1. Hill, Lance Edward. “The Deacons for ... - Freedom Archives
1. Hill, Lance Edward. “The Deacons for ... - Freedom Archives
1. Hill, Lance Edward. “The Deacons for ... - Freedom Archives
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THE DEACONS FOR DEFENSE AND JUSTICE :<br />
ARMED SELF-DEFENSE AND THE CIVIIr RIGHTS MOVEMENT<br />
A DISSERTATION<br />
SUBMITTED ON THE SECOND DAY OF DECEMBER, 1997<br />
TO THE DEPARTMENT OF HISTORY<br />
OF THE GRADUATE SCHO(1L OF<br />
TULANE UNIVERSITY<br />
IN PARTIAL FULFII.LMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS<br />
FOR THE DEGREE OF<br />
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY<br />
BY<br />
<strong>Lance</strong> E . <strong>Hill</strong><br />
APPROVED : __ ~--~--~~,,~~`~. _<br />
Lawrence N . owell, Ph . D .<br />
Chairman<br />
v<br />
Pa~aney, Ph.D .<br />
Rosanne Adderley, Ph . D .
UMI Number : 9817924<br />
Copyright 1997 by<br />
<strong>Hill</strong> <strong>Lance</strong> <strong>Edward</strong><br />
All rights reserved .<br />
U14II Micro<strong>for</strong>m 9817924<br />
Copyright 1998, by Ul4Q Company . All rights reserved .<br />
This micro<strong>for</strong>m edition is protected against unauthorized<br />
copying under Title 17, United States Code .<br />
300 North Zeeb Road<br />
Atut Arbor, MI 48103
© Copyright by <strong>Lance</strong> <strong>Edward</strong> <strong>Hill</strong>, 1997<br />
All rights reserved
TABLE OF CON71NTS<br />
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . iv<br />
CHAPTER<br />
1 . Beginnings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .I<br />
The early Civil Rights Movement in Jonesboro, Louisiana<br />
2 . The Art of Self-Defense . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29<br />
The beginnings of armed self-defense in Jonesboro<br />
3 . The Justice and Defense Club . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice <strong>for</strong>m in Jonesboro<br />
4. The New York Times . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .64<br />
First national publicity <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
5 . NotSelma . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .84<br />
The spring 1965 campaign in Jonesboro<br />
6. The Magic City . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .I09<br />
The early Civil Rights Movement in Bogalusa, Louisiana<br />
7. The Bogalusa Chapter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137<br />
The <strong>for</strong>mation of the Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter<br />
8 . The Spring Campaign . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> challenge the Klan in Bogalusa
9 . With a Single Bullet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197<br />
The Klan vanquished in Bogalusa<br />
10 . Creating the Myth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 232<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong>' changing media image<br />
11 . Expanding Through the South . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> chapters established in Louisiana<br />
12 . Mississippi and Beyond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> chapters in Mississippi and the South<br />
13 . Up-South . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .340<br />
Organizing ef<strong>for</strong>ts in the North<br />
14 . Foundering in the North . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 371<br />
The Chicago chapter<br />
15 . A Long Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . : : . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .407<br />
Bogalusa events from fall 1965 to 1967<br />
BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .433
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS<br />
I thank my dissertation advisor, Lawrence N. Powell, <strong>for</strong> his indispensable advice,<br />
perceptive criticism, and steadfast encouragement . Patrick Maney and Rosanne Adderley<br />
also offered valuable insights . Many others provided useful suggestions on research<br />
resources, including Clarence Mohr and Joe Caldwell .<br />
I am indebted to Gwendolyn Midlo Hall who generously allowed me to consult<br />
her research papers on the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice at the Am.istad Research<br />
Center, and arranged an intervie"~r with Deacon member Henry Austin. I also benefitted<br />
from the kind assistance ofthe staffs at the Special Collections division of the Tulane<br />
University Library, Amistad Research Center, and the Wisconsin State Historical Society .<br />
This dissertation would not have been possible had it not been <strong>for</strong> the members of<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice who shared with me their stories and wisdom .<br />
Finally, I am deeply grateful to my wife, Eileen San Juan, who provided years of<br />
intellectual companionship and moral support, and lent her critical eye to reading this<br />
manuscript. This dissertation is dedicated to her.
Chapter One<br />
Beginnings<br />
Paul Farmer brought his pistol . The President of the White Citizens Council<br />
was standing in the middle of the street along with several o~her members of the Citizens<br />
Council as well as Ku Klux Klan members . It was the Autumn of 1966 in the small<br />
paper mill town of Bogalusa, Louisiana .<br />
Itoyan Bums, a black barber and civil rights leader, knew why the Klan was<br />
there . They were waiting <strong>for</strong> the doors to open at Bogalusa Junior High . The school had<br />
recently been integrated and white students had been harassing and brutalizing black<br />
students with impunity . "They were just stepping on them, and spitting on them and<br />
hitting them," recalls Burris, and the black students "wasn't doing anything back ." In the<br />
past Burris had counseled the black students to remain nonviolent . Now he advised a<br />
new approach . "I said anybody hit you, hit back . Anybody step on your feet, step back .<br />
Anybody spit on you, spit back."'<br />
The young black students heeded Bums' advice . Fights between black and<br />
white students erupted throughout the day at the school . Now Paul Farmer and his band<br />
'Royan Burris, interview by author, 7 March 1989, Bogalusa, Louisiana, tape<br />
recording. The account ofthis incident is taken from Ibid . ; Louisiana Weekly, 24<br />
September 1966 ; and Times-Picayune, 14 September 1966 . Tension was exacerbated at<br />
the school by a rumor that civil rights activist James Meredith had been invited to speak<br />
at the school . See Lester Sobel, ed ., Civil Rights 1960-66 (New York : Facts on File,<br />
1976), p . 407 .
of Klansmen had arrived with guns, prepared to intervene . Their presence was no idle<br />
threat ; whites had murdered two black men in the mill town in the past two years,<br />
including a black sheriff's deputy .<br />
But Farmer had a problem. Standing in the street, only a few feet from the Klan,<br />
was a tine of grim and unyielding black men . They were members of the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong><br />
Defense and Justice, a black self-defense organization that had already engaged the Klan<br />
in several shooting skirmishes . The two groups faced off the Klan on one side, the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> on the other .<br />
After a few tense moments the police arrived and attempted to defuse the<br />
volatile situation . They asked the <strong>Deacons</strong> to leave first, but the black men refused .<br />
Bums recalls the <strong>Deacons</strong>' terse response to the police request . "We been leaving first<br />
all of our lives," said Bums . "This time we not going in peace." Infuriated by the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' defiance, Paul Farmer suddenly pulled his pistol . In a reflex response, one of<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> drew his revolver and in an instant there were halfa dozen pistols waving<br />
menacingly in the air. Surveying the weapons arrayed against them, the band of<br />
Klansmen grudgingly pocketed their weapons and departed .<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice had faced death and never flinched .<br />
"From that day <strong>for</strong>ward," says Bums, "we didn't have too many more problems ."~<br />
=Bums, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .
In the nineteenth century the pine hills of North Louisiana were a hostile refuge<br />
<strong>for</strong> the poor and dispossessed . Following the Civil War, legions of starving and<br />
desperate whites were driven into the pine hills by destruction, drought and depleted soi :<br />
in the Southeast . They arrived to find the best alluvial land controlled by large<br />
landowners and speculators . The remaining soil was poorly suited <strong>for</strong> farming, rendered<br />
haggard and sallow by millennia ofacidic pine needles deposited on the <strong>for</strong>est floor . The<br />
lean migrants scratched the worthless sandy soil, shook their heads, and resigned<br />
themselves to the unhappy fate of subsistence farming.<br />
Upcountry whites eked out a living with a dozen acres of "corn `n `taters," a<br />
few hogs <strong>for</strong> fatback, trapping and hunting <strong>for</strong> game, and occasionally logging <strong>for</strong> local<br />
markets . Not until the turn ofthe century, when large-scale lumber industry invaded the<br />
pines, did their hopes and prospects change . Even then, prosperity was fleeting . By the<br />
1930s, the lumber leviathans had stripped the pine woods bare, leaving a residue ofa few<br />
paper and lumber mips . Those <strong>for</strong>tunate enough to find work in the pulp and paper<br />
industry watched helplessly in the 1950s and 60s as even these remaiting jobs were<br />
threatened by shrinking reserves and automation. 3<br />
These Protestant descendants of the British Isles were the latest in several<br />
generations ofwhites <strong>for</strong>ced west by a slave-based economy that consumed and depleted<br />
'Roger W . Shugg, Origins of Class Struggle in Louisiana: A Social History of<br />
While Farmers and Laborers During Slavery and After, 1810-1875(Baton Rouge :<br />
Louisiana State University Press, 1939) . The impact of automation in discussed in<br />
Robert H. Zieger, Rebuilding the Pulp and Paper Makers Union, 1933-19 ;11 (Knoxville :<br />
University of Tennessee Press, 1984) . On the role ofblacks in the paper industry, see<br />
Herbert R. Northrop, The Negro in the Paper Industry: The Racial Politics ofAmerican<br />
Industry, report no . 8, Industrial Research Unit, Department of Industry, Wharton School<br />
of Finance and Commerce, University of Pennsylvania (Philadelphia : University of<br />
Pennsylvania Press, 1969) . On Bogalusa, Louisiana, see pp . 95-104.
the soil . With the end ofthe Civil War their plight was compounded by more than three<br />
million black freedmen surging across the South in search ofwork and land .<br />
Emancipation thrust blacks into merciless competition with whites <strong>for</strong> the dearth of work,<br />
land and credit .<br />
The freedmen also looked to the pines <strong>for</strong> deliverance . Blacks who remained on<br />
plantations lived in constant fear of new <strong>for</strong>ms ofbondage such as gang labor and share<br />
cropping . Thousands of dusty and tattered black families packed their belongings and<br />
trekked into the hills to escape the indignities ofdebt peonage . Like their white<br />
competitor, the freedmen sought the dignity and independence conferred by a few acres<br />
of land and the freedom to sell their labor .<br />
Through a process of social Darwitism, the pine hills were soon peopled by the<br />
most independent and self-sufficient African-Americans ; those willing to risk everything<br />
to escape economic bondage. Their passionate independence flourished in the hills as<br />
they worked as self-employed timber cutters and log haulers . By the middle of the<br />
twentieth century many of their descendants had left the land, drawn to the small<br />
industrial towns that offered decent wages in the lumber and paper mills .<br />
From the end of the Civil War through the 1960s these two fiercely independent<br />
communities, black and white, traveled separate yet parallel paths in the pine hills of<br />
North Louisiana . In the summer of 1964, in the small town ofJonesboro, these two<br />
worlds would finally cross paths-as well as swords .<br />
Jonesboro, Louisiana was one ofthe dozens ofmakeshift mill-towns that sprang<br />
up as Eastern businesses rushed to mine the vast timber spreads of Louisiana .
Incorporated in 1903, the town was little more than an appendage to a saw mill--crude<br />
shacks storing the human machinery of industry .<br />
By the 1960s Jonesboro lived in the shadow ofthe enormous Continental Can<br />
Company paper mill located in Hodge, a small town on the outskirts ofJonesboro . The<br />
New York-based company produced container board and kraft paper at the Hodge facility<br />
and employed more than 1,500 whites and 200 blacks . In addition, many blacks found<br />
employment at the OGn Mathieson Chemical Company . Those blacks who were not<br />
<strong>for</strong>tunate enough to find work in the paper mill labored as destitute woodcutters and tog<br />
haulers on the immense timber land holdings owned by Continental Can . ;<br />
Almost one-third ofJonesboro's 3,848 residents were black . Though by<br />
Southern standards Jonesboro's black community was prosperous, poverty and ignorance<br />
were still rampant . Nearly eight out ofevery ten black families lived in poverty . Ninety<br />
seven percent ofblacks over the age oftwenty-five had never completed a high school<br />
education . The "black quarters" in Jonesboro and Hodge consisted of dilapidated<br />
clapboard shacks, with cracks in the walls that whistled in the bitter winter wind. Human<br />
waste ran into the dirt streets <strong>for</strong> want of a sewerage system . Unpaved streets with exotic<br />
names like "Congo" and "Tarbottom" alternated between being dust storms and<br />
impassable rivers ofmud . s<br />
`Daniel Mitchell to Bonnie M. Moore, "Jackson Parish and Jonesboro, Louisiana:<br />
A White Paper," [September, 1964], Jonesboro, Louisiana, Monroe Project Files, CORE<br />
Papers [hereinafter cited as CORE(Monroe)], State Historical Society of Wisconsin,<br />
Madison, [hereinafter cited as SHSW] .<br />
SCensus data cited in Ibid .
Daily life in Jonesboro painstakingly followed the rituals and conventions ofJim<br />
Crow segregation . A white person walking downtown could expect blacks to<br />
obsequiously avert their eyes and step offthe sidewalk in deference . Jobs were strictly<br />
segregated, with blacks allotted positions no higher than "broom and mop" occupations .<br />
The local hospital had an all-white staff and the paper mill segregated both jobs and<br />
toilets . Blacks were even denied the simple right to walk into the public library. 6<br />
On the surface there appeared to be few diversions from the tedium and poverty .<br />
The ramshackle "Minute Spot" tavern served as the only legal drinking establishment <strong>for</strong><br />
blacks . To Danny Mitchell, a black student organizer who arrived in Jonesboro in 1964,<br />
Jonesboro's blacks appeared to seek refi~ge in gambling and other unseemly pastimes .<br />
Mitchell, with a note ofyouthful piety, once reported to his superiors in New York that<br />
most of Jonesboro's black commutity "seeks enjoyment and relief from the frustrating<br />
Gfe they endure through marital, extramarital, and inter-marital relationships ."'<br />
But there was more to Jonesboro than sex and dice . Indeed, segregation had<br />
produced a complex labyrinth of social networks and organizations in the black<br />
community . The relatively large industrial working class preserved the independent<br />
spirit that characterized blacks in the pine woods. Like many other small mill towns,<br />
blacks in Jonesboro had created a tightly-knit community that revolved around the<br />
institutions of church and fraternal orders . In the post World War II era, black men in the<br />
South frequently belonged to several fraternal orders and social clubs, such as the Prince<br />
Hall Masons and the Brotherhood <strong>for</strong> the Protection ofElks . These <strong>for</strong>mal and in<strong>for</strong>mal<br />
6Mitchell, "White Paper ."<br />
'Ibid .
organization provided a respite from the oppressive white culture . They offered status,<br />
nurtured mutual bonds of trust, and served as schools <strong>for</strong> leadership <strong>for</strong> Jonesboro's black<br />
working and middle classes . $<br />
In the period of increased activism following World War II, most ofJonesboro's<br />
civil rights leadership emerged from the small yet significant middle class ofeducators,<br />
self-employed craftsman and independent business people (religious leaders were<br />
conspicuously absent from the ranks of the re<strong>for</strong>mers) . While segregation denied blacks<br />
many opportunities, it also created captive markets <strong>for</strong> some enterprising blacks,<br />
particularly in services that whites refused to provide them . There were twenty-one<br />
black-owned businesses in Jonesboro in 1964, including taxi companies, gas stations, and<br />
a popular skating rink . 9<br />
Jackson Parish (county), where Jonesboro is located, had a small but well<br />
organized NAACP chapter since the 1940s . In the 1950s the Louisiana NAACP was<br />
gravely damaged by a state law that required disclosure of membership . Rather than<br />
divulge their members' names and expose them to harassment, many chapters replaced<br />
the NAACP with "civic and voters leagues ." Such was the case in Jackson Parish where<br />
the NAACP became the "Jackson Parish Progressive Voters League."<br />
From its inception, the Voters League concentrated its ef<strong>for</strong>ts on voter<br />
registration and enjoyed some success . When the White Citizens Council and the<br />
Registrar of Voters conspired to purge blacks from the registration rolls in 1956, the<br />
SFor a cogent summary of the literature on black fraternal orders, see David M .<br />
Fahey, The Black Lodge in White Americu: "True Re<strong>for</strong>mer " Browne and His Economic<br />
Strategy (Dayton : Wright State University, 1994), pp . 5-12 .<br />
'Mitchell, "White Paper."
Voters League retaliated with a voting rights suit initiated by the Justice Department .<br />
The Voters League prevailed and federal courts eventually <strong>for</strong>ced the registrar to cease<br />
discriminating against blacks, to report records to the federal judiciary, and to assist black<br />
applicants in registering . By 1964 nearly 18 percent ofthe parish voters were black, a<br />
remarkably high percentage <strong>for</strong> the coral South .' °<br />
The Voters League drew its leadership primarily from the ranks ofbusinessmen<br />
and educators, such as W . C . Flannagan, E. N . Francis, J . W . Dade and Fred Hearn . W .<br />
C . Flannagan, who led the Voters League in the early 1960s, was a self-employed<br />
handyman who also published a small newsletter . E . N . Francis owned several<br />
businesses, including a funeral home, grocery store, barber shop and dry-cleaning store.<br />
J . W . Dade was, by local standards, a man ofconsiderable wealth . Dade taught<br />
mathematics at Jackson I~gh School in Jonesboro and supplemented his teaching salary<br />
with income from a dozen rental houses . Fred Hearn, another Voters League leader, was<br />
also a teacher and worked as a farmer and installed and cleaned water-wells .' `<br />
The Voters League never commanded enough votes to win elective office <strong>for</strong> a<br />
black candidate . For the most part, the Voters League was limited to delivering the black<br />
vote to white candidates in exchange <strong>for</strong> poetical favors . While political patronage<br />
offered some benefits to the black community at large, it more frequently created<br />
opportunities <strong>for</strong> personal aggrandizement . At its worse, patronage disguised greed as<br />
public service . Some of the Voters League's critics felt that its leaders were principally<br />
' °Ibid .<br />
"Ibid . ; Frederick Douglas Kirkpatrick, Interview by Gwendolyn Midlo Hall, 31<br />
October 1977, New York, transcript notes, Gwendolyn 11~idlo Hall Papers (hereinafter<br />
cited as GMEI,P), Amistad Research Center, Tulane University, New Orleans, Louisiana<br />
(hereinafter cited as ARC) .
interested in gaining personal favors from politicians, and there was credence to the<br />
charge .'=<br />
In truth, the white political establishment offered a tempting assortment of<br />
patronage rewards to compliant black leaders in an ef<strong>for</strong>t to discourage them from<br />
disruptive civil rights protests. Inducements included positions in government and public<br />
education, ranging from school bus drivers to school administrators . White political<br />
patronage bought influence and loyalty in the black community . The practice testified to<br />
the fact that white domination rested on more than repression and fear : it depended on<br />
consent by a segment of the black middle class . Conflicts over segregation were to be<br />
resolved by gentlemen behind closed doors . Time and again, civil rights activists in<br />
Louisiana found the black middle class and clergy to be significant obstacles to<br />
organizing . One activist in East Felicana Parish reported that the lack ofinterest in voter<br />
registration in 1964 could be attributed to, among other things, the "General fear-<br />
inducing activity ofthe very active commutity of Toms . Every move we make is<br />
broadcast by them to the whole town<br />
."` s<br />
Indeed, the mass community meeting which became popular during the civil<br />
rights movement, was, in part, employed to limit the opportunity <strong>for</strong> middle-class leaders<br />
to make self-serving compromises . Plebiscitary democrac;~ guaranteed that all<br />
` 2Ibid . ; Mitchell, "White Paper ." The clientelist relationship between black<br />
political machines and the white power structure was noted early on by Gunnar Myrdal . j<br />
Gunnar Myrdal, An American Dilemma: The Negro Problem andModern Democracy<br />
(New York : Harper and Brothers, 1944), pp . 498-9 .<br />
` s "Weekly Report - August 1 - August 4," [August, 1964], Clinton, Louisiana,<br />
box 4, folder 13, Southern Regional Office, CORE papers [hereinafter cited as<br />
CORE(SRO)], SHSW.
agreements had to pass muster with the black rank-and-file : the working class, the poor,<br />
and the youth .<br />
There were good reasons <strong>for</strong> the suspicions exhibited by the rank-and-file .<br />
Black leadership was more complex and divided than the undifferentiated, united image<br />
reflected in the popular historical myth ofthe civil rights movement . The movement did<br />
not march in unison and speak with one voice. The black community had its share of<br />
traitors, rascals, and ordinary fools . In general, though, the leaders of the Voters League<br />
in Jonesboro were honorable men who had the community's interests at heart .<br />
hlonetheless, it was difficult <strong>for</strong> the Voters League to generate enthusiasm <strong>for</strong> voting<br />
rights when the ballot benefitted only a handful of elite blacks in the community . For<br />
most black voters in Jonesboro, elections offered tittle more than an Hobson's choice<br />
between racism and racism.<br />
The role ofthe black church in Jonesboro also contradicts the popular historical<br />
picture of the period . Deep divisions existed between the black clergy and the movement<br />
in Jonesboro . Only one church in Jonesboro, Pleasant Grove Baptist Church, initially<br />
supported the movement . Pleasant Grove had a highly active and concerned membership,<br />
led by Henry and Ruth Amos who operated a gas station, and Percy Lee Brad<strong>for</strong>d, a cab<br />
driver and mill worker . The dearth of civil rights church leaders in Jonesboro was no<br />
anomaly. While the clergy played an important role in larger cities in the South, the<br />
pattern in small towns was markedly different . In the outback, the black clergy's attitude<br />
toward the movement ranged from indifference to outrigh~ hostility . Indeed, the clergy's<br />
10
conservative stance frequently made them the target ofpretest by black youth in<br />
Jonesboro and elsewhere in Louisiana . ` j<br />
The conservative character ofrural black clergy owed to several factors . Church<br />
buildings were vulnerable to arson in retaliation <strong>for</strong> civil rights activities (churches in the<br />
South were frequently located outside of town in remote, unguarded areas) . It was<br />
common <strong>for</strong> insurance companies to cancel insurance on churches that had been active in<br />
the movement . Moreover, black ministers depended on good relationships with whites to<br />
obtain loans <strong>for</strong> the all-important "brick and mortar" building projects .<br />
But the clergy's conservatism was also emblematic ofthe contradictory<br />
character of the black church . On the one hand, the church was a <strong>for</strong>ce <strong>for</strong> change. It<br />
provided a safe and nurturing sanctuary in a hostile and oppressive world . In the midst of<br />
despair, it <strong>for</strong>ged a new community, nourished racial solidarity, defined community<br />
values, and provided pride and hope .<br />
In contrast to this uplifting role, though, the black church was equally flawed by<br />
a fatalistic outlook that bred passivity and political cynicism . Fatalism is a rational and<br />
effective adaptation in reactionary times when people live on hope alone . Religion born<br />
out of oppression and powerlessness found hope in the promise ofa rewarding afterlife .<br />
For decades, the black clergy had preached the gospel of resignation and eschewed social<br />
and political re<strong>for</strong>m . Like many other religious groups, the black church Found<br />
something undignified and morally corrupting about poetics and the secular world_ The<br />
church retained elements of nineteenth-century conservative theology that regarded<br />
"Organized protests against the black clergy in Louisiana are discussed in<br />
chapters four and fifteen .<br />
11
collective human action <strong>for</strong> political advancement as unnatural and impious . Destiny was<br />
divinely ordained . `s<br />
There were exceptions to the conservative churches, and the Pleasant Grove<br />
Baptist Church in Jonesboro was one ofthese. The church had attracted several firm<br />
civil rights advocates and in late 1963 members of the Pleasant Grove Baptist Church,<br />
along with the Voters League, invited the Congress ofRacial Equality (CORE) to initiate<br />
voter registration activities in Jonesboro and Jackson Parish . CORE was part ofthe new<br />
breed of national civil rights organizations, young, energetic, and committed to<br />
nonviolent direct action . While the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC)<br />
dominated the movement in Mississippi, CORE was the principal organizing <strong>for</strong>ce in<br />
Louisiana. They had been active in Louisiana since the 1960 sit-ins and were preparing a<br />
major summer project <strong>for</strong> 1964 .`6<br />
CORE originated as a predominantly white pacifist organization, emerging out<br />
of the Fellowship ofReconciliation, a Christian pacifist group that had been active since<br />
World War I . Formed in 1942, CORE's early leaders were profoundly influenced by the<br />
nonviolent teachings of Mohandis Gandhi . At the center of their strategy was the<br />
concept ofnonviolent direct action ; moral conversion through nonviolent protest . CORE<br />
` sThe relationship of African-American Christianity to political re<strong>for</strong>m is beyond<br />
the scope ofthis dissertation . A beginning point <strong>for</strong> the inquiry, though, is Eugene D .<br />
Genovese's, Roll, Jordan Roll: The World the Slaves Made (New York : Vintage Books,<br />
1976) and, on social gospel influences, S . P . Fullinwider, The Mind andMood in Black<br />
America: Twentieth Century Thought (Homewood, Ill . : Dorsey Press, 1969) . On<br />
nineteenth century conservative theology see Henry Farnham May, Protestant Churches<br />
and Industrial America (New York : Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1949) .<br />
` 6August Meier and Elliott Rudwick, CORE: A Study in the Civil Rights<br />
Movement 19-12-1968 (New York : Ox<strong>for</strong>d University Press, 1973 ) .<br />
13
advocated direct action and militant protest, without violence or hatred against the<br />
opponent . The organization's principles prohibited members from retaliating against<br />
violence inflicted on them . CORE believed that nonviolence would convert their<br />
enemies through "love and suffering." The organization had pragmatic as well as<br />
philosophical reasons <strong>for</strong> advocating nonviolence in the South . CORE's black leaders,<br />
such as James Farmer and Bayard Rustin, feared a brutal white backlash if blacks<br />
engaged in retaliatory violence."<br />
Despite its strong commitment to racial justice and community activism, CORE<br />
had made only modest progress in the black community in the 1940s and 1950s . But in<br />
1961 it was catapulted into the ranks of national civil rights organizations through its role<br />
in the electrifying <strong>Freedom</strong> Rides . Courageous young CORE activists led integrated<br />
groups on bus rides through the South in a campaign to integrate interstate travel<br />
facilities . They braved riotous mobs, vicious beatings, firebombs and wretched jails . By<br />
1962 they had triumphed in integrating most bus travel and terminal accommodations .<br />
In 1964 CORE planned an ambitious "Louisiana Summer 1964" project,<br />
CORE's counterpart to the Mississippi <strong>Freedom</strong> Summer project . The Louisiana project<br />
was to focus on voter registration and desegregation ofpublic facilities and public<br />
accommodations . CORE had already established several local projects in Louisiana,<br />
including a beachhead in North Louisiana in Monroe, some sixty miles East of<br />
Jonesboro . Monroe's moderate NAACP leadership had invited CORE to organize the<br />
community, but CORE had little success until they linked up with more militant working<br />
class union leaders at the Olin-Mathieson paper plant . Police harassment and an<br />
"Ibid ., chap . 1 passim .<br />
13
uncooperative registrar ofvoters seriously hampered CORE's ef<strong>for</strong>ts . From the outset,<br />
the civil rights group's presence rankled the Klan, and it was not long be<strong>for</strong>e the Klan<br />
burned crosses on the lawn ofthe house where two CORC workers were staying . ` g<br />
The first CORE organizers to visit Jonesboro were representative ofthe social<br />
mix ofCORE's field staff Mike Lesser was a white Northerner with no experience in<br />
organizing in the South . In contrast, his organizing colleague, Ronnie Moore, was a<br />
black native-born Louisianian and a seasoned organizer who had joined CORE after he<br />
was expelled from Southern University <strong>for</strong> a protest in January 1962 . Moore was<br />
eventually arrested eighteen times and spent a total of six months in jail, fifty-seven of<br />
those days in solitary confinement . Beginning in January 1964, Lesser and Moore made<br />
several trips to Jonesboro to assist the Jackson Parish Civic and Voters League and local<br />
high school students in launching a voter registration campaign. Their initial success<br />
prompted CORE to assign several task-<strong>for</strong>ce workers to Jonesboro in the late Spring of<br />
1964 in preparation <strong>for</strong> the summer project ."<br />
One ofthe first arrivals <strong>for</strong> the summer project was a young black woman from<br />
Birmingham, Catherine Patterson . Patterson had been deeply moved by an experience at<br />
the George Washington Carver High School in Birmingham, where she was a classmate<br />
ofFred Shuttiesworth, Jr ., the son of Birmingham's firebrand civil rights leader, the<br />
Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth . One day young Fred, Jr. arrived at schoo! with his face<br />
badly bruised and swollen . A racist mob had mercilessly beaten Fred and his father<br />
` BNGke Lesser, "Report on Jonesboro-Bogalusa Project," March 1965, box 5,<br />
folder 5, CORE(SRO) ; Meier and Rudwick, CORE, pp . 266-267 .<br />
` 9 L.esser, "Report ."
