of my long brown hair whipping across my face.
The heat is unbearable., and the humidity too. Tiny rivulets of sweat trickle down my back, and dark spreading stains mark the armpits of my dark blue shirt with its little white-stitched-monogram sporting the initials: "BM".
I tug at my short gray skirt, which has ridden up once again to expose the bare skin on the backs of my thighs and knees to the clammy stickiness of the cracked vinyl seat. I kick off my penny loafers, stretch my legs, and take a long swig from my half-empty bottle of warm Pepsi to ease the dryness in my mouth.
The bus slows as we enter yet another sleepy little southern town. I had signed on to the "ride" just as all the others on this bus had done, full of idealistic enthusiasm and righteous indignation over racial injustice. The civil rights rallies at my small Midwestern college had filled me with purpose; I had come away from them convinced that only by taking action could change ever be affected. I would join the crusade!
The "Freedom Ride" had been a heady experience at first ... living up to its promise with news media attention, cheering well-wishers as we departed, and a sweet sense of camaraderie among myself and the other dozen or so "riders" on the bus.
By the third day, however, the excitement and joy had evaporated ... heat, thirst, hunger, cramped hours on the bus, hostile receptions, and bed-bug infested cheap "ma and pa" motels had all taken their toll. The spontaneous and impassioned group singing of civil rights anthems had all but ceased. Apathy and boredom, and a dose of growing unease, had set in.
On this day word of our arrival has preceded us. I scan the faces of the people who have gathered along our route ... sullen, scowling, hateful, spiteful faces. Some carry crudely made signs, filled with epithets, written in the vilest, most loathsome language imaginable.
Our bus slows, and suddenly lurches to a halt. "Roadblock!" someone shouts from the front of the bus. As in so many towns before, the guys rise from their seats. The bus door flies open and they file out to speak to the crowd. We girls stay behind on the bus in case there is trouble.
Things are tense out there ... more so than on previous days ... much shouting going on. This is not going well, I think to myself. The windshield suddenly explodes in a cloud of shards as a brick sails through it. One of the girls behind me begins to shriek hysterically.
The crowd surges angrily forward, closing in on the bus, banging on its metal sides with fists, and here and there even with a stout length of iron or wood. The bus begins to rock to and fro. Everyone on board begins to scream.
I turn and jump to my knees on the seat, reaching up to hastily slam the window shut. Through the grimy glass I watch as our "guys" are dragged around to my side of the bus by a gang of good old southern boys ... who set themselves to viciously kicking or beating their victims with clubs and fists.
Our guys go down under the rain of blows, their faces covered with blood. My hands go to my face in horror. Behind the rampaging youths a line of policemen, wearing helmets and riot gear and holding back snarling dogs on leashes, look on as my friends are beaten to the ground.
I recoil at the expressions of amusement and satisfaction painted on the officer's faces. They are doing nothing to stop the violence; they are in fact condoning what is happening through their inaction. I look around frantically at the others on the bus ... all college coeds like myself ... shock and terror written all over their faces as fearful glances are exchanged.
Fists beat on the door of the bus. Demands to open up are shouted. Moments later the door is wrenched open. Red-faced young toughs stream onto the bus. "Get these fucking Yankee whores outside with the others!" someone screams at the top of his voice.
I hunker down, cowering in my seat, unsure of what to do. Within seconds I am grabbed by the hair and yanked out into the aisle. I protest and swing my fist at the lout who has me by the hair. He parries the blow easily and punches me in the stomach, knocking the wind from me.
I go down on hands and knees in the narrow aisle, only to be jerked back to my feet by the collar of my shirt, the force of which pops the front open, buttons flying. He pins my arms behind my back and frog-walks me out the front of the bus and into the milling crowd.
Once outside, someone in the crowd reaches for my open shirt and tears it completely away; another grabs my ankles and lifts them high. I am carried through the crowd like a prize pig; held on high by feet and shoulders, twisting and squirming helplessly in just my bra and skirt, the latter wrapped high around my hips.
I am cursed, spat on, mauled and poked as they carry me around to the far side of the bus and dump me unceremoniously to the hot pavement, where I sprawl amongst the beaten and bloody guys. The other girls, sobbing and struggling vainly, arrive one after another, clothing ripped and torn, until all the "riders" huddle together on the street surrounded by the murderous crowd.
Only then do the police take action, moving in quickly to disperse the mob. The police chief, who looks every bit the corrupt southern cigar-chomping stereotype, yells at us through a bullhorn, "on your feet, hands behind your backs ... you all are under arrest ... charged with disorderly conduct and disturbing the peace ... cuff them men!"
I rise unsteadily to my feet, smooth my rumpled skirt, and obediently place my wrists behind my back. Seized by an officer, I am forced to bend forward as he brusquely cuffs my wrists and the pale milky swells of my breasts shake and jiggle against the cups of my bra.
"Ooooieeee, would you look now at them pair of Yankee knockers!" coos a young pimply-faced fellow officer in a long drawn-out southern drawl.
"Move 'em out," barks the Chief.
TO BE CONTINUED
Last edited:
