FROM FERGUSON TO JEFFERSON CITY, MISSOURI
As told to me by: Mary Ratliff, President – Columbia Chapter NAACP &NAACP Missouri State Conference of Branches
We had already walked 50 miles
when we approached the small town of Rosebud. The police who escorted us on our
journey told us we would have to get back on the bus that travelled with us. It
was too dangerous for us to walk down the streets of Rosebud, they said. But we
refused.
In a town that must have a
population of 500, at least 400 hundred of them were in the streets, yelling
and mocking and threatening us. As I walked down the streets of Rosebud,
looking into the twisted faces of men and women spitting evil epithets, one woman,
old, obsess and full of hatred chased us from corner to corner with a sign that
read “all this for one dead nigger.”
No, this was not Selma Alabama in
1960, but the route between Ferguson Missouri and its state capitol, Jefferson City.
The Missouri State Chapter of the
NAACP organized the 120-mile march to protest the decision of the Grand Jury
not to indict Darren Wilson, the police officer who shot Michael Brown down in
the streets of Ferguson. NAACP National President/CEO Cornell William Brooks,
who led the march, said that we had promised to have feet on the ground the
entire 120-mile march, and we were not going to allow the hate that Rosebud
Missouri represented stop us. I echoed his sentiments, and other marchers vowed
that they too would march through Rosebud Missouri, with heads held high.
We had planned for a moment such
as this. Adolphus Pruitt, Ist Vice President of the Missouri
Conference and I worked diligently to lay the groundwork for the protest. We had
explained to those marching that they could not fight back if attacked because
all the media would cover was the violence connected with the march; not the
violence that precipitated the march in the first place.
This was, perhaps, the most
difficult part of the journey. Although we planned for it, we didn’t really
expect it. Not like this. I had
flashbacks of Bull Conner, fire hoses and dogs. That was all that was missing
to make this circa, 1960.
Many students from Lincoln
University in Jefferson City had joined the march. One young student approached
me and told me, “Mrs. Ratliff, I want to march, but they can’t spit on me, or
hit me.” I told him it would be best if he were to ride the bus. I had to
explain to him that those types of indignities, none of us wanted to bear. But if
it happened, we would have to think of the greater good before giving in to our
natural, human desire to meet violence with violence. Straying from our commitment to non-violent
protest would surely lead to confrontation, and possibly even death among
ourselves or others.
We started our journey with about
60 marchers. The numbers rose and fell as we travelled the 120-mile stretch
between Ferguson and Jefferson City. We had folks who would come out and walk
with us in the evenings, and then go to work the next day.
Our only encounters were not with
hatred. Along the way, groups of people would come out to greet us and wish us
well. Many brought food and drink. In
Rosebud, even, one lone elderly lady stood on the side of the road and told us,
“You are doing the right thing.”
By the time we reached the
capital our numbers had swollen from hundreds to more than a thousand. What we
saw on our journey from Ferguson to Jefferson City was both the worst and the
best of humanity. The fact that this is not a post-racial society was
crystalized in the tense moments when our movement came face-to-face with
inbred racism that, if buried at all, lay only in a shallow grave. But we also
saw people who looked pass the issue of race and saw the injustice in a system
that is supposed to be designed to protect us all.
And that is really the issue. Not
whether Mike Brown was a good kid or a bad kid. Not whether Wilson was a good cop
doing his job to the best of his ability or a racist angered because a young
black man defied him. The issue is whether our justice system can look at those
moments when a life was extinguished on the streets of Ferguson Missouri and
see neither man; only the acts that took place on that day, and determine
whether those acts were just.
Thus far, our justice system has
not been able to meet that standard. Until that standard is met, we will not
stop. We cannot stop. We MUST not stop.
In the words of the old Negro spiritual, “I Don’t Feel No Ways Tired!”