during a demonstration . "When I heard about that, it just moved me to action," recalled<br />
Patterson two decades later. "I guess I was outraged . It's one thing to hear about it, and<br />
it's another thing to see it on television . But to see someone that you are sitting next to in<br />
class severely beaten . . . he was a child, just like I was ." =°<br />
The incident inspired Patterson to plunge into political activism, first leading<br />
SCLC demonstrations in Birmingham and later joining CORE after graduating from high<br />
school in January 1963 . Patterson was first sent to C adsden, Alabama <strong>for</strong> nine months of<br />
organizing, and then on to Atlanta <strong>for</strong> nonviolence training. At the training, Patterson<br />
met most of the team that would be assigned to Jonesboro <strong>for</strong> the Summer Project in<br />
Louisiana . Among them was Ruthie Welts, a young black woman from Baton Rouge,<br />
and the two white activists William "Bill" Yates, a Cornell Utiversity English professor,<br />
and Mike Weaver.'- `<br />
After completing her training Patterson was dispatched to Jonesboro in the<br />
Spring of 1964, joining Danny Mitchell, a Syracuse University graduate student .<br />
Eventually the Jonesboro Summer Project contingent comprised half a dozen activists ;<br />
four blacks and two whites . Fear in the black community was so acute in Jonesboro that<br />
no local black family offered to house the CORE activists . The task <strong>for</strong>ce workers had to<br />
settle <strong>for</strong> a small house on Cedar Street in the black community, lent to them by a<br />
sympathetic black woman who had moved to Cali<strong>for</strong>nia . The CORE workers christened<br />
the small home "<strong>Freedom</strong> House" and set about organizing voter registration .<br />
2°Catherine Patterson Mitchell, interview by author, 6 June 1993, Asheville, North<br />
Carolina, tape recording .<br />
1~
The young activists took seriously their Gandhian belief that their enemies could<br />
be converted by the moral strength of nonviolence, and, accordingly, they began<br />
earnestly searching <strong>for</strong> sympathetic white supporters among town locals . It was a short<br />
search . Virtually all the town's leaders were segregationists, including Sheriff Newt T .<br />
Loe (a "rabid segregationist" noted Danny Mitchell) and Police Chief Adrian Peevy.<br />
CORE discovered only one sympathetic white person, the town pharmacist, and this lone<br />
convert moved by "love and suffering" preferred to keep his conscience to himself.'-'-<br />
CORE's belief in the redeemability ofwhite bigots grew from a perilous<br />
political naivete and an astounding lack ofunderstanding about Southern history . There<br />
were reasons <strong>for</strong> CORE's confidence in the pacifist model of social revolution .<br />
Nonviolence appeared to have succeeded in India, one of the first successful anti-colonial<br />
revolutions following World War II . And the wanton violence of World War II had<br />
accomplished little more than the destruction of sixty million human lives .<br />
But Gandhi's success blinded CORE to how difficult it would be to transfer the<br />
strategy to America. Birmingham was not Bombay . There were critical differences<br />
between India's anti-colonial struggle and the black liberation struggle unfolding in the<br />
Deep South . East Indians were the vast majority in their homeland, Far outnumbering<br />
their oppressors who constituted little more than a tiny occupying army. Support <strong>for</strong><br />
colonialism by the British people was waning in the postwar years . In general, British<br />
workers did not believe that their social and economic status depended on the continued<br />
exploitation of Indians. Cold war rhetoric exalting democracy and freedom made it<br />
diffcult <strong>for</strong> the British to use <strong>for</strong>ce to suppress the rebellion Thus, Gandhi had the<br />
2=Mitchell, "White Paper."<br />
16
advantage of engaging a distant enemy who was constrained from using violence by<br />
domestic indifference and international opinion. Nonviolence succeeded in India only<br />
because the British tacked the resolve to use violence .<br />
The United States was a different matter. In contrast to East Indians, blacks<br />
were a tiny minority surrounded by a white majority . And unlike the British working<br />
class, white Southerners were invested in domination . Slavery protected whites from the<br />
harshest work and provided them with economic security, status and privilege . The<br />
"peculiar institution" had trans<strong>for</strong>med poor whites into gendarmes <strong>for</strong> white supremacy .<br />
Time and again whites demonstrated that they were willing and eager to defend their<br />
caste position at the expense of black life and freedom . Moreover, the geographic<br />
proximity of the whites facilitated their use ofterror as a political tool . And use it they<br />
did . Emancipation made little difference. Whites resorted to wholesale violence to<br />
overthrow the biracial Reconstruction governments . In the years of dejure segregation<br />
that followed, white social and economic status continued to be predicated on black<br />
subjugation . Whites consciously benefited from a system that provided cheap black labor<br />
and exempted them from dangerous and demeaning work. The benefits of segregation<br />
constantly rein<strong>for</strong>ced white loyalty to racism and violence ; and while international<br />
opinion may have influenced the British peerage, it meant nothing to planters in the<br />
Mississippi delta, let alone "corn and 'tater" whites in the piney woods .<br />
It was these underlying material and social intere~~ts that made segregation<br />
impervious to moral appeal . Few in the United Kingdom believed that Indian<br />
Independence betokened the end ofBritish economic security or culture . But southern<br />
society rested on white supremacy. The death of segregation meant the death ofthe old
social order. Segregationists were not far from the truth when they charged that<br />
integration was revolution. The new abolitionists were asking Southern whites <strong>for</strong> more<br />
than their hearts and minds : they were demanding their caste status and the privileges<br />
pertaining thereto . Little mystery, then, that nonviolence failed to evoke love and<br />
compassion in white hearts .<br />
Gandhi had confronted a distant and demoralized enemy constrained by<br />
national and international opinion . African-Americans, in contrast, faced an omnipresent 'i<br />
enemy, willing--if not eager--to use legal and vigilante violence. White racial identity<br />
depended on continued domination and violence, and, as events demonstrated, it would<br />
surrender to nothing less than violence. But the idealistic young CORE activists making<br />
their way into Jonesboro were not to be deterred by history or realpoGtik.~<br />
The reality ofviolence, however, soon became a concern <strong>for</strong> the CORE task<br />
<strong>for</strong>ce . Police harassment had always been troublesome <strong>for</strong> civil rights activists in the<br />
South, and the Jonesboro police did occasionally tail activists during their voter<br />
registration visits in the countryside . But by Southern standards, Jonesboro's police<br />
department treated CORE reasonably well . Danny Mitchell described the police chiefs<br />
policy toward CORE as, "I' m here to protect you . . . but we don't want any<br />
demonstrations ." 2`<br />
'~In this respect, the black liberation movement more closely resembled the<br />
Moslem experience in India. Like their black counterparts in the U.S ., Moslems were a<br />
despised minority violently subjugated by a numerically superior oppressor . It is<br />
noteworthy that the Islamic movement's strategy ofviolence in India resulted in political<br />
independence and self-determination, in the <strong>for</strong>m of Pakistan. For a comparative study of<br />
nonviolence in two countries, see George M. Fredrickson, Black Liberation: A<br />
Comparative History ofBlack Ideologies in the United States and South Africa, (New<br />
York: Ox<strong>for</strong>d University Press, 1995) especially pages 225-276 .<br />
='Mitchell, "White Paper."<br />
l8
A graver danger was posed by Klan and other racist vigilantes . From the outset,<br />
the <strong>Freedom</strong> House was the target of menacing carloads of young whites cruising through<br />
the black community, shouting obscenities and threats. This type of harassment was not<br />
new . For years, whites, acting with impunity, would drive through the black "quarters"<br />
verbally harassing and physically assaulting black residents. The practice, referred to as<br />
"nigger knocking," was a time-honored tradition among whites in the rural South . But<br />
the presence of black and white civil rights activists in the commutity added a frenzied<br />
intensity to the ritual . It was not long be<strong>for</strong>e verbal assaults turned to violence . In one<br />
<strong>for</strong>eboding incident a gang ofyoung whites broke several windows at the <strong>Freedom</strong><br />
House . The black community responded to the attacks with a mix ofconcern and<br />
uncertainty . They had never been confronted with the challenge ofdefending strangers in<br />
their midst . Caution was the order of the day . A reckless display ofarmed self-defense<br />
might provoke whites to retaliate with deadly <strong>for</strong>ce.<br />
The unwritten racial code of conduct in the South <strong>for</strong>bade blacks from using<br />
weapons <strong>for</strong> self-defense against white assaults. Whites reasoned that defensive weapons<br />
had offensive potential . The code also proscribed collective <strong>for</strong>ms of self-defense, a<br />
prohibition no doubt stemming from ancient fears ofbloody slave rebellions .<br />
The black community in Jonesboro anxiously searched <strong>for</strong> a method of<br />
defending their charges without violating the racial code of conduct, but the imntinent<br />
threat ofviolence left few alternatives . Within a few days, a small number of local black<br />
men began to quietly guard the CORE activists in their daily activities . Slowly they<br />
appeared, unarmed sentinels, silent and watchful . At first they did nothing more than sit<br />
19
on the porch of the <strong>Freedom</strong> House, or follow the activists like quiet shadows as they<br />
went about their organizing work . 2s<br />
Among this initial group ofguards was Earnest Thomas, a short, powerfully<br />
built twenty-nine-year-old black man who supported his five children as a papermill<br />
worker, mason, handyman and bar room gambler. Thomas' life centered on the<br />
institutions and amusements of small-town African-American life : he was an occasional<br />
churchgoer, a member of the Scottish Rite Masons, and a barroom hustler . Held at arms<br />
length by the "respectable" black middle class, Thomas nonetheless commanded<br />
community respect <strong>for</strong> his courage and martial skills. His street savvy and cool,<br />
intimidating demeanor earned him the nickname Chilly Willy . "Chilly was very firm,"<br />
recalls Annie Purnell Johnson, a local CORE volunteer . "He didn't care . Whatever he<br />
said he was going to do, he did it ." His determination was accented by his penchant <strong>for</strong><br />
<strong>for</strong>ce. "He was violent too," says Johnson . "He could be very violent if he wanted to be .<br />
Ifyou pushed his button, he would deliver.' °26<br />
Thomas had been a fighter all his life . It was a lesson he learned early in life .<br />
Racial segregation fought a relentless battle against human nature--against the instinctual<br />
longing <strong>for</strong> companionship and shared joy among members of the human race .<br />
Frequently the intimacy of everyday life tempted people to disregard the awkward ritual<br />
of segregation . In his youth, Thomas had frequented the local swimming hole in<br />
Jonesboro, a gentle creek that wound its way through the pines . Its tranquil waters<br />
ZSCatherine Patterson Mitchell, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
26Earnest Thomas, interview by author, 6, 20 February 1993, San Mateo,<br />
Cali<strong>for</strong>nia, tape recording ; Annie Purnell Johnson, interview by author, 15 November<br />
1993, Jonesboro, Louisiana, tape recording .<br />
20
welcomed children of all colors. Here black and white children innocently played<br />
together, splashing and dunking. At a distance, colors disappeared into a shadow<br />
silhouette ofbobbing heads, the languid summer air disturbed only by occasional shrieks<br />
ofjoy .<br />
Yet, inevitably nature surrendered to the mean habits ofadult society. Thomas<br />
recalls that sometimes the whites would band together and swoop down on a handful of<br />
frolicking blacks, claiming the waters as the spoils of war. On other occasions, Thomas<br />
would join a charging army of whooping black warriors as they descended on the stream,<br />
scattering a gaggle of unsuspecting white boys . The swimming-hole wars of his youth<br />
provided Earnest Thomas with one enduring lesson : rights were secured by <strong>for</strong>ce more<br />
often than moral suasion .<br />
Thomas attended high-school in Jonesboro through the 11th grade then dropped<br />
out and served a stint in the Air <strong>for</strong>ce during the Korean War. Like many young blacks<br />
in the South, military service dramatically changed his attitude toward Jim Crow . Three<br />
years and eight months as an airborne radio operator had af<strong>for</strong>ded him brief and<br />
seductive glimpses ofa world free ofsegregation . He met Northern blacks who, with<br />
better education and more opportunities, were increasingly impatient with the slow pace<br />
ofchange. Thomas absorbed their restless craving <strong>for</strong> freedom . The military also<br />
provided him, and thousands ofother southern blacks, with the tools to realize this dream<br />
of freedom : leadership skills and an appreciation ofthe power of disciplined collective<br />
action . Discharged from the service, Thomas spurned the South and journeyed<br />
Northward to Chicago . He worked <strong>for</strong> one year at International Harvester, but soon<br />
returned to Jonesboro to raise a family.<br />
21<br />
i
Thomas was eager to work with CORE, but he had serious reservations about<br />
the nonviolent terms imposed by the young activists . He admired their devotion and<br />
energy, but the college students seemed dangerously deluded about the potential <strong>for</strong><br />
terrorist violence . And CORE made it clear to Thomas that they were unwilling to<br />
compromise their stand on nonviolence .<br />
If the CORE activists sounded like missionaries, there was a good reason .<br />
CORE was permeated with a religious style of organizing, characterized by an<br />
evangelical faith in doctrine and an unswerving belief in a bipolar world ofgood and evil .<br />
For the young CORE activists, nonviolence was more religion than strategy . And<br />
religious doctrine, as immutable truth, could not be compromised to suit the sinner. One<br />
either accepted or rejected the divinely inspired word . One was either saint or sinner.<br />
Rather than negotiate a strategy with the black community, CORE's support was<br />
contingent on local people accepting the nonviolent creed . The creed could never fail the<br />
people; only the people could fail the creed . Faith was a pillar of CORE's organizing<br />
strategy . The idea that Klansmen could be converted contradicted all reason and<br />
experience and required an act offaith comparable to a belief in the divinity ofJesus . If<br />
black men resisted these nonviolent teachings, it was no cause to reconsider doctrine .<br />
Indeed, the resistance ofthe damned only confirmed the fallen state of mankind and the<br />
urgency ofa new dispensation--one that would appear as enigmatic and paradoxical to<br />
mere mortals as did the teachings ofChrist in his own time. Failure was a sure sign of<br />
success. 2'<br />
2'This uncompromising stance, in some measure, derived from nonviolence's<br />
categorical religious roots . Gandhi had cloaked his strategy in religious garb, imbuing it<br />
with moral authority that resonated with Judeo-Christian beliefs . CORE activists'
But like most black men in the South, Earnest Thomas thought it better to be<br />
damned than dead . He and the other men in the defense group politely resisted CORE's<br />
attempt to dictate the terms ofthe local movement .<br />
Thomas quickly emerged as the leader of the defense group . No doubt his<br />
military training had accustomed him to organization . While other men would come and<br />
go, Thomas made it his responsibility to elevate the level o<strong>for</strong>ganization and instill<br />
discipline and order. During the day, the guards simply watched and kept their weapons<br />
concealed . But the night was different . The veil of darkness provided cover <strong>for</strong> hooded<br />
terrors . The guards knew that a show ofweapons would discourage Klan violence . So<br />
the night brought the moon, the stars, and the guns .<br />
The guns posed a dilemma <strong>for</strong> CORE from the very beginning . The defense<br />
group had no difficulty in accepting CORE's right to determine its own nonviolent<br />
strategy, and on the whole, they thought it an effective one . But they were not prepared<br />
to abdicate their responsibility to defend their community . They were not willing to<br />
religious training predisposed them to believe that a single act could corrupt the spirit;<br />
that violence had corrupted society as original sin had corrupted man . The absolute,<br />
uncompromising nature of nonviolent creed corresponded to the Old Testament doctrine<br />
ofthe Covenant between the Jews and God . According to the Covenant, the Israelites<br />
were protected as long as they con<strong>for</strong>med to God's word . Ifthe Chosen People broke the<br />
covenant, a wrathful God exacted his punishment . Salvation was won on terms of<br />
repentance and subnussion to the law.<br />
Gandhi's concept of Satygraha, suffering that redeems as it converts the enemy,<br />
also closely resembled the Christian concept ofsalvation on terms ofrepentance.<br />
Repentance required suffering, and conscious suffering, submitting to an assailant's<br />
violence, was a sign ofGod's grace . Nonviolence saved the devout as well as the<br />
heathen . On nonviolence, Christian doctrine, and religious symbolism, see Keith D .<br />
Miller, I~oice ofDeliverance : The Language ofMartin Lather King, Jr. and its Sources,<br />
(New York : The Free Press, 1992) and Richard Lentz, Symbols, the News Magc~ines,<br />
and Martin L:~ther King, (Baton Rouge : Louisiana State Jniversity Press, 1990) .<br />
23
extend nonviolence to all aspects of the black freedom movement, particularly in the<br />
center of a Klan stronghold . That would be suicide . They were outnumbered two-to-one<br />
and the police offered no protection .<br />
Underlying the conflict over nonviolence was a deeper issue ofautonomy . Who<br />
would determine the local organizing strategy <strong>for</strong> the black movement? National<br />
organizations, with their imported strategy, dominated by a coalition of middle class<br />
blacks, organized labor, and white pacifists and liberals? Or the local community with<br />
their own strategy determined by local experience?<br />
CORE initially won the philosophical argument, overcoming locals with their<br />
superior debating skills and the <strong>for</strong>ce ofa coherent world view and strategy . Thomas and<br />
other grassroots leaders were less articulate and lacked the clear world view of their<br />
middle class saviors . But slowly "Chilly Willy" and his working class colleagues began<br />
to find words <strong>for</strong> their thoughts and gain confidence in their own judgement and<br />
opinions .<br />
Thomas' quest <strong>for</strong> autonomy was not self-conscious and deliberate . But<br />
instinctively he and the defense group began to assert their authority over local matters .<br />
They wanted the right to defend their community with <strong>for</strong>ce ifnecessary . CORE balked<br />
at these terms and suggested a compromise in which the guards would conceal their<br />
weapons during the day. The debate found its way into many late-night discussions<br />
around the kitchen table in the <strong>Freedom</strong> House. Cathy Patterson recalls the activists<br />
admonishing Thomas : "Chilly, ifyou guys are going to be out there with guns, you have<br />
to hide them ." And Thomas would ask why . "Because you're going to invoke violence,"<br />
replied the activists . "Ifyou have a gun, you have to be prepared to use it . And we don't<br />
24
want people to get hurt ." Patterson recalls Thomas patiently listening to their arguments,<br />
and then answering fu-mly, "You're stepping on my toes . We're doing this . We know<br />
this town . We know these people. Just let us do it ." 28<br />
CORE relented . "What happened was that Chilly Willy and them started going<br />
out with us," recalls Ronnie Moore, and their position was, "O.K., you guys can be<br />
nonviolent if you want to . . . and we appreciate you being nonviolent . But we are not<br />
going to stand by and let these guys kill you ."~'<br />
The defense group's objection to the nonviolent code went beyond the issue of<br />
guard duty. Many of the men, including Thomas, declined to participate in any<br />
nonviolent direct action, including pickets and marches because ofthe rules of<br />
engagement set by CORE . "Ifyou were attacked, ifyou were spat upon, if you were<br />
kicked or jeered, we were very clear that we were not to respond to that," recalls<br />
Patterson . CORE quickly discovered that the black men ofJonesboro were unwilling to<br />
endure the humiliation attending these restrictions . "There was too much pride to do<br />
that," says Patterson. Nonviolence required black men to passively endure humiliation<br />
and physical abuse--a bitter elixir <strong>for</strong> a group struggling to overcome servility and<br />
passivity . Paradoxically, nonviolence compelled black men to sacriSce their manhood<br />
and dignity in order to acquire it .~°<br />
Nonviolence also demanded that black men <strong>for</strong>ego their right to defend their<br />
families . This, too, tested the limits of <strong>for</strong>bearance . The institution of white supremacy<br />
Catherine Patterson Mitcheq, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
2'Ronnie M. Moore, interview by author, 26 February 1993, New Orleans, tape<br />
recording .<br />
s°Ibid ; Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
25
was a complex web of social and political customs, proscribed behaviors, government<br />
policies and taws Some aspects ofracism were more endurable than others . At its most<br />
innocuous, segregation was little more than demeating symbolism . For the most part,<br />
blacks and whites drank the same water, ate the same foods and rode the same busses .<br />
But some racist practices were intolerable insults to black manhood .<br />
Compromising the sanctity of family was one ofthose transgressions. "The<br />
things that go with racial segregation . . . you lived with that," says Cathy Patterson of<br />
separate seating and other peculiarities of physical segregation . "They were things you<br />
just had to accept ." But violence against family and home violated the ancient right to a<br />
safe hearth and home . "When they saw their own children get hit or beaten," recalls<br />
Patterson, the men "reacted very differently." Nonviolence obliged black men to stand<br />
idly by as their children and wives were mercilessly beaten, a debasement that most black<br />
men would not tolerate . They clung tenaciously to their fragile claims to manhood and<br />
honor . It should have surprise no one that nonviolence ultimately discouraged black men<br />
from participating in the civil rights movement in the South, turning it into a movement<br />
ofwomen and children. Black men, unlike their crusading saviors, understood that there<br />
was no equality without honor.<br />
CORE began to slowly grasp the dilemma they had created <strong>for</strong> black men. The<br />
compromise with armed self-defense provoked "intense philosophical discussion and<br />
debates" within the CORE summer task <strong>for</strong>ce in Jonesboro . The controversy eventually<br />
led some activists, like Mike Lesser, to leave CORE . But <strong>for</strong> most activists, the palpable<br />
fear in Jonesboro was gradually eroding their faith in the grand intellectual theories .<br />
There was a conflict over the issue of nonviolence, says Patterson, but "there also was<br />
?6
enough fear that the conflict was more intellectual than it was real ." Patterson herself<br />
arrived at what she considered a principled compromise . "During the day I thought it<br />
was inappropriate to have anyone with us bearing weapons," says Patterson . "But when<br />
it got dark, we were in a great deal ofdanger. I had no objections to their presence at<br />
night . We were defenseless at night ."3 `<br />
Self-defense became an immediate concern as the movement shifted from voter<br />
registration to direct action anti-segregation demonstrations . CORE's initial voter-<br />
registration drive provoked some harassment--generally limited to white teenagers<br />
driving through the community, shouting taunts . Most whites regarded CORE's presence<br />
as a nuisance more than a dangerous menace . Voter registration organizing confined<br />
CORE activists to the black community, so the organizers seldom crossed paths with<br />
local whites . The subdued response by whites was understandable. Despite its<br />
symbolism, black voter registration posed little threat to white supremacy and the<br />
segregated caste system . Even if all blacks in Jonesboro were registered, they would<br />
comprise only one-third of the vote . At best, the black vote could be bartered <strong>for</strong><br />
influence, but it would not fundamentally alter social relationships. White businesses<br />
would continue to thrive on segregated labor, white jobs would remain secure, and life<br />
would amble along as usual in the little mill town .<br />
But desegregation was another matter . Segregation was the foundation ofthe<br />
social and labor systems ofthe South . Whites understood that desegregation challenged<br />
the system of privilege that ensured them the best jobs, housing; education and<br />
government services. If the segregation barriers fell, white workers lost substantially<br />
3`Catherine Patterson Mitchell, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
27
more than a separate toilet . The conflict over segregation was ultimately a deadly contest<br />
<strong>for</strong> power--as Jonesboro blacks were soon to discover .<br />
?8
Chapter 2<br />
The Art of Self-Defense<br />
At the beginning ofJune 1964, the CORE task <strong>for</strong>ce in Jonesboro began to plan<br />
<strong>for</strong> direct action desegregation protests to test the new civil rights bill which would<br />
become effective in July. The prospect of a militant desegregation campaign similar to<br />
Birmingham provoked considerable anxiety in the black community . Many blacks feared<br />
that Jonesboro's tiny six-man police department would prove unwilling or incapable of<br />
protecting the activists . And it was increasingly clear that Earnest Thomas' in<strong>for</strong>mal<br />
defense group was an insufficient substitute <strong>for</strong> police protection.<br />
Taking the initiative to avert a disaster was a newcomer to the black community,<br />
Frederick Douglas Kirkpatrick . At six-feet-four-inches, Kirkpatrick was an imposing<br />
figure . A stern visage and stentorian basso voice gave him a commanding presence and<br />
natural leadership qualities . Kirkpatrick arrived in Jonesboro in 1963, an ambitious<br />
young high school athletics coach from nearby Homer in Claiborne Parish . In Homer,<br />
Kirkpatrick had led his teams to two state championships . Now he had advanced his<br />
career as the new physical education teacher and athletics coach at Jackson Parish High<br />
School, the black high school in Jonesboro . Though he had no <strong>for</strong>mal religious training,<br />
Kirkpatrick had assumed the title ofReverend, a common practice in his day .<br />
Kirkpatrick's father had provided him with a religious upbringing, and the elder
Kirkpatrick himself was a Church ofGod in Christ sanctified preacher who had built an<br />
impressive ministry of three churches in Claiborne Parish .`<br />
ICirkpatrick's optimism about his new position quickly gave way to<br />
disappointment . The conditions at Jackson Parish High School were abominable .<br />
Jackson F~Lgh offered no <strong>for</strong>eign languages . A new library was tilled with empty shelves .<br />
Textbooks were tattered hand-me-downs from the white schools. Students were<br />
routinely dispatched as gardeners to maintain the Superintendent's personal lawn . The<br />
only vocational offerings were home economics and agriculture, a curriculum that<br />
condemned blacks to lives as maids and sharecroppers . It was these conditions and the<br />
threat ofKlan violence that motivated Kirkpatrick to become active in the local civil<br />
rights movement . 2<br />
Kirkpatrick and a group offellow black leaders began discussing the idea ofa<br />
black volunteer auxiliary police squad that would assist police in monitoring Klan<br />
harassment in the black community . Unlike Thomas' in<strong>for</strong>mal self-defense group, the<br />
auxiliary police utit would be oi~cially sanctioned, providing legitimacy and respect . It<br />
was a bold yet fiscally attractive proposal . The city would enjoy added police protection<br />
at no additional expense during the desegregation tests .<br />
Kirkpatrick approached Chiefof Police Peevy with a <strong>for</strong>mal request <strong>for</strong> a special<br />
volunteer black police squad to patrol the black community . Much to their surprise,<br />
ChiefPeevy accepted the proposal and promptly deputized Kirkpatrick and several other<br />
blacks, including Henry Amos, Percy Lee Brad<strong>for</strong>d, Ceola Quals and Eland Hams .<br />
'Kirkpatrick, HaU interview .<br />
=Ibid .<br />
~o
Peevy issued the squad an old police car with radio, guns, clubs and handcuffs,<br />
and local white merchants donated money to outfit the squad in crisp new uni<strong>for</strong>ms . The<br />
Police Chief assured them that their police powers extended to whites as well as blacks,<br />
and that they could arrest whites ifnecessary . It was a small development, but Jonesboro<br />
had made history by creating the first and only volunteer black police <strong>for</strong>ce in the modern<br />
civil rights movement.'<br />
Chief Peevy's decision to <strong>for</strong>m the squad appeared uncharacteristically<br />
enlightened <strong>for</strong> a white lawman in North Louisiana, and many in the black community<br />
questioned his motives . Some, like Earnest Thomas, suspected that Peevy planned to use<br />
the squad as a convenient and politic way to discipline and control the civil rights<br />
movement : "They were looking <strong>for</strong> some black policeman to do their dirty work," scoffs<br />
Thomas . {<br />
Kirkpatrick understood the dilemma confronting him . He knew that Chief Peevy<br />
expected the black police squad to discourage demonstrations and arrest civil rights<br />
workers . But Kirkpatrick thought that, despite these limitations, the squad could provide<br />
a modicum of protection <strong>for</strong> the black community and CORE .<br />
It was not the only dilemma Kirkpatrick confronted . Though a respected<br />
community leader, Kirkpatrick also occupied jobs that obligated him to the white power<br />
structure . He was employed by the pubic schools as a teacher-coach and also employed<br />
by the city as a part-time manager of the public swimming pool . His position as de facto<br />
;Charles White, interview by author, 11 November, 1993, Jonesboro, Louisiana,<br />
tape recording .<br />
TThomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
3l
chiefof the black police placed him in a potentially compromising position . Local laws<br />
and courts mandated segregation and gave police impunity to disrupt civil rights protests .<br />
In his new role, Kirkpatrick would be thrust in the embarrassing position ofen<strong>for</strong>cing<br />
segregation laws and thwarting lawful protests. Many agreed with Earnest Thomas'<br />
observation that Kirkpatrick was wearing "too many hats." S<br />
Among the members ofthe new police squad were several men who had already<br />
worked with Thomas in the in<strong>for</strong>mal defense group . They were mature and respected<br />
community leaders, like Brad<strong>for</strong>d and Amos, who had been active in the Voters Leag~~e .<br />
All of the volunteers were relatively independent ofthe white power structure . Amos<br />
owned a gas station, Harris was a barber, and Brad<strong>for</strong>d owned a cab service and also<br />
worked at the mill . The black police squad began patrolling the community at tight in<br />
June 1964, assuming many of the duties ofthe in<strong>for</strong>mal defense group . The patrol<br />
appeared to deter harassment, and aside from a few incidents, June was relatively quiet .<br />
At the beginning ofthe Summer, Cathy Patterson and Danny Nfitchell were joined<br />
by two more black CORE task <strong>for</strong>ce organizers, Fred Brooks, a black college student<br />
from Tennessee, and Willie Mellion, a young black recruit from Plaquemine, Louisiana .<br />
The expanded task <strong>for</strong>ce continued its work with the Voters League, concentrating on<br />
voter registration. But the implementation ofthe Civil Rights Act's public<br />
accommodations provisions in July 1965 radically changed the strategy ofthe civil rights<br />
movement . Previously CORE's summer project had centered on voter registration,<br />
which liberal contributors and foundations had supported financially. Liberals viewed<br />
SIbid .
the vote as key to trans<strong>for</strong>ming the South and also hoped that new black voters would<br />
strengthen the Democratic Party in the upcoming Fall presidential race . 6<br />
But <strong>for</strong> most blacks in Jonesboro, voter registration was more symbolism than<br />
substance . As July drew nigh, young people in particular grew increasingly impatient<br />
with the racial barriers to education, public accommodations and employment . They<br />
importuned the CORE activists with demands <strong>for</strong> direct action protest to test the public<br />
accommodations provisions of the Act.<br />
Local people were not the only impatient ones . On June 22, Fred Brooks, the<br />
irrepressible and buoyant young CORE organizer from Tennessee, boldly flaunted<br />
segregation laws by drinking from the "whites only" water fountain in the Jackson Parish<br />
Court House . Deputy W . D . McBride hustled Brooks into the Sheriff Loe's office and<br />
ordered him not to repeat the offense . Brooks spun on his heels, headed toward the<br />
fountain and defiantly drank from it again .'<br />
Deputy McBride, flustered and seething, ordered Brooks back into his office and<br />
hastily summoned Kirkpatrick in his capacity as a police deputy. It was the first test of<br />
the black police. When Kirkpatrick arrived, a furious Sheriff Loe cornered Kirkpatrick .<br />
"You'd better tell this boy something about drinking from these white water fountains,"<br />
DDanny 1Viitchell, "VEP Field Report," 24 June 1964, 124-770, Congress of Racial<br />
Equality (CORE) Papers, microfilm, ARC .<br />
'Danny Mitchell, "A Special Report on Jonesboro, Louisiana," July 1964, box 1,<br />
folder 10, Jackson Parish Files, CORE Papers, SHSW [hereinafter cited as<br />
CORE(Jackson Parish)] .
steamed the Sheriff "I'm not gonna have this . I'm gonna peel his damn head ." The<br />
incident ended without an arrest . $<br />
Relations with taw en<strong>for</strong>cement continued to deteriorate as CORE stepped up its<br />
desegregation protests . On July 4, a sheriffs deputy detained Robert Weaver, a CORE<br />
task <strong>for</strong>ce worker, and took him to the police station <strong>for</strong> interrogation and finger printing .<br />
Sheriff Loe lectured Weaver that blacks did not need CORE since they could register to<br />
vote in Jackson Parish . Loe warned Weaver to leave town by morning and one deputy<br />
threatened to "bust his head" if he saw Weaver again .'<br />
Bonnie Moore and Mike Lesser became the next victims ofthe terror campaign.<br />
On July 8 the two organizers left Jonesboro <strong>for</strong> the short one hour drive to Monroe. As<br />
they left town, they noticed three carloads of whites abruptly pull onto the highway<br />
behind them . Lesser nervously watched in the rear view mirror as the cars trailed behind .<br />
He and Moore were seasoned activists who understood the danger posed by the stalking<br />
caravan . The two tensely discussed their predicament . With rugged terrain skirting both<br />
sides of the road, the only option was to stay on the blacktop . Lesser pushed the<br />
accelerator in an ef<strong>for</strong>t to outrun the pursuers, but one car in the caravan suddenly passed<br />
them, blocking their escape . Moore and Lesser frantically debated whether to ram one of<br />
the cars from behind . As the seconds ticked away the two continued to speed deeper into<br />
the pine <strong>for</strong>est and further away from the relative security ofJonesboro . Moore decided<br />
aIbid .<br />
'Ibid .<br />
34
that they had to turn around . He ordered Lesser to execute a quick U-turn in the middle<br />
ofthe road . `°<br />
Lesser slanvned the breaks and wheeled the car around, placing their vehicle on a<br />
collision course with the two remaining pursuers who were blocking both lanes . Bonnie<br />
Moore recalls the fatalistic mood . "We decided at that moment that we were going back<br />
to the freedom house, either in one piece or with one of those cars ." Lesser dropped the<br />
accelerator to the floor and streaked toward the oncoming cars . At the last moment one<br />
of the pursuing cars veered to the side and was sideswiped as Lesser and Moore sped by .<br />
"That was the first game of chicken that I probably ever played," remembers Moore."<br />
Lesser and Moore sped back to Jonesboro, reaching speeds of one-hundred nines<br />
an hour . From the safety of the <strong>Freedom</strong> House, they called the sheriff s oi~ce to file a<br />
complaint . Within minutes, Sheriff Loe and members of the black police squad arrived .<br />
Loe had already received a complaint from the whites who Moore and Lesser had eluded .<br />
To their amazement, Loe ordered the black deputy to arrest Lesser and Moore <strong>for</strong><br />
reckless driving and leaving the scene of an accident . The deputy refused and Loe<br />
eventually departed. Fearing another attack on Lesser and Moore, members of the black<br />
squad provided the CORE activists with an armed escort back to Monroe that evening .<br />
SheriffLoe's attempt to have the black deputy arrest Lesser was the first time that the<br />
black police failed to per<strong>for</strong>m according to his expectations . It was clear that the squad<br />
was not going to be wining accomplices in repression .<br />
` °This account taken from Ibid . and Moore, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
"Ibid .<br />
35
The campaign ofharassment against CORE increased in the days following the<br />
implementation ofthe Civil Rights Act . On July 11, six CORE task <strong>for</strong>ce members<br />
including Brooks, Weaver, Yates and Patterson were stopped by Jackson and Lincoln<br />
Parish law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials along with the Louisiana State Police . Under the pretext<br />
of investigating a robbery, the five were photographed and physically threatened be<strong>for</strong>e<br />
off cials impounded and searched the car . ` 2<br />
Emboldened by the conduct oflaw officials, racist vigilantes also escalated their<br />
attacks on the movement. On July 13, three whites in a car confronted CORE workers in<br />
the front yard ofthe <strong>Freedom</strong> House . Harassing the pacifists had become routine <strong>for</strong> the<br />
young hooligans, but on this occasion they were startled by their reception . In a matter ~f<br />
minutes, three ofthe black police, Kirkpatrick, Eland Harris and Henry Amos arrived .<br />
The police ordered the whites to leave . The young men bristled at the command coming<br />
from the black officers, but they eventually retreated, punctuating their departure with a<br />
threat to return with 125 whites to "make trouble ." As word ofthe threat spread in the<br />
black community, dozens of volunteers flooded into the streets with guns . The show of<br />
<strong>for</strong>ce deterred additional attacks <strong>for</strong> the day."<br />
The spontaneous show ofarmed support <strong>for</strong> the black police reassured them that<br />
they could rely on a substantial body of men to complement their ranks when necessary .<br />
Ironically, by refusing to protect the black community, the white establishment had<br />
inadvertently <strong>for</strong>ced the black community to arm themselves and take responsibility <strong>for</strong><br />
their own defense .<br />
12 "Chronology on Jonesboro, July 1964 - January 1965" ; Mitchell, "White Paper ."<br />
`"Chronology on Jonesboro" ; New York Times, 21 February 1965 .<br />
36
If the harassment was intended to dissuade CORE and the community from<br />
demonstrating, the strategy failed woefully. Young blacks were even more determined to<br />
test the Civil Rights Act through direct action . The shift from voter registration was<br />
reflected in CORE's decision to reorganize into two sections : a direct-action program,<br />
coordinated by Fred Brooks, and a voter registration section supervised by Patterson .<br />
Two principal targets <strong>for</strong> desegregation were selected in July: the city swimming pool<br />
and the public library .' s<br />
The segregation practices at the public library particularly vexed young blacks .<br />
Although their tax dollars supported the library, blacks were prohibited from using the<br />
library building and obtaining library loan cards . Their only access to books was the<br />
periodic visit by the bookmobile . The library test began with a letter to the head librarian<br />
from the Voters League requesting access to library cards . When no response came, a<br />
group ofyoung protestors lead by CORE entered the library and attempted to obtain<br />
cards on July 22 . Within minutes, SheriffLoe arrived and ordered the protestors out of<br />
the library and the doors locked . The protestors left peaceably but renewed their ef<strong>for</strong>ts<br />
the next day, this time picketing outside the library . Law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials were<br />
once again summoned and promptly arrested 24 people <strong>for</strong> parading without a permit . ` s<br />
Police told the protestors they were being arrested in response to a complaint<br />
lodged by a mortuary business located across the street from the library. The proprietor<br />
had complained that the chanting protestors were "offending" his deceased clients . The<br />
` °Mitchell, "White Paper ."<br />
~ sIbid .<br />
3 7
protestors would later muse that it was the first time in history that someone had been<br />
arrested <strong>for</strong> "disturbing the dead<br />
."' s<br />
The direct action demonstrations increasingly posed problems <strong>for</strong> Kirkpatrick's<br />
black police squad . Authorities were determined to use the squad to en<strong>for</strong>ce the illegal<br />
segregation laws . The predicament came to a head on July 29 . As part of the first<br />
concerted public accommodations tests, a group ofyoung protestors converged on the M<br />
& D Restaurant and Cafeteria in downtown Jonesboro . The restaurant owner, Margaret<br />
Temple, refused service to the testers at the front entrance, ordering them to purchase<br />
their food at the back door, as was the custom . When the testers refused, Temple angrily<br />
shouted, "Y'all damn niggers ought to be out trying to find work to do, beca~x~~ aint no<br />
damn nigger coming through my front door as long as fm running this place .'''<br />
The protestors and cafe owner were at a standoff until Kirkpatrick and another<br />
black officer arrived . Temple demanded that Kirkpatrick "come get these damn niggers,"<br />
but Kirkpatrick ignored her order and, instead, turned to the protestors and asked ifthey<br />
were disturbing the peace . The group responded in unison with a resounding "No!" The<br />
commotion quickly attracted a crowd of whites, including an angry elderly white man<br />
wielding a stick . Kirkpatrick confronted the white man and stood his ground . The stand<br />
off lasted several minutes until a second black officer intervened and abruptly ordered the<br />
protestors to "move out ." ts<br />
`6Ibid . ; Annie Purnetl Johnson, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
"On this incident, see "The M and D Restaurant and Cafeteria, July 29, 1964,"<br />
CORE(Jackson Parish), GMHP ; Kirkpatrick, HaU interview .<br />
is ~id .<br />
38
Within a few hours of the restaurant protest, the black police faced another test .<br />
CORE moved to its next target of the day, the "whites-only" municipal swimming pool .<br />
Testers arrived at 2:00 P.M . and found the pool locked and several parish deputies and<br />
city police officers waiting alongside the street . When the pool opened shortly thereafter,<br />
the testers attempted to enter but were turned away. Several police officers gathered at<br />
the pool entrance, including Kirkpatrick . Police ChiefPeevy commanded Kirkpatrick to<br />
give the order to the protectors to leave. Kirkpatrick complied, twice asking the<br />
protectors to leave . The protectors refused to budge . Peevy grew impatient and, as<br />
Kirkpatrick watched helplessly, ordered the white police to arrest fifteen protesters, ten<br />
of whom werejuveniles . Two mothers of the juveniles were also arrested on charges of<br />
"contributing to the delinquency of a minor" : allowing their children to participate in the<br />
protest. The "contributing" charge was subsequently used to arrest virtually the entire<br />
CORE staff in the days that followed . During the next three days of protest, thirty-nine<br />
protesters were arrested . l9<br />
The black police had not fared well in their Srst opting . They had been <strong>for</strong>ced to<br />
disband a lawful protest at the M & D restaurant, and then compelled to assist Sheriff<br />
Loe in breaking up the swimming pool demonstration . The protest incidents underscored<br />
the squad's contradictory and untenable position in the community . It was clear that city<br />
officials planned to use them primarily to en<strong>for</strong>ce segregation and squelch protests .<br />
"Mitchell, "White Paper" ; Ed Hollander, "Jonesboro Swimming Pool Arrests,"<br />
29 July 1964, Jonesboro, Louisiana, CORE(Jackson Parish), GMHP ; Willie Swaf<strong>for</strong>d,<br />
Jr., "A Statement by Willie Swaf<strong>for</strong>d, Jr. of Jonesboro, July 1964, Jonesboro, Louisiana,"<br />
CORE(Jackson Parish), GMHP ; Louisiana Weekly, 31 July 1964 .<br />
3 9
Some blacks in Jonesboro began to wonder ifthey had merely traded vigilante repression<br />
<strong>for</strong> black police repression .<br />
The wave of protests and arrests quickly brought tie Original Knights of the Ku<br />
Klux Klan into the fray . After the day of arrests and turmoil, Jonesboro's black<br />
neighborhood was plunged into complete darkness when electricity was mysteriously cut<br />
off -- ostensibly to repair the power system . In the darkness Earnest Thomas joined a few<br />
friends in front of a local hotel . As the men talked and joked Thomas noticed a flashing<br />
red light in the distance . As it grew nearer, Thomas recognized that it was a police car<br />
leading a caravan of more than filly vehicles . Children ran yelling with excitement to<br />
greet the parade . But as the caravan grew nearer, Thomas caught his first glimpse ofthe<br />
hooded men who filled each car, tossing leaflets into the street. Thomas was<br />
dumbstruck : the assistant chief ofpolice was in the lead car escorting the Klan through<br />
the black community . As each car passed Thomas noticed that the license tags had been<br />
covered to conceal the identity ofthe Klansmen . But it was a small town and Thomas<br />
and others easily recognized many of the cars as belonging to town locals, including<br />
several upstanding white businessmen and even the owner of a focal grocery store in the<br />
black community .<br />
The site ofthe hooded convoy sent a shudder of fear through many ofthe older<br />
blacks. But the children, oblivious to the danger, grabbed the swirling leaflets and<br />
brought them to their anxious parents. The Klan leaflets warned blacks to distance<br />
themselves from CORE and the civil rights movement .<br />
Though the Klan convoy frightened the old, the invasion only further incensed the<br />
younger men . A delegation ofblack men, including Thomas and some of the black<br />
40
police, drove directly to Police Chief Peevy's house and waited <strong>for</strong> him to return home .<br />
When Chief Peevy arrived, the delegation demanded to know why the police departmen"<br />
had escorted the Klan through the black community. Peevy responded sti$ly that his<br />
department routinely escorted funerals, and he considered the Klan parade as nothing<br />
different . The black men were not persuaded . Thomas recalls that they bluntly told<br />
Peevy that it would not happen again, "Because we won't allow that to happen again .<br />
We told him straight up that there would not ever be a passing through the community<br />
Gke that ." If it did happen again, "there was going to be some killing going on ." The<br />
Chief listened stoically in the yard . If he did not respond in word, he did in action ; Peevy<br />
never again provided an escort <strong>for</strong> the Klan. Z°<br />
The Klan convoy was only the beginning of the Klans well-planned night of<br />
terror . In addition to the convoy, the nightriders spread across Jackson Parish and dotted<br />
the landscape with $ score of blazing crosses. A frightening situation was also unfolding<br />
at the Court House . Under the cloak ofdarkness the civil rights protestors held at the<br />
Parish jail were besieged by a mob of approximately one-hundred armed whites . They<br />
had converged on the jail with their rifles and were threatening the prisoners. =`<br />
Local CORE activists hastily called Marvin Rich, CORE's attorney in New York,<br />
and apprised him of the dangerous mob scene at the Parish jail. Rich immediately<br />
contacted Lee White, a presidential assistant, and roused him from his slumber . White, in<br />
turn, contacted the Justice Department and arranged <strong>for</strong> the FBI to intervene . The mob<br />
Z°Thomas, ELII interview; Kirkpatrick, Hall interview ; Charles White, <strong>Hill</strong><br />
interview .<br />
2`The jail incident account draws on Rudwick and Meier, CORE, pp . 26'7-268 and<br />
Louisiana Weekly, 31 July 1964 .<br />
41
was soon dispersed and several armed black men surreptitiously stood guard the rest of<br />
the night from adjacent rooftops .<br />
The Klan parade and the mob scene at the Parish jail were the last straw. These<br />
were dark days <strong>for</strong> the civil rights movement across the South. In nearby Philadelphia,<br />
N>ississippi, the National Guard was combing the woods <strong>for</strong> Chaney, Goodman and<br />
Schwerner, the civil rights workers murdered by the Klan--with police complicity .<br />
Whatever trust the Jonesboro black community once had <strong>for</strong> the local police had been<br />
extinguished by the recent police harassment and collusion with the Klan .<br />
Moreover, the black police squad had been helpless against the mob action and<br />
the Klan caravan . Despite their ef<strong>for</strong>ts to the contrary, the squad had become the<br />
unwitting tool of the white power structure in neutralizing the protest movement .<br />
Kirkpatrick had managed to finesse several encounters, but he could not overcome<br />
problems posed by the contradictory role ofthe squad : in the final analysis, their<br />
authority was not derived from the black community, but from the white establishment<br />
that supported segregation . It was naive to assume that the custodians of white<br />
supremacy would willingly organize and arm their own grave diggers . The only reliable<br />
means ofdefense would be an independent self-defense organization, exclusively<br />
accountable to the black community . Power had to be seized, not bequeathed .<br />
The arrogant and insulting intrusion ofthe Klan in the black conununity had left<br />
many of the black men angry and impatient <strong>for</strong> action. The practical issue of protecting<br />
the commutity was paramount, but the Klansmen's caravan was more symbol than<br />
substance . For many ofthe black men, the issue was primarily honor, not safety .
Within a few days, a determined group of approximately twenty black men met at<br />
the Union hall to discuss <strong>for</strong>ming a self-defense group . The meeting brought together the<br />
two groups that had been active in armed defense : Kirkpatrick's black police squad and<br />
Thomas' in<strong>for</strong>mal vigilance group . The two groupings were virtually indistinguishable,<br />
with common goals and overlapping membership .u<br />
The black police had not been a complete failure . They had kept nightriders out<br />
of the black community and had probably deterred police brutality during arrests that<br />
they witnessed. The community understood Kirkpatrick's dilemma . Annie Johnson<br />
remembers Kirkpatrick as an activist who "could get something started if you listened to<br />
him," but also someone who played contradictory roles that sometimes placed him "in<br />
between ." "But he still took care of his people," says Johnson .<br />
Forming the squad had raised community expectations about their rights . That<br />
the city had acceded to the request <strong>for</strong> black police appeared to validate the black<br />
community's claim <strong>for</strong> the right of self-defense . Once conceded, a right is difficult to<br />
revoke . Whatever its limitations, the black police squad had consolidated a group of<br />
leaders committed to self-defense and trained them in police techniques and modern<br />
communications . In effect, the City had inadvertently provided blacks with an<br />
opportunity <strong>for</strong> training in leadership and self-defense . In their ef<strong>for</strong>t to subordinate the<br />
black community, the white power structure had helped sew the seeds of independence.<br />
The precise date of this first meeting is unclear. It probably occurred July 31,<br />
1964 . The account of this meeting is taken from, Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> Interview; White, <strong>Hill</strong><br />
interview ; Kirkpatrick, Hall interview ; and Harvey Johnson, interview by author, 14<br />
November 1993, Ionesboro, Louisiana, tape recording .<br />
'Annie PurneU Johnson, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
43
At the meeting following the Klan caravan, chaired by Kirkpatrick, the most<br />
pressing item on the agenda was arranging <strong>for</strong> increased patrols and coordinating<br />
assignments and communication. The Klan parade had caught the community<br />
unprepared . Protecting the <strong>Freedom</strong> House and the community would no longer be leR<br />
to an in<strong>for</strong>mal decision-making process . The primary outcome of the meeting was an<br />
organized self-defense goup to complement the black police . Unlike the black police,<br />
this group would be free to operate as it pleased and beholden to no government agency .<br />
Several developments would have to transpire be<strong>for</strong>e the organization crystallized, and it<br />
would be another six months be<strong>for</strong>e the group agreed on a name, the <strong>Deacons</strong> of Defense<br />
and Justice, and adopted a <strong>for</strong>mal leadership structure. Z°<br />
By the beginning of August, Jonesboro's black community had two security units<br />
working closely together : the black police squad and the new self-defense group . The<br />
black police squad continued to patrol the community as the new defense group tightened<br />
security measures, organizing sentries at the freedom house, escorting CORE workers as<br />
they registered voters, and patrolling the community as well . Volunteers had conducted<br />
similar activities in the past, but now security was better organized and more diligently<br />
attended to . The defense group posted guards at key community entrances and used CB<br />
radios to coordinate security . Earnest Thomas made regular guard duty assignments,<br />
recruiting from the shift workers at the paper mill .<br />
ZiSeveral published sources mistakenly cite this July 31, 1964 meeting as the<br />
official beginning ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice . The meeting was certainly the<br />
impetus <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong>, but the organization did nor develop a name, organizational<br />
identity and <strong>for</strong>mal structure until November 1964 . Throughout its life, the organization<br />
interchangeably used the name <strong>Deacons</strong> ofDefense and Justice and <strong>Deacons</strong><strong>for</strong> Defense<br />
and Justice . In this manuscript I will use the latter .
