“And no more tests,” I’d add. “They have to let you register. Then you’ll be able to vote for people who can help you.”
“Negro candidates will stand a real chance of winning,” Win would say.
We’d go on like that, talking about how the law could change their lives. Then we’d try to get their commitment to register once LBJ signed the bill into law and we’d promise them a ride to the registrar’s office.
Win said he was good at getting us in the door and I was good at keeping us there. I liked that. We were a team.
After we finished canvassing on Friday afternoon, we waited at the edge of a cotton field for Curry to pick us up. I felt exposed, standing there. We’d seen no white people in that area, yet I felt a sort of premonition and wished that Curry would hurry up.
I thought about how strange it was that, in less than a week’s time, I’d gone from feeling nervous about living in a Negro neighborhood—a Black neighborhood—to feeling nervous about seeing white people. After that first time, when Win and I saw the guy in a truck and hid behind a tobacco barn, we’d had no trouble at all.
I saw a black truck in the distance, though, and I knew our luck was about to change.
Win picked up my anxiety. “Hold on,” he said. “It might just be … Oh shit! Let’s get out of here!”
I saw the two white faces in the truck’s cab before I turned and began running with Win through the green leaves of the cotton field. I looked behind me only long enough to see that the men had gotten out of their truck, one of them with a shotgun in his hands. I heard the echoing crack of his gun. Two shots. Three. Four. I never ran so fast in my life, expecting to feel a bullet in my back at any moment. The men shouted and laughed, but they didn’t chase us down, and Win and I both collapsed on the other side of the field under the shade of a tree, gasping for air. My bare legs were scraped and my blue shirt was stuck to my skin with sweat, but I was happy to be alive.
When we’d caught our breath, Win smiled at me. He smiled more often now. He seemed more relaxed than he’d been the first couple of days of our canvass. “Damn,” he said. “I thought we were goners there for a minute.” He took off his fogged glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief, then wiped the perspiration from his glistening forehead, and I noticed the perfect symmetry of his face. I hadn’t thought of him as handsome before that moment. Nice looking, yes. But right now, all I could see in front of me was a beautiful young man.
* * *
That evening, all of us field-workers took turns using the van and Paul’s car to ferry people from their homes to the courthouse in Carlisle to protest the registrar’s office being closed. It was strange to be downtown with all the cars and people—white people—on the sidewalks. In just a few days’ time, I’d lost the sense of being part of that “small town” world. Before the protest, Greg told us that, for the past two nights, some “troublemakers” had shot off guns and revved their truck engines outside the school. “Nothing more than that,” he said calmly, “but y’all should be aware that people definitely know we’re in the county and what we’re about, and they don’t like it.” We all let that news sink in. “Now as for the protest today,” Greg continued, “you, Paul, you’ll lead a prayer.”
“Me?” Paul laughed. “But I’m Jewish.”
“Don’t Jews pray?” Greg asked. “Anyway, you’re a Christian today. Win, you make a short speech on the importance of registering once the bill gets signed and the office opens up. And Ellie, you lead the singing.” That made me instantly nervous and I began running through all our songs in my head.
* * *
I was worried that no one would show up for the protest, but the courthouse green slowly began filling up. Once everyone—except for the late stragglers, of which there were plenty—was in front of the building, we formed a big circle on the lawn. I took some pictures as Paul said a prayer that seemed warm and heartfelt, and Win talked about the changes voting would bring to the Negro families of Derby County.
After Win finished talking, I made a little speech about songs being a kind of prayer, and I talked about how I hadn’t known many of the freedom songs a few weeks ago, and how they now filled me with joy and hope. My voice shook when I first started speaking but by the time I began singing “This Little Light of Mine,” it was so strong that it surprised me. Everyone knew that song and pretty soon we were all singing, our arms crossed, our hands linked, and I got the same warm feeling I’d had that last day of orientation in Atlanta. I looked around the circle at the sweaty faces, Black and white, and felt lifted up by the fact that, even if what we were doing made no difference at all, we were bonded, all of us, and we wouldn’t give up the fight. Across the circle, I caught Win looking at me and he smiled, nodded his head. I knew he was saying, Good job, Ellie.