Armed with the new defense goup and a renewed sense of deternvnation, the<br />
community launched a second desegegation offensive in early August . Fred Brooks led<br />
a goup of five protestors in an assault on the Jonesboro Fublic library . The testers were<br />
nervous, given that the previous library protest had resulted in twenty-four arrests .<br />
Within minutes Sheriffs deputy James Van Beasley and another deputy arrived on the<br />
scene, demanding that the goup "move out ." When the protestors stood their Bound,<br />
Van Beasly returned with a menacing police dog, <strong>for</strong>cing the group to hastily retreat<br />
across the street where they stood quietly. Van Beady pursued the group across the<br />
street and ordered them to "scatter ." Kirkpatrick and Eland Harris arrived shortly and<br />
began negotiating with Brooks and Van Beasly . They were soon joined by Danny<br />
Mitchell . Unable to reach an ageement, the protestors, many of them children, returned<br />
to the library with the deputies in pursuit with snarling police dogs . Kirkpatrick stopped<br />
the deputies and warned them not to use the dogs on the children . The deputies hesitated .<br />
Finally, Van Beasly retreated with the dogs, but later arrested several ofthe protestors <strong>for</strong><br />
disturbing the peace.'<br />
Unlike previous encounters, this time Kirkpatrick and the black police stood firm<br />
against the white deputies at the library protest. As time passed, Kirkpatrick increasingly<br />
asserted his authority as a police officer, even using his police radio to chastise white<br />
officers <strong>for</strong> using racist language on the police band .<br />
The <strong>for</strong>mation ofthe defense goup reflected a profound change in the thinking of<br />
blacks in Jackson Parish . A new sense ofentitlement and a new combativeness were<br />
zs Will Palmer, Jr., "A Statement by Will Palmer Jr . ofJonesboro," 3 August<br />
1964, CORE(Jackson Parish), GMHP .<br />
4J
emerging in black consciousness . These changes were evident in men and women alike .<br />
Shortly after the defense unit <strong>for</strong>med, the Klan attempted to light a cross at the home of<br />
Reverend Y. D . Jackson in rural Jackson Parish . As soon as the torch touched the cross,<br />
shots rang out . It was Reverend Jackson's wife unloading her gun at the startled<br />
Klansmen . The frightened night riders beat a hasty retreat . 26<br />
The white robe and hood were losing their mystiq~ ~e in Jonesboro .<br />
Z6Reverend Y . D. Jackson, "Statement by Y . D . Jackson ." 4 August 1964,<br />
CORE(Jackson Parish), GMI~P .<br />
46
Chapter 3<br />
The Justice and Defense Club<br />
August brought a close to CORE's summer project . The task <strong>for</strong>ce was disbanded<br />
and all but one CORE activist returned home . Danny Mitchell left <strong>for</strong> his graduate<br />
studies at Syracuse University. Cathy Patterson headed <strong>for</strong> Florida A&M, and eventually<br />
transferred to Syracuse where she and Mitchell were married in 1965 . Those who<br />
decided to stay with CORE, like Bill Yates and Ruthie Wells, were dispersed around the<br />
state. The only organizer remaining in Jonesboro was the energetic young Fred Brooks .<br />
Brooks was a bright and eager organizer, but sustaining the Jonesboro campaign was a<br />
daunting task <strong>for</strong> the inexperienced teenager .<br />
By most standards, CORE's Sununer Project in Jonesboro had been a failure .<br />
Though voter registration had been increased, the task <strong>for</strong>ce had failed to desegregate the<br />
library, swimming pool, and almost all public accommodations . Neither had they<br />
succeeded in building a community organization that could survive CORE's departure .<br />
Thirty years later Cathy Patterson expressed her disappointment tersely : "I think we left<br />
Jonesboro a worse place."'<br />
'Catherine Patterson Mitchell, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.
Despite their failures in Jonesboro, CORE had inadvertently made one significant<br />
accomplishment : they had facilitated the <strong>for</strong>mation ofthe first <strong>for</strong>mally organized<br />
paramilitary organization in the modern civil rights movement. CORE's tolerance <strong>for</strong><br />
self-defense had contributed to the <strong>for</strong>mation ofJonesboro's permanent self-defense<br />
organization . Evea the CORE activists seemed to recognize that the defense group had<br />
taken on a life of its own . "The group protects the community from acts of violence by<br />
white terrorists," wrote Mitchell in his final report on Jonesboro. "It is a well organized<br />
group that is mobile," and has "acted as a preventative factor during the period when<br />
tension was the highest." But Mitchell reserved judgment on the prospects of the group<br />
"insofar as they have not been tested under fire ." -<br />
By September the task <strong>for</strong>ce was gone, leaving the daunting task of organizing to<br />
the irrepressible Fred Brooks . Brooks' chances <strong>for</strong> success were limited by his<br />
inexperience and an organizing strategy that evoked little enthusiasm . The community<br />
showed little interest in voter registration, though CORE had made voter registration a<br />
priority in anticipation of the fall presidential elections. Brooks followed instructions ~;<br />
his attempt to set up a Kindergarten and <strong>Freedom</strong> School, but the community displayed<br />
even less interest in these self-help projects . In truth, segregation and discrimination<br />
remained the paramount issue <strong>for</strong> community people . In Jonesboro, as in thousands of<br />
other small Southern towns, the Civil Rights Act had virtually ao effect on segregation .<br />
Why did CORE continue to pursue voter registration and self-help projects<br />
despite local indifference? The answer lies with the changing priorities ofthe national<br />
'-Mitchell, "White Paper ."<br />
=18
civil rights organizations . By the Fall of 1964, most of the mainstream civil rights groups<br />
had concluded that direct action protest against segregation had lost its effectiveness . The<br />
passage of the 1964 Civil Rights Act had made equal rights the law of the land, and many<br />
black leaders expected Washington to en<strong>for</strong>ce the Act as they turned their attention to<br />
broader issues of voting rights and poverty . The new civil rights strategy was shifting<br />
focus from civil to economic equality . And there was a greater emphasis on gaining<br />
political power tluough voting rights . The battle had moved from the picket line to the<br />
ballot box .<br />
The reasoning behind this strategic shift was understandable . In 1964 the eyes of<br />
the nation were focussed on the heated presidential race between Lyndon Johnson and<br />
conservative Barry Goldwater . Goldwater, the Republican nominee, had opposed the<br />
Civil Rights Act, and many black leaders believed that the presidential contest was<br />
critical to the future ofthe black movement. There was also widespread fear of a white<br />
backlash against the civil rights protests, a development that could only benefit the<br />
Republicans . With these problems weighing heavily on their minds, the national civil<br />
rights organizations subordinated local struggles to the new national agenda . Black<br />
salvation would now be found in the Oval Office--not in the streets. 3<br />
But resistance to desegregation in the South created a different strategic<br />
imperative <strong>for</strong> local movements, and Jonesboro was no exception. On October 9, 1964,<br />
Chief Peevy announced that the City of Jonesboro was dismantling the black police<br />
3For a characteristic African-American perspective on the civil rights movement<br />
in the Fall of 1964, see "Worst ofRacial Strife Over in South, Some Say," Jet, 15<br />
October 1964 .<br />
=19
squad . Peevy explained the decision by noting that with CORE's departure<br />
demonstrations had subsided and the black deputies were no longer needed . The black<br />
community responded to the announcement with a sense of betrayal and anger .<br />
Many in the black community believed that Peevy had capitulated to pressure<br />
from the white community . They knew that most whites disapproved ofblack men armed<br />
with guns and badges . The black police had not proved to be dependable minions ofthe<br />
Police Chief either, having refused to arrest and intimidate black protectors . Whites were<br />
also incensed when ICirkpatrick used his police powers to defy white racists and chastise<br />
white officers<br />
The black community responded quickly to Chief Peevy's announcement,<br />
circulating a petition and organizing a march demanding that the black police squad be<br />
reinstated . But their protests were to no avail . Kirkpatrick and his fellow deputies found<br />
themselves without an organization . With the squad disbanded, the community turned to<br />
the defense group <strong>for</strong> protection . Ironically, in an attempt to disarm the black community,<br />
the City fathers had, in effect, <strong>for</strong>ced blacks to arm themselves--and this time free of<br />
external constraints of law or government. An in<strong>for</strong>mant would later tell the FBI that the<br />
primary catalyst <strong>for</strong> the paramilitary group, the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justicc, was the<br />
city government's decision to disband the black polices<br />
But the <strong>Deacons</strong> did not crystallize overnight . There were <strong>for</strong>midable obstacles to<br />
converting the defense group into a viable organization . Foremost was complacency and<br />
°Kirkpatrick, Hall interview<br />
SLetterhead Memorandum, March 25, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> File, No . 157-2466-13 .<br />
0
individualism . Creating a new organization required ef<strong>for</strong>t. It upset old routines,<br />
disturbed the com<strong>for</strong>table anonymity of everyday life, and called on individuals to<br />
subordinate individual needs to community interest. Any new organization could upset<br />
the social and political arrangements in the community . Leaders had to be chosen,<br />
inspiring jealousy and factionalizing.<br />
And there were vexing political concerns . Never had a black community in the<br />
South <strong>for</strong>med an organization that clearly contradicted the orthodox creed of nonviolence .<br />
There was a hint of blasphemy in elevating self-defense to an organizational <strong>for</strong>m . Like<br />
sin, armed self-defense was practiced more than it was confessed. Through an unspoken<br />
agreement, black leaders had protected the movement's nonviolent image by<br />
downplaying armed self-defense activities . Better that protection be left to silent men in<br />
the shadows of the movement .<br />
But it was primarily the lack o<strong>for</strong>ganizational skills that prevented the defense<br />
group from becoming a viable organi2at~on . Most ofthe group's members were in the<br />
habit ofjoining organizations, not <strong>for</strong>ming them . The group had met throughout the<br />
summer but had failed to develop an organizational and funding structure capable of<br />
sustaining them through the inevitable hardships ofthe movement--a structure that would<br />
also provide the wherewithal to expand to other commutities . The men were<br />
understandably wary of collecting dues, electing officers, and taking responsibility <strong>for</strong> a<br />
new organization. They had the will but not the way. The solution to their dilemma<br />
would shortly arrive from Nyack, New York .<br />
Charlie Fenton descended from two generations of white policemen in Nyack,<br />
New York . An authoritarian upbringing only succeeded in exciting a rebellious spirit in<br />
of
the young Fenton . Iconoclastic, even as a teenager, by the time Fenton was sixteen-years-<br />
old he had converted to pacifism and dropped out of high school . To escape from home,<br />
Fenton joined the Navy on his seventeenth birthday in 1958 . He volunteered <strong>for</strong> the<br />
Hospital Corp, assuming he would be armed with nothing more dangerous than a bedpan .<br />
He had not anticipated that even corpsman were required to complete boot camp . When<br />
handed a rifle in bootcamp and ordered to fire, Fenton balked . His protest cost him<br />
fourteen days in the brig 6<br />
After four years service as a medical corpsman, Fenton was discharged from the<br />
Navy and found his way to San Francisco . The Bay area was a CORE stronghold, and<br />
Fenton soonjoined the organization and volunteered <strong>for</strong> CORE's 1964 summer project .<br />
The nonviolence training and the bay city's ccantagious political ferment had trans<strong>for</strong>med<br />
Fenton, in his own words, into a "a real gunz ~l~o revolutionary ."'<br />
Fenton completed a month oftraining at the CORE center in Plaquemine,<br />
Louisiana in May of 1964, and then was assigned to the Monroe project in the northern<br />
part of the state . His organising in Monroe was uneventful, and Fenton returned to San<br />
Francisco at the end ofthe summer when project funds ran out . By October he was eager<br />
to return to organizing in the South, and a call to CORE's Richard Haley in New Orleans<br />
brought an invitation to return to revive the Jonesboro project. By the first week of<br />
November, Fenton had joined Mike Lesser in Moaroe . With the Philadelphia,<br />
Mississippi murders fresh in their minds, Lesser and Fenton waited <strong>for</strong> nightfall to make<br />
6Charles Fenton, interview by author, 19 February 1965, Memphis, Tennessee,<br />
tape recording .<br />
'Ibid.
the journey to Jonesboro . They wove through back roads and soon pulled into the back<br />
yard of CORE's little <strong>Freedom</strong> House on Cedar street .<br />
Fenton was both startled and distressed by what he saw. "I got out of the car and<br />
realized that I was surrounded, absolutely surrounded in an armed camp . They were on<br />
top of the roofs, they were under the building . . . they were all around the buildings"<br />
The defense group had turned out in full <strong>for</strong>ce to welcome Fenton . Fenton perused the<br />
scene and slowly walked around the front ofthe building and onto the porch . The men<br />
warmly greeted him with shotguns and rifles in tow. Inside the door Fenton spied several<br />
additional rifles leaning again the wall . The effervescent Fred Brooks welcomed Fenton<br />
and Lesser and explained that the men had heard that Fenton was arriving and wanted to<br />
honor him by organizing the best protection that they could offer . "I was impressed," said<br />
Fenton, "but I was not very happy ." s<br />
Fenton wasted little time expressing his dissatisfaction. "Well, the very first night<br />
I was there I told them that I didn't like the guns in the house," recalls Fenton . Somewhat<br />
bewildered and dismayed, the men honored Fenton's request and slowly left the house .<br />
Some never returned . Fenton wondered if he had made the right decision. Years later he<br />
acknowledged the impertinence ofhis edict to the townspeople . "Here was this snotty<br />
nose white boy," Fenton recalled wistfully, "coming to the middle of their war and telling<br />
them that I didn't like their weapon ofchoice ." 9<br />
BIbid.<br />
9Ibid .<br />
~3
Within a few days Fenton realized that his strict adherence to pacifism was<br />
preventing him from organizing the local men . The men were not going to subject<br />
themselves to humiliation and physical abuse simply to con<strong>for</strong>m with Fenton's<br />
philosophy . And without the men, Fenton's front line protest troops would be women<br />
and children. The use of children on marches had stirred controversy during the<br />
Birmingham campaign of 1963, but the practice had become widely accepted in the<br />
movement by 1965 . Fenton deeply opposed the tactic . He was not willing to use children<br />
as shock troops against the police and Klan .<br />
Fenton's change of heart was also spurred on by local black leaders. During his<br />
first days in Jonesboro, several black leaders had pulled Fenton aside and implored him to<br />
be more flexible on the issue ofweapons . They told Fenton that the men felt naked<br />
without their guns and helpless to assist him "the way they want to be able to do ." Fenton<br />
was discovering that the black community had their own strategy, inchoate and expressed<br />
in action more than in word, but neveRheless, a strategy. They wanted the right to control<br />
their movement, even if it contradicted CORE's precepts . Fenton found himself in the<br />
dilemma ofchoosing between democracy and principle . He chose democracy .' °<br />
' °By 1964, many CORE activists, along with Fenton, were growing disenchanted<br />
with the nonviolent strategy's missionary style and CORE's inability to establish<br />
permanent community organizations. There was a movement inside the organization to<br />
shift to a more spontaneous strategy that allowed the community to determine the goals<br />
and tactics of local movements, even if it meant abandoning voter registration and<br />
desegregation activities . This spontanist strategy became official CORE policy by the<br />
January, 1965 . One document widely circulated in CORE clearly delineated this debate :<br />
"Who Decides," A reprint ofan article by Jimmy Garrett . ..from THE MOVEMENT,<br />
April 1965" box 1, file 9, Bogalusa Project Files, CORE Papers, [hereinafter cited as<br />
CORE(Bogalusa)], SHSW . See also, Ronnie Moore, "Discussion Drag on Louisiana<br />
Project," January, 1965, box 4, folder 2, CORE(SRO). Moore argues that, "Rather than<br />
institutors ofpre-selected programs, the staffshould present the full array of alternatives
During the civil rights movement, there were invariably two strategies competing<br />
<strong>for</strong> the loyalty of the community : an explicit, coherent nonviolent strategy imported by<br />
national organizations ; and an implicit, inchoate strategy revealed in the attitudes and<br />
behaviors of the community . The significance of the <strong>Deacons</strong> is that, <strong>for</strong> the first time, a<br />
local organization gave a coherent voice to an explicit alternative strategy-one that had<br />
previously been implied in the behavior ofthe community .<br />
Fenton did not abandon his initial goal to <strong>for</strong>m a nonviolent civic group in<br />
Jonesboro. Instead, he opted <strong>for</strong> a two-phase plan. In the first phase, he would help<br />
organize a <strong>for</strong>mal self-defense organization . This involved helping the local defense<br />
group structure its organization and clarify its goals and program . Once he had gained the<br />
confidence of the group, Fenton planned a second phase in which he would gently move<br />
the group toward nonviolent community organizing . Fenton hoped that the group would<br />
"figure out things they could do <strong>for</strong> me that didn't have to have a gun ." In the interim,<br />
Fenton would maintain the appearances of nonviolence by requesting that the men not<br />
carry their weapons inside the <strong>Freedom</strong> House."<br />
Fenton set out energetically to organize a "protective association" that combined<br />
activism with self-defense . He arranged a meeting at the Masonic hall where the men<br />
would "feel com<strong>for</strong>table with their guns ." The first meeting was on a crisp Tuesday night<br />
in November 1965 .' =<br />
and allow the community to shape its individual project:'<br />
"Fenton, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
I
The meeting proved chaotic and tense. The gathering brought together a broad<br />
range of people with conflicting strategies and political temperaments. There was, as<br />
always, the element of fear . Some in attendance were nervous that their names might be<br />
leaked to the police or the Klan . Others questioned if the community even needed a new<br />
organization; weren't things fine as they were? Others protested that "as soon as we call<br />
ourselves something, then somebody will say that we'll have to have dues ." And so it<br />
went. But there were strong advocates <strong>for</strong> action, like Thomas and Kirkpatrick . After<br />
some vacillating and substantial quibbling, the meeting finally turned the corner . "All of<br />
a sudden they were saying `well let's meet here again next week'," recalls Fenton . The<br />
enthusiasm <strong>for</strong> the self-defense group was infectious . They had crossed the Rubicon.' 3<br />
The meeting at the Masonic Hall represented a watershed in the history ofthe<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>. On that night the <strong>Deacons</strong> were born as political organization . Previously the<br />
defense group had only been a patrol, a secret auxiliary to a nonviolent organization .<br />
Now it was on its way to becoming an independent paramilitary organization with a<br />
distinct political agenda that challenged the nonviolent orthodoxy .<br />
Within the next few weeks the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice quickly took<br />
<strong>for</strong>m through a series ofTuesday night meetings at the Masonic hall . The new<br />
organization successfully coalesced the defense group and the veterans ofthe black<br />
police squad, combining into one organization all the men committed to armed self-<br />
defense .<br />
~6
The role ofwomen in the new organization was problematic . Traditionally,<br />
women were excluded from organized self-defense activities in the black community,<br />
although they defended themselves and their communities when necessary . Gender<br />
divisions also reflected the fact that the <strong>Deacons</strong> had borrowed many of its practices from<br />
black fraternal orders, including male exclusiveness . Typically, ifwomen participated in<br />
faternal orders, they did so as separate "auxiliaries ."<br />
No women had participated in the patrols in the summer of 1964 in Jonesboro,<br />
but now the defense group was becoming a community organization, and the same gender<br />
roles that had encourage male participation were limiting the role ofwomen . Several<br />
women, including Ruth Amos, did participate in meetings and play an active role in the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> . It was difficult to exclude activist women like Amos because, although self-<br />
defense was the male prerogative, civil rights activities were not considered the sole<br />
province of men . At one point the group attempted to reconcile the gender conflict by<br />
<strong>for</strong>ming a women's auxiliary titled the "Deaconettes," but the ef<strong>for</strong>t apparently never took<br />
root."<br />
It would be several weeks be<strong>for</strong>e the group <strong>for</strong>mally adopted the name "<strong>Deacons</strong><br />
<strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice," and the origins ofthe name remains enigmatic . Initially the<br />
group referred to itself as the "Jonesboro Legal and Defense Association," and the later,<br />
the "Justice and Defense Club" or "J & D Club:' In memos to the regional office Fenton<br />
euphemistically described the new group as a "home owners protective association ."<br />
There are several conflicting stories regarding the origin ofthe name . Several years after<br />
"Annie Purnell Johnson, <strong>Hill</strong> Interview .<br />
~7
the <strong>Deacons</strong> disbanded, Kirkpatrick published and recorded a song, '`<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense<br />
and Justice," that offered one explanation : `s<br />
Then what shall we call ourselves<br />
And still keep our right to be a man<br />
For the time has surely come <strong>for</strong> us<br />
To take our stand<br />
The man that asked the question threw out an idea :<br />
Let's call ourselves the <strong>Deacons</strong> and never have no fear,<br />
They will think we are from the church<br />
Which has never done much<br />
And gee, to our surprise it really worked.' 6<br />
I{.irkpatrick's lyrics suggest that the term "deacons" was selected to beguile local<br />
whites by portraying the organization as as innocent church group, an explanation he<br />
proffered in at least one interview as well. But there are other more convincing<br />
explanations . Harvey Johnson says the group chose the name because the role ofthe self-<br />
defense group was comparable to church deacons "who took care of business in the<br />
church." Cathy Patterson recalls that during the summer of 1964 the CORE staff began<br />
referring to their guards as the "deacons," because CORE had first worked with them in<br />
their capacity as church deacons . When a CORE staff person needed an escort, they<br />
would summon "the deacons," and the name stuck. The most plausible explanation is<br />
that the name was a portmanteau that evolved over a period oftime, combining the<br />
CORE stabs first appellation of"deacons" with the tentative name chosen in November<br />
' SFred Brooks to Ronnie Moore, "Field Report 11-1-64 to 11-15-64, Jonesboro,<br />
Louisiana," box 5, folder 4, CORE(SRO); Charles Fentoa and Willie Crreen, "Field<br />
Report ofJackson Parish," November, 1965, Jonesboro, Louisiana, box 1, folder 7,<br />
CORE(Jackson Parish) .<br />
' 6Frederick Douglas Kirkpatrick, Black Music (n .p . , 19$0), in authors possession .
1964 : "Justice and Defense Club ." By January 1965 the group had arrived at its<br />
permanent name "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice.""<br />
The name reflected the group's sincere desire to identify with traditionally<br />
respected symbols of authority, peace, and moral order in the black community . But by<br />
combining the terms "<strong>Deacons</strong>" and "Defense," the group's name also embodied a<br />
political paradox that plagued the <strong>Deacons</strong> throughout their organizational life : The<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> were attempting to wed two contradictory symbols, Christian pacifism and<br />
violence : they hoped to identify with Christianity while defying its teachings .' $<br />
"Kirkpatrick, Hall interview ; Harvey Johnson, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Catherine Patterson<br />
Mitchell, <strong>Hill</strong> interview. The fast recorded use ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>' name was in a January 6,<br />
1965 FBI memorandum based on an interview with Percy Lee Brad<strong>for</strong>d. See, SAC, New<br />
Orleans to Director, January 6, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> File, no . 157-2466-1 .<br />
' BKirkpatrick's tendency to revise the history ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> deserves some<br />
explanation . He, along with other <strong>Deacons</strong>, has never mentioned in interviews that the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> evolved from a volunteer police squad . Indeed, the Deacon's president, vice<br />
president and treasurer were all <strong>for</strong>mer members ofthe police squad . That Kirkpatrick<br />
diminished the influence ofthe church in the group's symbols represents a similar<br />
revisionism .<br />
Middle class civil rights activists have gone to great lengths to preserve the<br />
movements' memory--and occasionally myths . It is one reason that CORE, SNCC and<br />
other national organizations have received disproportionate scholarly attention . The<br />
subsequent public careers of many civil rights activists, along with their accessibility by<br />
historians, have allowed them to influence historical interpretations . Their memories<br />
shape how historians impose chronologies and causality onto a complex social<br />
movement, frequently discounting subtle yet important developments at the grassroots .<br />
With the exception of Kirkpatrick, none ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> made an ef<strong>for</strong>t to preserve<br />
the myth and memory ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> . Kirkpatrick's subsequent career as a folk-singer<br />
and minor celebrity activist helped him popularize the Deacon's in songs and interviews .<br />
But in the late 1960's, anti-police sentiment was at a fever pitch in the movement,<br />
especially among the Black Power and anti-war groups that Kirkpatrick associated with .<br />
Kirkpatrick, no doubt, was embarrassed to confess his service as a policeman who had<br />
en<strong>for</strong>ced segregation laws . And it would be difficult, if not impossible, <strong>for</strong> Kirkpatrick to<br />
elevate the <strong>Deacons</strong> to icon status if it were known that they originated as a police squad.<br />
Nor was it wise in the late sixties to identify the <strong>Deacons</strong> with conservative institutions<br />
like the Church . It was probably <strong>for</strong> these reasons that Kirkpatrick omitted the role of the<br />
~9
One ofthe first challenges <strong>for</strong> the group was raising funds . It was difficult <strong>for</strong><br />
an organization like the <strong>Deacons</strong> to survive without adequate funds to free up members<br />
<strong>for</strong> organizational duties . The defense group had been limited by lack of funds in the<br />
past ; the men used their own money to purchase weapons, ammunition, gasoline and<br />
communication equipment . ChiefPeevy had reclaimed the black police squad's radios in<br />
October, so the black community lacked even rudimentary communication equipment to<br />
monitor Klan and police activities . The <strong>Deacons</strong> took to fundraising with remarkable<br />
enthusiasm and success, raising $437 in the first two meetings--a substantial sum <strong>for</strong> a<br />
poor community . They used the funds to purchase two citizen band radios and four<br />
walkie-talkies .' 9<br />
The presence ofthe new militant organization was a boon to community morale .<br />
In contrast to the moribund voter registration campaign, CORE had discovered in the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> a strategy that captured the imagination and support ofthe community and, <strong>for</strong><br />
the first time, had successfiilly attracted men into the ranks of the movement. Fenton was<br />
ecstatic with the success, reporting back to CORE's regional office that the new<br />
organization was responsible <strong>for</strong> the increase in "community morale, programming, [and]<br />
fund raising." Fenton believed he had stumbled upon an organizing strategy that could<br />
revitalize CORE : Create hybrid organizations that combined self-defense with<br />
community organizing. He boasted to the New Orleans regional office that "the<br />
community of Joaesboro is probably the best organized Negro community" in Louisiana<br />
black police and the Church in the genealogy ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> .<br />
' 9Fred Brooks to Oretha Castle, Monroe, Louisiana, n . d ., box 3, folder 2,<br />
CORE(SRO) ; Brooks to Moore, 15 November 1964 .<br />
60
and recommended that CORE organize similar "home owners protective associations"<br />
around the state . The defense group was already energetically recruiting other Jackson<br />
Parish communities . "We have arranged <strong>for</strong> the Jonesboro association to invite a few<br />
leaders from the towns of Chatham, Eros, Hodge, North Hodge, [and) Quitman, to attend<br />
the meetings of the Jonesboro association, " reported Fenton and Green, "to first, show<br />
these invited guests how a community operates when they get organized and secondly,<br />
try to establish a home owners protective association, incorporating the entire parish ."'-°<br />
Fenton could take pride in the <strong>Deacons</strong>, <strong>for</strong> he had played a critical role in<br />
<strong>for</strong>ming the group . A middle-class, self-educated activist, Fenton had contributed<br />
organizational skills that helped trans<strong>for</strong>m the slipshod defense group into a <strong>for</strong>mal<br />
organization . Unlike many ofhis activist colleagues, Fenton placed his skills in the<br />
service ofthe community, allowing the community to determine the strategy and goals<br />
rather than imposing a predetermined strategy. Still, Fenton never abandoned his<br />
commitment to nonviolence while he worked with the <strong>Deacons</strong>. He continued to have<br />
faith that the <strong>Deacons</strong> would eventually gravitate toward nonviolent community<br />
organizing . A few months later Fenton told reporters that he hoped the <strong>Deacons</strong> would<br />
"become a civic organization bettering the community and eventually making the defense<br />
part of it obsolete."= '<br />
The new organization also improved its effectiveness by creating a <strong>for</strong>mal<br />
command structure ofelected officers . Percy Lee Brad<strong>for</strong>d, a mill worker and cab owner,<br />
=°Fenton and Green, "Field Report ."<br />
'- 'Oretha Castle, "Field Report, December 6, 1964 to December 12, 1964,"<br />
Monroe, box 4, folder 2, CORE(SRO) ; Wall Street Journal, 21 February 1965 .<br />
61
was elected the first president of the <strong>Deacons</strong> . One of the community's most respected<br />
leaders, Brad<strong>for</strong>d was a longtime member of the Voters League and had served on the<br />
black police squad . Henry Amos, another veteran of the civil rights movement and<br />
member ofthe police squad, was elected vice-president. Brad<strong>for</strong>d and Amos were<br />
representative of the social milieu that comprised the <strong>Deacons</strong> : mature, sober and<br />
industrious men, deeply religious and well respected in the community .<br />
Though the <strong>Deacons</strong> never adopted <strong>for</strong>mal membership riles, the group did<br />
adhere to strict recruiting standards . Members had to be United States citizens, at least<br />
twenty-one years old, preferably registered voters and of good moral character. In<br />
contrast to the Black Panthers, who recruited from the unemployed and criminal element,<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> screened members to exclude people with criminal tendencies and quick<br />
tempers . Individuals ofpoor reputation and troublemakers were not accepted .='<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> began meeting regularly on Tuesdays at the Masonic Hall .<br />
Attendance varied from twenty to more than seventy-five depending oa the level of<br />
activity . Membership was $10 and monthly dues were set at $2, and only dues-paying<br />
members could vote. The group adopted a standard meeting <strong>for</strong>mat using parliamentary<br />
procedure, with the reading ofminutes and committee reports. All major decisions were<br />
made democratically, while day-today patrolling and monitoring duties were primarily<br />
directed by Earnest Thomas.<br />
Meetings primarily focused on defense logistics . The daily routine of guarding<br />
the CORE workers and the community required decisions on assignments, patrol<br />
'=Investigative Report, August 17, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, no . 157-2466-41 .<br />
6?
schedules and equipment purchases . And although their mission was principally defense,<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> soon found that they were also the leading civil rights group in Jonesboro,<br />
and their meetings soon expanded to address political questions regarding the ongoing<br />
desegregation campaign .<br />
In addition to planning defense, the <strong>Deacons</strong>' meetings also provided moral<br />
support <strong>for</strong> new recruits . The meetings became a pulpit <strong>for</strong> the new creed of manhood, a<br />
crusade against passivity and fear. The <strong>Deacons</strong> implored, bullied, and shamed potential<br />
recruits into accepting their role as defenders of the black community . Charlie White, a<br />
young mill worker who had patrolled with the black police squad, recalls that the<br />
meetings were intended to instill pride and confidence in a new recruit, and "to get the<br />
man to stand up" <strong>for</strong> the community .=<br />
Like many of his fellow <strong>Deacons</strong>, Charlie White believed that the mere presence<br />
of black men in the movement deterred Klan and police terrorism . According to White,<br />
women and children alone on the protest lines actually encouraged Klan harassment .<br />
When black men joined the line, the Klan and police acted with restraint . "You had some<br />
people who respect you <strong>for</strong> being nonviolent," says White . "Then on the other side, you<br />
had your people that were trying to run over you because they could. That's where the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> come in. When the radicals from the other side came up, we had somebody to<br />
take care of them ." -°<br />
White, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
63
Chapter 4<br />
The Netiv York Times<br />
By the end ofNovember 1964, the Jonesboro <strong>Deacons</strong> were patrolling regularly,<br />
equipped with their new walkie talkies and CB radios . The impact of the <strong>Deacons</strong>, and<br />
Charlie Fenton's organizing skills, on the civil rights campaign became evident by<br />
December. During the previous summer, CORE would have been <strong>for</strong>tunate to attract<br />
twenty people to a desegregation protest. Yet on December 16, a massive display of 236<br />
protestors arrived at the Jonesboro library to integrate it . Overwhelmed, City officials<br />
quickly conceded and opened the library to blacks, but not be<strong>for</strong>e removing all tables and<br />
chairs to prevent "race mixing ." The absurd furniture embargo did not last long. The<br />
black movement in Jonesboro had scored its Srst major victory .'<br />
Buoyed by the successful library campaign, activists ushered in the New Year by<br />
renewing the campaign to desegregate public accommodations . On New Years Day, .<br />
1965, Deacon leader Earnest Thomas boldly led three other blacks into the M & D<br />
Restaurant . In June 1964 the black police squad had been <strong>for</strong>ced to scuttle the Srst<br />
integration attempt at the M & D. This time the outcome was quite different. With the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> leading the protest, the owner relented and grudgingly served the testers . More<br />
restaurant tests occurred on January 2 and 4, meeting with mixed success . One restaurant<br />
`Louisiana Weekly, 2 January 1965 .<br />
64
esisted integration by closing its doors and firing its black employees . A few restaurants<br />
would later circumvent desegregation laws by becoming nominally "private clubs ."=<br />
. The <strong>Deacons</strong> reached out to other communities to expand the desegregation<br />
campaign through a series of mass meetings . The mass meeting technique represented a<br />
rudimentary <strong>for</strong>m of working class control over the black middle class and redefined the<br />
political decision-making process in the black community . Prior to the civil rights<br />
movement, racial conflicts and issues were normally negotiated by intermediaries : middle<br />
class power brokers, the NAACP, or the Voters Leagues . During the civil rights<br />
movement, this decision-making process shifted to direct democracy through mass<br />
assemblies . In most small and medium-sized cities, the black community would<br />
assemble and make decisions by consensus, a process designed to not only build<br />
community support, but also to prevent middle class leaders from making secret<br />
agreements and compromises with the white power structure.<br />
The desegregation protests spread to nearby Hodge where Fenton and the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
led another mass meeting. The increased pace of desegregation activities was lifting<br />
morale, and on January 4 Jonesboro community leaders assembled to plan an expanded<br />
desegregation campaign . The presence ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> was clearly helping to overcome<br />
fear and passivity . In contrast to their past timorousness, three ministers came <strong>for</strong>ward to<br />
offer their churches <strong>for</strong> voter registration .<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> were attracting the attention of more than the community. Local<br />
police monitoring CB radio commutications soon learned ofthe existence ofthe<br />
="Chronology on Jonesboro," [1965] box five, folder 4, CORE(SRO) ; Louisiana<br />
Weekly, 9 January 1965 .<br />
6~
<strong>Deacons</strong>, but apparently made no ef<strong>for</strong>t to harass or intimidate the group in its early<br />
stages . The FBI first took notice ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> in early January 1965 . On January 6 the<br />
New Orleans FBI field office sent a coded radio message and letterhead memorandum to<br />
J. Edgar Hoover concerning the "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice." An unidentified<br />
source--probably local or state law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials--in<strong>for</strong>med the FBI that a self-<br />
defense unit had been <strong>for</strong>med in Jonesboro. The memo noted that, although the <strong>Deacons</strong>'<br />
purpose was "much the same as those of the Congress ofRacial Equality (CORE)," the<br />
new organization was "more militant than CORE and that it would be more inclined to<br />
use violence in dealing with any violent opposition encountered in civil rights matters ." 3<br />
The FBI had little difficulty obtaining detailed in<strong>for</strong>mation on the new group . In<br />
the years to follow, the FBI produced more than 1,500 pages of comprehensive and<br />
relatively accurate records on the <strong>Deacons</strong>' activities, largely through numerous<br />
in<strong>for</strong>mants inside the organization . It does not appear that any of the in<strong>for</strong>mants were<br />
exchanging in<strong>for</strong>mation <strong>for</strong> money or personal benefit . Most provided in<strong>for</strong>mation in the<br />
misguided beliefthat they were protecting the <strong>Deacons</strong> . In<strong>for</strong>mers thought they could<br />
protect the organization from criminal prosecution by convincing local and Federal<br />
authorities that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were a benign, nonviolent group . Some thought the FBI<br />
would use the in<strong>for</strong>mation to protect tire <strong>Deacons</strong> from local law en<strong>for</strong>cement and the<br />
Klan. Others were attempting to deflect the FBI's attention from the group by<br />
deliberately underestimating the size and influence ofthe organization . Despite this<br />
3SAC, New Orleans to Director, January 6, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, no . 157-2466-<br />
1 ; Letterhead Memorandum, "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice, Jonesboro, Louisiana,<br />
Percy Lee Brad<strong>for</strong>d, president," January 6, 1964, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, no . 157-2466-2 .<br />
66
dissembling, the in<strong>for</strong>mants became unwitting partners in the disruption ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> .<br />
Seemingly harmless in<strong>for</strong>mation about the Deacon's activities frequently allowed the FBI<br />
to identify members and conduct interviews intended to disrupt the group through<br />
intimidation . The FBI also used damaging in<strong>for</strong>mation about members to spread distrust<br />
and dissension in the group .°<br />
Percy Lee Brad<strong>for</strong>d, the <strong>Deacons</strong>' President, was one ofthose who cooperated<br />
with law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials in an ef<strong>for</strong>t to protect the organization . In an interview<br />
with an unidentified agent on January 5, 1965, Brad<strong>for</strong>d went to great lengths to<br />
emphasize that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were strictly defensive in nature and would use violence as a<br />
last resort and only ifattacked. Brad<strong>for</strong>d admitted to law en<strong>for</strong>cement agents that the I<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> had citizen band radios and walkie talkies and that they routinely patrolled the<br />
black community . He went so far as to provide names of officers and leaders in the new<br />
organization and estimated the Jonesboro group's size at between 250-300 members . s<br />
It is doubtful that there were three-hundred dues-paying members in the <strong>Deacons</strong> .<br />
To some degree Brad<strong>for</strong>d was using a tactic with the FBI that became standard practice<br />
<strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> ; exaggerating the organization's size in order to deter Klan and police<br />
harassment. The <strong>Deacons</strong>' leadership in other chapters continued this practice throughout<br />
`"There are over 1,500 pages ofdocuments in the FBI's file on the <strong>Deacons</strong> .<br />
Almost all ofthe in<strong>for</strong>mation was gleaned from interviews with Deacon members or civil<br />
rights activists close to the group. Several leaders, including Frederick Kirkpatrick, have<br />
acknowledged that they provided in<strong>for</strong>mation to the FBI in an ef<strong>for</strong>t to protect the group .<br />
See, Kirkpatrick, Hall interview.<br />
SLetterhead Memorandum, "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice, Jonesboro,<br />
Louisiana, Percy Lee Brad<strong>for</strong>d, president," January 6, 1964, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, no . 157-<br />
2466-2 .<br />
67<br />
i<br />
I<br />
i
the life of the organization . The only exception was when, in an ef<strong>for</strong>t to reduce pressure I,<br />
and attention from law en<strong>for</strong>cement, in<strong>for</strong>mants occasionally downplayed membership<br />
I<br />
a<br />
figures . j<br />
Still, the figure of three-hundred members was not altogether inaccurate . The<br />
definition of the tenor "membership" may vary depending on race, culture, and class .<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> employed a criterion <strong>for</strong> membership far different from that used by white<br />
middle class civic groups . In. black political organizations like the <strong>Deacons</strong>, one might be<br />
regarded as a member <strong>for</strong> simply expressing support <strong>for</strong> the organization's goals and<br />
activities . In the fluid world of social movements, an organization may have a small<br />
<strong>for</strong>mal membership, but be capable ofcommanding a large number of supporters . Such<br />
was the case ofthe SCLC, which never comprised more than a handful of members, but<br />
could mobilize thousands of supporters .<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> were evolving from a secret society into a political movement <strong>for</strong><br />
self-defense . As they grew, the terms of membership became more flexible and inclusive .<br />
Membership was not restricted to those who paid dues and carried a membership card .<br />
The term "Deacon" began to denote a new militant political outlook. At a certain point in<br />
the organizations' evolution, simple agreement with the group's principles was sufficient<br />
to be considered a member.6<br />
There were, in effect, four tiers of membership in the Jonesboro <strong>Deacons</strong>-a<br />
structure that would be reproduced in other chapters . The first tier, the "activist core,"<br />
6A similar phenomenon occurred with the Black Panther Party . By 1970 there<br />
were thousands of self-proclaimed Black Panthers scattered around the nation, most of<br />
whom had never <strong>for</strong>mallyjoined the Party, nor even met a Party member <strong>for</strong> that matter.<br />
68
comprised approximately twenty members who payed dues and regularly attended<br />
meetings and participated in patrols . The second tier, "active members" consisted of<br />
approximately one-hundred men who occasionally paid dues and attended meetings, but<br />
primarily participated in activities only when necessary. The third tier, the<br />
"rein<strong>for</strong>cements," comprised roughly 100-200 men who did not pay dues or attend<br />
meetings, but agreed with the <strong>Deacons</strong>' strategy and could be depended on to volunteer if<br />
needed . The fourth, and most amorphous tier, was the "self-proclaimed" <strong>Deacons</strong> : those<br />
individuals who, without official sanction, declared themselves <strong>Deacons</strong> . Though lacking<br />
<strong>for</strong>mal ties to the <strong>Deacons</strong>, this last group helped popularize the <strong>Deacons</strong> and their self-<br />
defense strategy. In Jonesboro, total dues-paying membership never exceeded 150, but an<br />
additional 100 "rein<strong>for</strong>cements" could be counted on to support and defend the<br />
organizations . So Brad<strong>for</strong>d's figure ofthree-hundred "members" was not far offthe<br />
mark .'<br />
Brad<strong>for</strong>d's January 5 interview with the FBI was the first time the <strong>Deacons</strong> were<br />
<strong>for</strong>ced to explain their philosophy to the outside world. After two months of life, the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> still had no written statement ofpurpose expressing the organization's<br />
philosophy, goals and strategy. The <strong>Deacons</strong> had been called into existence by the<br />
exigencies of survival : the Klan had left little time <strong>for</strong> contemplation and philosophy .<br />
Born out ofthe nonviolent movement, the <strong>Deacons</strong> now found themselves is the<br />
'White, <strong>Hill</strong> interview ; Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Bums, <strong>Hill</strong> interview. The<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> chapter <strong>for</strong>med in Port Gibson is representative ofthis latter trend. For<br />
membership estimates see, Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview and White, <strong>Hill</strong> interview. In some<br />
reports the FBI estimated total membership at 15,000--an obviously inflated number.<br />
69
awkward position of challenging the movement orthodoxy on nonviolence . Their initial<br />
ef<strong>for</strong>ts were halting, confused and frequently contradictory .<br />
In the FBI interview Brad<strong>for</strong>d emphasized that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were loyal to the<br />
precepts ofnonviolence. The <strong>Deacons</strong> were a peaceful organization, Brad<strong>for</strong>d stressed,<br />
with goals "much the same as those ofthe Congress of Racial Equality ." This was<br />
certainly true with regard to CORE's civil rights objectives . There was, of course, an<br />
important difference that did not escape the FBI's attention : unlike CORE, the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
were armed and prepared to kill in self-defense . Brad<strong>for</strong>d tried to distinguish the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> from vigilante organizations by emphasizing that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were committed<br />
to self-defense, as opposed to retaliatory violence . The challenge <strong>for</strong> Brad<strong>for</strong>d was to<br />
reconcile self-defense with nonviolence . It was a difficult, if not impossible, task .<br />
The FBI found Brad<strong>for</strong>d's demurral unconvincing . The New Orleans field office<br />
promptly reported to J . Edgar Hoover that the new organization was "more militant than<br />
CORE and that it would be more inclined to use violence in dealing with any violent<br />
opposition encountered in civil rights matters ." IfHoover was alarmed by this new<br />
armed organization, he showed no sign of it. The New Orleans memo to Washington<br />
went unanswered <strong>for</strong> the time being .$<br />
But the growing movement in Jonesboro did not escape the attention ofthe local<br />
Klan. Under the cloak of darkness on Sunday morning, January 17, 1965, arsonists struck<br />
at two Jackson Parish churches that had been active in the movement . Pleasant Grove<br />
Baptist Church, whose members included Deacon leader Henry Amos, was burned to the<br />
$SAC, New Orleans to Director, January 6, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no .<br />
157-2466-1 .<br />
70
ground . Bethany Baptist Church also went up in black smoke . Both churches were<br />
located in remote rural areas that were difficult <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> to protect . The churches<br />
continued to be a target <strong>for</strong> Klan terror, even after having been rebuilt . Bethany Baptist<br />
was burned a second time in November 1965, and both churches remained frequent<br />
targets of gun fire . 9<br />
In addition to Klan assaults, law en<strong>for</strong>cement agencies launched a harassment<br />
campaign against the <strong>Deacons</strong> . On January 30 Percy Lee Brad<strong>for</strong>d and Earnest Thomas<br />
had been patrolling during the day and keeping guard over a group of college students<br />
who were in town to help rebuild the burned churches. The two <strong>Deacons</strong> stopped around<br />
midnight at the Minute Spot Cafe . Thomas and Brad<strong>for</strong>d stood in front ofthe cafe<br />
talking. with Brad<strong>for</strong>d cradling a twelve-gauge shotgun . Police stopped and arrested<br />
Brad<strong>for</strong>d, charging him with displaying a dangerous weapon in a public place while under<br />
the influence ofan intoxicant.'°<br />
The white community was growing alarmed at this new organization . After living<br />
in fear <strong>for</strong> generations, black community morale was buoyed by the sight of defiant black<br />
men, armed and ready to die <strong>for</strong> their community . Much to the consternation of whites,<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> were everywhere : oa the rooftops ofthe <strong>Freedom</strong> House ; patrolling the<br />
streets with guns at their sides ; marching into segregated cafes . They had reclaimed their<br />
community and whites could no longer ignore their existence. The tables had turned .<br />
°"Chronology on Jonesboro" ; Annie Purnell Johnson, Elmo Jacobs and Fred<br />
Lewis, Interview by Miriam Feingold, ca . July 1966, Jonesboro, Louisiana, Miriam<br />
Feingold Papers, SHSW ; Louisiana Weekly, 4 December 1965 .<br />
' °Letterhead memo, "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice, Inc ., Jonesboro, Louisiana,<br />
March 26, 1965," FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, 157-2466-13 .<br />
71
Now the white community lived in fear. '`I know the whites, they were kind of afraid,<br />
those that had [black] womens working <strong>for</strong> them back then," remembers Annie Johnson .<br />
"A lot of them were afraid to come and get their day workers ." Some whites demanded<br />
that their domestic workers find their own way to work . Even the domestics were<br />
infected with the new militancy . Many refused to endure the racial insults that came with<br />
the job . "Then a lot of the women quit because of different things that was said in the<br />
homes while they was there . Remarks and things," says Johnson . "They quit.""<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> did not hesitate to play on the white fears . The group produced a<br />
leaflet threatening to kill anyone caught burning a cross in the black community, and then<br />
arranged to have black domestic workers leave the leaflets at the homes oftheir white<br />
employers . The <strong>Deacons</strong> "weren't violent people," says Johnson, "but I think the whites<br />
knew that whatever they said they were going to do, they did it ."' =<br />
Until February 1965, the <strong>Deacons</strong> had remained a clandestine organization .<br />
People in the community and law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials were aware of their presence, as<br />
was the handful ofCORE staffers around the state, but the <strong>Deacons</strong> had been content<br />
with relative anonymity. They still regarded themselves as merely the defense ann of<br />
public civil rights organizations . They had no reason to go public . Secrecy was the best<br />
way to protect their membership .<br />
But on February 21, 1965 the <strong>Deacons</strong> made the irreversible leap into public life .<br />
It was inevitable that the <strong>Deacons</strong> would attract national media attention. Violence<br />
"Annie Pumell Johnson, <strong>Hill</strong> Interview.<br />
' -Ibid . ; Kirkpatrick, Hall interview .<br />
7?
against the movement had been a mainstay of reporting in the South . Now the story was<br />
violence by the movement . Veteran reporters were familiar with in<strong>for</strong>mal self-defense<br />
groups in the South, but the <strong>Deacons</strong> were different . They were willing to openly extoll<br />
the virtues of armed self-defense . And by combining self-defense with political<br />
organizing, the group represented an intriguing new direction <strong>for</strong> the movement.<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong>' story broke prominently in the February 21, Sunday edition ofthe<br />
prestigious New York TTimes : the headline read "Armed Negroes Make Jonesboro Unusual<br />
Town ." The story, penned by Fred Powledge, described Jonesboro as an ordinary<br />
southern community, relatively untouched by civil rights legislation . He noted that<br />
"Whites Only" signs were still posted, several restaurants continued to segregate, and<br />
blacks "edge toward the curb when they pass a white man, and their heads bow ever so<br />
slightly ." But there was one thing different about this secluded redoubt ofsegregation :<br />
'`Here the Negroes . . . have organized themselves into a mutual protection association,"<br />
reported Powledge, "employing guns and shortwave radios."" I<br />
Powledge painted a sympathetic pomait ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>, focussing on the groups j<br />
defensive philosophy and portraying them as a stabilizing influence against white terror<br />
and police violence . There was no smell ofgunpowder and blood here . Indeed, his<br />
description ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> as a "mutual protection association," a term Fenton favored,<br />
suggested something closer to a genteel civic club . Powledge highlighted the <strong>Deacons</strong>'<br />
' 3New York Times, 21 February 1965 .<br />
73<br />
i<br />
i
strong religious convictions, citing Brad<strong>for</strong>d's description of the group's philosophy :<br />
"We pray a lot, but we stay alert too.""<br />
Powledge let the story unfold through the voices of the <strong>Deacons</strong> themselves . The<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> told Powledge that they had deterred, rather than provoked, violence . Their<br />
presence had already "kept Jonesboro from developing into a civil rights battleground"<br />
and had discouraged police from brutalizing activists . The group had even rescued a<br />
young black man from a possible lynching after he was accused of kissing a white girl .<br />
Powledge estimated the organizations' size as "between 45 and 150 active members ."<br />
SheriffNewt Loe declined to comment on the group, telling the New York Times that if<br />
he had anything to say, he would "give it to my newspaper boys around here ." "We got<br />
boys in Shreveport and Monroe who see things the way we do," said the Sheriff' s<br />
Charlie Fenton was quoted at length in the article, attempting to justify CORE's<br />
cooperation with a group that advocated armed self-defense . Powledge observed that<br />
Fenton was accompanied by his personal body guard, Elmo Jacobs, a <strong>for</strong>mer platoon<br />
army sergeant and member of the <strong>Deacons</strong>. Fenton defended CORE's policy by pointing<br />
out that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were not allowed to bring guns to the <strong>Freedom</strong> House . He praised<br />
the organization as representing the kind of"indigenous organization"that CORE desired<br />
to work with . Fenton wanted to reduce his role as group leader and become more of a<br />
"liaison and helper." "Hopefiilly I will be able to help them translate their power into<br />
political terms as this thing progresses," said Fenton. He expressed hope that the<br />
"Ibid .<br />
i s ~id .
<strong>Deacons</strong> would "become a civic organization bettering the community and eventually<br />
making the defense part of it obsolete ." Powledge expanded on this theme, noting that<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> wanted to extend "their ef<strong>for</strong>ts to include other things--negotiating with<br />
downtown, becoming more active in Jonesboro politics<br />
."' 6<br />
The Times article was an auspicious debut <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Powledge had not<br />
suggested that the <strong>Deacons</strong> might escalate violence, nor had he highlighted the obvious<br />
strategic differences between the <strong>Deacons</strong> and CORE . Future media coverage would not<br />
be as charitable .<br />
In the Times article the <strong>Deacons</strong> had convincingly portrayed themselves as I<br />
moderates adapting to the realities of white terrorism . They posed no threat to the<br />
established organizations and strategies . They downplayed strategic differences with rest<br />
of the movement, claiming that they had the same objective : equality and justice . But<br />
underneath the carefully crafted image lurked a profound difference. The national civil<br />
rights organizations sought equality by shaming the nation with nonviolence . The<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> sought equality through <strong>for</strong>ce and self-reliance .<br />
The Times story accelerated the Deacon's trans<strong>for</strong>mation from a vigilance group<br />
into a political challenge to movement orthodoxy . Self-defense groups had existed long<br />
be<strong>for</strong>e the <strong>Deacons</strong>, but they were in<strong>for</strong>mal and outside the broader political movement . II<br />
For the most part, the earlier self-defense groups viewed themselves as apolitical,<br />
pragmatic auxiliaries to political organizations . They advanced no strategic vision<br />
~6Ibid .<br />
~s<br />
i<br />
I<br />
I
distinct from the existing civil rights organizations . Moreover, they avoided publicity in<br />
order to protect themselves-- and to preserve the myth ofa nonviolent movement .<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> broke from this tradition in two important ways . First, they fused<br />
self-defense with politics, thrusting themselves in the public arena to compete <strong>for</strong> the<br />
political loyalty of movement activists . Rather than the apolitical arm of another<br />
organization, the <strong>Deacons</strong> were both a self-defense organization and a community-based<br />
civil rights organization . Once the <strong>Deacons</strong> gave a public organizational <strong>for</strong>m to self-<br />
defense, they were <strong>for</strong>ced to defend their actions by <strong>for</strong>mulating a coherent philosophy of<br />
self-defense . This eventually led them to elevate self-defense to a strategic political<br />
alternative to the nonviolent strategy . The <strong>Deacons</strong> trans<strong>for</strong>med self-defense from the<br />
movement's "family secret" into a strategic challenge to nonviolence . They gave explicit<br />
politics to what had been implicit in the movement's behavior.<br />
Second, the <strong>Deacons</strong> had developed an autonomous, locally controlled<br />
organization that could survive without external leadership and funding from national<br />
pacifist organizations . The <strong>Deacons</strong>' staff, funding, and political legitimacy flowed from<br />
the local community . They flourished or foundered depending on the level of local<br />
support. In contrast, projects sponsored and funded by national civil rights organizations<br />
could continue to operate, regardless ofcommunity support--or even despite local<br />
opposition .<br />
In truth, CORE, along with SNCC and most other national civil rights groups,<br />
failed to create community organizations that could survive the departure ofthe national<br />
staff. Their local projects invariably employed models and strategies that depended on<br />
middle class skills and resources . While this led to short term successes, it also left local<br />
76
communities dependent on external resources . Public relations, fund raising, paid staffs,<br />
and legal strategies all required skills and resources that normally did not exist among<br />
poor, uneducated blacks in the rural South . Invariably, when the middle class leaders<br />
departed, the organizations they created fell apart .<br />
In contrast, the <strong>Deacons</strong>, adopted an organizational model and strategy that built<br />
on existing skills and resources . Most local men were com<strong>for</strong>table with the <strong>Deacons</strong>'<br />
paramilitary structure, modeled after familiar organizational <strong>for</strong>ms, e.g., the military,<br />
fraternal orders, and social and benevolent clubs . Nor were the group's goals and<br />
strategies an exotic import; black men had been defending themselves and their<br />
communities <strong>for</strong> decades . The <strong>Deacons</strong> had created an organization that comported with<br />
the community's political goals and resources . It did not require members to write press<br />
releases, develop legal strategies, and negotiate with the Justice Department .<br />
More significantly, the <strong>Deacons</strong>' program of violence ensured their independence<br />
from mainstream civil rights groups and the black middle class in general . Since liberals<br />
and pacifists opposed armed self-defense, the command ofself-defense organizations fell<br />
to indigenous black leaders . This organizational independence from middle class groups<br />
permitted the <strong>Deacons</strong> to develop an independent political strategy that more accurately<br />
expressed the interests ofthe black working class . Indeed, the <strong>Deacons</strong> were the only<br />
national civil rights organization in the South completely controlled by black workers ."<br />
"Viewing violence as primarily an ethical question obscures its political function .<br />
Goerges Sorel argued that violence guaranteed the political independence ofthe working<br />
class by driving away middle class leaders who favored orderly and lawful re<strong>for</strong>m . While<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> were far from a revolutionary vanguard, their advocacy ofviolence<br />
accomplished the same ends--it kept white liberals and middle class blacks at a distance .<br />
See, Georges Sorel, T . E. Hulme and Jay Roth, trans., Reflections on Violence (New<br />
77
The February 21 New York Time article had overlooked these unique features of<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong>, although subsequent coverage did recognize their significance . February 21<br />
emerged as a watershed date <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> by ushering in three simultaneous events,<br />
each event connected to the other like three heavenly bodies aligning to cast a portentous<br />
shadow . First, February 21 was the day that the Times article made the <strong>Deacons</strong> a<br />
political reality by thrusting them into the national arena . It was, <strong>for</strong> political purposes,<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong>' birth date . Second, February 21 was the day that the Jonesboro <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
established a chapter in Bogalusa, Louisiana, taking the first step toward converting the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> from a local group into a national organization . And third, February 21 was the<br />
day Malcom X was gunned down in a hail of gunfire in Harlem . The <strong>for</strong>emost critic of<br />
nonviolence had fallen victim to enemies willing to silence him "by any means<br />
necessary."<br />
On the day that Malcom X, the old paladin, had perished, the <strong>Deacons</strong> were born .<br />
Violence had been both executioner and midwife .<br />
Malcom X's death also led to the <strong>Deacons</strong>' first contact with the revolutionary<br />
wing ofthe black movement. Earnest Thomas was troubled by the news that rival Black<br />
Muslims had murdered Malcom, and he persuaded the <strong>Deacons</strong> to underwrite an<br />
investigative trip to New York. Thomas arrived inNew York a few days after the<br />
assassination and immediately plunged into the heady world ofNew York's black<br />
nationalist community . Unlike Jonesboro, the black activists in New York were heavily<br />
influenced by revolutionary nationalist ideologies and Marxist-Leninist doctrine. Black<br />
York : Free Press, 1950), pp . 99, 105, 132 .<br />
78
nationalism in New York comprised many currents . There were black Muslims,<br />
representing a mixture of black separatism and religious fundamentalism . There were<br />
Garveyites, the ideological heirs of Marcus Garvey, the black nationalist who electrified<br />
the black community in the 1920s . There were community and labor activists who<br />
identified with the pro-Soviet Communist Party USA and dissident communists who had<br />
left the CPUSA <strong>for</strong> the revolutionism ofthe Maoist sects . And there were young veterans<br />
ofthe civil rights movement who had been radicalized by their experience in the South<br />
and deeply impressed by the revolutionary nationalism ofthe emerging third world<br />
African nations .' $<br />
Thomas drank is this exciting underworld which, <strong>for</strong> the most part, viewed the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> as brethren in the armed revolution. One introduction led to another, and<br />
Thomas was quickly exposed to a wide variety ofcritics ofnonviolence and re<strong>for</strong>mism.<br />
He met with Malcom X's colleagues and later with Leroi Jones (Amiri Baraka), the<br />
nationalist writer and playwright . The New York trip set a leftward political course <strong>for</strong><br />
Thomas, though he was still far from a Marxist convert.<br />
Be<strong>for</strong>e returning to Jonesboro Thomas also made contact with members of the<br />
Revolutionary Action Movement (RAM) . Headed by Max Stan<strong>for</strong>d, RAM was a small<br />
national network ofMarxist-Leninist black revolutionaries . RAM had been stalwart<br />
supporters of Robert F . Williams, the NAACP Leader who had fled to Cuba to avoid<br />
criminal charges arising from his organizing in Monroe, North Carolina . In coming<br />
' TThomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
79<br />
Ii i
months, the connection between the <strong>Deacons</strong> and RAM would spark considerable<br />
attention from the FBI .<br />
Thomas returned to Jonesboro and within a few weeks the <strong>Deacons</strong> had<br />
consolidated their organizational strength by legally incorporating the group . On March<br />
8, James Sharp, a black attorney from Monroe, filed incorporation papers with the<br />
Louisiana Secretary of State . To incorporate a paramilitary black organization in<br />
Louisiana during the height ofthe civil rights movement required a good measure of<br />
subterfuge . The Articles of Incorporation buried the <strong>Deacons</strong>' true objectives beneath<br />
several paragraphs ofplatitudes about good citizenship and democracy . The stated<br />
purpose of the new organization was to "instruct, train, teach and educate Citizens of the<br />
United States and especially minority groups in the fundamental principles ofthe<br />
republican <strong>for</strong>m ofgovernment and our democratic way of life . . :''9<br />
of the land, voting rights, citizenship, economic security, and the "effective use of their<br />
spending power ." Not until the end ofthe purpose section does the document mention<br />
defense:<br />
In addition the <strong>Deacons</strong> would educate persons about the constitution and the laws<br />
This corporation has <strong>for</strong> its further purpose, and is dedicated to, the defense of the<br />
civil rights, property rights and personal rights of said people and will defend said<br />
rights by any and all honorable and legal means to the end thatjustice may be<br />
obtained .'-°<br />
` 9The Article of Incorporation are contained in SAC, New Orleans to Director, I~<br />
March 26, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-13 . j<br />
80
Mention of weapons and armed self-defense was conveniently omitted . Because<br />
of the subterfuge, the charter represented the first time that any Southern state officially<br />
recognized a black armed organization.='<br />
The charter did not change the attitude of law en<strong>for</strong>cement toward the <strong>Deacons</strong>,<br />
but it did cant' a special significance <strong>for</strong> the group's members . The Deacon regarded the<br />
charter as their own Magna Carts. They were convinced that it gave official sanction to<br />
their right to bear arms in defense of their community, and that it prohibited law<br />
en<strong>for</strong>cement officials from interfering with the exercise ofthis right . It is curious that the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> revered a legal document that did little more than delineate rights they had<br />
already appropriated . Perhaps the imprimatur of the Secretary of State was impressive to<br />
men unaccustomed to civil law .<br />
Regardless, most of the Deacon leaders were convinced that the charter<br />
legitimated their right to bear arms in self-defense . "In the charter, we had to protect<br />
people's property and churches and so <strong>for</strong>th," points out James Stokes, a Deacon leader in<br />
Natchez. "And there<strong>for</strong>e couldn't no one take our weapons from us . So we could carry<br />
our weapons just like the local law en<strong>for</strong>cement officers carry theirs ." If a policeman<br />
'-'The charter listed Brad<strong>for</strong>d as president, Thomas as vice-president, Charlie<br />
White as secretary sad Cosetta Jackson as treasurer. Elmo Jacobs was listed as a member<br />
of the Board of Directors . Thomas' listing as vice-president introduced the first public<br />
note of discord in the organization. Henry Amos had served as vice-president since the<br />
group's <strong>for</strong>mation in November 1964, but Thomas managed to substitute his name <strong>for</strong><br />
vice-president in the incorporation papers--a maneuver that angered Brad<strong>for</strong>d and other<br />
officers and led to a permanent riR between Thomas and the rest of the Jonesboro<br />
chapter . ThereaRer, Thomas identified himself as the <strong>Deacons</strong>' national vice-president .<br />
See, Harvey Johnson, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
81
stopped Stokes and objected to his carrying a weapon, Stokes would simply produce the<br />
charter like a talisman, and insist that it entitled him to carry a weapon .'=<br />
It was to their benefit that the <strong>Deacons</strong> did not base their claim to rights on the<br />
constitution . Historically there have been two sources of rights : rights by custom, i .e .,<br />
natural rights, and rights granted by the state, i .e ., constitutional rights . Rather than<br />
legitimate their claim on the fourth amendment, the <strong>Deacons</strong> invoked a higher authority ;<br />
the ancient natural right of a man to defend hearth and home against attack . This was a<br />
right that whites found more difficult to dispute--even under segregation laws .<br />
When the Jonesboro town council once criticized the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> turning to<br />
weapons, the <strong>Deacons</strong> defended themselves by arguing that they were living by the sa~-ne<br />
customs as white men . "We weren't trying to do nothing out of order, says Harvey<br />
Johnson, a Deacon leader. "But we told them, it's just like if someone is going to come<br />
over and run us out of our house . We not going to put up with that ."'~<br />
The method that the <strong>Deacons</strong> used to legitimate their claim to rights helped ensure<br />
the group's autonomy . Rights can be beneficently conferred from above or <strong>for</strong>cibly<br />
seized from below . Conferred rights are vulnerable, since they can be rescinded as easily<br />
as they were granted . Ultimately, conferred rights are dependent on the good will ofthe<br />
dominant group that grants them.<br />
In contrast, rights seized by <strong>for</strong>ce, either by simply assuming these rights or by<br />
coercing concessions from the dominant group, are far more secure . They do not depend<br />
'-'James Stokes, interview by author, 12 November 1993, Natchez, Mississippi,<br />
tape recording.<br />
'Harvey Johnson, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
8?
on the good will ofthe dominant group, but rather on the capacity of the recipients to<br />
defend their gains . By asserting their natural right to armed defense, the <strong>Deacons</strong> secured<br />
a right they could only lose by their own weakness or lack ofwill.<br />
The nonviolent strategy had made Southern blacks dependent on the sympathy of<br />
a fickle white conscience in the North : blacks became the prisoners ofwhite guilt . Unlike<br />
natural rights which were divinely-mandated and inalienable, black rights were awarded<br />
on the condition of acceptable behavior . If black behavior ceased to meet with white<br />
approbation, then whites would withdraw the entitlement . As subsequent events<br />
demonstrated, it was not long be<strong>for</strong>e whites revoked their largesse .<br />
By the end of the sixties, most whites had lost sympathy <strong>for</strong> the black movement,<br />
angered by the increasing militancy, riots, and claims <strong>for</strong> compensatory policies such as<br />
poverty programs and affirmative action . The retreat from equality began with the Nixon<br />
administration and continued through four Republican administrations . There was little<br />
resistance to this retreat, other than judicial challenges . These proved ineffective since<br />
the limits ofblack exploitation were, <strong>for</strong> the most part, set in the streets--not the courts .<br />
There was another dimension to the <strong>Deacons</strong> that distinguished them from<br />
mainstream nonviolent groups . Equality required more than equal civil rights : it also<br />
required equal manhood and honor. To be treated as equals, blacks had to be perceived<br />
as possessing the same manhood qualities taken <strong>for</strong> granted by whites . The process by<br />
which they gained their rights was as important as the rights themselves . If blacks wanted<br />
whites to regard them as their equals, they would have to win their rights in the same<br />
manner as their European counterparts--with <strong>for</strong>ce . Iii<br />
This the <strong>Deacons</strong> were prepared to do . I<br />
s~
Chapter 5<br />
Not Selma<br />
While the February New York Times article sparked some national interest in the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> and the Jonesboro campaign, by March 1965 the nations' attention had turned to<br />
the unfolding drama in Sehna. In the same month, the <strong>Deacons</strong>' focus shifted from<br />
desegregation to education . Emboldened by their successes, young blacks in Jonesboro<br />
and throughout the South began to redefine equal rights as consumers and beneficiaries<br />
ofgovernment services . A,s they did, they frequently locked horns with middle class<br />
members ofthe black community who propped up the status quo system .<br />
Frederick Kirkpatrick was not only a leader in the <strong>Deacons</strong>; but also a popular<br />
physical education teacher at the Jackson High School . Kirkpatrick carried his activism<br />
into the school by quietly discussing school conditions with students and encouraging<br />
them to participate in the desegregation protests . Some of his teaching colleagues<br />
rebuked him <strong>for</strong> his actions and he soon received a visit by the black Principal ofJackson<br />
High School . Was it true that he had encouraged students to join in the protests, asked<br />
the principal? Kirkpatrick admitted that he had. The principal ended the inquiry without<br />
taking action against Kirkpatrick, but news ofthe confrontation soon spread though the<br />
school, fueling rumors that Kirkpatrick might be fired .
Kirkpatrick's problem with his black colleagues at Jackson High Schoo! was not<br />
unusual . In small Southern communities, many black teachers and school administrators<br />
were indifferent, if not hostile, toward the civil rights movement . There were many<br />
causes <strong>for</strong> this conservatism, including economic dependency and fear . Black teachers<br />
and school administrators served at the pleasure of white school boards--boards that did<br />
not hesitate to fire teachers whom they suspected of supporting the civil rights<br />
movement . The few teachers who did openly support the movement were often<br />
pressured to moderate their activities by colleagues who feared that activism would bring<br />
reprisals against the entire faculty . Black administrators were not above occasionally<br />
discharging an activist teacher in order save their own careers . `<br />
But fear and economic insecurity were not the only obstacles to teacher activism.<br />
Many teachers thought that civil rights protests undermined self-reliance and violated the<br />
creed ofself-help . These educators were the political legacies of Booker T . Washington,<br />
the nineteenth-century African American re<strong>for</strong>mer who popularized a strategy ofblack<br />
uplift that subordinated social protest to self-help . Teachers who subscribed to<br />
Washington's views often disdained protest as vulgar and declasse. Their high status and<br />
relative agluence had bred elitism, individualism, and complacency .<br />
It is understandable that black professionals who had overcome the constraints of<br />
Jim Crow would have little sympathy <strong>for</strong> a movement that represented segregation as an<br />
insurmountable barrier to personal progress . Success fostered an individualistic<br />
`The accomodationism of teachers and ministers is a recurring theme in<br />
interviews with the <strong>Deacons</strong>. See Harvey Johnson, <strong>Hill</strong> interview ; Kirkpatrick, Hall<br />
interview; and David Lee Whatley, interview by author, 5 May 1993, Baton Rouge,<br />
Louisiana, tape recording .<br />
85
mentality among teachers that was occasionally mixed with a genteel condescension<br />
toward the working class "rabble" and street element that comprised the protest front<br />
lines .<br />
T'he class divisions within the black community were clear to the activists who<br />
felt the sting of condescension . "I think they [teachers] feel that th~y've gone through too<br />
much to get the job . . . to throw it away behind a movement," said David Whatley, a<br />
militant from Ferriday . "If they would get fired or something, then they would come .<br />
But as long as things were going well <strong>for</strong> them, they made no waves . They would sit in<br />
their fine homes, and they would drive their new cars . They didn't feel that they could<br />
dirty their reputations ." Z<br />
School Boards expected the black principals to maintain discipline among<br />
students and prevent civil rights protest in the schools, a task that grew increasingly<br />
difficult as students became more active in the movement outside the schools . At<br />
Jackson High School, students were coming to resent the servile way that some<br />
administrators accommodated segregationist <strong>for</strong>ces . They were impatient with the slow<br />
pace of change and primed <strong>for</strong> battle . The opportunity soon presented itself.<br />
The Selma civil rights campaign was in full swing, and on Sunday, March 7,<br />
hundreds offamilies in Jonesboro sat in stunned silence as they watched news accounts<br />
of the violent police attack on marchers on the Edmund Pettus bridge in Selma. With the<br />
images ofthe Selma attack still swimming in their heads, students returned to Jackson<br />
High School the next morning, Monday, March 8, 1965 . As the day progressed, the<br />
rumor spread that administrators planned to fire Kirkpatrick . Kirkpatrick added<br />
=Whatley, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
86
momentum to the rumor by discussing his possible termination with students in his<br />
physical education class . "Kirk kind ofjust put a little icing on it and stirred it up a little<br />
bit," recalls Annie Johnson, a Jackson High student at the time. The rumored firing<br />
infuriated the students . "The kids went nuts over it," says Johnson . 3<br />
As the rumor swept through the school, the students abandoned their classrooms<br />
and flooded into the halls in a "walkout ." Local authorities would later, with<br />
characteristic hyperbole, describe the protest as a "riot ." In truth, the protest never<br />
reached the fever pitch of a full scale revolt, but students did enjoy a few unsupervised<br />
hours of protest flavored by juvenile mischief.<br />
Commandeering the school halls, the student vented their anger on symbols of<br />
both white authority and black collaboration . At one point students broke the glass<br />
frames ofwall photographs ofthe black principal, J . R . Washington, the white Jackson<br />
Parish School Superintendent, J. D . Koonce . Another group hurled bottles and smashed<br />
the glass on the school trophy case . By noon, school authorities realized that they had<br />
lost control of the situation and decided to cancel classes <strong>for</strong> the balance ofthe day .j<br />
The walkout quickly expanded its scope beyond the issue of Kirkpatrick's<br />
rumored discharge. Within days, the protest developed into a full-fledged school boycott,<br />
demanding parity with whites and black control ofthe schools . The Kirkpatrick incident<br />
became a catalyst <strong>for</strong> all the grievances of a lifetime . Significantly, while protests<br />
elsewhere sought equality through school integration, the Jackson High School boycott<br />
3Annie Purnell Johnson, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
yOretha Castle, "Activities in Jonesboro, Louisiana," n.d ., box 5, folder 4,<br />
CORE(SRO) ; Annie Purnell Johnson, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
s~
sought equality through control of black institutions--by demanding equal resources<br />
within a segregated system . This unusual strategy was the natural product ofthe<br />
protest's structure . Similar to the <strong>Deacons</strong>, the Jackson High protest was an autonomous<br />
movement, initiated and controlled by the community--not outside activists . This<br />
independence allowed the students' real concerns and aspirations to surface, leading to an<br />
organic strategy that emphasized nationalist goals of community control and power rather<br />
than accommodation and integration .<br />
Because the school boycott was overshadowed by the Selma campaign, it<br />
un<strong>for</strong>tunately remains one of the unheralded milestones ofthe civil rights movement .<br />
The importance ofthe Jackson High boycott Ges in the fact that it was the first Southern<br />
school boycott organized by black students in the twentieth century. Self-organized and<br />
independent, the boycott marked a qualitative leap in militancy and political<br />
sophistication by young blacks in the rural South . Young blacks were no longer content<br />
to surrender their destiny to the beneficence ofwhite courts and schools . They sensed<br />
that salvation lay not with whites, but with demanding parity and local control .<br />
Lamentably, integration's subsequent failure to improve black education appears to have<br />
confirmed this pessimistic appraisal ofwhite altruism .<br />
With assistance from Fenton and other adults, the students drew up a list of<br />
demands to present to the school board . Most of the demands centered on longstanding<br />
grievances ofunequal distribution of resources . The students demanded physical<br />
improvements at the School, including rebuilding the school gymnasium, adding an<br />
auditorium, and expanding the "woefully inadequate" library which consisted of a<br />
ss
handful of books and rows ofempty shelves . A demand to integrate the schools was<br />
added--almost as an afterthought S<br />
Control of the curriculum was an issue as well . Jackson High offered black<br />
students only two vocational tracks : agriculture or domestic service. Rebelling against a<br />
future of toil in sweltering fields and kitchens, the students insisted that the<br />
administration expand the curriculum to include training in auto mechanics and clerical<br />
skills . A surprising demand <strong>for</strong> "Negro history" courses" reflected the growing<br />
nationalist consciousness of students .6<br />
The students organized the boycott with imagination and verve . The <strong>Deacons</strong>'<br />
direct link to the protest was through Glenn Johnson, student body president and the<br />
leader of the student protest group . Glenn Johnson was the son of Harvey Johnson, a<br />
founding member of the <strong>Deacons</strong>. Every day, hundreds ofstudents would rise be<strong>for</strong>e<br />
dawn, prepare <strong>for</strong> school and rush to catch the school bus . But instead of attending class,<br />
they armed themselves with picket signs and freedom songs and jubilantly protested<br />
outside the school throughout the day . When they were not picketing, they organized<br />
spirited marches through the community to the school board offices.<br />
They frequently directed their ire at "Uncle Toms" in the black community,<br />
marching on black churches that refused to host civil rights activities . At the end of the<br />
SAlvin Adams, "3-week School Boycott gets results in Jonesboro, La.," Jet, 15<br />
April 1965, pp . 46-48 .<br />
6Ibid .<br />
89
day, tired but in high spirits, the students filed back into the buses and returned home .<br />
The picket line had become their school .'<br />
The halls ofJackson ugh were virtually deserted by the third day of the boycott<br />
Police, the Sheriff's department and segregationists joined <strong>for</strong>ces in a futile attempt to<br />
destroy the boycott . They harassed students and arrested several picketers, including<br />
Charlie Fenton . But the students had the momentum . On Wednesday, March 12, the<br />
School Board relents and closed Jackson High in an ef<strong>for</strong>t to deter further protests .<br />
They announced that the school would reopen the following Monday, at which time all<br />
students would be expected to returne e<br />
The school closure was a stunning setback <strong>for</strong> Jonesboro's white community .<br />
They watched in humiliation as power slipped into the hands ofdefiant black children .<br />
Three hundred years ofuncontested supremacy was coming to an end . Desperate and<br />
angry, the white power elite quickly decided to take drastic action to suppress the<br />
rebellion .<br />
On Thursday, March 13, the students returned to picket and march. As they<br />
marched around the school singing and chanting boisterously, an ominous drama was<br />
unfolding beyond their vision . Several car loads of police quietly converged on the<br />
perimeter of the black community . The police quickly set up road blocks at all the<br />
principal arteries into the "black quarters," effectively cordoning off the students from<br />
the rest ofthe community . They were assisted by an odd group of volunteers, identified<br />
'Ibid .<br />
eCastle, "Activities in Jonesboro, Louisiana," ; Mike Lesser, "Report on<br />
Jonesboro-Bogalusa Project," March 1965, box 5, folder 5, CORE(SRO) .
only as the "Citizens Highway Patrol ." The motley group was little more than a<br />
deputized posse of white segregationists and Klan members recruited especially <strong>for</strong> the<br />
cordon . The sentries refused to explain the reason <strong>for</strong> the cordon, saying only that they<br />
were containing a "disturbance" at the high school . 9<br />
The cordon caught the <strong>Deacons</strong> by surprise . They had not expected the city to<br />
resort to such extreme measures . Thomas and a small group of<strong>Deacons</strong> immediately<br />
began to drive from street to street, frantically searching <strong>for</strong> an unguarded entry point .<br />
They feared that the police and Klan were planning violent reprisals against the children<br />
at the school, and their apprehension intensified when they learned that the deputies had<br />
even refused entry to white journalists and officials of the Justice Department.<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong>' fears were justified . Inside the cordon, the police and posse were<br />
acting with impunity . One member of the <strong>Deacons</strong>, Olin "Satch" Satcher, was already<br />
inside the black quarters when the roadblocks were erected. Satcher stepped out of his<br />
car and coolly began to walk toward his house, with a .22 caliber rifle cradled in his arm .<br />
Within seconds a squad of police and posse members descended on Satcher. One of the j<br />
posse, an elected member ofthe Jackson Parish School Board, violently assaulted j<br />
Satcher, clubbing him on the head . After the beating, police arrested Satcher and shuttled<br />
him offto the parish jail and subsequently fired from his teaching position .<br />
Sealed off from the students and the black community, Thomas vainly searched<br />
<strong>for</strong> an opening in the cordon . He tried a back road, but was stopped by a deputy and two<br />
'On this incident, see, Lesser, "Report on Jonesboro" ; Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview;<br />
"Statement by Ernest [sic] Thomas regarding events ofMarch 11, 1965," box 5, folder 4,<br />
CORE(SRO) ; and Jet, 15 April 1965 .<br />
91
posse members . Thomas recognized one of the posse as a Klansman who had<br />
participated in the Klan parade through the black community the previous summer .<br />
One of the posse members commanded Thomas to leave, punctuating his order by<br />
cocking his gun in Thomas' face . Thomas reluctantly retreated, but soon renewed his<br />
ef<strong>for</strong>ts, this time accompanied by two <strong>Deacons</strong>, Henry Amos and Charles White . The<br />
group probed the perimeter of the cordoned area, but still found all entries guarded . They<br />
decided to return to the barricade where Thomas had been turned back and threatened<br />
earlier. The car toad of<strong>Deacons</strong> stopped their car fifty feet from the barricade .<br />
As White watched, Thomas and Amos left the car and boldly marched toward the<br />
makeshift sentinels . Thomas was mad . He was not accustomed to having a gun shoved<br />
in his face, and he was determined to set things straight with the sheriffs deputy who had<br />
watched the incident . Thomas confronted the deputy and demanded to know what they<br />
were doing : "You got the road blocked," Thomas protested bitterly, "you can't get in and<br />
out of town." The deputy ignored Thomas . Thomas then asked the deputy <strong>for</strong> his name .<br />
Why did he want to know? asked the deputy testily. Because he intended to file a<br />
complaint, replied Thomas, to find out who deputized the posse member who had cocked<br />
a gun in his face at the roadblock earlier in the day .' °<br />
Thomas's audacity sent the deputy into a fit ofrage . "Who in the god damn hell<br />
do you think you are?" bellowed the Deputy. Thomas sensed the situation was reeling<br />
out ofcontrol, so he turned away and began to calmly walk back to the car with Amos.<br />
' °"Statement by Ernest [sic] Thomas regarding events ofMarch 1 1, 1965 ."<br />
q~
He had taken only a few steps when he heard the ominous click of a shotgun cocking .<br />
"Get them up," growled the voice from behind ."<br />
The deputies handcuffed Thomas so tightly that the steel cut into his flesh . As<br />
one deputy twisted the cuffs, the other two slapped Thomas and jabbed at his ribs and<br />
kidneys with a shotgun and nightstick . One deputy stuck a pistol in Thomas' nose and<br />
taunted him . "Smell out of this, you black son-of-a-bitch," barked the deputy . "You<br />
better not move or fll have hair flying everywhere ."`Z<br />
Thomas knew his life hung in the balance . Glancing up, he spied a knot of black<br />
bystanders atop a nearby hill who were watching the scene unfold . Thomas pointed out<br />
the witnesses to the deputy . The deputy surveyed the situation then holstered his gur. and<br />
loosened the painful handcuffs .<br />
The deputies searched the <strong>Deacons</strong>' car and found two pistols and a shotgun .<br />
Thomas was arrested <strong>for</strong> threatening a police offcer and resisting arrest. One officer<br />
claimed that Thomas has threatened him with a pen ktife, which they seized as evidence .<br />
Later that night Deputy Van Beasly came by Thomas' cell . "God damn it," gloated Van<br />
Beasly, "you won't be at that meeting tonight to raise hell ." Thomas was held<br />
incommunicado <strong>for</strong> twenty-four hours, refused water, and finally released on bond the<br />
next day . The charges were eventually dropped, but one small injustice still bothered<br />
Thomas thirty years later . "I never did get that pen knife back," says Thomas wistfully."<br />
"Ibid .<br />
` 2Ibid .<br />
` ;Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
93
By the end of the day, several <strong>Deacons</strong> were in jail as a result of their ef<strong>for</strong>ts to<br />
reach the students inside the cordon . But their sacrifices had been rewarded; by acting<br />
quickly and resolutely, they had averted major bloodshed . Their presence, armed and<br />
willing to challenge the police, had deterred the police and vigilantes from attacking the<br />
defenseless students . The day's events must have confounded the police and the Klan,<br />
accustomed to black men obsequiously deferring . The police could ignore the Civil<br />
Rights Act and all the blustering threats ofen<strong>for</strong>cement from the North, but the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
were something very different . New laws changed nothing in Jonesboro ; but new men<br />
were changing everything .<br />
Just how dramatically life had changed was born out by a harrowing<br />
confrontation that occurred a few days later. The students had gathered <strong>for</strong> their daily<br />
picket at the high school on a bracingly cold March morni~~g . As soon as they arrived,<br />
the police on the scene summoned a fire truck . When the fire truck arrived, the police<br />
ordered the firemen to prepare to open their hoses on the children in the wintery cold .<br />
Fred Brooks, the young CORE activist, had accompanied the children to the picket line,<br />
and now watched helplessly as the crisis deepened . Suddenly a car pulled in front of the<br />
school . The doors swung open and four <strong>Deacons</strong>, led by Thomas, got out ofthe car and<br />
began calmly loading their shotguns in plain view of the police . Brooks and the students<br />
watched the grim <strong>Deacons</strong> in stunned silence."<br />
The firemen walked toward the students with their hoses in tow. Then Brooks<br />
heard one ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> say, "Here he comes. O.K., get ready." Brooks was speechless .<br />
"The account of this incident is taken from Frederick Brooks, 10 August 1993,<br />
interview by author, East Orange, New Jersey; and Annie Purnell Johnson, <strong>Hill</strong><br />
interview .<br />
94
"I was scared as shit . It looked like all hell was going to break loose ." Brooks<br />
remembers one ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> giving the order : "When you see the first water, we gonna<br />
open up on them . We gonna open up on all of them." The <strong>Deacons</strong> then turned to the<br />
police and issued a deadly serious ultimatum. "Ifyou turn that water hose on those kids,<br />
there's going to be some blood out here today<br />
."` s<br />
The police warily eyed the four <strong>Deacons</strong> standing be<strong>for</strong>e them, shotguns loaded<br />
and readied, faces grim and determined . Prudence prevailed. The police retreated and<br />
ordered the fire trucks to roll up the hoses and depart .<br />
Although it never found its way into the history of the civil rights movement, the<br />
Jonesboro showdown was a watershed in the emergence ofthe new black political<br />
consciousness in the South . For the first time in the twentieth century, a paramilitary<br />
black organization had successfully used weapons to defend a lawfirl protest against an<br />
attack by law en<strong>for</strong>cement . Previously, the <strong>Deacons</strong> had claimed only the right to self-<br />
defense against vigilante violence . Now they asserted their right to defend themselves<br />
against government harassment and violence as well, and .n the course of doing so,<br />
redefined power relationships in the South .<br />
The day the <strong>Deacons</strong> drew their weapons against the Jonesboro police, the black<br />
movement ceased to depend on its persecutors <strong>for</strong> protection . The movement no longer<br />
entnrsted its rights to the very people who had denied them their birthright . Instead, the<br />
black movement <strong>for</strong>cibly seized the rights that the government had proffered but not<br />
en<strong>for</strong>ced . By doing so, the <strong>Deacons</strong> shifted power and authority from the government to<br />
the people. The authority to en<strong>for</strong>ce rights now rested in the hearts ofblack people .<br />
~s ~id .<br />
95
Instead of the idle threats of a distant federal government, the Jonesboro police now<br />
faced thousands ofblack people who considered themselves as Judge, jury, and, if<br />
necessary, executioner <strong>for</strong> their own rights.<br />
The Jackson High school boycott suddenly came to national attention on Sunday<br />
morning, March 14 . In an appearance on ABC's "Issues and Answers" news program,<br />
CORE Director James Farmer unexpectedly announced that the civil rights campaigns in<br />
Jonesboro and Bogalusa would be the focus of CORE's next "major project ." Farmer<br />
recited a litany ofcrimes committed against the black movement in the two Louisiana<br />
mill towns; church burnings, police brutality, and unbridled Klan violence . Farmer<br />
expressed frustration with the mounting problem of local police brutality against the<br />
movement as it sought en<strong>for</strong>cement of the Civil Rights Act . His comments reflected the<br />
growing consensus among national civil rights organizations that new federal legislation<br />
was needed to en<strong>for</strong>ce the act . Calling <strong>for</strong> a "federal presence" in Jonesboro and<br />
Bogalusa, Farmer demanded that federal marshals and FBI agents make "on-the-spot"<br />
arrests of local police engaged in brutality or rights violations . `6<br />
Despite the national attention, Jonesboro's establishment continued its campaign<br />
of harassment against the <strong>Deacons</strong> . On Monday the school board abruptly fired Olin<br />
Satcher, the Deacon who had been arrested and brutalised during the March 13 siege .<br />
The same day police stopped another Deacon, Cossetta Jackson, and arrested him <strong>for</strong><br />
` 6 Times-Piccryune, 15 March 1965 .<br />
96
possessing two concealed weapons . Police even resorted to confiscating Jackson's CB<br />
radio in an ef<strong>for</strong>t to disrupt the <strong>Deacons</strong>' communication system."<br />
The police harassment began to concern Federal authorities as they observed from<br />
the sidelines . They speculated that the arrests and intimidation might provoke the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> to retaliate violently . On March 15 a federal government official who had<br />
visited Jonesboro warned the FBI that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were planning some "drastic action"<br />
in the next two or three days . On March 19, FBI headquarters acted on the CRS warning<br />
with a memorandum instructing the New Orleans FBI field offce to interview members<br />
of the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Headquarters characterized the <strong>Deacons</strong> as "allegedly <strong>for</strong>med to provide<br />
assistance to Negroes being arrested" and cautioned the New Orleans office that the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> were "alleged to be arming ." Hoover's hostility to civil rights organizations<br />
was well known, and in this context, the New Orleans field office no doubt understood<br />
the "interview" order as FBI code instructing them to intimidate members and<br />
discourage participation . ` 8<br />
The FBI commenced a series ofinterviews in Jonesboro and Bogalusa clearly<br />
intended to intimidate the <strong>Deacons</strong> by suggesting that the FBI was investigating the<br />
group <strong>for</strong> illegal weapons . Typical ofthese interviews was the night Harvey Johnson was<br />
accosted by two FBI agents in front of his~house . as he returned from a protest march .<br />
The agents asked little about the purpose ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>, nor did they raise questions<br />
" "Statement by Cossetta Jackson on arrest ofMarch 15, 1965, box 5, folder 4,<br />
CORE(SRO) ; Castle, "Activities in Jonesboro, Louisiana."<br />
` gGale to Belmont, Memorandum, March 15, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, no . 157-<br />
2466-10 ; Director to SAC, New Orleans, March 19, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, not<br />
recorded . I am indebted to retired FBI agent Clif<strong>for</strong>d Anderson <strong>for</strong> his assistance in<br />
interpreting the <strong>Deacons</strong>' FBI files . ',<br />
97
about Klan violence or police harassment . Instead, Johnson recalls, they grilled him<br />
about illegal weapons . One agent told Johnson, "They tell me you fellows got all kinds<br />
of machine guns and hand grenades ." Puzzled, Johnson asked where the FBI got their<br />
in<strong>for</strong>mation . They told him in a "Chicago magazine." Johnson waxed indignant, telling<br />
the agent, "Where you got that from is just a whole lot ofjunk<br />
."` 9<br />
Police and FBI harassment of the <strong>Deacons</strong> had little effect on the boycott . By the<br />
second week the resolve of the town fathers was begiraung to weaken as they grew<br />
anxious that CORE would make Jonesboro another Selma. For all their bluster and<br />
fervid segregationist talk, the town leaders were businessr~ien, and segregation was<br />
becoming bad <strong>for</strong> business .<br />
Superintendent Koonce began to search <strong>for</strong> avenues of compromise . Koonce<br />
offered to arrange a meeting at the school board office between the school board and<br />
fifteen parent representatives . But the proposal excluded students from the negotiation<br />
process, and the parents and students rejected the request . They countered with a<br />
proposal that the Board meet with all the parents and students at Jackson High School on<br />
March 22 . The board, desperate but still prideful, agreed to meet with both parents and<br />
students, but now demanded that the boycott be canceled and the children returned to<br />
school be<strong>for</strong>e they would negotiate .<br />
A mass meeting was called to consider the proposal to end the boycott and<br />
hundreds from Jonesboro's black community spilled into Johnson's Skating Rink to<br />
debate the issue . Some in attendance favored the compromise, but the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
aggressively opposed the compromise at the meeting . Thomas and Brad<strong>for</strong>d argued that<br />
19Harvey Johnson, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
98
the boycott was the black community's only bargaining chip . If the boycott was<br />
canceled, the Board would have no reason to agree to the demands. In the end, the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> prevailed and the community voted to continue the boycott.°<br />
The boycott debate marked another turning point <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> . By taking<br />
leadership in a political dispute, the organization had further trans<strong>for</strong>med itself from an<br />
apolitical defense group into a paramilitary poetical organization. Only six months prior,<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> were merely a handfirl of volunteer policeman protecting their community,<br />
making no pretense at politics . Now they were becoming a militant political <strong>for</strong>ce in the<br />
community .<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> had fused paramilitary activities with poetical agitation, thus<br />
beginning the process of making self-defense into a poetical issue itself. Charlie<br />
Fenton's attempt to convert the <strong>Deacons</strong> into peaceful re<strong>for</strong>mers had backfired . Rather<br />
than weaning the men from armed activism, Fenton had helped create a group that was<br />
giving organisational <strong>for</strong>m and political coherence to armed defense . The <strong>Deacons</strong>'<br />
actions during the school boycott were the modest beginnings ofa major political<br />
challenge to the orthodoxy of nonviolence in the coming years .<br />
On March 22 Jonesboro was buzzing with excitement over James Farmer's visit .<br />
Farmer addressed an overIIow crowd of 600 people at Johnson's Skating Rink . Speaking j<br />
with inspired tones in his stentorian basso, Farmer reaffirmed CORE's plan to make<br />
Jonesboro a major campaign in the summer, likening the campaign to another "Selma." j<br />
I<br />
Farmer said he was "shocked by the fact that in Jonesboro there is practically no<br />
2°Castle, "Activities in Jonesboro" ; SAC, New Orleans to Director, March 26,<br />
1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-13 .<br />
99
compliance with the public accommodations section of the Civil Rights Act nearly a year<br />
after passage ." He pointed out that four restaurants and the library were still segregated,<br />
and blacks still were denied the simple dignity of home mail delivery . Farmer promised<br />
to increase staff<strong>for</strong> the summer project ofvoter registration and public accommodation<br />
tests, and finished his oration to thunderous applause . 2 '<br />
Farmer departed <strong>for</strong> New York and the <strong>Deacons</strong> returned to expanding their<br />
political role in the community . On March 24, Earnest Thomas boldly led a delegation of<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> into the mayor's office and presented the city with a list of demands <strong>for</strong><br />
community improvements. The demands centered on an equitable distribution of<br />
government services and resources . The <strong>Deacons</strong> called <strong>for</strong> a clean-up drive to rid the<br />
black community of trash and refuse; they wanted the city to erect street signs and<br />
provide house numbers throughout the black section; and, echoing Farmer's complaint,<br />
they demanded postal service <strong>for</strong> the black community .=<br />
The lack ofpostal service was particularly irksome to the community . For years<br />
blacks had endured the indignity and inconvenience of receiving their mail at Jonesboro's<br />
post offce, rather than the home delivery that was provided to whites . The simple act of<br />
mailing a letter was a needless hardship . To send or receive a letter, blacks had to travel<br />
to the post office, often incurring the added expense of cab fare. Thomas was fed up with<br />
the practice, and made his resolve clear to the mayor. "I told him that he was going to<br />
have mail delivery in thirty days . If not, we were going to file in federal court." The<br />
-'Bogalusa Daily News, 23, 25 March 1965 .<br />
'Account ofthis meeting is drawn from, SAC, New Orleans to Director, March<br />
26, 1965 ; Castle, "Activities in Jonesboro" ; and Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
too
mayor demurred, claiming that there could be no mail service until the streets and houses<br />
were properly named and numbered . "He said it will take longer than thirty days because<br />
we got to get street signs and we got to order those." Thomas offered a solution : the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> would provide makeshift street signs and house numbers . The mayor agreed<br />
and mail delivery started promptly ."<br />
The list of demands signaled the boycott's radical expansion beyond its original<br />
boundaries . What had begun as a protest against the rumored discharge of a teacher, ha~1<br />
expanded to broader educational issues, and now to community-based issues . Day by<br />
day the realm ofthe possible expanded in the imagination of the black community .<br />
Despite the drama ofthe Jackson High School boycott, national attention<br />
remained focussed on the Selma campaign led by King and SNCC . On Thursday, March<br />
25, a car load of Klansmen pulled alongside the car of Viola Liuzzo, a white Detroit<br />
housewife and mother of five, who was ferrying marchers from Montgomery to Selma .<br />
She was accompanied by Leroy Motors, a young black activist . As the car came flush<br />
with Liuzzo's, the Klansmen unleashed a volley ofgunSre. Liuzzo was killed instantly . ;<br />
The nation was stunned and deeply moved by the murder. The Klan had picked<br />
the wrong target . In the past their victims had been strangers to most white Northerners .<br />
Jimmie Lee Jackson was another anonymous young black man . Schwerner and Goodman<br />
were "beatnik" Jewish kids from New York . But Viola Liuzzo was one oftheir own.<br />
Her photograph showed a beautiful young woman with a kind, innocent smile . She was a<br />
teacher, a housewife, and a loving mother: in short, the idealized image ofwhite<br />
~Ibid .<br />
ZjSobel, Civi! Rights, p. 304.<br />
101<br />
i<br />
i
femininity . That the Civil Rights Act was now the law ofthe land made the attack appear<br />
even more senseless and barbaric . President Lyndon Johnson appeared on television the<br />
next day, with Hoover at his side, and angrily declared war on the Klan . Johnson called<br />
<strong>for</strong> new legislation to curb the Klan and a special congressional investigation into the<br />
terrorist organization . Liuzzo's murder also propelled <strong>for</strong>ward the FBI's secret<br />
COINZ'ELPRO project to disrupt the Klan . 25<br />
The Klan had always harbored a special hatred <strong>for</strong> white Yankee civil rights<br />
activists . Black activists were a Klan target as well, but the presences of white<br />
northerners particularly enraged the hooded nightriders. Liuzzo joined the ranks ofa host<br />
ofwhite martyrs : Schwerner, Goodman, Jonathan, and Reeb . In Jonesboro, white<br />
activists had also been singled out <strong>for</strong> particularly brutal treatment and threats . In the<br />
summer of 1964 the Klan had appeared at the <strong>Freedom</strong> House and demanded the "two<br />
white guys." On another occasion a black man reported to CORE that Police Chief<br />
Peevy had asked him to "beat those white fellows to the point of death" in an attempt to<br />
drive them out of the community. 26<br />
In the wake of the Selma tragedy, news arrived that Cathy Patterson and Danny<br />
Mitchell had organized a group of white Syracuse University student volunteers to travel<br />
to Jonesboro during spring break. The students planned to help rebuild the two churches<br />
destroyed by arson in January. The <strong>Deacons</strong> were justifiably anxious <strong>for</strong> their safety .<br />
zs TimesPicayune, 27 March 1965 .<br />
=6Daniel Mitchell, "A Special Report on Jonesboro, Louisiana," July 1964, box 1,<br />
folder 10, CORE(Jackson Parish) .<br />
102
The Jonesboro community was not deterred by the Selma violence, and instead<br />
<strong>for</strong>ged ahead toward a militant confrontation with the school board. The Day following<br />
Liuzzo's murder an impressive phalanx of375 students and parents marched to the<br />
school board office in the brisk cold ofthe early dawn. In a daring maneuver, the<br />
protectors surrounded the offce and blocked all entrances . The tactic succeeded in<br />
closing the School Board offices ; even Superintendent Koonce never bothered to report<br />
to work . '-'<br />
Governor John McKeithen knew trouble when he saw it . With the violence in<br />
Selma, the Liuzzo murder, and now the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the militant Jonesboro and Bogalusa<br />
campaigns, McKeithen hastened to preempt a bloody battle in Louisiana. On Friday,<br />
March 26, as black students and parents surrounded the Jackson Parish School Board<br />
offce, Governor McKeithen announced that he would travel to Jonesboro the following<br />
day to attempt to negotiate an end to the two-week-old boycott ofJackson High School .<br />
McKeithen's announcement marked a turning point in Southern history . No<br />
Governor be<strong>for</strong>e him had intervened to negotiate a settlement in a civil rights protest in<br />
the Deep South . Most Southern Governors were pragmatic men and ardent<br />
segregationists ; they had no desire to commit political suicide by en<strong>for</strong>cing the new civil<br />
rights laws . They either neglected or openly obstructed en<strong>for</strong>cement of the new taws . It<br />
was politically advantageous <strong>for</strong> the Governors to allow a crisis to escalate out ofcontrol,<br />
<strong>for</strong>cing the federal government to intervene. The tactic relieved them from en<strong>for</strong>cing the<br />
desegregation laws while increasing the Governors' popularity as stalwart defenders of<br />
Southern honor . McKeithen departed from this script . "I've been told that I couldn't win<br />
='Castle, "Activities in Jonesboro ."<br />
log
e-election if I came here," said McKeithen in Jonesboro during the negotiations . "But<br />
I'm here today. The only person who stands to get hurt here today is your governor." -s<br />
We can only speculate as to McKeithen's motives <strong>for</strong> assuming the role ofracial<br />
moderate . McKeithen would later say that his actions reflected the growing moderation<br />
of his own white constituents . It was true that throughout the South white moderates<br />
were increasingly asserting their opinion in support ofdetente with the civil rights<br />
movement . The causes <strong>for</strong> this change in attitude were complex . Some whites were<br />
sincerely troubled by the moral dimension of segregation ; others were simply<br />
embarrassed by the unflattering media attention focussed on the South . Still others<br />
feared that Southern intransigence and violence were damaging the South's economy by<br />
hindering its ability to attract new industry.<br />
Politicians like McKeithen also understood that the Civil Rights movement was<br />
radically changing the face of Southern poetics. As black voting power grew, ardent<br />
segregationists found themselves at a disadvantage . It was politically expedient <strong>for</strong> some<br />
politicians to cultivate a new moderate image by currying favor with black voters . Even<br />
be<strong>for</strong>e the Voting Rights Act, Louisiana had a substantial percentage of registered black<br />
voters--more than 16 percent, and the impending voting rights legislation promised to<br />
increase this percentage to well more than 25 percent . McKeithen's moderate stance in<br />
Jonesboro stood to gain him more votes than he might lose .<br />
McKeithen had both the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the Klan to ~~eckon with in Jonesboro, and<br />
he had already charted a course to destroy both groups. In early March McKeithen had<br />
zB TimesPicayrme, 28 March 1965 .<br />
~Bogalusa Daily News, 29 March 1965 ; New York Times, 26 April 1965 .<br />
!04<br />
i
considered having Louisiana Attorney General Jack Gremillion investigate existing laws<br />
that could be used to break up the <strong>Deacons</strong> through arrests . McKeithen had also<br />
discussed a plan to discredit the Klan through embarrassing congressional hearings on the<br />
group--a request he would make through Louisiana's congressional delegation . 3o<br />
Regardless ofhis motives, McKeithen's actions in Jonesboro won him the instant<br />
enmity ofthe Klan. In response to the Jonesboro negotiations, the Klan lit up the night<br />
sky in the Baton Rouge area with nearly two dozen blazing crosses, including one boldly<br />
ignited near the state capitol ."<br />
The momentous negotiations with the Governor occurred over the weekend of<br />
March 27-28 . Local attorney William "Billy" Baker, an appointed special liaison <strong>for</strong><br />
McKeithen, arranged an integrated meeting with about <strong>for</strong>ty persons at Jackson High<br />
school, including a "school committee" led by Kirkpatrick and several other <strong>Deacons</strong> .<br />
The negotiations on Saturday, March 27 were a sterling victory <strong>for</strong> the black<br />
community . Faced with the steely determination of the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the students,<br />
McKeithen had conceded virtually all of the boycotters' demands . He agreed to<br />
additional textbooks and water fountains, library improvements, and new landscaping<br />
and playgrounds . Although he could not promise funds to rebuild the gym, in the<br />
aftermath of the boycott voters approved an $800,000 bond issue <strong>for</strong> a new gymnasium .' 2<br />
'°SAC, New Orleans to Director, March 3, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file. no .<br />
157-2466-9 .<br />
3`Ibid .<br />
'ZJet, 15 April, 1965 ; Bogal:~sa Daily News, 29, 3u March 1965 ; Castle,<br />
"Activities in Jonesboro ."<br />
105
In return <strong>for</strong> the concessions, the students agreed to temporarily suspend the<br />
boycott and return to school . The students left open the option to protest unresolved<br />
grievances in the future, and even issued a statement declaring that they would continue<br />
to protest in school through the "observance of prayer and studying ofNegro history ." A<br />
biracial committee was <strong>for</strong>med to negotiate issues in the future .<br />
The marches and pickets would continue <strong>for</strong> several months, targeting both<br />
school and desegregation issues . But something had changed in the mill town . The<br />
change was apparent to Cathy Patterson, the young CORE activist, when she returned to<br />
Jonesboro along with a group offellow Syracuse University students after the boycott .<br />
Only seven months had passed since her departure, but Patterson immediately sensed the<br />
difference. When Patterson first came to Jonesboro in the Spring of 1964, not a single<br />
family offered their homes <strong>for</strong> lodging, <strong>for</strong> fear ofKlan retaliation . CORE activists had to<br />
find separate lodging in a house owned by an absentee lar~cilord . But now, in the Spring<br />
of 1965, black families without hesitation invited the civil rights activists into their<br />
homes . Patterson observed a new determination and courage in the average citizen . "I<br />
think it had a lot to do with the <strong>Deacons</strong>," reflected Patterson . "And I think it had a lot to<br />
do with members of the community sensing their own capacity to protect themselves ." as<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> had succeeded in "getting the men to stand up" as Charlie White<br />
said . Blacks no longer needed an FBI agent in every house to defend their rights . They<br />
would defend themselves now. In the past Southern blacks had possessed rights but not<br />
the will to exercise them . The <strong>Deacons</strong> rekindled the courage to defend these rights in<br />
the souls o<strong>for</strong>dinary black people . It was a bravery and pride deeply imbedded in the<br />
'3Catherine Patterson Mitchell, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
106
hearts of black men and women ; stirred to fife during the slave revolts and military<br />
service in Union armies ; resting donmant during the dark years of Jim Crow and<br />
lynchings . Now it was born anew.<br />
"Example is not best way to teach," said Albert Schweitzer. "It is the only way ."<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> were exemplars <strong>for</strong> the "New Negro" in the South . Their combativeness<br />
and willingness to <strong>for</strong>cibly seize rights rather than have them bequeathed did not<br />
disappear along with the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Instead, these qualities were absorbed into the<br />
political consciousness of the New Negro . And when, in Cathy Patterson's words, blacks<br />
sensed "their own capacity to defend themselves," when they accepted that they were<br />
entitled to the same rights, honor, and respect as whites, then the <strong>Deacons</strong> became<br />
unnecessary . In a reciprocal process, ordinary people became <strong>Deacons</strong>, and the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
became ordinary people.<br />
The Jonesboro movement <strong>for</strong>ged ahead and by early April the movement shined<br />
its focus back to desegregating public accommodations, including several restaurants that<br />
remained segregated . The campaign expanded to demand an end to occupational<br />
discrimination, and protests against police brutality. Student volunteers flooded in from<br />
the University ofKansas, Louisiana State University and Southern University at Baton<br />
Rouge.`<br />
The influx ofwhite student volunteers caused considerable anguish <strong>for</strong> the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> . They did not want another killing like the Liuuo murder in the Selma<br />
campaign . But the Yankee invasion was bound to inflame the Klan, and on Apri19 the<br />
racists made their move . During the day, a Kansas University student ran out ofgas and<br />
3~Castle, "Activities in Jonesboro ."<br />
107
Elmo Jacobs, a Deacon leader, offered to assist the student in retrieving his car . Jacobs<br />
loaded four white students and a friend into his station wagon . As he drove down<br />
highway 157, suddenly a brown Chevrolet station wagon dulled in front of Jacobs,<br />
bringing his car to a halt. Startled, Jacobs looked through the windshield and saw a<br />
single-barrel shotgun emerge from the car blocking his path . The gun let out a deafening<br />
blast that left fourteen pellets in Jacobs' door . 3s<br />
Elmo Jacobs never flinched . "Well, that made me went to shooting," said Jacobs .<br />
He quickly grabbed his gun and returned a volley of fire as the stunned students watched<br />
in horror. Jacobs' terrified assailants panicked aad fled with bullets careening off their<br />
Caf . 3s<br />
It was the first and last armed attack on a civil rights worker in Jonesboro .<br />
Jonesboro was not Selma .<br />
35This incident taken from Ibid . ; Eimo Jacobs, Feingoid interview .<br />
36~I d .<br />
I08
Chapter 6<br />
The Magic City<br />
In 1905 two Pennsylvania businessmen, brothers Charles and Frank Goodyear,<br />
scouted the Bogue Lusa creek area in Washington Parish <strong>for</strong> the site <strong>for</strong> a new lumber<br />
mill . The Goodyear brothers had made a <strong>for</strong>tune in coal and lumber in Pennsylvania, and<br />
they were now determined to harvest the bounty of Louisiana's expansive long leaf<br />
yellow pine stands . The Bogue Lusa creek site was a barren clearing buried in a vast<br />
<strong>for</strong>est of millions of acres of virgin pine . For centuries the area had been home to a few<br />
bands of semi-nomadic American Indians. In the nineteenth century a handful of white<br />
homesteaders settled the region and took up farming and small commercial logging<br />
operations.<br />
The Goodyear brothers decided on the Bogue Lusa site <strong>for</strong> their planned lumber<br />
mill and quickly raised fifteen million dollars to erect an enormous saw mill . In 1906 the<br />
Great Southern Lumber Company was born, and along with it the city that the Goodyear<br />
brothers named Bogalusa--later dubbed "The Magic City" by city boosters . 2<br />
`Quick, Amy, "The History of Bogalusa, the `Magic City' ofLouisiana," Lrn~isiana<br />
Historical Quarterly, 29, no . 1 (January 1946) pp . 74-178 .<br />
ZJohn Fahey, "Will Bogalusa Survive?," TimesPicayune, 28 August 1977 .
By 1907 the mill buildings and workers' housing were completed using 14<br />
million feet of timber. The saw mill began operation September 1, 1908 and an adjoining<br />
paper mill was established in 1917.<br />
Bogalusa was a classic company town . The Great Southern Lumber Company<br />
owned virtually every board and nail in the place. Great Southern owned more than 750<br />
homes, the town hospital, the utility services, and the company stores . The lumber<br />
company even trademarked the town's name . The only thing Great Southern did not own<br />
were the people who labored in the mill . Nonetheless, the company ruled the institutions<br />
that ruled the people : city government, the judiciary, and the police.<br />
Great Southern's workers were hewn from the independent stock ofyeoman who<br />
peopled the pine country of Washington Parish . They were a coarse lot, hardened by the<br />
toil and misery of logging and subsistence fanning. They knew nothing oftime clocks,<br />
shift work, supervisors, and the discipline ofmodern industry . They had been masters of<br />
their few simple tools : the saw, the logging chain, and the mute . The Goodyears were<br />
confronted with the daunting task oftrans<strong>for</strong>ming this headstrong and proud peasantry<br />
into a modern, regimented, and compliant work<strong>for</strong>ce .<br />
Like most Northern concerns conducting business in the South, Great Southern<br />
honored local segregation customs and reproduced them throughout the town and mill .<br />
Workers' housing was strictly segregated by race . In later years this extended to separate<br />
housing <strong>for</strong> Italians and Jews . Schools, parks, public facilities, restrooms, parish fairs,<br />
parades, and water fountains were all segregated . Even hospital services were<br />
segregated . A black mother could have a baby at the local hospital, but, as a matter of<br />
policy, white nurses refused to bathe the child .<br />
11 0
Great Southern also segregated jobs and cafeterias, break rooms and bathroom<br />
facilities in the mill. Approximately I S percent ofthe null's work<strong>for</strong>ce comprised black<br />
men . Although white women worked in the mill, no black women were employed .<br />
Blacks were largely excluded from operating machinery and relegated to the arduous<br />
"yard" occupations involved in moving and stacking timber.<br />
The black community, which numbered eight thousand by 1965, emerged over<br />
the years in several distinct neighborhoods . The community neighboring the business<br />
district was dubbed "Jewtown" because of its proximity to Jewish stores in the downtown<br />
district . Other districts included "Poplas Quarters" (named in the tradition of"slave<br />
quarters"), Moden Quarters, Mrtch Quarters, and East Side and South Side . 3<br />
The Bogalusa mill remained non-union <strong>for</strong> its first three decades of operation . In<br />
1919 the mill weathered an abortive organizing drive engineered by the anarcho-<br />
syndicalist International Workers ofthe World (IWV~ . The IWW led an interracial<br />
organizing drive that culminated in the mill police murdering four white unionists who<br />
were defending a black union organizer. Although the organizing drive was defeated,<br />
Great Southern's management lived in perennial fear ofa worker uprising . In the 1920s<br />
the mill manager built a secret escape tunnel in the basement of his home. j<br />
Swept up in the tidal wave ofunionization during the late 1930s, the mill was<br />
finally organized into segregated union locals in 1938 . But by 1938 the leviathan saw<br />
mill, the largest in the world, had consumed aU the timber within its grasp . Poor<br />
planning <strong>for</strong>ced the mill to switch to processing pulp wood used primarily in paper<br />
3 "The Bogalusa Negro Community," May 16, 1965, box 7, file 6, CORE(SRO) .<br />
;Quick, "The History of Bogalusa ."<br />
11 1
production . Pulp wood could be processed from young pine trees that only took fifteen<br />
years to grow .<br />
Between 1938 and 1965 the mill and city went through a radical trans<strong>for</strong>mation.<br />
Mill operations were increasingly automated and Great Southern was sold and resold,<br />
eventually coming under control ofthe Crown-Zellerbach Corporation based in San<br />
Francisco in 1960 . As the mill changed hands, its new owners decided to withdraw from<br />
managing workers' housing and city services . Beginning in 1947, the mill owners<br />
systematically divested, radically trans<strong>for</strong>ming the city's political and social structure . In<br />
1947 the mill closed the last of its company stores . In 1950 more than five-hundred<br />
company homes were sold to their occupants and the company-owned hospital was<br />
donated to a nonprofit corporation . In the years that followed the company continued to<br />
divest all its city services and withdrew behind the mill's gates . The denizens of<br />
Bogalusa were left to their own devices to rvn the city . s<br />
Un<strong>for</strong>tunately the company's gift to the citizens ofBogalusa was a ticking bomb .<br />
Between 1961 and 1965, Crown-Zellerbach poured $35 million into modernizing the saw<br />
mill and box factory. The mechanization drive resulted in company layoffs of five<br />
hundred workers, intensifying competition between blacks and whites <strong>for</strong> the dwindling<br />
number ofjobs . Crown-Zellerbach did little to assist the city in mitigating the social<br />
problems posed by the drastic layoffs . They offered no programs to retrain displaced<br />
workers or to attract new industry to the city. While the city's civic and government<br />
institutions foundered in the face of these problems, the unions did attempt to fight back .<br />
SFahey, "Will Bogalusa Survive?" j<br />
ll3
A futile nine-month strike lasted from August 1961 to April 1962 . In the end it cost<br />
Crown-Zellerbach $15 million and added to the class and racial tensions in the city . b<br />
Though Crown-Zellerbach was the source ofvirtually all of the economic<br />
suffering visited upon Bogalusa, race became the scapegoat . At the same time that<br />
Crown-Zellerbach was throwing hundreds of workers into the streets, the Federal<br />
Government was pressuring Crown-Zellerbach to end discriminatory practices in hiring<br />
and promotions . In March 1961 President John Kennedy signed Executive Order 10925<br />
that mandated a "fair employment policy' to end racial discrimination by companies that<br />
conducted business with the federal government. Crown-Zellerbach's government<br />
contracts brought it under the provisions ofthe order, but rather than quickly implement<br />
and support these changes, Crown-Zellerbach evaded the new regulations . The paper<br />
company fed the fires of racial hatred in Bogalusa by dragging out the divisive<br />
negotiations <strong>for</strong> several years . To add to the growing tensions, the white union local also<br />
vigorously opposed the anti-discrimination re<strong>for</strong>ms in an ef<strong>for</strong>t to protect the privileged<br />
position of whites in the mill .'<br />
In May 1964 Crown-Zellerbach finally agreed to implement one fair-employment<br />
re<strong>for</strong>m : integrating the process by which temporary workers were selected (the "extra<br />
board") . For the first time in Bogalusa's history, unemployed and desperate whites found<br />
themselves competing with blacks as equals . The predicament enraged white workers<br />
but left them with few remedies . They had lost their last battle with the company in the<br />
`vera Rony, "Bogalusa: The Economics ofTragedy," Dissent, 13, no . 4 (May-June) :<br />
pp . 234-242 .<br />
'Rony, "Bogalusa," pp . 235-36 .<br />
113
strike of 1962 . The only protection they enjoyed was their white skin, and now the<br />
federal government, along with the company and blacks, was threatening to deprive them<br />
of this remaining privilege . White frustration and anger with the company and<br />
government were soon diverted into hatred <strong>for</strong> a more vulnerable enemy : black labor.<br />
Given the simmering racial and class conflicts, it should come as no surprise that<br />
Bogalusa became the site ofthe most virulent and discipli~:ed Klan offensives in modern<br />
history. Unlike most ofLouisiana's non-union cities, white workers in Bogalusa were<br />
well organized as a result ofdecades oftrade union experience. In the ! 960s technology,<br />
the drive <strong>for</strong> profits, and the emerging black liberation movement conspired to deprive<br />
them of their perceived birthright . The civil rights movement became the stage <strong>for</strong> the<br />
last battle of organized white labor in Bogalusa . Unable to defeat the company, whites<br />
attempted to secure their caste privilege at the expense ofblack rights . They perceived<br />
every concession to integration as a symbolic attack on the status and security ofwhite<br />
labor .<br />
This was the boiling cauldron Crown-Zellerbach handed city leaders in 1964 .<br />
Bogalusa's political and business eGtes were confi-onted with two intractable <strong>for</strong>ces. On<br />
one side, a well-organized white population, plagued by economic anxiety and racial<br />
hatred . On the other side, an increasingly militant black working class, equally well-<br />
organized and determined . For fifty years the mill owners had successfully managed the<br />
conflict between these groups through authoritarian social control mechanisms . But the<br />
mill owners left a power vacuum when they abandoned the city in the 1950s, a vacuum<br />
that the Klan would soon fill .'<br />
gPaul Good, "Klantown, USA," Nation, 1 February 1965, pp . 110-13 .<br />
114
The path to Bogalusa <strong>for</strong> the Jonesboro-based <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice<br />
began in the Spring of 1964 . A weak and largely ineffective NAACP had existed in<br />
Bogalusa since 1950, headed by William Baily, Jr., a retired railroad worker . The<br />
NAACP chapter even failed to recruit middle class teachers, the mainstay ofthe Southern<br />
NAACP . The chapter's only victory was a successful voting rights suit filed in 1959<br />
when local segregationists attempted to purge 1,377 blacks from the voter roles .<br />
The leading civil rights organization in the early 1960s was the Bogalusa Civic<br />
and Voters League (BCVL), headed by Andrew Moses. Bogalusa, like Jonesboro, had a<br />
significant number of registered black voters who could tip the balance in city elections .<br />
11~ I,<br />
The BCVL concentrated on voter registration and often used its influence to bargain <strong>for</strong> I<br />
political favors . BCVL leaders told one visiting activist that the League was "significant<br />
in swinging elections, and <strong>for</strong> this reason, also, the power structure is willing to listen to<br />
them ."<br />
By 1964 young members of the Voters League were pressuring Moses to increase<br />
the pace of change . Moses and several other respected black leaders began meeting with<br />
city official as part ofthe Bogalusa Community Relations Commission, a biracial<br />
commission that the white power structure created to address civil rights issues . The<br />
black bargaining team sought desegregation concessions from the city through quiet<br />
negotiations . But the commission accomplished little in 1964, other than the hiring of ',<br />
two black deputies and the first all-black garbage truck crew . `°<br />
'Lori Davis,l~Gmi Feingold, and Howard R. Messing, "Summer Parish Scouting<br />
Report, Washington Parish," [Summer 1964], box 7, file 6, CORE(SRO) .<br />
` °Robert Hicks, Interview by Miriam Feingold, ca. July 1966, Bogalusa, Louisiana,<br />
Miriam Feingold Papers, SHSW .<br />
i<br />
i
In May of 1964 CORE created a stir when its New Orleans office announced that<br />
it intended to conduct a voter registration drive in Bogalusa. CORE was active in several<br />
communities close to Bogalusa, including highly publicized campaigns in Hanunond and<br />
Clinton . Andrew Moses, the BCVL leader, was not eager to see CORE in Bogalusa . He<br />
had always moved slowly and cautiously and his Voters League risked losing credibility<br />
with the white power stnrcture ifdisruptive protests erupted ."<br />
White leaders in Bogalusa were also concerned about CORE . One CORE report<br />
observed that "the white community, evidently noting the demonstrations in Hammond<br />
and the recently established [CORE] Regional Office in nearby New Orleans, is scared to<br />
death ofCORE . The Power structure, anxious to attract industry and people to Bogalusa,<br />
will do almost anything to keep CORE out." The report added that because the "power<br />
structure" feared disruptive protests, they appear "to be ~~Iling to give in to at least<br />
certain demands . . . "`2<br />
To avert CORE's planned intervention, the Mayor and City Commission asked<br />
the BCVL to persuade CORE to postpone their planned campaign . On July 10, 1964,<br />
Moses led a delegation of three BCVL leaders, all members of the Community Relation :<br />
Commission, to meet with CORE's Bonnie Moore . Some militant members ofthe<br />
Bogalusa movement questioned Moses' motives . Gayle Jerkins, at that time a young<br />
militant member of the BCVL, claims that the black delegation was working at the behest<br />
"On May CORE announcement see, Rickey <strong>Hill</strong>, "The Character ofBlack Politics in<br />
a Small Southern Town Dominated by a Multinational Corporation : Bogalusa, Louisiana,<br />
1965-1975" (Masters Thesis, Atlanta University, 1977), p . 65 .<br />
` =Davis, Feingold, and Messing, "Scouting Report ."<br />
ll6
of the city government, and that the city fathers "paid them to go and talk to CORE and<br />
i<br />
ask them not to come in<br />
."`s I<br />
Indeed, the meeting had an air of ol~cial negotiations about it, with Moses<br />
presenting Ronnie Moore with an official letter ofrepresentation from Bogalusa Mayor<br />
Jesse Cutrer . Moses asked CORE to delay any organizing plans in order to provide time<br />
<strong>for</strong> the Community Relations Commission to resolve problems in an orderly manner .<br />
Moore agreed and wrote Mayor Cutrer, saying that the group had decided that they "must<br />
remain patient in order to bring about social adjustments ." Moore told Cutrer that CORE<br />
and the Voters League would give the Mayor "six months to make certain progressive<br />
steps toward implementing the provisions ofthe 1964 Civil Rights Act," during which<br />
CORE pledged to stay neutral to allow the Voters League to resolve the problem ."<br />
CORE had scouted Bogalusa in the Summer of 1964 and thought the city had<br />
great organizing potential and was "ripe <strong>for</strong> CORE's type of program ." Discontent with<br />
white intransigence ran high . The Civil Rights Act and other Federal civil rights<br />
mandates had changed nothing in Bogalusa . Although sesregation signs were down at<br />
the Crown-Zellerbach papermill, the company left intact separate water fountains and<br />
toilets . Blacks were not allowed in the unemployment offce during morning hours, and<br />
when admitted in the afternoon, whites were allowed to cut in front ofthem . The<br />
Washington Parish Charity Hospital refused black patients except on Thursdays . Lunch<br />
counters, restaurants, and nearly aU public accommodations remained segregated . Blacks<br />
`3Rickey Ill, "The Character of Black Politics," p . 65 .<br />
`jRonnie Moore to Mayor Jesse H . Cutrer Jr., 18 July, 1965, box 7, file 5,<br />
CORE(SRO) .
were (muted to "broom and mop" occupations at downtown stores and black<br />
neighborhoods lacked street lights, paved streets, and a sewerage system .<br />
`s<br />
Bogalusa's black community certainly had its share of challenges, but it also had<br />
the leadership sufficient <strong>for</strong> the task at hand . Along with the Voters League, there was a<br />
welt-organized black farmers co-op and the black local of the Pulp and Sulphite Workers<br />
Union had developed several young charismatic leaders . The union had a political<br />
education committee that had implemented a program <strong>for</strong> voter education . CORE<br />
considered Bogalusa's black community a "well organized and reasonably in<strong>for</strong>med<br />
community ." "In short, we feel that Bogalusa can easily be one ofthe most exciting and<br />
challenging places this summer and <strong>for</strong> a long time to come," said one scouting report . `6<br />
But CORE's optimistic assessment of the papermill town seriously<br />
underestimated the organizational strength of the white working class and the Klan . With<br />
the decline ofthe White Citizens Council, several new and violent Klan orgatizations<br />
began aggressively organizing in the Bogalusa area . The Original Knights of the Ku<br />
Klux Klan (OKKICK), founded in Jonesboro and an offshoot of the United Klans of<br />
America, began recruiting in Washington Parish in 1963 . It publicly announced its<br />
presence by burning crosses throughout the area on January 18, 1964 . In response, Lou<br />
Major, the editor of the Bogalusa Daily News, published nn editorial attack on Klan three<br />
days later . The Klan retaliated by burning a cross in front ofMajor's house . In May<br />
` sDavis, Feingold, and Messing, "Scouting Report ."<br />
' 6Ibid .<br />
118
1964, the Klan conducted its first rally in Bogalusa, no doubt in response to rumors that<br />
CORE was planning an organizing drive in Bogalusa."<br />
The first public accommodations civil rights protest was on July 3, 1964, when<br />
two 12-year-old black girls spontaneously integrated the Woolworth lunch counter,<br />
sparking an ugly confrontation with a white mob . The girls' courageous act was the first<br />
and last direct action protest in Bogalusa in 1964 . Black and white leaders returned to<br />
the strategy of negotiations while CORE as the Klan watched from the wings. `e<br />
In October of 1964, the federal Community Relations Service (CRS), the agency<br />
responsible <strong>for</strong> assisting communities in implementing ofthe Civil Rights Act, convinced<br />
Bogalusa businessman Bascom Talley to <strong>for</strong>m a group of white business and civic<br />
leaders to provide <strong>for</strong> orderly desegregation in the mill town . Talley, an attorney and<br />
publisher of the Bogalusa Daily News, and CRS representatives were concerned that<br />
young blacks were growing restless with the snail's pace of change . They hoped that the<br />
business and civic leaders could preempt disruptive protests . Talley was something of a<br />
liberal anomaly on the race question . He had recently been appointed to the CRS,<br />
although prudently omitting the news story from his own paper. A respected member of<br />
Bogalusa's business elite, Talley quickly called together a group comprising a few liberal<br />
businessmen and several religious leaders, most of them not natives ofBogalusa. The<br />
first meeting at Talley's home was attended by two CRS officials ; Reverend Jeny M .<br />
"Good, "Klantown," 110-113 ; The May rally is referred to in Activities ofKu Klux<br />
Klan Organizations in the United States, Hearing be<strong>for</strong>e the Committee on Un-American<br />
Activities, House of Representatives, Ninetieth Congress, First Session, October 19, 20,<br />
21, 22 and 25, 1965 (Washungton : U.S . Government Printing Office, 1966) volume 3, p .<br />
2413 .<br />
` gRony, "Bogalusa,"p . 238 .<br />
119
Chance, minister of the Main Street Baptist Church ; Ralpl ; Blumberg, operator of a local<br />
radio station; Reverend Paul Gillespie, minister of the Memorial Baptist Church ; Lou<br />
Major, Editor ofthe Daily News ; and Reverend Bruce Shepherd, rector of St . Matthews<br />
Episcopal Church .<br />
Talley's group decided on a modest and relatively harmless event to launch their<br />
integration ef<strong>for</strong>ts . They would sponsor a testimonial dinner <strong>for</strong> Vertrees Young, the<br />
<strong>for</strong>mer mayor ofBogalusa, and perhaps the city's most venerated leader . The dinner<br />
would feature Brooks Hays, a <strong>for</strong>mer Arkansas Congressman, now a Rutgers Professor<br />
and CRS consultant. Hays had served as President of the Southern Baptist Convention<br />
and a special assistant to Presidents Kennedy and Johnson . Despite his decidedly liberal<br />
credentials, Hays' Arkansas roots would provide an acceptable Southern pedigree . The<br />
plan called <strong>for</strong> Hays to discuss how other communities had successfully integrated public<br />
accommodations under the Civil Rights Act . The "Hays Committee," as it came to be<br />
known, hoped to exclude potential disrupters from the event by making it by invitation<br />
only . The Committee invited a select group of one hundred white businessmen and<br />
professionals--and eight black leaders . In early December they <strong>for</strong>mally invited Hays to<br />
speak at the Episcopal Church House on January 7, 1965 .' 9<br />
The Klan responded to the news with an intense, well coordinated and vicious<br />
terror campaign against the Hays Committee . The Klan burned crosses at the homes of<br />
Committee members . They assailed the Committee members and their families with<br />
relentless death threats . They tampered with their phones making them make bizarre<br />
noises (it was later revealed that the Klan had members working <strong>for</strong> the phone company) .<br />
'9 Times Picayu~re, 6 January 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 6 January 1965 .<br />
120
Night riders silently cruised by Committee members' homes at all hours . The Klan<br />
distributed more than six-thousand handbills door to door, carrying the ominous warning<br />
that "those who do attend this meeting will be tagged as integrationist and will be dealt<br />
with accordingly by the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan ." Pressure also increased on the<br />
vestrymen of the Episcopal Church, the planned site of the Hays speech. ARer the Klan<br />
burned a cross on the church lawn, the vestrymen quickly withdrew their invitation to the<br />
Hays committee.z°<br />
As the terror increased it became clear that local officials were allowing the Klan<br />
to terrorize openly and with impunity. Bogalusa's OKKKIC chapter had at least 150 paid<br />
members in the Fall of 1964, and several hundred additional supporters at their beck and<br />
call . At the height of the OKKKK's power, it was estimated that Bogalusa had eight-<br />
hundred Klansmen, more Klan members per capita than any American city . The liberal<br />
press appropriately dubbed the milltown, "Klantown USA."<br />
z '<br />
The OKKKK flaunted its power . It set up headquarters at the fire station,<br />
immediately across from the Bogalusa City Hall . It organized a special terrorist squad to<br />
specifically conduct well-planned assaults and cross burnings . For months the Klan had<br />
been arming its members <strong>for</strong> guerilla warfare . Howard M. Lee, an auto repair shop<br />
owner and an exalted Cyclops OKKKIC unit leader in Bogalusa, obtained a federal<br />
firearms license and began equipping a small army of Klansmen in Louisiana and<br />
z°"Fact sheet on Bogalusa, Louisiana," 17 February, 1965, ree125, CORE Papers<br />
Microfilm, ARC; Good, "Klantown," p. 110-11 ; For earlier Klan leaflets attacking Talley<br />
and Lou Major, see, "Published by the Original Ku Klux Klan of Louisiana," [September<br />
1964], box 7, folder 6, CORE(SRO) and Klan leaflet text in Activities ofKu Klux Klan,<br />
volume 3, pp. 2421-22 .<br />
z`Ibid .
Mississippi in 1964 . During the period ofMay-August 1964 alone, Lee bought 651<br />
weapons and 21,192 rounds of ammunition and then illegally passed along the weapons<br />
and bulk ammunition to other Klansmen <strong>for</strong> resale--without recording the sales or true<br />
names ofpurchasers . In one transaction Lee provided James M . Ellis, another OKKKIC<br />
Unit leader, with 65 Italian rifles .u<br />
The terror quickly isolated the Hays Committee from the rest ofthe community ;<br />
their few supporters silenced by fear and ofFcial compGcit;~. "We were just six guys<br />
bucking the whole darn town," said Reverend Bnrce Shepherd . City officials were<br />
appeasing the Klan, said another community leader, who asked <strong>for</strong> anonymity when<br />
interviewed by the Nation magazine . "The Klan cannot survive here unless it has official<br />
sanction," he said . City and law en<strong>for</strong>cement oi~cials had indeed turned a blind eye to<br />
the criminal violence, emboldening the Klan to even more flagrant transgressions . The<br />
police were riddled with Klan members : eighteen Bogalusa auxiliary police swore out of<br />
the Klan in April of 1965 so they could remain officers and deny Klan membership . At<br />
one Klan meeting members openly debated a proposal to bomb the Church where the<br />
Hays Committee had scheduled their event .<br />
The PresentDay Ku Klux Klan Movement, Report by the Committee on Un-<br />
American Activities, House ofRepresentatives, Ninetieth Congress, First Session, 11<br />
December 1967, (Washington : U.S . Government Printing Office, 1967) pp . 106-107 ;<br />
Activities orKu Klux Klan, volume 3, pp . 2525-2529; Bogalusa Daily News, 17 June<br />
1965 ; Louisiana Weekly, 31 July 1965 . Lee was sentenced to three years in prison in<br />
June 1965 .<br />
Good, "Klantown," p . l 1 l, 112 ; A copy ofthe December 27, 1964 Klan leaflet can<br />
be found in Activities ofKu Klux Klan, volume 3, pp . 244 . Several other Bogalusa Klan<br />
leaflets appear in ibid ., pp . 2454-2458 . On Klan in the Bogalusa Auxiliary Police, see<br />
ibid ., p . 2549 .<br />
122
Bogalusa Mayor Jesse Cutrer and Police Commissioner Arnold Spiers attempted<br />
to appease the Klan by appearing at a Klan meeting at the Disabled American Veterans<br />
Hall on December 19 . But it was too late to reverse the momentum the Klan had gained<br />
as a result of the leadership vacuum . All Mayor Cutrer could do was take the podium<br />
and nervously survey the 150 hooded Klansman glaring at him through slitted sheets . It<br />
was even rumored that one robed Klansman on the dias was a United States<br />
Congressman .<br />
The Klan castigated the Hays Committee as integrationists, though none of its<br />
members had ever advocated integration . The OKI{KK leaflet attacked Talley's Daily<br />
News as "amalgamationist" and reviled him <strong>for</strong> concealing his membership on the CRS .<br />
Talley was also the Klan's favorite target <strong>for</strong> class-based attacks on the wealthy . In one<br />
leaflet the Klan resorted to doggerel to reproach Talley : "This man would love the<br />
nigger, In order to grow financially bigger ." 2`<br />
Moderates like the Daily News editor Lou Major were confounded by the bitter<br />
response. "I'm neither an integrationist nor a segregationist," Major protested . "We<br />
didn't want Bogalusa to become another McComb with bombings and burnings . Now <strong>for</strong><br />
the first time in my life, I have a loaded pistol in the house ." Talley laid the blame <strong>for</strong> the<br />
Klan's success on the failure ofwhite business and government leaders to support the<br />
Hays Committee . "There has been a leadership vacuum here and that's what the Klan<br />
thrives on," offered Talley. "That and stupidity ."~<br />
''Good, "IQantown," p . 111 .<br />
2SIbid .<br />
l23
Talley and his besieged colleagues frantically searched <strong>for</strong> an alternative site <strong>for</strong><br />
the Hays event after the Episcopal Church withdrew its facility . In the last week of<br />
December Klan crosses blazed across town as the Klan intensified its intimidation<br />
campaign . On Monday, January 4, with only three days left be<strong>for</strong>e the scheduled<br />
speaking event, the Hays Committee requested the use ofthe Bogalusa City Hall . But the<br />
Klan had already gotten to the Mayor and the Commission Council . Mayor Cutrer<br />
promptly turned down the Committee on the pretense that the event would be a private<br />
meeting at public place . In addition, Cutrer rebuked the Hays Committee <strong>for</strong> interfering<br />
with the "quiet progress" that he was making on race relations through the Community<br />
Relations Committee . The Mayor's capitulation to the Klan signaled the end ofany<br />
semblance of freedom and democracy in the mill town . The Original Knights of the Ku<br />
Klux Klan now reigned supreme .<br />
The appeasement strategy toward the Klan adopted by Bogalusa leaders was not<br />
the only path available to them . Only a few miles away in Hammond, Louisiana, town<br />
fathers had weathered a similar crisis in the heart of Klan country. In 1963 black high<br />
school students in Hammond independently organized a protest march against<br />
segregation and <strong>for</strong>ced city leaders to <strong>for</strong>m a Biracial Committee to negotiate their<br />
demands . Infamous racist leader Judge Leander Perez ofPlaquemines Parish soon<br />
caught wind of the integration plans and launched a campaign to reverse the gains blacks<br />
had made in Hammond . But the Mayor of Hammond took a hard line against Perez and<br />
the Citizens Council--in contrast to the Bogalusa experience . The Mayor refused to<br />
allow the Judge to use Hammond's parks <strong>for</strong> protest rallies and made it clear that Perez<br />
l 24
and his followers were not welcome in Hammond . Perez retreated and the city managed<br />
a relatively peaceful transition to integration . =6<br />
The Hammond episode clearly demonstrated that the Klan could be neutralized by<br />
strong moderate leaders . l:ndeed, the acquiescence to the Klan by Bogalusa's leaders<br />
confounded many outsiders . Brooks Hays was dumfounded by the controversy his<br />
planned appearance had created . The protests were the product of "a bunch of<br />
dunderheads," Hays told one CRS o$icial . In all his experience in the South, Hays had<br />
never seen anything tike Bogatusa . "That is the goddamnest place I've ever been," said<br />
Hays .<br />
That the Klan had <strong>for</strong>ced out Brooks Hays, President Johnson's top<br />
troubleshooter <strong>for</strong> racial problems, was bound to attract national attention . The local<br />
media had kept silent about the Klan attacks until January 5, 1965, when the Hays<br />
Committee courageously published a signed editorial in the Daily News. The editorial<br />
recounted the Klan's terror campaign and condemned the Klan and the cowering<br />
per<strong>for</strong>mance of the City government . "It is a shame," wrote the six Hays Committee<br />
members, "and we are ashamed, that fear should so engulf our community that it<br />
strangles free speech and the right ofpeaceful assembly, and makes a mockery of<br />
democracy. »'-s<br />
Z~"Fietd Report, Tangipahoa Parish, Hammond, Spring, 1964," ca. 1964, Hammond,<br />
Louisiana, box 7, folder 2, CORE(SRO) .<br />
2'Jerry Heilbron, interview by author, 12 September 1993, Tucson, Arizona, tape<br />
recording .<br />
-BBogalusa Daily News, 5 January 1965 .
The sting of national publicity caused the town fathers to reconsider their ill-fated il i<br />
policy of appeasement . In response to the Klan terrorism, Chief ofPolice Claxton Knight<br />
and Safety Commissioner Arnold D . Speirs announced a $500 reward <strong>for</strong> in<strong>for</strong>mation<br />
concerning the cross buntings . And on January 6, Mayor Cutrer went on television to<br />
denounce violence and call <strong>for</strong> "full and complete taw en<strong>for</strong>cement at all times regardless<br />
of race, creed, or color." The announcements and official protests against the Klan were<br />
empty gestures ; Bogalusa city police never made a single arrest <strong>for</strong> the harassment ofthe<br />
Hays Committee or the scores ofcross burnings.~'<br />
Crown-Zellerbach shared a great deal of responsibility in the Hays fiasco . There :<br />
was a growing consensus among business and civic elites in manufacturing centers in the<br />
South that integration was inevitable and had to be achieved in an orderly fashion . The<br />
divisive campaign in Birmingham in 1963 demonstrated that blacks were willing to<br />
plunge the city into anarchy if necessary to achieve their goals . Company towns like<br />
Bogalusa that sold products nationally could ill af<strong>for</strong>d this kind of negative publicity;<br />
Crown-Zellerbach's paper products were vulnerable to a national boycott . Most<br />
Southern business elites came to see that orderly integration was necessary <strong>for</strong> economic<br />
development .<br />
Yet in Bogalusa Crown-Zellerbach had abdicated leadership to a weak and<br />
ineffective group of leaders who were no match <strong>for</strong> a well organized, working-class<br />
based Klan insurgency. Had Crown-Zellerbach intervened in behalf ofthe Hays<br />
Committee, the Klan would have faced a <strong>for</strong>midable foe . But by the time Crown-<br />
-'Bogalusa Daily News, 3 January 1965 ; Good, "Klantown," pp . 110-11 .<br />
l26
Zellerbach realized the consequences of their silence, the opportunity <strong>for</strong> a peaceful<br />
desegregation had passed .<br />
In contrast, Bascom Talley represented the new Southern businessman guided by<br />
enlightened self-interest . Talley was a segregationist, yet he believed that the Sou~h<br />
would suffer if it held to its old ways. His Bogalusa Daily News set a course early on<br />
that reflected this perspective . In a trenchant editorial on January 6, the Daily News<br />
argued that Brooks Hays would have served to reduce racial tensions, smooth the<br />
transition toward integration, and avoid racial demonstrations and violence . The Daily<br />
News feared another Little Rock in Bogalusa, pointing out that racial conflict "wrecks a<br />
town's economy" and "spreads fear and unrest and smears a community's image<br />
statewide and nationally ."'°<br />
Louisiana's Governor John McKeithen was also slow to learn the lessons of<br />
Birmingham. Following the Bogalusa incident, McKeithen castigated Brook Hays <strong>for</strong><br />
meddling in Louisiana's affairs . "If I were Brook Hays," said the Governor, "I would<br />
stay in Arkansas . They have twice as much trouble as we have ." The Governor declined<br />
to visit Bogalusa, saying that his presence would only inflame the local problems . The<br />
cross burnings were not a matter ofconcern either since they didn't intimidate anyone,<br />
including blacks, said McKeithen . "The more we talk about Bogalusa, the more trouble<br />
we have," he complained . "We have had no church burnings here, no bodies pulled from<br />
the river, no one shot on the highway as in other states ."<br />
3 '<br />
3oBogalusa Daily News, 6 January 1965 .<br />
"Bogalusa Daily News, 8 January 1965 .<br />
127
Mayor Cutrer joined McKeithen in chastising the Hays committee and attempting<br />
to avert the crisis by declaring it resolved . "We have been through a very trying period<br />
which has put each one of us to the test," said Cutrer . "And we have come through with<br />
flying colors ." s '-<br />
Cutrer was dead wrong. The Hays incident was the beginning, not the end of<br />
Bogalusa's problems . Young blacks in Bogalusa were already upset that the Voters<br />
League had kept CORE out ofBogalusa . The League's "quiet negotiations" had<br />
accomplished nothing other than delivering the city into the hands of the Klan. The<br />
young militants in the League began to pressure Andrew Moses to start testing public<br />
accommodations. Simultaneous[ Crown-Zellerbach officials were owin nervous<br />
Y. g'~' g<br />
about the negative national publicity that the Hays inciden; had generated . In early<br />
l28 ',<br />
Janu Crown-Zellerbach officials told Cutrer to arran e <strong>for</strong> an order[ sta ed testin of li<br />
~Y 8 Y~ 8 g<br />
public accommodations . The plan was to test facilities, declare Bogalusa in compliance<br />
with the Civil Rights Act, and return to nonmalcy .33<br />
With national attention focussed on Bogalusa, Cutrer knew that the Community<br />
Relations Committee would have to make rapid progress . He had already notified<br />
restaurant and motel owners and told them they were going to have to face the facts<br />
regarding the Civil Rights Act . Federal officials were also pressuring Cutrer to comply<br />
with the Civil Rights Act or face losing federal funds . Cutrer contacted Moses and other<br />
black members ofthe Commission and arranged <strong>for</strong> a symbolic, choreographed day of<br />
s2TimesPicayune, 12 January 1965 .<br />
' 3Crown-ZeUerbach's role in staging the tests is documented in "Crown-Zellerbach it<br />
Bogalusa," 16 May 1965, box 7, folder 6, CORE(SRO) and Rony, "Bogalusa," p . 238 ;<br />
"Field Report January-June 1965 ."<br />
i
testing of public accommodations . Cutrer promised that the testers would have adequate<br />
protection and that he would ask the Klan not to interfere . Andrew Moses agreed to the<br />
plan and reluctantly acceded to the young militants' demand that CORE participate in the<br />
tests. Moses and City officials were adamantly opposed to CORE intervening in<br />
Bogalusa, but they failed to persuade the young militants . Moses joined three other<br />
Voter League members, L.C . Dawson, Robert S . "Bob" Hicks, and Gayle Jenkins, to<br />
travel to New Orleans to meet with Bonnie Moore at CORE's headquarters . CORE<br />
agreed to assist in the tests and two white CORE staff members were dispatched to<br />
Bogalusa, William "Bill" Yates, a <strong>for</strong>mer Cornell English Professor, and CORE<br />
Volunteer Steve Miller, an Antioch student.`<br />
CORE had initially proposed four days oftests and were not told that the League<br />
had agreed to only one day . Prior to the test, scheduled <strong>for</strong> Friday, January 28, Yates and<br />
Miller worked with the Voters League in preparation <strong>for</strong> the planned day of testing .<br />
CORE trained the volunteer testers, most ofthem teenage:s, in nonviolent protest<br />
techniques . The League arranged <strong>for</strong> the public schools to be closed so that the students<br />
could participate. The city grew tense as the day of testing grew near. State and city<br />
officials took precautions to guarantee an orderly, well-orchestrated desegregation test_<br />
Governor McKeithen arranged to have the State I-Tighway Patrol troops present to<br />
augment Bogalusa's small city police <strong>for</strong>ce . And on the eve of the event, Mayor Cutrer<br />
delivered a radio speech urging citizens to avoid the test area and to remain calm . 3s<br />
'Good, "Klantown," p . 112; "Fact Sheet on Bogalusa, Louisiana" ; Bogalusa Daily<br />
News, 29 January 1965 .<br />
3sRickey <strong>Hill</strong>, "The Character ofBlack Politics," pp . 67-70; "Summary of Incidents :<br />
Bogalusa, Louisiana, January 28 - July 1, 1965," box 7, folder 6, CORE(SRO) .<br />
129
The day of testing went surprisingly well . The Negro Union Hall served as<br />
headquarters <strong>for</strong> the operation, and the testers were shuttled between the hall and the<br />
business establishments . Andrew Moses led groups offour in testing sixteen eating<br />
establishments, two movie theaters, and the Austin Street Branch ofthe Washington<br />
Parish Library . Seven establishments refused to serve the testers, including Capos and<br />
the Dairy Queen . The Klan stayed out of sight <strong>for</strong> most ofthe day . There were only a<br />
few incidents of harassment, and those were directed at CORE's representative. While<br />
Bill Yates was waiting outside Plaza Restaurant, a group of white men jeered him, calling<br />
him a "Hebrew" (Yates was not Jewish) and menacingly drawing their fingers across<br />
their throats . Police stopped a large group of white men when they threatened to attack<br />
Steve 1V)iller and a group of blacks who had just successfully tested the food counter at<br />
the Acme Dnrg Store . Miller had been shuttling the teenagers in his new red Barracuda,<br />
a sporty car that his parents had recently purchased <strong>for</strong> him. Other than these few<br />
incidents, the testing went as planned. The Klan had honored its pledge not to intervene .<br />
The crisis appeared to be over .' 6<br />
But there was still the matter ofthe seven establishments that had refirsed to<br />
comply with the desegregation law . At the end the day tha testers assembled <strong>for</strong> an<br />
in<strong>for</strong>mal meeting . The mood was exuberant and the testers were feeling exhilarated and<br />
confident after a day of daring escapades . One of the teenagers suggested that they<br />
continue with more tests. Andrew Moses could not have been pleased with this<br />
development, since he had promised the town fathers that there would be only one day of<br />
' 6Bogalusa Daily News, 29 January 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 29 January 1965 ;<br />
"Summary of Incidents : Bogalusa, Louisiana, January 28 - July 1, 1965 .<br />
loo
tests . "Everybody was feeling good," recalls Steve Miller, "so the kids especially, as<br />
young people will do, they said `O .K ., let's do some more!' So at the end ofthe meeting,<br />
I just yelled, `O.K . we'll be back Monday!' ." It was an impulsive move that added to the<br />
tension between Moses and CORE . "I didn't have any sense ofwhat I was doing, but it<br />
put Moses on the spot," says Miller. "And he had to call a meeting <strong>for</strong> 4:00 P.M. that<br />
day." But when they arrived <strong>for</strong> the meeting, the Union Hall was locked . Moses had<br />
canceled the meeting."<br />
The schism between CORE and the BCVL found its way into news reports .<br />
Earlier in the day, Moses had told the media that no further tests were scheduled and that<br />
injunctions might be sought against the establishments that refused service, but that<br />
decision would await a planned evaluation ofthe days activities . But CORE was sending<br />
a different message . CORE's Bill Yates told the media that he planned to remain in<br />
Bogalusa <strong>for</strong> some time, and that there would be more tests at the seven establishments<br />
that had failed to comply . Moses and CORE were apparently at loggerheads .' $<br />
The showdown between Moses and CORE occurred the following Monday,<br />
February 1 . Yates and Miller returned to attend an evaluation and victory meeting of the<br />
BCVL . Over the weekend the conflict festered between the old and the young in the<br />
Voters League. Blacks on the Community Relations Committee had been operating with<br />
no accountability to the black community . They were older moderates, hand picked by<br />
the white power structure. Young militants like A. Z. Young and Bob Hicks had been<br />
;'Steven Miller, interview by author, 28 August 1994, Oakland, Cali<strong>for</strong>tia, tape<br />
recording .<br />
3gBogalnsa Daily News, 29 January 1965 .<br />
131
purposefully excluded . The militants had reached the limits of their patience with<br />
negotiation and compromise . Had not Moses and his colleagues capitulated to the Klan<br />
on the Hays Committee event? Had not "quiet negotiations" meant diversions and<br />
preservation ofthe status quo? Had not the old leaders acquiesced to the City's demanc+<br />
that the tests be limited to one day of empty symbolism that allowed half a dozen<br />
businesses to flaunt the law? To the young militants, nothing had changed."<br />
The mass meeting on February 1 exploded into a sharp debate when Yates and<br />
Miller suggested more tests and protest . Andrew Moses held firm . But by the end of the<br />
meeting it was apparent that he had lost control of the BCVL to the younger members .<br />
Reflecting the new rote ofteenagers in the BCVL, the group <strong>for</strong>med a BCVL youth<br />
group which was headed by Dan Expose, the son of Gayle Jerkins .<br />
It had been a tense and exhausting meeting, but Yates and Miller were hopeful .<br />
The black community had sided with CORE and the two organizers were excited at the<br />
prospects o<strong>for</strong>ganizing a campaign in Bogalusa . As darkness fell, the BCVL activists<br />
grew concerned about the safety of the two CORE workers . CORE had ignored Mayor<br />
Cutrer's agreement with the Klan that CORE would visit Bogalusa <strong>for</strong> only one day of<br />
testing . Now Yates and Miller were back in Bogalusa planning additional protests .<br />
Moreover, Bob Hicks and his wife Jackie were preparing to violate a strict racial taboo .<br />
They had offered to let Yates and Miller to stay at their home that night. No white<br />
person had ever spent the night in the "colored quarters" in Bogalusa.<br />
39Rickey <strong>Hill</strong>, "Character of Black Politics," pp . 67"70 ; Miller, <strong>Hill</strong> interview ; Robert<br />
S . Hicks, interview by author, 25 Febnrary 1989, Bogalusa, Louisiana, tape recording .<br />
132
Bob and Jackie Hicks sat down <strong>for</strong> dinner that night with their five children and<br />
Bill Yates and Steve Miller. When they finished dinner, they retired to the living room to<br />
watch television and talk over the day's events . Suddenly there was a knock at the<br />
door.' °<br />
Bob Hicks opened the door and found Police Chief Claxton Knight and a deputy<br />
standing be<strong>for</strong>e them looking grim . Claxton Knight was the archetypal Southern<br />
lawman ; a tall, lanky man who always sported a big Stetson cowboy hat . He had come<br />
with bad news . A surly mob of whites had gathered on Columbia Street, Knight told<br />
Hicks, and they were threatening to come after Yates and Miller. The CORE organizers<br />
would have to depart immediately. There was little that could be done to protect them .<br />
It might not be a bad idea if Hicks and his fanuly would leave as well .<br />
Bill Yates did not respond well to ultimatums . The professor had an arrogant<br />
streak that even tried the patience ofhis friends . "Bill Yates was a hot head," recalls Bob<br />
Hicks . "He had a bad temper, a real bad temper ." Yates' temper flared with Chief<br />
Knight . The two exchanged heated words, with Yates barking to Chief Knight that he<br />
didn't "like the goddamn idea of you trying to run me out of town ." Yates paused, then<br />
turned to Hicks and asked ifhe and Miller could stay the night . "Hell yeah," said Hicks<br />
defiantly, "you a guest in my house.""<br />
The two police officers left in a huff As they walked back to their car, Yates<br />
asked if they planned to protect the house in tight of the threats. Hicks recalls Knight's<br />
~°The account ofthis incident is taken from, Hicks, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Miller, Hiil<br />
interview; and "Fact Sheet on Bogalusa, Louisiana ."<br />
{'Hicks, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
133
lunt response . Knight told them, "he wasn't going to play no nursemaid to some niggers<br />
and people down here in the house." Knight returned to his patrol car where he sat<br />
quietly in the dark <strong>for</strong> a few minutes with two deputies .'=<br />
The news of a white mob set the Hicks household into a panic . They faced the<br />
frightening prospect ofa Klan lynch mob arriving at their door in the next few minutes .<br />
The Hicks family was armed with a rifle, a shotgun, and two white pacifists who refused<br />
to touch either . It was a woefully inadequate arsenal . But the I-hcks were levelheaded<br />
activists and they mobilized quickly . Jackie Hicks quickly began calling friends <strong>for</strong><br />
assistance . Within minutes the word of the Klan mob swept through the black<br />
community . One couple arrived to escort the children to safety. The woman was so<br />
nervous that she panicked and drove off leaving her husband stranded at the house . j3<br />
The word got out that the Hicks needed protection, and the black men ofBogalusa<br />
responded swiftly . "A lot ofblack men in the community started coming down," recalls<br />
Hicks, and they were talking about how they were "going to kill us some Klan tonight ."<br />
ChiefKnight and his deputies watched in sadent disbelief from their patrol car as a line of<br />
black men rapidly filed into the Hicks' house--armed with shotguns and rifles . After a<br />
few minutes Knight left . Andrew Moses arrived soon afterwards but left to make calls<br />
and never returned.`<br />
Bill Yates was busy on the phone trying to secure police protection so that he and<br />
Miller could return to New Orleans . Using a standard CORE technique, Yates placed<br />
oz ~id .<br />
j3Ibid .<br />
~`Ibid . ; "Fact Sheet on Bogalusa, Louisiana."<br />
134
calls to CORE contacts around the country, as well as local and national media . Within<br />
hours local, state, and federal o$'rcials were inundated with hundreds oftelephones calls<br />
demanding that Boga~usa police provide protection <strong>for</strong> the two .<br />
Within an hour ofKnight's visit, the Hicks' house was rein<strong>for</strong>ced with more than<br />
twenty-five fully armed black men . The men sat <strong>for</strong> hours in tense silence, watching the<br />
streets <strong>for</strong> any sign of danger. Occasionally a police car drove by slowly and shined a<br />
spotlight at the house . Finally, ChiefKnight returned to the house at about 4 :00 a.m . .<br />
The phone calls to CORE contacts around the nation had had their intended effect, and<br />
Chief Knight now assured Hicks that the CORE workers would be safe.<br />
The truth was that there never was a Klan mob on Columbia Street . The mob<br />
story was concocted by Knight to bluff Yates and NGller into leaving Bogalusa. Charles<br />
Christmas and Saxon Farmer, the leaders of the OKKICK, had demanded that city<br />
officials remove Yates and Miller, and Knight, lacking the nerve to summarily arrest and<br />
deport the two CORE workers, had resorted to a clumsy ruse . js<br />
Knight's ploy to expel CORE had backfired and converted the civil rights<br />
struggle into a contest of honor <strong>for</strong> blacks in Bogalusa . The phony Klan threats against ',<br />
CORE and Hicks' family had only increased the stakes <strong>for</strong> the black community . In the I<br />
past, the Bogalusa Klan had limited its harassment to white accommodationists; now they<br />
were threatening the sanctity ofthe home and the right to free expression in the black<br />
community . Defending CORE became a test of manhood and a point ofhonor <strong>for</strong><br />
jSThe Klan's pressure on Cutrer is documented in "Federal Complaint," found in<br />
United States of America, by Nicholas deB . Katzenbach, Attorney General of the United<br />
States vs . Original Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, an incorporated Association ; et . al .,<br />
1965, U.S . District Court, Eastern District ofLouisiana, Civil Action 15793, case<br />
records, Federal Records Center, Fort Worth, Texas; Miller, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
13~
Bogalusa blacks . And honor was everything to the tough, proud mill workers--white or<br />
black . "You had what you would call diehards on both sides," explains Bob Hicks.<br />
"Whites in Bogalusa have been diehards <strong>for</strong> conviction . Bogalusa blacks have been<br />
diehards <strong>for</strong> conviction ." Beyond defending their principles, blacks in Bogalusa simply<br />
did not like to lose . "They were sore losers," muses Hick . "In whatever they got<br />
involved in, whatever they committed themselves to, they didn't want to lose . They<br />
wanted to win . They wanted to come out on top ."`~<br />
The Iflan mob incident had started--rather than stopped--the Bogalusa civil rights<br />
movement. "Had it not been <strong>for</strong> that . . . I don't think there would have ever been a<br />
movement in Bogalusa," I-ijcks says. The mob incident was Bob Hicks' personal<br />
Rubicon as well : "I took whites into my home . No one else in the Bogalusa Voters<br />
League would do that . . . but when I brought them into my home, I was locked in ."<br />
a '<br />
'Hicks, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
s'Rickey <strong>Hill</strong>, "Character of a Black Politics," p . 70 .<br />
136
Chapter 7<br />
The Bogalusa Chapter<br />
The following morning Yates and Miller safely departed Bogalusa with a police<br />
escort . Their visit had left the city in an uproar. Embarrassed City officials issued a<br />
denial that a white lynch mob had threatened the CORE workers. The growing rift<br />
between BCVL moderates and militants resurfaced publicly when Andrew Moses told<br />
the media that there would be no further CORE activity in Bogalusa without Voters<br />
League approval . CORE's second visit had also enraged the Klan, furious that City<br />
officials had not expelled the CORE organizers as they had demanded .'<br />
But CORE was not through with Bogalusa. The intrepid Miller and Yates<br />
returned to Bogalusa the next day, Wednesday, February 3 . They had been invited by<br />
local black union officials to discuss the developments . The CORE workers also hoped<br />
to meet again with city officials . Gate that afternoon the two CORE workers left the<br />
Negro Union Hall in Steve Miller's new Barracuda to depart <strong>for</strong> New Orleans . The pair<br />
soon realized they were being followed by a mysterious car with five white men . The car<br />
carried five segregationists, including Delos Williams and James Hollingsworth,<br />
members of the Original Knights ofthe Ku Klux Klan Miller and fates nervously drove<br />
around the black quarters <strong>for</strong> several minutes, the Klan car in close pursuit . The pair<br />
`Bogalusa Daily News, 3 February 1965 .<br />
137
alked at leaving town by the single highway between Bogalusa and New Orleans . It<br />
was too risky--a narrow highway with few turnoffs <strong>for</strong> escape : "We just knew that we<br />
weren't going to go out that way," recalls Miller. Finally, Yates decided to attempt to<br />
telephone <strong>for</strong> help from Andrey's Cafe, a small restaurant in the black quarters. He<br />
yelled <strong>for</strong> Miller to stop the car. Miller hesitated, but deferred to the judgement of the<br />
older Yates . He brought the car to a halt and Yates quickly jumped from the car and<br />
headed to the phone. Z<br />
Suddenly the Klan car puped in front ofMiller's car, blocking his path . Shots<br />
rang out and a brick was tossed at Miller's car. The Klansmen leapt from their car and<br />
caught Yates. They threw him to the ground and violently beat and kicked him, leaving<br />
him with severe internal injuries and a broken hand .<br />
Yates finally escaped his attackers and stumbled into Andrey's Cafe . Miller<br />
parked his car behind the cafe and joined Yates in the cafe. Inside Andrey's cafe were<br />
four or five older men . The eatery was a tiny matchbox ofa building, little more than a<br />
single room 15' by 15' . The two CORE activists watched anxiously as the first Klan car<br />
was quickly joined by at least four other carloads of Klansmen, the deadly caravan<br />
slowly circling its prey .<br />
A tense quiet descended on the room as Miller and Yates nervously considered<br />
their options . There first line of defense was visibility. Miller quickly began to feed<br />
nickels into the pay phone, making a series offrantic calls . First he called his mother in<br />
San Francisco, an activist in her own right, and told her to start a chain of phone calls to<br />
ZThe account ofthis incident is taken from Miller, <strong>Hill</strong> interview ; Hicks, <strong>Hill</strong><br />
interview, and "Federal Complaint ."<br />
138
alert authorities and the media to their plight . Calls soon began to flood into the offices<br />
of the Louisiana State Attorney General, the State Police-- anyone who could bring<br />
pressure to bear on local authorities . Miller also contacted CORE's IYew Orleans and<br />
Baton Rouge Offices, as well as the wire services . It was a frightening yet exhilarating<br />
situation <strong>for</strong> the nineteen-year-old Miller. "Remember Goodman, Schwerner and<br />
Chaney?" Miller asked a UPI reporter on the phone . "Well you're talking to the next<br />
ones right here . We're about to get it ." 3<br />
Within minutes after the attack several black men armed with rifles began to<br />
quietly slip into the cafe through the back door. Many were the same men who had<br />
guarded the Hicks' house a few days be<strong>for</strong>e . They took their positions inside the cafe<br />
with efficiency ofmotion . "I'm sure many of these men were combat veterans," recalls<br />
Miller . "They certainly deployed themselves as such." The armed men were a com<strong>for</strong>t<br />
to the two pacifists and a stabilizing presence as the crisis unfolded . At one point Miller<br />
panicked when the pay phone wouldn't work. "They cut off the phones . They cut off the<br />
phones!," Miller shouted to the men in the room . One ofthe black men who had been<br />
watching Miller calmly diagnosed the problem . "Son, you got to put a nickel in there<br />
first.";<br />
Even when Miller managed to put the nickel in the phone he still had problems .<br />
During the siege, communication with the outside was sabotaged by local white<br />
telephone company employees--as had occurred in Jonesboro . Bogalusa telephone<br />
operators refused to put calls through to the black community . Phone company<br />
'Miller, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
jIbid .<br />
139
employees outside ofBogalusa were drawn into the unfol3ing drama . One indignant<br />
Boston telephone operator refused to get offthe line until she succeeded in connecting<br />
her long distance caller to Bogalusa .<br />
As they waited <strong>for</strong> word from the outside, Miller surveyed the dimly lit garrison<br />
and the stern militia standing guard over him. It was philosophical epiphany <strong>for</strong> Miller .<br />
"Up to that point, I embraced the concept of nonviolence," said Miller. Now necessity<br />
made him an apostate . "At that point I guess I said, `Oh, I guess I'm not nonviolent<br />
anymore' ."s<br />
Eventually FBI Special Agent Frank Sass in New Orleans reached Miller on the<br />
pay phone in Andreys . The Klan caravan circling the block had melted away at sunset,<br />
but it was still unsafe <strong>for</strong> Miller and Yates to leave the cafe . Agent Sass told Miller not<br />
to leave until he could make it to Bogalusa and talk to local authorities . Miller retorted<br />
that the agent should not delay calling the Bogalusa authorities ; that he and Yates needed<br />
protection immediately and they had already notified the media. "The world is<br />
watching," Miller warned Sass . 6<br />
Sass was the resident agent <strong>for</strong> Bogalusa and was familiar with the recent civil<br />
rights activities . He soon arrived at Andreys Cafe but balked at walking into the<br />
building. "Steven Miller, come on out," yelled the agent in his distinctive Southern draw .<br />
One ofthe black guards cautioned Miller that the cafe door was illuminated by a light,<br />
making Miller a clear target if he ventured outside. "Don't you go out there and<br />
silhouette yourself, boy," warned the man . So Miller told Sass to come in if he wanted to<br />
SIbid .<br />
6lbid .<br />
140
talk . The FBI agent opened the cafe door and took a few steps in . He was not prepared<br />
<strong>for</strong> the scene confronting him : The tiny cafe was packed with black men armed with<br />
rifles and shotguns . "His mouth dropped a foot," recalls Miller with some amusement .<br />
"He literally couldn't talk <strong>for</strong> four or five minutes. He just stood there stunned."'<br />
When Sass regained his composure, he took affidavits from Miller and Yates,<br />
surrounded by their armed defenders . By this time the CORE organizers were beginning<br />
to grow cocky about their bargaining position--bolstered by the small army at their<br />
command . They told Sass that they weren't leaving Bogaiusa ; they demanded medical<br />
treatment <strong>for</strong> Yates ; and they lectured the agent about how "things were getting out of<br />
hand" in Bogalusa . The FBI agent did not enjoy the scolding and he soon left without<br />
making any promises, only saying that he would talk to state police officials . The black<br />
guards waited a few hours <strong>for</strong> Sass to arrange protection, but when the agent failed to<br />
return they decided to move the CORE men to the Dicks house . They concealed them in<br />
the back seat of a car and transported them in an armed convoy to the Hicks house.<br />
When they arrived, Yates and Miller were greeted by a second defense <strong>for</strong>ce, scattered in<br />
trees, behind bushes; and inside the Hicks house . 8<br />
It was imperative to get Yates to a hospital <strong>for</strong> his injuries but the local hospital<br />
was out ofthe question . By about 10:30 p.m . CORE's regional office had arranged <strong>for</strong> a<br />
State Police escort <strong>for</strong> Yates and Miller . Four patrol cars soon arrived . The ranking<br />
patrolman wallced to the Hicks' door. "He came in, took about four steps into the room,<br />
and saw all these guys with guns and his mouth fell open and he was rooted to the spot,"<br />
'Ibid .<br />
gIbid .<br />
141
says Miller. "He was just dumfounded ." The armed guards relished the moment . "I<br />
definitely remember these guys were getting a kick out of this, because at that point they<br />
were basically holding the upper hand ."<br />
Miller and Yates said their goodbyes and thanked their newfound Samurai. As<br />
they left the house, they passed Alveria Fucks who sat quietly in a chair with a <strong>for</strong>lorn<br />
look . Miller bent down and gave her a kiss on the cheek, much to the horror ofthe<br />
onlooking white patrolmen. It was a small gesture ofgratitude, but one that boldly<br />
flaunted the color line . "I was always very proud ofthat," said 11~Gller thirty years later. `°<br />
City Police escorted Yates and Miller to the edge of town and then State Police<br />
<strong>for</strong>med a convoy <strong>for</strong> the rest of the trip to the Lake Ponchartrain bridge, and Miller and<br />
Yates eventually arrived safely in New Orleans . True to <strong>for</strong>m, Mayor Cutrer and other<br />
city officials later denied that the attack occurred, attributing it to the "vivid and<br />
unrestrained imaginations" of Yates and Miller. Governor McKeithen chastised the two<br />
at a press conference in Baton Rouge, labeling them "professional troublemakers" and<br />
speculating that Yates' shattered bones and internal injuries were "self-inflicted ."<br />
Adopting the same appeasement policy toward the Klan that had brought Bogalusa to the<br />
brink ofchaos, McKeithen repeated his claim to the media that Louisiana had no racist<br />
violence problem. Fortunately, McKeithen didn't believe his own propaganda . The<br />
Governor announced in the press conference that state police would provide twenty-four<br />
'Ibid .<br />
io ~id .<br />
142
hour protection <strong>for</strong> CORE-no doubt to protect Yates and Miller from their "vivid and<br />
unrestrained imaginations .""<br />
The second attack on Yates and Miller sealed the fate of Andrew Moses in the<br />
BCVL . Moses realized that CORE was in Bogalusa to stay and that the testing and other<br />
<strong>for</strong>ms of direct action protest would continue, regardless of his promises to the town<br />
fathers. Moreover, CORE was now committed to organizing in Bogalusa and most of the<br />
BCVL's younger leadership had demonstrated that they would support and defend<br />
CORE . Moses had succeeded in losing the confidence of both blacks and whites . Within<br />
a few days, Moses resigned . His resignation marked the end of the NAACP strategy of<br />
accommodation and negotiation in Bogalusa . The man who would ultimately replace<br />
Moses symbolized the new strategy ofmilitant confrontation, coercion, and violence .<br />
His name was A . Z . Young . `2<br />
Forty-two years oid, A. Z . Young bridged the old and young generations,<br />
combining mature judgement with a youthful passion <strong>for</strong> justice . The imposing 6'4"<br />
goliath was a charismatic working class leader, blessed with a basso profundo voice, a<br />
flair <strong>for</strong> the dramatic, and a gregarious personality . Articulate and strong-willed, Young<br />
had provided militant leadership <strong>for</strong> the black local ofthe Pulp and Sulphite Workers<br />
Union <strong>for</strong> several years . A stint in the army during World War II imparted a military<br />
demeanor to Young. He had seen combat, serving as a tank commander in the 761st tank<br />
battalion under General George Patton . Young's military experience and years ofunion<br />
` 1Bogalusa Daily News, 5 February 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 5 February 1965 .<br />
`=Rickey <strong>Hill</strong>, "The Character ofBlack Politics," pp . 67-68 .<br />
l43
activism had schooled him in leadership and the art ofnegotiating from a position of<br />
power .' 3<br />
Young was joined in the BCVL's new leadership by two other emerging leaders :<br />
Bob Hicks and Gayle Jerkins . Bob Hicks brought a quiet determination and luminous<br />
intelligence to the Voters League . A man of great personal integrity and determination,<br />
Hicks had already taken leadership in organizing self-defense in the community . Gayle<br />
Jerkins had the best organizational instincts of the triumvirate . As Secretary-Treasurer,<br />
Jerkins managed the League's finances . Her quiet and thoughtful manner<br />
counterbalanced A . Z . Young's penchant <strong>for</strong> showmanship and hyperbole.<br />
All three were solidly working class in their backgrounds and political instincts .<br />
Contrasting sharply with their middle class predecessors, the new leadership was<br />
passionately independent and militant, with poetical instincts contrary to the political<br />
tenets of nonviolence . Where their predecessors had gained concessions through<br />
brokering power, electoral bargaining and quiet negotiations--all predicated on<br />
accommodating white interests--the new leaders cared little about courting the favor of<br />
whites . They eschewed negotiations and deal-making from a position ofweakness . They<br />
preferred direct action that <strong>for</strong>ced a crisis and coerced concessions . They had no qualm:<br />
about using <strong>for</strong>ce and violence as a poetical tool, even if it alienated whites .<br />
Nor were the new leaders constrained, as their predecessors were, by genteel<br />
aspirations to white bourgeois propriety . W1We the old BCVL had been mired in an<br />
uninspired voter registration campaign, the new BCVL favored a direct challenge to civil<br />
' 3Program <strong>for</strong> "A. Z . Young Civil Rights March 25th Anniversary<br />
Commemoration," 12 November 1992, Louisiana Legislative Black Caucus . In author's<br />
possession .<br />
144
and economic inequality . Their legitimacy rested on community consent, not the<br />
blessing of a city hall or national civil rights organizations . Locally led and locally<br />
funded, the new Voters League was immune to the pacifist agenda imposed by national<br />
organizations and fenders.<br />
As the Voters League regrouped in February 1965, the OKKKI{ was also<br />
planning an offensive, encouraged by official appeasement and virtual immunity from<br />
prosecution . The OI{KKI{'s strategy was to silence all opposition, black and white .<br />
They planned to <strong>for</strong>ce businesses that had desegregated to resegregate . And they would<br />
coerce elected officials into defying the Civil Rights Act . To accomplish this they would<br />
rely on a variety oftactics, including boycotts, mass mobilizations, mob violence, and<br />
terrorist attacks.<br />
In the months that followed the OKKKK mobilized large numbers ofwhites to<br />
disrupt picketing, marches, and other <strong>for</strong>ms ofdesegregation protest. Although the<br />
violent attacks on protesters often appeared to be spontaneous, they were actually the<br />
work ofsmall, highly organized terrorist squads called "wrecking crews ." The wrecking<br />
crews were aided by an elaborate communication network ofKlan members and<br />
supporters linked by phone and citizen band radios . The network allowed the Klan to<br />
swiftly dispatch wrecking crews to impromptu civil rights protests."<br />
The Klan campaign ofintimidation escalated on February 14 when Bob Hicks<br />
received a bomb threat by phone . The next day Sam Barnes, a tough ex-convict and<br />
BCVL supporter, went to Landry's Restaurant with six black women . Within minutes<br />
` °On Klan strategy and wrecking crews see, Times-Picayune, 8 September 1965 ;<br />
"Federal Complaint ."<br />
145
the Klan wrecking crew, led by Virgil Cockers, descended on Landry's . They numbered<br />
nearly thirty men, including Sidney August Warner, Delos Williams, James M . Ellis,<br />
Charles Ray Williams, and Albert Applewhite . Cockern and another accomplice<br />
brandished clubs and threatened to kill Barnes and the black women ifthey did not leave .<br />
Barnes decided to retreat, and returned to the black quarters, with two Klansmen<br />
following closely behind .` s<br />
Shortly afterwards, Cockern took his Klan crew to a gas station in the white part<br />
of town where four hapless black teenagers had stopped to purchase gas . One ofthe<br />
Klansmen placed a gun to the head ofone of the boys and ordered the teenagers to leave<br />
the station . Three days later on February 17, Cockern's crew struck again . This time<br />
Cockers stopped Reverend Jerry Chance, one of the Hays Committee members, and<br />
threatened to harm the minister <strong>for</strong> his role on the committee . `6<br />
The Bogalusa police made no attempt to stop the attacks, and in fact took pains to<br />
arrest blacks who had armed themselves in self-defense . On February 19 the Bogalusa<br />
City Police stopped Joshua Mondy, a black activist, <strong>for</strong> a traffic violation and arrested<br />
him <strong>for</strong> possession of a weapon . In addition to the Klan wrecking crew's violence, racist<br />
sympathizers at the telephone company continued to disrupt the phone service of civil<br />
rights activists . The phones of Bob Hicks and other activists frequently failed to work or<br />
made odd noises and telephone operators refused to assist in long distance calls . A<br />
` SIbid . ; "Summary of Incidents : Bogalusa, Louisiana, January 28 - July 1, 1965 ."<br />
Williams was the only assailant who was not a Klan member.<br />
` 6Ibid . ; "Federal Complaint ."<br />
146
subsequent investigation revealed that one ofthe principal Klan leaders in Bogalusa<br />
worked as a supervisor at the phone company."<br />
The Klan terror campaign culminated in thirty-three incidents in the month<br />
following the January desegegation tests . Throughout January and February local and<br />
state law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials failed to arrest a single Klansman, although CORE<br />
faithfully reported all incidents . By the third week of February the Klan had silenced<br />
most ofthe white moderates and had <strong>for</strong>ced nearly all of t~~e businesses that had<br />
desegregated to resegregate . No example better demonstrated the Klan's power to<br />
ruthlessly crush white dissent than the case of Ralph Blumberg ."<br />
Blumberg was one of the seven original Hays Committee members. In 1961<br />
Blumberg had purchased WBOX, the local Bogalusa's radio station which ran a <strong>for</strong>mat<br />
of news and country western music. A World War II veteran and a member of<br />
Bogalusa's small Jewish community, Blumberg quickly gained a reputation as a<br />
successful businessman and respected civic leader. But Blumberg's participation on the<br />
Hays Committee brought a sudden reversal of <strong>for</strong>tune . ` 9<br />
""Summary ofIncidents : Bogalusa, Louisiana, January 28 - July 1, 1965 ." Ovied<br />
Dunaway, a supervisor at the telephone company in Bogalusa, was the exalted Cyclops of<br />
the Bogalusa klavern ofthe OICKKK. Dunaway spoke at a UKA Klan rally near<br />
Poplarville, Mississippi on July 17, 1965 . Activities ofKu Klux Klan, volume 3, p . 2463 .<br />
` s "Bogalusa, Louisiana, Incident Summary : January 25 - February 25," [February<br />
1965], cox 7, folder 5, CORE(SRO) ; "Summary of Incidents : Bogalusa, Louisiana,<br />
January 28 - July l, 1965" ; "Federal Complaint."<br />
"On the Blumberg incident see, "One Mans Stand," The ADL Bulletin, May<br />
1965, p . 1 ; Times Picayune, 20, 23, March 1965 ; "WBOk and the KKK," Newsweek, 16<br />
August 1965, p . 75 ; and Blumberg's testimony in Activities ofKu Klux Klan, volume 3,<br />
pp . 2415-2438 .<br />
147
The Klan singled out Blumberg <strong>for</strong> special persecution because he had broadcast<br />
the Hays Committee's editorial against the Klan in January 1965 . The Klan's campaign<br />
against Blumberg was merciless . Nightriders drove nails into Blumberg's car tires and<br />
smashed his car windshield . An anonymous caller threatened to kill his wife and<br />
children, <strong>for</strong>cing Blumberg to first send his family to St . Louis, then later to shuttle them<br />
around to Jewish homes in Bogalusa and New Orleans . During school hours Blumberg's<br />
wife would sit in her car at her children's school to keep vigil over the children during<br />
recess . Z°<br />
The personal threats and violence were accompanied by a Klan campaign to<br />
destroy Blumberg's radio station by intimidating sponsors into withdrawing their<br />
advertisements . The Klan threatened businesses with a boycott ifthey continued to<br />
advertise on WBOX . One advertiser received a barrage of thirty-seven threatening calls .<br />
By March 1965, Blumberg had lost all but six of his original seventy advertisers .<br />
Financial ruin was imminent. At Srst Blumberg endured the harassment in silence . He<br />
even met with Klan leaders who denied that they were coordinating the harassment<br />
campaign . But on March 18, Blumberg struck back with an editorial calling on Bogalusa<br />
citizens to speak out against "the few who intimidate and attempt to control and infect the<br />
convnunity like a plague ."<br />
Racist terrorists swiftly responded to the editorial . That night under cover of<br />
darkness, an assailant Bred six shots from a high-powered rifle into the WBOX<br />
transmitter . The next day Blumberg's engineer hastily resigned . Blumberg's editorial<br />
against the Klan and his appeal <strong>for</strong> public support predictably failed to garner support.<br />
'-°"One Man Stands Alone," The ADL Bulletin .<br />
148
Both Governor McKeithen and Mayor Cutrer offered little sympathy and instead<br />
castigated Blumberg <strong>for</strong> sensationalism . McKeithen insisted that the Klan had little<br />
influence in Bogalusa and that Blumberg had "done the city ofBogalusa a great<br />
disservice" by claiming to be a victim ofKlan terror . McKeithen also intimated that<br />
Blumberg had an ulterior motive <strong>for</strong> bringing negative publicity to the city--that<br />
Blumberg would soon win a lucrativejob from an Eastern newspaper or radio station .<br />
Mayor Cutrer dismissed Blumberg's editorial as merely an example of Blumberg's habit<br />
of bringing national shame to the community . Cutrer blamed Blumberg <strong>for</strong> his own<br />
predicament, observing that the station owner had broadcast the Hays Committee<br />
editorial, an action that resulted in CORE targeting the community . The Mayor also<br />
questioned Blumberg's claims about Klan harassment, noting that none ofthe sponsors<br />
had made complaints of intimidation to local law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials .'- '<br />
By August 1965 the Klan had frightened away all ofWBOX's local advertisers,<br />
save <strong>for</strong> Bill Lott, the owner of a local Honda dealership . The radio station limped along<br />
with financial assistance primarily from Jewish supporters in New Orleans and New<br />
York. More than $8,000 in contributions was raised, mostly in New Orleans . A New<br />
York merchants' group bought one-hundred public service commercials featuring the<br />
preamble ofthe constitution . The national organization ofthe Presbyterian Church<br />
funded a series of half-minute commercials narrated by comedian Stan Frieberg . The<br />
advertisements implored Bogalusans to Gve by the bible and love one another : most<br />
white Bogalusans had demonstrated that they were willing to do neither. In November<br />
1965 Blumberg was <strong>for</strong>ced to sell his station and leave his beloved Bogalusa. With his<br />
Z' TimesPicayune, March 20, 23 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, March 23 1965 .<br />
149
departure, the Klan had succeeded in driving out the lone voice of white dissent in<br />
Bogalusa. u<br />
As the events intensified in Bogalusa, civil rights lawyers filed a series of federal<br />
suits that brought increasing pressure on govennment bodies statewide. On February 15 a<br />
suit was filed in Federal District Court in Baton Rouge requesting the desegregation of<br />
state vocational-techtical schools, including two located in Bogalusa: the Sullivan<br />
Memorial Trade School and the Sidney James Owen School . Judge E. Gordon West took<br />
only four days to issue a permanent injunction barring discrimination . The action<br />
coincided with another suit filed by the NAACP the same week in Judge West's court<br />
seeking to end segregation in all Louisiana public schools .<br />
The escalating Klan attacks <strong>for</strong>ced black Bogalusa leaders to seek protection . In<br />
early February, Steve Miller and Bill Yates traveled to Jonesboro on CORE business .<br />
While in Jonesboro, they met with Earnest Thomas, Frederick Kirkpatrick and other<br />
members ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> and discussed the Klan problem in Bogalusa . The Jonesboro<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> suggested that Yates arrange a meeting with Bogalusa leaders to consider<br />
starting a <strong>Deacons</strong> Chapter. Yates agreed and the meeting was arranged <strong>for</strong> February<br />
21 . -j<br />
~"WBOX and the KKK," Newsweek, p . 75 .<br />
'Bogalusa Daily News, 16, 21, 17 February 1965 .<br />
2'The account ofthe first visit to Bogalusa by the Jonesboro <strong>Deacons</strong> is taken<br />
from, Miller, <strong>Hill</strong> interview ; Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Alcie Taylor, interview by author, 8<br />
March 1989, Bogalusa, Louisiana, tape recording; Kirkpatrick, Hall interview; New<br />
Orleans to Director, February 23, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-3 ; SAC, New<br />
Orleans to Director, February 24, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-4 ; SAC, New<br />
Orleans to Director, February 26, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-6 ; and "The<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>," Newsweek, 2 August, 1965, pp . 28-29 .<br />
150
On the morning of the 21st, Charlie Fenton packed up his dog Duffy and picked<br />
up Thomas and Kirkpatrick <strong>for</strong> the six-hour journey to Bogalusa. Fenton was driving a<br />
CORE station wagon with an ominous history . The station wagon was one of two<br />
donated in 1964 <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Freedom</strong> Summer campaign in Mississippi . The other station<br />
wagon had met with tragedy. It was driven by Schwerner, Goodman; and Chaney on the<br />
night they were murdered in Philadelphia, Mississippi .<br />
The Jonesboro <strong>Deacons</strong>' delegation and Duffy headed South to Baton Rouge<br />
where they picked up Bill Yates and Steve Miller. The group was nervous about driving<br />
the integrated group to Bogalusa through the Klan infested Florida Parishes . Ronnie<br />
Moore had secured cooperation from the State Police in the past, so he made a call and<br />
arranged <strong>for</strong> a police escort <strong>for</strong> part ofthe trip to Bogalusa .<br />
As they drove along, the conversation turned to nervous speculations about an<br />
ambush. The group knew that the Klan was connected through a network ofcitizen band<br />
radios . Kirkpatrick dismissed the nervous chatter, tapping on his bible and reassuring his<br />
compatriots, "Don't worry, I got the Good Book." A few miles down the road<br />
Kirkpattick told Miller to pull over so that he could answer nature's call . Miller kept<br />
driving, reluctant to stop in the middle of a remote rural area. Kirkpatrick repeated his<br />
request but Miller continued to ignore him . Finally Kirkpatrick demanded that Miller<br />
stop the car. Miller relented, and Kirkpatrick IeR the car still clutching his bible . When<br />
he returned to the car, Kirkpatrick held the bible up to Miller to reassure him. "Don't<br />
worry," Kirkpatrick said with a large smile, "we got the Good Book." Kirkpatrick<br />
151
opened the bible to reveal a small derringer in a hollowed-out compartment carved in the<br />
`'Good Book ." 25<br />
The group arrived at the Negro Union Hall ~~ Bogalusa at approximately 8 :00<br />
p.m . Fourteen men were assembled, including Bob Hicks, who had taken the lead in<br />
organising the meeting . Most ofthose attending were men like Charles R . "Charlie"<br />
Sims and Alcie Taylor, who had been instrumental in the in<strong>for</strong>mal defense group that had<br />
guarded Hicks and other activists.<br />
Kirkpatrick and Thomas entered the Hall with guns in their waistbands . At the<br />
beginning ofthe meeting Kirkpatrick and Thomas drew their pistols and placed them on<br />
the table . All the other participants followed suit and the table was soon heaped with<br />
guns . The proceedings were tense . "We were all very scared," says Fenton . Z6<br />
Fenton, the devout pacifist, was assigned to guard the door with his dog Duffy,<br />
and ordered not to speak or call attention to himself. He was not to allow anyone in or<br />
out . It was, according to Fenton, all very "cloak and dagger" and "high drama" stuff .='<br />
While the <strong>Deacons</strong> presented a nonviolent image to the media--courting public<br />
opinion and favorable publicity--their clandestine organizing meetings allowed them to<br />
sound a different theme . Here their goal was to shock black men out of the lethargy of<br />
fear and convince them that the <strong>Deacons</strong> had the requisite courage and martial expertise<br />
to counter the Klan . And so they did .<br />
2sMiller, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
=6Fenton, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
'-'Ibid .<br />
I52
Kirkpatrick and Thomas plunged into their presentation with "fiery rhetoric" and<br />
"stern admonitions to secrecy and loyalty and discipline," recalls Fenton . Kirkpatrick<br />
lambasted the accommodatiotist leadership in the black community . "You been led by<br />
the tap-dancing Negro, and the head-tapping Negro--in other words, the plain old Uncle<br />
Tom," Kirkpatrick crowed to the Bogalusa group . The nonviolent movement's<br />
preoccupation with "rights" was diverting black men from a more important calling .<br />
"You got to <strong>for</strong>get about right, because right ain't gonna get you justice ." Ifblack men<br />
wanted justice, they would have to pick up the gun . "Wherever you're at, you be ready,"<br />
Kirkpatrick warned the group :<br />
Keep plenty of stuff in your car and at home . I carry with me almost all the time<br />
a hundred rounds . . . Now in my town we have groups patrolling each street . We<br />
guarding intersections and every time a white man comes in an automatic radio<br />
caU is dispatched to a car to stop him and ask him ~tis business . When the<br />
policeman come around we right on him too--we patrol him . You got to let him<br />
know that as taxpayers, you are the ones who send him to the commode, you the<br />
ones that buy his air conditioners, and those big cigars he smokes, and the dirty<br />
hat he wears . . .ze<br />
Thomas elaborated on how the <strong>Deacons</strong> used two-way radios in Jonesboro and<br />
detailed plans to develop a statewide network of <strong>Deacons</strong> linked together by radios and<br />
employing a secret code . Kirkpatrick touted the benefits of such a statewide network : "If<br />
they [white police] get to raising sand in Bogalusa . . . they'll see us coming down every<br />
road all over the state. When you come in with 300 or 400 cars, string out those<br />
automobiles up and down . The man gonna think twice be<strong>for</strong>e he moves, `cause he knows<br />
he done moved on the devil' ."~'<br />
=s "The <strong>Deacons</strong>," Newsweek, p. 28 .<br />
`~Ibid .<br />
(53
The presentation was a mix of exhortation, exaggeration, and martial posturing--<br />
all to good effect . Ifblack men in the South were paralyzed by fear, then these Jonesboro<br />
men were the antidote. Thomas's military training showed through . He chastised black<br />
<strong>for</strong> buying cheap small caliber weapons, like .22 caliber pistols, and urged them instead<br />
to purchase larger weapons, tike shotguns and .306 rifles . Kirkpatrick added that ifthey<br />
did buy pistols, they should standardize their purchases with larger caliber .38 pistols,<br />
which would also allow them to buy ammunition at a bulk discount . 3o<br />
The Jonesboro <strong>Deacons</strong> challenged the Bogalusa men to prepare <strong>for</strong> major<br />
warfare . "Keep plenty of ammo at your house, in your car, wherever you are,"<br />
Kirkpatrick sternly advised . "Be ready," interjected Thomas . "I carry with me most of<br />
the time a hundred rounds . . . We have contacts in Chicago and Houston <strong>for</strong> aut~.sna~tic<br />
weapons--<strong>for</strong> .50-caliber and 30-caliber ." A man in the audience asked if those were<br />
machine-guns . '`Yeah," Thomas replied, "and we got grenades too . We want to be ready<br />
if they want to be violent ."<br />
3 '<br />
Thomas also discussed how to handle the inevitable problem of local black<br />
opposition to a <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter in Bogalusa. He encouraged the Bogalusa men to meet<br />
with local black leaders and influential groups such as ministers and teachers to persuade<br />
them to support the new organization . Ifthey refused, then they did not deserve to be<br />
3°Ibid .<br />
;`Thomas quoted in Ibid . Thomas' reference to machine guns would later provide<br />
the FBI a pretext to launch an investigation of the <strong>Deacons</strong> and illegal firearms . There<br />
were also rumors that the <strong>Deacons</strong> had imported 420 Czech machine guns to Baton<br />
Rouge in July 1965 . In both cases, the FBI never uncovered any evidence of illegal<br />
firearms . See SAC, Los Angeles, to Director, Apri125, 1956, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 15~-<br />
2466-129 .<br />
154
155 I<br />
leaders . Thomas even offered the services of the Jonesboro <strong>Deacons</strong> to help persuade '<br />
black middle class leaders ifthe local chapter failed to do ;0 . 32<br />
Thomas explained how Bogalusa could affiliate with Jonesboro . The local<br />
chapter would assess uutiation fees of ten dopars and then monthly dues of S2 . These I<br />
funds would be used to purchase radio equipment, walkie-talkies, ammunition and<br />
literature . Ten percent ofthe monthly dues would be <strong>for</strong>warded to the Jonesboro Office--<br />
now officially the <strong>Deacons</strong>' state headquarters .<br />
Although Thomas and Kirkpatrick emphasized the defensive rote of the <strong>Deacons</strong>, i<br />
behind closed doors they proposed an additional tactic : using armed groups to stop police<br />
harassment . Thomas suggested that armed patrols could intervene to stop illegal or<br />
violent arrests. The mere presence of armed black men could deter illegal arrests, he<br />
argued . 33<br />
The meeting lasted until nearly midnight . The assembled group decided to <strong>for</strong>m a<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> chapter and they immediately elected officers and planned they first<br />
organizational meeting <strong>for</strong> one week later, February 28 . The Jonesboro and Baton Rouge<br />
visitors prepared to depart but first drove to Bob Hicks' house . Soon after they arrived,<br />
they noticed a strange car circling the block . Suddenly, shots rang out and everyone fell<br />
to the floor . Within a few minutes rein<strong>for</strong>cements arrived and word spread that a large<br />
32SAC, New Orleans to Director, "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice," February 24,<br />
1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-4 .<br />
3sThe FBI would later seize on these remarks to argue that the <strong>Deacons</strong> went<br />
beyond defensive <strong>for</strong>ce and were encouraging attacks on police . See, SAC, New Orleans<br />
to Director "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice," February 24, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no .<br />
157-2466-4 and SAC, New Orleans to Director, March 4, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no .<br />
157-2466-8 .
caravan ofcars had been spotted nearby . It looked like it would be trial by fire <strong>for</strong> the<br />
Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong>.`<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> developed a plan to have several cars leave the house as decoys.<br />
Despite the clear danger, Fenton felt reassured by the cool, professional demeanor of the<br />
Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> . They were "in control . . . acting more like an organized unit than it<br />
would have been under another circumstance," he recalls . "They knew what they were<br />
doing ." 3s<br />
Several cars departed, and when no one appeared to follow, the CORE station<br />
wagon left accompanied by several cars of armed men from the Bogalusa chapter . After<br />
they had driven what they thought was a safe distance from Bogalusa, the armed escort<br />
broke away and returned to the city . But within a few minutes the Jonesboro group<br />
realized they were being followed again . Thomas was at the wheel and sped up sending<br />
Duffy sliding around in the back ofthe station wagon . The wagon accelerated to more<br />
than one-hundred miles an hour down the two-lane highway . Despite the speed, their<br />
pursuers were gaining on them . At the height of the chase Fenton turned around and saw<br />
Kirkpatrick sitting ramrod straight in the back seat, his eyes closed tight . He had laid his<br />
gun on the seat and was clutching his bible to his chest . Fenton knew they were in<br />
trouble . "It scared the hell out ofme." 36<br />
A few miles ahead loomed a major obstacle : the traffic light in the town of Sun .<br />
If they stopped <strong>for</strong> the light, the Jonesboro group would be a sitting target <strong>for</strong> their Klan<br />
`Fenton, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
3s~' i d .<br />
36~1 d .<br />
156
pursuers . The men hastily discussed their options as they sped into the pitch-black night .<br />
"All three of us committed that we would rather go through it and die in fire than get<br />
stopped," said Fenton . Thomas, exhibiting his gritty nerve, successfully executed a<br />
daring turn in Sun and headed back toward New Orleans . He soon lost his pursuers .<br />
When they arrived in New Orleans, Fenton called Dick Haley to report the incident.<br />
Haley listened sympathetically but reprimanded Fenton <strong>for</strong> getting involved with the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> . The station wagon proceeded back to Jonesboro in the late hours ofthe night, I,<br />
and the three exhausted men finally arrived in Jonesboro at day break. But the<br />
ntis<strong>for</strong>tunes were not over . Kirkpatrick was due <strong>for</strong> work that morning, and with only<br />
three miles to go the car ran out of gas . Kirkpatrick got out of the car and ran the rest of<br />
the way to work while Fenton walked to retrieve a can ofgas . Fenton eventually got the<br />
car started and dropped off Thomas and then safely arrived home . Later that morning h<br />
left the house in the station wagon to run an errand. His dog Duffy was asleep under the<br />
car and was crushed to death . For the sensitive young Fenton, it was a bittersweet ending<br />
<strong>for</strong> what began as an exciting adventure ."<br />
The Jonesboro <strong>Deacons</strong>' first ef<strong>for</strong>t to expand had met with success in Bogalusa .<br />
Indeed, the Bogalusa chapter would eventually overshadow the Jonesboro group in<br />
organizing strength and publicity . The men in Bogalusa were eager <strong>for</strong> an alternative to<br />
nonviolence . Their motives <strong>for</strong> joining the <strong>Deacons</strong> were not much different from the<br />
men in Jonesboro : they wanted security, honor, and dignity . The immediate impetus <strong>for</strong><br />
joining was simply that law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials had refused to uphold the law and<br />
defend black rights . "What these people had in Jonesboro," said Bob Hicks, "is that<br />
3'Ibid . ; Kirkpatrick, Haq interview .<br />
157<br />
I
since we can't get the local officials to protect us in our community, our neighborhood,<br />
let's back up on the constitution ofthe United States and say that we can bear arms . We<br />
have a right to defend ourselves since the legally designated authorities won't do it . So<br />
this is ali we done . That's all ."' s<br />
3gHicks, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
1~8
Chapter 8<br />
The Spring Campaign<br />
Bogalusa's black community first learned of the local <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter the day<br />
after the group <strong>for</strong>med . On Monday night, February 22, Bob Hicks gave a report on the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> to a mass meeting of the BCVL as the new chapter patrolled the Negro Union<br />
Hall grounds in full <strong>for</strong>ce . Hicks discussed his initial organizing meeting with the<br />
Jonesboro group and detailed how the Jonesboro chapter operated . "They set up a patrol<br />
system <strong>for</strong> the Negro community," Hicks told the meeting, comprising mostly teenagers .<br />
"They got radios, walkie-talkies, grenades, gas bombs, M-I rifles," Hicks added . Hicks<br />
promised that marauding whites would now be kept out ofBogalusa's black community,<br />
and the meeting erupted in thunderous applause . "No white person will be allowed in a<br />
Negro area at night--salesman or anybody," Hicks assured the cheering crowd . "It takes<br />
violent blacks to combat these violent whites. We're gonna be ready <strong>for</strong> `em . We're<br />
gonna have to be ready to survive ."'<br />
On February 28, the first meeting of the Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter took place at<br />
the Bogalusa Negro Union Hall . Approximately fourteen men attended the meeting .<br />
`SAC, New Orleans to Director February 23, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file teletype 157-<br />
2466-3 ; SAC, New Orleans to Director, "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice," February 24,<br />
1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file 157-2466-4; and Los Angeles Times, 2 August 1965 .
Law en<strong>for</strong>cement agencies were prepared and an in<strong>for</strong>mant reported back to the FBI the<br />
names often of the men attending . 2<br />
Although Bob Hicks had led the ef<strong>for</strong>t to bring the <strong>Deacons</strong> to Bogalusa, he did<br />
not serve as an officer <strong>for</strong> the new chapter . CORE's attorneys had advised the BCVL to<br />
maintain some organizational distance from the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Hicks occasionally served as<br />
spokesperson <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong>, especially to the national media, but he continued to work<br />
primarily through the BCVL, where he served as vice-president . The organizational<br />
distinction between the BCVL and the <strong>Deacons</strong> was carefully maintained to protect the<br />
nonviolent image of the Voters League and CORE . "CORE had represented the pacifist<br />
thing," said I~cks. "In order <strong>for</strong> people to try to support this type of thing, we couldn't<br />
bring them [CORE and the <strong>Deacons</strong>] in together. So we just separated the two ." In truth,<br />
the two organizations were separate in name alone . From the beginning, the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
functioned as an armed auxiliary <strong>for</strong> the Voters League . Bob I~cks and A . Z . Young,<br />
although identifying themselves as otiicers of the Voters League, were deeply involved<br />
in Deacon activities and consistently supported the group's self-defense philosophy . The<br />
two organizations were further intertwined by having the president ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>,<br />
Charles Sims, also serve as the treasurer <strong>for</strong> the BCVL .3<br />
At first glance Sims appears a strange choice to head an organization named after<br />
Church leaders . Charlie Sims was about as rough as they came . IEs arrest record carried<br />
ZLetter Head Memorandum, "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice, Jonesboro, Louisiana<br />
Percy Lee Brad<strong>for</strong>d," March 4, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-8 .<br />
'Hicks, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; In August 1965 Sims identified I~cks as "public relations man<br />
<strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> ." See, Charles R. Sims, interview by William A . Price, 20 August 1965,<br />
Bogalusa, Louisiana, author's possession .<br />
l60
twenty-one entries dating back to 1957 . He prided himself on his rap sheet and bragged<br />
that he had frequently been arrested <strong>for</strong> whipping "white boys on the biggest street they<br />
have in the city . . . I wasn't afraid of the law or nobody else ." He had a reputation as a<br />
barroom brawler who strolled about town with a black jack in one pocket and a loaded<br />
pistol in the other . 4<br />
The years of hard living had taken their top on Sims' hulking frame . His balding<br />
head was sprinkled with gray . A few teeth were missing and his penetrating eyes were<br />
frequently bloodshot . Like Earnest Thomas, Sims was a military veteran, having served<br />
in Europe with the Army during World War II. He attended NCO school and attained the<br />
rank ofsergeant as a shooting instructor . He boasted that now at 41 years old, he could<br />
still "strike a match at 50 feet" with his rifle s<br />
Sims' travels in the military had profoundly affected him . "I moved around,"<br />
Sims said . "I saw things I never thought about in Bogalusa. I went to the library and I<br />
studied ." Like many G.Ls, the freedom Sims experienced in Europe made him more<br />
determined to overcome segregation in his homeland . "One day in the Army I see a<br />
corporal who was a policeman in Bogalusa," recalled Sims. "He see me in integrated<br />
places and all that . He got out of the service first . He sees me back in Bogalusa--me still<br />
iBogalusa 1?aily News, 12 July 1965 ; Louie Robinson and Charles Brown, "The<br />
Negro Feared Most by Whites in Louisiana," Jet, 15 July 1965, pp . 14-17 . Sims quoted in<br />
Sims, Price interview .<br />
sIbid .<br />
161
in uni<strong>for</strong>m. First thing he says, `Remember, you're not in the army now.' I made up my<br />
mind then not to be pushed around ." b<br />
The Deacon leader had been tested under fire in civilian life as well, albeit in<br />
circumstances less "sweet and noble" than war. On December 6, 1959, Sims' girlfriend,<br />
Beatrice Harry, shot and wounded Sims during a fight . Beatrice was jailed as Sims<br />
fought <strong>for</strong> his life in the hospital . Sims summoned his mother and told her not to allow<br />
authorities to prosecute his girlfriend in the event that he died . Beatrice was innocent of<br />
wrongdoing, Sims told his mother; she was only defending herself from a potential<br />
beating at his hands . Sims lay in hospital <strong>for</strong> <strong>for</strong>ty days, staring at the ceiling . "You live<br />
your life over like that," recalled Sims several years later . "I never took the time out<br />
be<strong>for</strong>e to sit down and listen to my own thoughts ." When he recovered, Sims refused to<br />
cooperate in prosecuting Beatrice, and even told the District Attorney that he couldn't<br />
read or write so he couldn't sign a statement against her . Sims and his would-be-<br />
murderer eventually reconciled and the two were still living together when Sims joined<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> in 1965 .'<br />
Sims never had much interest in politics as a young man. But one day on<br />
television he saw a policeman dragging a woman "like she was a piece of wood" during a<br />
civil rights protest . The scene stuck in his mind, and soon afterwards Sims joined the<br />
Voters League . His military background and pugnacious temperament made him a<br />
logical choice <strong>for</strong> <strong>Deacons</strong> president. Crude and lacking <strong>for</strong>mal education, Sims was<br />
"Negro `<strong>Deacons</strong>' Claim They Have Machine Guns, Grenades <strong>for</strong> `War'," Los<br />
Angeles Times, 13 June 1965 .<br />
'Ibid .<br />
162
nevertheless an articulate and disarming spokesperson <strong>for</strong> the organization . Moreover,<br />
like other Deacon leaders, Sims was economically independent of the white power<br />
structure . Indeed, no one was quite sure how Sims made a living . He was an inveterate<br />
hustler who inhabited the twilight between casual labor and banditry . He listed his<br />
occupations as insurance salesman and cab driver. But mainly he lived, as one friend<br />
politely phrased it, "by his wits ." He gambled . He hustled_ He was beholden to no man .<br />
"He was free," said his friend Bob Hicks . a<br />
For vice-president the chapter selected Sam Barnes . Barnes was a 55-year-old<br />
ex-convict with twelve arrests . He possessed all of Sims' courage and none of his<br />
bravado . Barnes had already been on the front Gne, having been assaulted by the Klan<br />
during the February tests . In coming months he seemed to be wherever trouble erupted .<br />
Alcie Taylor and Royan Bums completed the list ofchapter officers . Unlike Sims and<br />
Barnes, Burris and Taylor were reputable figures in the black community. Taylor worked<br />
in the paper mill and eventually served as an officer in the Pulp and Sulphite Workers<br />
Union. Royan Bums was the youngest in the group. A small, wiry man, Bums ran the<br />
local barbershop, the center ofcommunication <strong>for</strong> the black community . His size was no<br />
obstacle to his role as guard . The indomitable Bums was assigned as picketing<br />
coordinator <strong>for</strong> the Voters League, placing the <strong>Deacons</strong> at the center of all ofthe<br />
League's public protests .<br />
There was an obvious difference between the leadership ofthe Bogalusa and<br />
Jonesboro <strong>Deacons</strong> chapters . While Jonesboro's leadership was primarily law-abiding<br />
and comprised religious community leaders like Brad<strong>for</strong>d, Amos and Kirkpatrick, the<br />
gIbid . ; Hicks, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .
Bogalusa group was dominated by less-than-respectable figures like Sims and Barnes,<br />
men who defied law and social conventions . Every black community in the South had at<br />
least one man like Sims and Barnes--the legendary "bad nigger" feared by whites and<br />
blacks alike . Their reputation <strong>for</strong> violence served them well in their confrontations with<br />
the Klan . 9<br />
The difference in leadership between the two chapters owed to the fact that in<br />
Jonesboro the <strong>Deacons</strong> played two roles : civil rights organization and paramilitary<br />
defense group . In Bogalusa, the Voters League predated the <strong>Deacons</strong> . This allowed a<br />
leadership overlap between the two organizations . It was natural that the <strong>Deacons</strong> would<br />
attract the more combative men, warriors hardened by the military, the streets, or the<br />
prisons. Their principal prerequisite was reckless courage-a quality found more<br />
frequently in the hustler and street thug than the preacher .<br />
The Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> plunged into their work . Approximately fifteen men<br />
comprised the chapter's core group. Typical of this inner sanctum were steadfast<br />
loyalists like Burtrand Wyre. Wyre was a neighbor ofthe Hicks family and had come to<br />
their aid the first night the family was under siege by the Klan . He maintained his vigil<br />
over the family <strong>for</strong> years . "And the onliest time that he would go home was to change<br />
clothes," remembers Hicks .<br />
He stayed in my house, slept in my house, sometiires wake up in the morning<br />
with just me and him and my wife, all three of us laying down across the bed,<br />
asleep in our clothes . And he would take me to work, when he wasn't working or<br />
'In an interview in 1994, Deacon member Henry Austin described Sims as a "bullshit<br />
artist ." Though the term is normally pejorative, in this instance Austin meant the term to<br />
be complimentary . The black man most capable of defying whites in the era ofJim Crow<br />
had to be skilled at confrontation, bluff and trickery . Sims and his street-hustler cohorts<br />
were masters of that style. See, Austin, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
l64
even when I got ready to get offhe would be there in a car with somebody to pick<br />
me up . He stayed in my house <strong>for</strong> four years . `°<br />
In addition to the core group the Bogalusa chapter had scores of men called "well<br />
wishers ." These, erha s numberin pearl two hundred were mostl a ermill<br />
P P g Y YP P<br />
employees who were willing to help with security as needed . i<br />
The Bogalusa chapter began regular weekly meetings at the Negro Union hall .<br />
Unlike Jonesboro, leadership was concentrated in the hands of one man : Charlie Sims .<br />
Sims ran the chapter like the army Sergeant he had been . He managed the money, made<br />
the assignments and barked out orders to his subordinates . Even Earnest Thomas, a I,<br />
proud veteran, found Sims' style a touch heavy-handed . "In the meetings, he was like a j<br />
General ; he shouted commands," remembers Thomas . But Thomas respected Sims'<br />
effectiveness . "Well, I was impressed that he was militant and that he wasn't going to<br />
stand <strong>for</strong> them running rough shod in the community . So I was impressed with him . He I<br />
seemed to have a pretty good group together.""<br />
The Bo alusa <strong>Deacons</strong> be an setup u atrols and ardin meetin s and<br />
g g g P P Su g g i<br />
homes . As Thomas had predicted, not everyone in the black community welcomed the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> . FBI records indicate that at least one black leader provided law en<strong>for</strong>cement<br />
I<br />
organizations with extensive in<strong>for</strong>mation on the <strong>Deacons</strong> . The in<strong>for</strong>mant, most likely a L<br />
moderate black leader hostile to the new group, attended the first <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter<br />
meeting on February 28 and provided law en<strong>for</strong>cement agencies with a list often<br />
attendees that he recognized . An FBI report noted that the in<strong>for</strong>mant gave the<br />
` °Hicks, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
'`Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
165<br />
i<br />
i
impression that the <strong>Deacons</strong> would not be successful "as he was of the impression that<br />
his Negro community were not desirous ofbecoming affiliated in any way with an<br />
organization which had as its purpose a defiance oflaw and order."` 2<br />
Governor McKeithen, who had been deeply involved in the unfolding Bogalusa<br />
crisis, learned about the Bogalusa chapter within days of its <strong>for</strong>mation . While McKeithen<br />
had appeased the Klan in Bogalusa during the Hays incident, he would not tolerate a<br />
black organization that protected the community from Klan terror . McKeithen<br />
immediately took steps to destroy the <strong>Deacons</strong>, asking Louisiana's Attorney General Jack<br />
Gremillion to research legal methods <strong>for</strong> breaking up the new organization . `s<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> were, even from McKeithen's perspective, only half the problem in<br />
Bogalusa . Despite his ef<strong>for</strong>ts to publicly deny the power of the Klan, law en<strong>for</strong>cement<br />
officials had apprised McKeithen that the Klan in Bogalusa was "without question they<br />
better organized units of all the units in Louisiana." With his appeasement policy toward<br />
the Klan failing, McKeithen now contemplated plans to undermine the Klan in BogaIusa .<br />
McKeithen considered asking Louisiana's congressional delegation to request hearings<br />
with subpoena power to investigate the Klan . According to the FBI, the Governor felt<br />
that "if such an inquiry were held into the stnrcture, purpose, and potential <strong>for</strong> violence,<br />
that this public exposure would cause it to dissolve ." It is not clear whether or not<br />
McKeithen followed through on his plan. The matter became moot when, in the wake of<br />
`ZSAC, New Orleans to Director, March 3, 1965 FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-8 .<br />
"Ibid .<br />
166
the Viola Liuzzo murder, President Johnson called <strong>for</strong> congressional hearings on the<br />
Klan which commenced in the FaU of 1965 ."<br />
167 I<br />
Governor McKeithen was not the only one monitoring the <strong>Deacons</strong>. Leroy I<br />
Collins was the Director ofthe Community Relations Service (CRS), the government<br />
organization created to assist in the orderly implementatica of the Civil Rights Act . On<br />
March 15, 1965, Collins paid a visit to Attorney General Ncholas Katzenbach to express<br />
his concern about the <strong>Deacons</strong> whom he likened to the right wing Minute Men<br />
organization . Collins requested background in<strong>for</strong>mation on the <strong>Deacons</strong> and any<br />
in<strong>for</strong>mation regarding the FBI's investigation . `s<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> first came to the attention ofFBI Headquarters on January 6, 1965<br />
in a radiogram from the New Orleans field office . Jonesboro sources told the FBI that<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong>' goals were "much the same as those of the Congress of Racial Equality<br />
(CORE)," nevertheless the "organization is more militant than CORE and . . . more<br />
inclined to use violence in dealing with any violent opposition encountered in civil rights<br />
matters<br />
."` s<br />
The radio message was followed up by a lengthier Letterhead Memorandum to J .<br />
Edgar Hoover . An unnamed law en<strong>for</strong>cement source had interviewed the Jonesboro<br />
cha ter r sident Per Lee Brad<strong>for</strong>d . Brad<strong>for</strong>d coo erated full and said the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
P P e ~ cY P Y<br />
were organized to promote civil rights and that their purposes were similar to CORE . He<br />
described the new organization as "non-violent" except ifattacked they would defend<br />
` sSAC, New Orleans to Director, March 3, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-9 .<br />
` SBelmont to J . H. Gale, 15 March, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-9 .<br />
` 6SAC, New Orleans to Director, January 6, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-1 .<br />
i<br />
I
themselves . Brad<strong>for</strong>d told the o>~cial that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were equipped with two citizen<br />
band radios and walkie talkies and had between 250-300 members . Brad<strong>for</strong>d provided<br />
them with names of ofFcer and "group leaders .""<br />
Hoover apparently paid scant attention to the January memorandum . Then on<br />
February 21 the New York Times article on the <strong>Deacons</strong> appeared, quickly followed by a<br />
second memorandum to Hoover detailing the first <strong>Deacons</strong>' meeting in Bogalusa .<br />
Hoover was not pleased with this new militant black group that, in Thomas' words,<br />
"intended to combat violence with violence ." To justify a_n investigation Hoover focused<br />
on evidence of illegal activity by the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Hoover ordered an immediate<br />
investigation by the New Orleans field office in a memorandum that gave special<br />
attention to statements made during the <strong>Deacons</strong>' organizing meetings in Bogalusa. In<br />
particular, Hoover focused on Earnest Thomas' claim that the <strong>Deacons</strong> could obtain<br />
automatic weapons--and his advice that armed patrols should intervene to stop police<br />
arrests . "Because ofthe potential <strong>for</strong> violence indicated, you are instructed to<br />
immediately initiate an investigation ofthe DDJ [<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice],"<br />
Hoover told the New Orleans offce . He cautioned the office to "be alert" <strong>for</strong> the spread<br />
ofthe organization and "<strong>for</strong> any indications ofsubversive and/or outside influence ."<br />
Hoover was especially concerned about illegal weapons, and ordered New Orleans to<br />
follow up on "Chicago and Houston contacts <strong>for</strong> automatic weapons ." Hoover also<br />
ordered the New Orleans office to expand the number of in<strong>for</strong>mants within the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
"Letter Head Memorandum, "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice, Jonesboro, Louisiana,<br />
Percy Lee Brad<strong>for</strong>d, president," January 6, 1964, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-2 .<br />
l68
and to conduct "interviews" to discourage "illegal arming and illegal action by the<br />
gr.oup .~<br />
" ts<br />
Hoover's instructions to conduct "interviews" to "discourage illegal arming and<br />
illegal action" was bureau code <strong>for</strong> an order to disrupt the <strong>Deacons</strong> in general . The use of<br />
intimidating interviews was the first ofseveral steps Hoover would take to undermine the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> . Be<strong>for</strong>e the year was out, Hoover would also add the <strong>Deacons</strong> to his subversive<br />
index and target the organization <strong>for</strong> further disruption through CO1r1TELPRO, the<br />
bureau's program to destroy black militant groups."<br />
The New Orleans field oi~ce zealously followed Hoover's orders and<br />
commenced a series ofinterviews intended to intimidate <strong>Deacons</strong>' members into quitting .<br />
Indeed, the field office had begun a campaign to disrupt tl :e <strong>Deacons</strong> some time be<strong>for</strong>e<br />
Hoover's orders arrived . On February 25, FBI agents Quackenbush and Sass visited Bob<br />
Hicks at his residence and warned him not to get involved with the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Sass hinted<br />
that if any black person shot a white in self-defense, the black person would be charged<br />
with murder . Hicks calmly told Sass that self-defense was a constitutional right . Sass<br />
angrily stormed out ofHicks' house . Charlie Sims received similar treatment from the<br />
FBL =°<br />
` a "Director to SAC, New Orleans, February 26, 1965, :~BI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-<br />
2466-6 .<br />
"Thanks to Clif<strong>for</strong>d Anderson <strong>for</strong> this in<strong>for</strong>mation on the F.B.L's bureaucratic code<br />
language .<br />
Z°A March 20 memorandum indicated that the New Orleans Office had been instructed<br />
to conduct these interviews "<strong>for</strong> deterrent value such interviews have ." See,<br />
Baumgardener to Sullivan, memorandum, March 20, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157<br />
2466-12 ; "Additions to Bogalusa Intimidation List," [March 1965J, box 7, file 5,<br />
CORE(SRO) .<br />
169
The <strong>Deacons</strong> had their work cut out <strong>for</strong> them . The Klan, equipped with<br />
approximately fifty CB radios, constantly monitored police calls which allowed them to<br />
coordinate attacks on protestors . On February 21, 1965 the Voters League had initiated a<br />
new series of tests at public establishments, frequently led by <strong>Deacons</strong> . A pattern of<br />
Klan response to the tests quickly emerged . As soon as testers arrived, the business<br />
manager would tell the testers that he could not serve or protect them . The proprietor<br />
would then make a phone call and within minutes a mob of whites would converge on the<br />
business .<br />
On February 28, Royan Burris and Bob and Jackie Hicks tested the Redwood<br />
Hotel . They were refused service and decided to leave--and not a minute too soon .<br />
Within three minutes after they departed, a mob of approximately thirty Klansmen came<br />
into the hotel looking <strong>for</strong> them . Law en<strong>for</strong>cement offcials offered no protection <strong>for</strong> the<br />
testers, but instead regarded the actions as a needless intrusion on their time. FBI agent<br />
Sass told one Deacon to stop calling him every time someone was arrested . On another<br />
occasion Chief Claxton Knight told Royan Burris that the testing was "raising hell" with<br />
his fishing time .'- `<br />
The attacks intensified in March . On March 4 the Klan stopped Reverend<br />
Shepherd, a member of the Hays Committee, as he drove down the highway . The<br />
'-'Burns, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; "Summary of Incidents : Bogalusa, Louisiana, January 28 -<br />
July 1, 1965" ; "Statement by Mr. Royan Bums," n.d ., box 7, file 5, CORE(SRO) ;<br />
Bogalusa Daily News, 25 February 1965 ; "Additions to Bogalusa Intimidation List ."<br />
170
Klansmen ordered Shepherd to leave town or face being killed . A car load of blacks '<br />
happened upon the scene and rescued the minister from the Klan.<br />
On March 17, Deacon leader Royan Burris was stopped by a Washington Parish<br />
k-9 unit and three Bogalusa policemen and arrested on a theft charge . The policemen<br />
handcuffed the Deacon and slapped and stripped him outside the police station . Inside<br />
the police station they <strong>for</strong>med a circle around him and pushed him around . One officer,<br />
Vertrees Adams, brutalized Bums to the extent that he needed medical attention . When<br />
released from custody, Bums went to the Community Medical Center to be treated, but<br />
was turned away .<br />
The harassment continued unabated throughout March and April. The <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
were simply outnumbered and out-organized by a Klan that was exempt from the law .<br />
The Voters League and the <strong>Deacons</strong> were in a quandary over how to move <strong>for</strong>ward . The<br />
intermittent tests were achieving little, other than demonstrating the Klan's strength . The<br />
black movement in Bogalusa needed a bold strategic move that would bring national<br />
attention and rein<strong>for</strong>cements . Their prayers were answered on Sunday, March 14, 1965 .<br />
On Sunday morning, March 14, CORE Director James Farmer appeared on the<br />
nationally broadcast "Issues and Answers" to comment ors the civil rights campaign in<br />
Selma, Alabama which had dominated the news in March . Farmer departed from the<br />
subject of Selma to announce that CORE had selected Bogalusa and Jonesboro as the<br />
"Summary of Incidents : Bogalusa, Louisiana, January 28 - July 1, 1965" ;<br />
"Additions to Bogalusa Intimidation List."<br />
'The account of the arrest and beating incident is taken from Hamilton Bims,<br />
'`<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense," Eborry, September 1965, pp . 25-30 ; Times-Piccryune, 20 July<br />
1965 ; "Statement by Mr . Royan Burris" ; and Burris ; <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
17 1<br />
i
focus ofthe national organization's next "major project ." Farmer recited the litany of<br />
crimes and injustices in the two cities, including church burnings, police brutality and<br />
Klan intimidation . Noting that local authorities had capitulated to the Klan, Farmer<br />
called <strong>for</strong> a "federal presence" in the two cities and demanded that Federal marshals and<br />
FBI agents arrest police who engage in brutality and violate peoples' rights . 2{<br />
CORE's shocking announcement guaranteed that Bogalusa -- and the <strong>Deacons</strong>--<br />
would become a focus of national attention . The news bolstered the spirits ofthe Voters<br />
League and the <strong>Deacons</strong> while it sent local officials into a panic . Mayor Cutrer reacted<br />
swiftly to Farmer's embarrassing charges against the Bogalusa police. In a brief<br />
statement, Cutrer denied the charges ofpolice brutality and intimidation and added that,<br />
contrary to Farmer's claims, no churches had been burned in Bogalusa (he was right--the<br />
church burnings had been in Jonesboro) . u<br />
The national publicity about the Klan's terror campaign in Bogalusa was bound to<br />
embarrass city off cials into taking some symbolic action against the Klan . Later that<br />
week Cutrer issued a tepid public statement calling <strong>for</strong> restraint and lawfulness in<br />
response to Farmer's announcement and hinting that the City would take a firmer stand<br />
against the Klan's rampant violence and intimidation . Cutrer read a timorous statement<br />
by City and Parish law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials that acknowledged that the city had<br />
experienced some cases ofwhat they euphemistically called "malicious mischief,"<br />
including "throwing of tacks in driveways, breaking ofglass, and so <strong>for</strong>th ." The Klan<br />
could only sneer at the idle threat<br />
`yTimes-Picayune, 15 March 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 15 March 1965 .<br />
'~Bogalusa Daily News, 15 March 1965 .<br />
172
On March 28 the Voters League organized a successful "<strong>Freedom</strong> Rally" at the<br />
Negro Union Hall . The rally was without incident, but the Klan conducted a series of<br />
assaults that tested the <strong>Deacons</strong>' organization and mettle. A car Toad ofwhites chased<br />
CORE activists Ronnie Moore, Bill Yates and Kimme Johnson in their car as they tried<br />
to leave the rally. They were subsequently rescued by two car loads of armed <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
who escorted them from the town . Four white men attacked and beat Jones Radcliffe<br />
from Bogalusa as he left the rally . Jones managed to strike one ofhis Klan attackers, so<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> provided him round-the-clock protection . The same night a car load of<br />
whites <strong>for</strong>ced L.C . Magee off the road and into a ditch as he was coming home from the<br />
freedom rally . The following day whites lobbed a can ofteargas into the union hall after<br />
the Voters League had finished a meeting . Z6<br />
By the end ofMarch Governor McKeithen was beginning to feel the pressure<br />
posed by civil rights conflicts in the Bayou state . On March 26 McKeithen announced<br />
plans to negotiate an end to the black student boycott ofJackson High School in<br />
Jonesboro . But McKeithen continued to insist that the Klan did not dominate a single<br />
community in Louisiana and that Louisiana's racial violence paled by comparison to<br />
other Southern sates . The only shooting incident that McKeithen could recall was the<br />
transmitter shooting at Ralph Blumberg's radio station. "As long as we can keep the<br />
thing down to a few bullets in an empty building at night, instead ofrape, mayhem, and<br />
murder, I feel we have done all right," said the Governor confidently . The next day the<br />
'-"Additions to Intimidation List" ; "Summary of Incidents : Bogalusa, Louisiana,<br />
January 28 - July 1, 1965 ."<br />
173
Klan orchestrated nearly two dozen cross burnings in the Baton Rouge area, including<br />
one only a few blocks from the state capitol . 2'<br />
Events in Bogalusa quickened as the community prepared <strong>for</strong> the CORE invasion .<br />
Town leaders had <strong>for</strong>med a Community Affairs Organization (CAO) the previous<br />
February, comprising leaders from civic, labor, and religious organizations . The<br />
Committee was created to assist with civil rights issues by exchanging in<strong>for</strong>mation with<br />
the city administration, serving as a sounding board <strong>for</strong> proposals, and advising the<br />
Mayor and Commission Council . Attorney John N . Gallaspy chaired the group, banker<br />
Gardner S . Adams served as vice-chair, and ultimately six Crown-Zellerbach officials<br />
joined the committee . By March the CAO had made little progress. It had tried<br />
unsuccessfully to persuade restaurants to comply with the Civil Rights Act, and had<br />
failed in its ef<strong>for</strong>ts to secure improvements in the black community such as street<br />
lighting . 2g<br />
Most ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>' early work had, as in Jonesboro, centered on guarding<br />
homes, providing security <strong>for</strong> rallies, and patrolling streets . April brought increased<br />
responsibilities as the first of several groups of student volunteers descended on Bogalusa<br />
during Spring break . Sixteen CORE volunteers from the University of Kansas arrived the<br />
first week of April and began work in Bogalusa on voter registration . The recent Liuzzo<br />
murder heightened the <strong>Deacons</strong>' concern <strong>for</strong> the safety ofthe young volunteers,<br />
particularly the women .<br />
Z'Times Picayune, 27 March 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 28, 29 March 1965 .<br />
='Bogal:isa Daily News, 26, 28, March 1965 ; "Caught in the Civil Rights Crossfire,"<br />
Br~siness Week, 7 August 1965, pp . 102-6 .<br />
174
The northern students plunged into what must have seemed a surreal world of<br />
danger and violence in Bogalusa . The students had no qualms about accepting armed<br />
self-defense in the climate of fear that gripped the mill town . The <strong>Deacons</strong> taught the<br />
volunteers basic security precautions and escorted them around town twenty-four hours a<br />
day . Many ofthe young students were so frightened that they could not sleep the first<br />
few nights in Bogalusajumping nervously at every noise . The <strong>Deacons</strong>' nonchalant<br />
attitude toward guns alarmed more than one Yankee neophyte . On one occasion the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> had to leave a young Cali<strong>for</strong>nia volunteer alone in an isolated house . The<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> issued a gun to the young woman and left the stunned volunteer on her own .'-'<br />
Anna Levine, 23, a University ofCali<strong>for</strong>nia at Berkeley student, arrived in<br />
Bogalusa with nine other civil rights workers on April 14 . Levine and the other<br />
volunteers stayed at ten different homes where the <strong>Deacons</strong> constantly stood guard at the<br />
windows at night . On Easter Sunday Levine and another white volunteer joined her host<br />
and two other women to attend a sunrise service at the Methodist Church . "The <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
had given us instructions to tell them whenever we were going to drive," recalls Levine.<br />
The church was only four blocks from the house, so the <strong>Deacons</strong> instructed Levine to go<br />
ahead and they would follow in a few minutes. The women pulled out of the driveway<br />
and soon noticed a car tailing these along with two police cars behind it. The trailing ca
church, brandishing guns out the windows . The police stood by idly in their patrol cars .<br />
Finally the <strong>Deacons</strong> arrived on the scene and the Klan and police cars immediately sped<br />
away . It was a frightening experience but one that allowed Levine to see the changing<br />
face of Southern blacks as well . "It's so great to see a Negro family in the South that<br />
knows its rights and is not afraid," Levine told one reporter .'°<br />
Foreboding characters like Charlie Sims, outfitted with pistols and blackjacks,<br />
were disarming figures to the Yankee students . But the young volunteers were no less a<br />
novelty to their hosts . Working class blacks like Sims and Hicks had never seen<br />
privilege and wealth of this magnitude . "Some of the kids were from nice homes," says<br />
Hicks . "Lot of their parents were wealthy." Hicks remembers how money was no object<br />
<strong>for</strong> them :<br />
You go get gas, take them somewhere, they'd say `I'll pay <strong>for</strong> it. Here it is .'<br />
Drop out a credit card there on them . Yeah . And you'd get ready to make a<br />
telephone call, and `No, here, here, take my telephone card .' They had telephone<br />
card, credit card . And when they got ready to leave, you pick them up and maybe<br />
take them to New Orleans, and they would give you some money to take your car<br />
to New Orleans . And they get down there and they'd get on the airplane, hit that<br />
airplane, and hit the air, and gone. And go flying all over the country. 3 `<br />
Hicks became good fiiends with Steve Miller's wealthy family in San Francisco .<br />
The Millers assisted in fund raising when Hicks traveled to San Francisco . The rich and<br />
famous were a heady experience <strong>for</strong> the paperntill worker born in Pachutta, Mississippi .<br />
"They had a home sitting way back up there in them hills up there," says Hicks about the<br />
3o ~id .<br />
3'Hicks, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
l76
Millers . "Filthy rich . He, a big time lawyer in San Francisco . When we came into<br />
dinner . . . I was sitting there with judges . Big judge . And wife with five or six rings ." 3=<br />
But middle class whites brought more than money and sweat to the movement :<br />
they frequently brought a missionary's arrogant presumptions about their own superior<br />
judgement, and little respect <strong>for</strong> the political wisdom oflocal people. Hicks encountered<br />
this problem with Bill Yates . "When he said something or done something, he wanted<br />
you do what he wanted . If you had an idea or different thing, he didn't want to go by<br />
your idea, he wanted to do exactly what he said ." The imperious attitude was not well<br />
received by the fiercely independent black Bogalusans . "Bogalusa was not a part of<br />
CORE, wasn't a part of nothing . . . Bogalusa was a town that ran its own movement,"<br />
says Hicks . "Bill Yates and I fell out about the same thing . That they wanted to come in<br />
and tell us what to do, how to do, and when to do ." s'<br />
With volunteers flooding into Bogalusa, tension grew as the Voters League<br />
announced that they would organize their first civil rights march on Friday, April 9 .<br />
James Farmer would be flying in as the guest speaker. The announcement that the Voters<br />
League was going to march in the middle ofthe Klan's stronghold sent city leaders into a<br />
spin . To head offthe protest, the Bogalusa Commission Council quickly passed an<br />
emergency ordinance--of dubious constitutionality-- prohibiting mass picketing and<br />
protests . The "disturbing the peace" ordinance limited pickets to three and required<br />
people to leave a business premises on demand of the business employee or owner . The<br />
ordinance also contained provisions aimed at Klan attacks, including a prohibition<br />
3'-Ibid .<br />
33Ibid .<br />
177
against disrupting a lawful assembly . But by this point City government had little control<br />
over either the black movement or the Klan, and the ordinance was never en<strong>for</strong>ced.`<br />
A pall offear fell on the city as the day ofthe momentous march approached .<br />
Two days be<strong>for</strong>e the march, on April 7, the Klan launched a series of preemptory attacks,<br />
singling out student volunteers . Klansmen harassed the K.U . students as they canvassed<br />
with local blacks . One Klansmen waved a pistol at Linda Cook, a student volunteer, and<br />
shouted, "How's a good time to kill a white nigger." fiarlier in the morning Bill Yates<br />
left the Hicks' house and noticed a green pickup truck with three men circling the block .<br />
As Yates entered his car, the truck suddenly blocked his path and one ofthe men leapt<br />
from the truck with a blackjack . Yates recognized the man as one of the Klansmen who<br />
had attacked him and broke his hand in February . Yates rolled up his window and st,srted<br />
the car as the man tried to break his window . Yates put the car in reverse and escaped<br />
down the street with the truck in pursuit . He circled the block and returned to the Hicks<br />
house. Standing on the front porch to greet the Klansmen was Jackie Hicks--with pistol<br />
in hand . The Klansmen wisely retreated . 3s<br />
That night the Klan struck twice more . In the first incident, Klansmen gathered<br />
under cover of darkness on the edge of the black community near the Negro Union Hall .<br />
They erected two coffins : One coffin bore Bill Yates' name ; the other Bob Hicks' . A<br />
'tBogalusa Daily News, 7, 8 April 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 4 April 1965 .<br />
3s "Summary ofIncidents : Bogalusa, Louisiana, January 28 - July 1, 1965" ; New York<br />
Post, 8 April 1965, p . 12 .<br />
l~8
sign on the coffins read, "Here lies CORE ." The Klansmen illuminated the ghoulish<br />
scene with flares and a spotlight and burned a ten-foot cross .' 6<br />
Later that night Bill Yates and several University ofKansas students were staying<br />
at the Hicks house . There were at least seven <strong>Deacons</strong> posted at the home, some outside<br />
concealed behind bushes and trees. Among them was Henry Austin, a young insurance<br />
salesman and Air Force veteran from Baton Rouge . At approximately 1 :00 a.m . a car<br />
drove slowly by the Hicks' house . Suddenly it stopped and a white man emerged from<br />
the truck and threw a piece of brick through the rear window of a Volkswagen bus owned<br />
by one of the K.U . students . Bob Hicks rushed out of the house and a shot rang out from<br />
the car as the white man was pulled back in . Hicks grabbed his pistol and fired two shots<br />
at the fleeing car, setting off a volley of fifteen shots from the <strong>Deacons</strong>. Henry Austin<br />
emptied his gun into the Klan car and watched sparks fly offthe fleeing vehicle as the<br />
Klansmen sporadically returned the fire .3'<br />
It was the first shootout with the Klan <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> : the fledgling group had<br />
proved themselves disciplined and able . None ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> was injured, but the same<br />
could not be said <strong>for</strong> their Klan attackers . Though never confirmed, rumors circulated<br />
that one Klansmen was shot and another killed in the exchange . Black hospital workers<br />
reported that the injured Klansmen were secretly shuttled to an Alabama hospital,<br />
' 6lbid . ; "Bogalusa Riflemen Fight offKKK Attack," Jet, 22 April 1965, p . 5 .<br />
"This incident account is taken from, Henry Austin, interview by Gwendolyn Midlo I I<br />
Hall, 8 October 1978, New Orleans, Louisiana, tape recording, Amistad Research Center,<br />
Tulane University, New Orleans ; Henry Austin, interview by author, 26 September 1994, I~<br />
New Orleans, Louisiana, tape recording ; "Summary of Incidents : Bogalusa, Louisiana,<br />
January 28 - July 1, 1965 ." ; Bogalusa Daily News, 8 April 1965 ; TimesPicayune, 9 April<br />
1965 ; New York Post, 8 April 1965 ; and "Bogalusa Riflemen Fight offKKK Attack," Jet,<br />
22 April 1965 .<br />
179
ostensibly to protect their identity and police complicity in covering up the attack . As in<br />
the past, Governor McKeithen and local authorities downplayed the incident and went s~~<br />
far as to deny that the gun battle ever took place . ;$<br />
It had been a long night <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> and now they faced the challenge of<br />
shepherding the upcoming march . Bogalusa taw en<strong>for</strong>cement oi~cials also braced <strong>for</strong> the<br />
march, rein<strong>for</strong>cing themselves with additional state pcGce, auxiliary police, and<br />
deputized firemen . Black teenagers could not contain their excitement in anticipation of<br />
the historic event . On April 8, one day be<strong>for</strong>e the march, the teenagers staged a<br />
spontaneous walkout and march from Bogalusa's black high school, Central Memorial<br />
High School . At 10 :25 a.m . a group oftwo-hundred black students assembled on school<br />
grounds and began marching to the downtown area . Within a few minutes Bogalusa<br />
police halted the march on the grounds that the students did not have a parade permit .<br />
The march ended in a standoff between the students and local police rein<strong>for</strong>ced with<br />
snarling dogs in K-9 squad CarS . 39<br />
Later that day BCVL president A . Z . Young led a delegation of blacks into city<br />
hall to protest the decision to halt the students' march and to discuss a list of demands<br />
issued by the Voters League two days prior . The demands were markedly different from<br />
the focus on civil equality that characterized most civil rights campaigns controlled by<br />
national groups . The BCVL re<strong>for</strong>ms bore the distinct imprint ofthe League's working<br />
class leadership, placing less emphasis on civil equality and voting rights, and more<br />
emphasis on achieving economic power and parity. The seven demands included a call<br />
3gBogalusa Daily News, 8 April 1965 ; TimesPicayune, 9 April 1965 .<br />
39Bogalusa Daily News, 8 April 1965 .<br />
180
<strong>for</strong> equal economic opportunity in public and private employment and municipal<br />
licensing ; equal educational opportunities and desegregated educational facilities ;<br />
desegregation of all public accommodations and facilities ; sewers, paved roads, and<br />
adequate street lighting in the black community; en<strong>for</strong>ced housing codes; inclusion of<br />
black leaders at a decision-making level on city, parish, and industrial and development<br />
planning boards ; removal from city ordinances of all unconstitutional discriminatory<br />
laws ; and employment of black city policemen .' °<br />
Cutrer was not about to negotiate these and other demands with the militant new<br />
leadership of the Voters League. He told the media that he and the Bogalusa<br />
Commission Council had been meeting with a "very fine Negro committee" since July of<br />
1963, but the leadership of the Voters League had changed . In effect, the city was<br />
refirsing to negotiate with the black community's largest civil rights organization .<br />
Moreover, the Mayor argued that several demands had already been met ; streets in the<br />
black community were all paved and street lighting conversion was proceeding . Cutrer<br />
added that six blacks had taken the civil service exam <strong>for</strong> police officer in 1963 but all<br />
had failed . + `<br />
The night be<strong>for</strong>e the march the Voters League staged a large and enthusiastic<br />
rally at Central Memorial High School . James Farmer arrived from New York to serve<br />
as the keynote speaker . The <strong>Deacons</strong> accompanied Farmer from the New Orleans airport<br />
and stationed guards inside the High School . Their presence outside the school was<br />
~°Times-Picayune, 9 April 1965 ; Bogaluscr Daily News, 9 April 1965 ; "Letter to Police<br />
Jury et al," reel 20-43, CORE microfilm .<br />
j ` Times-Picayune, 9 April 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 9 April 1965 .<br />
lsl
hardly needed . With the eyes ofthe nation on the small mill town, local authorities had<br />
decided not to invite further Klan attacks by their absence . An impressive phalanx of<br />
more than one-hundred law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials ringed the school, including all of<br />
Bogalusa's thirty-four member police <strong>for</strong>ce, two dozen deputized firemen and sheriffs'<br />
deputies, and fifty state police and F.B .I . agents .'2<br />
The police cordon around the rally site kept the Klan at bay, <strong>for</strong>cing them to<br />
conduct a simultaneous rally of more than two-hundred across town . At one point the<br />
Klan attempted to take a caravan of thirty-two cars into the black quarters but were<br />
stopped by city and state police . The Klan would have to wait to exact their revenge .' 3<br />
The high-school auditorium was packed with spirited young people . Ronnie<br />
Moore soon took the stage to encourage the enthusiastic students to boycott classes the<br />
next day to attend the march . Moore told the crowd that :he march would protest police<br />
brutality and economic injustice in Bogalusa. James Farmer followed Moore on the dais<br />
and reiterated the Voters League's demands <strong>for</strong> fair employment and called <strong>for</strong> Crown-<br />
Zellerbach to hire black women and eliminate its segregated promotion system . Farmer<br />
chastised the older generation of blacks, telling the audience ofteenagers that "ifour<br />
parents had been willing to go to jail and die, we wouldn't have to go through this ." The<br />
rally went without incident and the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the Voters League sent the children<br />
home <strong>for</strong> a night's rest be<strong>for</strong>e the big event.'<br />
;2 TimesPicayune, 9 April 1965 .<br />
j~"Summary ofIncidents : Bogalusa, Louisiana, January 28 - July 1, 1965 ."<br />
'`'`Tames-Picayune, 9 April 1965 .<br />
182
Tension hung over Bogalusa like an ominous cloud the morning of the march .<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> took their places among the marchers . An impressive column of four-<br />
hundred marchers departed the Negro Union Hall at 9:07 a.m . . It was only four short<br />
blocks to their destination, Bogalusa's City Hall . Word came that huge crowds of<br />
Klansmen and their white sympathizers were already gathering along the march route in<br />
the main business district . The angry mob ofwhite hecklers far outnumbered the police .<br />
The marchers proceeded nervously into the business district with the indomitable James<br />
Farmer leading at the front . The scene they encountered was horrific . The protectors<br />
were <strong>for</strong>ced to march through a gauntlet of hundreds of shrieking whites, with threats and<br />
screams of "niggers" reverberating through the streets. As the marchers approached the<br />
corner of Third Street and Columbia, a rabid group of whites bolted into the street and<br />
violently attacked the marchers with Ssts and picket signs . A young Klansman, Randle<br />
C . Pounds raced toward Farmer and lunged violently at him with a blackjack . Police<br />
caught Pounds at the last moment be<strong>for</strong>e he could strike Farmer. The violence was<br />
contagious . As the nelee spread, white gangs even attacked and beat bystanders,<br />
including a Life Magazine photographer . In the chaos a white man, Jimmy Dane Burke,<br />
attacked an FBI agent who was photographing incidents . A police car, driven by<br />
Assistant ChiefofPolice Terrell accidentally wheeled into the white mob, injuring a<br />
young white man . ss<br />
~SAccounts of the attack in Bogalusa Daily News, 9, 13 April 1965 ; Times-Picayune,<br />
10 April 1965 . Police made no arrests at the time, but four days later Klansman Randle<br />
C . Pounds was arrested <strong>for</strong> attempted assault on Farmer. Charles McClendon, Latimore<br />
McNeese and Klansman Bill Af<strong>for</strong>d, Jr . were arrested on charges ofdisturbing the peace<br />
<strong>for</strong> their involvement in the incidents. See, Bogalusa Daily News, 14 April 1965 and<br />
"Federal Complaint ."<br />
183
Police officials ordered the besieged marchers to turn back and the group quickly<br />
returned to the Negro Union Hall to regroup . Within a few minutes a mob of 300 whites<br />
led by the Klan assembled at City Hall and confronted a line of state policeman guarding<br />
the building entrance . A delegation of four white men, one identified as the Grand<br />
Wizard of the Louisiana Knights ofthe Ku Klux Klan, conferred with Mayor Cutrer as<br />
the restless mob milled around the building. Within an hour the Klan leader emerged<br />
from his meeting with Cutrer and told the crowd that the mayor had in<strong>for</strong>med him that<br />
the civil rights marchers were going to march a second time later that day with police<br />
protection . The Klan leader instructed the mob to disperse and not attempt to prevent the<br />
march since they "could not win against either local police or federal officials ."'~<br />
The Klan mob retreated and soon afterwards James Farmer and the Voters League<br />
met with Curtrer and Commissioner Arnold Spiers . The meeting was a victory <strong>for</strong> the<br />
Voters League. Cutrer had previously refused to negotiate with the BCVL and Farmer .<br />
Not only was he now meeting, but he reassured the black delegation that he would<br />
continue to negotiate with the BCVL . Cutrer also assured them that the Klan would not<br />
be allowed to congregate in the business district during the second march attempt later in<br />
the afternoon. The Mayor kept his word and vehicular traffic was blocked and the march<br />
occurred without disruption .<br />
The marchers arrived at City Hall where James Farmer, Moore, and other<br />
speakers addressed the crowd with high spirits . Cutrer's conciliatory attitude at the<br />
earlier meeting was an encouraging sign. Farmer told the crowd that the mayor had<br />
agreed to further talks with the Voters League . Then, to the marchers' amazement,<br />
'6Times-Piccryune, 1 0 April 1965 .<br />
I84
Cutrer emerged from City Hall to address the group, and surprised the audience by<br />
calling <strong>for</strong> negotiations rather than demonstrations . The day's events had <strong>for</strong>ced the<br />
Mayor to move the debate from the streets to the negotiating table. ;'<br />
The marchers were not the only ones shaken by the attack . In the midst ofthe<br />
confusion, Assistant Police Chief L . C . Terrell had wheeled his police car into Louis<br />
Applewhite, a Klansman and nephew of Albert Applewhite, a Klan "wrecking crew"<br />
leader. Applewhite was taken to the hospital . Assistant ChiefTerrell panicked as he<br />
began to realize that he had nearly killed the relative ofa major Klan terrorist. The<br />
highly distraught officer returned to City Hall and, armed with a shotgun, ensconced<br />
himself in the Mayor's Office . Terrell was convinced that the Klan was going to retaliate<br />
by killing him . The dazed policeman rocked back and <strong>for</strong>th in his chair mumbling to<br />
himself, "They're not going to kill me . They're not going to kill me ." Jerry Heilbron, a<br />
CRS representative, was in the room with Terrell . Heilbron watched nervously as the<br />
officer continued to mutter to himself, cradling the shotgun in his arms . In Heilbron's<br />
words, the officer was "really off his rocker ." A local Minister arrived and suggested<br />
that the group pray <strong>for</strong> guidance . Heilbron, the minister, and Terrell got on their knees<br />
and prayed . But the group was not willing to leave Terrell's situation to divine<br />
intervention . Someone summoned Terrell's doctor who soon arrived and administered a<br />
sedative to the troubled officer .'$<br />
Cutrer stayed true to his promise to negotiate with the BCVL and within days he<br />
organized a negotiating group that included approximately sixty white merchants. The<br />
'Times-Picayune, 10, 11, April 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 9, 11, April 1965 .<br />
' gHeilbron, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
l85
usiness goup, with the assistance of three representatives of the Federal Community<br />
Relations Service, scheduled their first negotiation meeting with Black community<br />
representatives on April 13 . But the negotiations collapsed be<strong>for</strong>e they even started,<br />
when the white businessmen refused to meet exclusively with the Voter's League .<br />
Instead, the business group demanded that the black negotiating team include<br />
representatives of two other moderate black groups . The Voters League responded to the<br />
ultimatum by refusing to meet with the business soup . To increase the pressure <strong>for</strong><br />
negotiations, the Voters League announced that they would begin a picketing campaign<br />
at downtown stores demanding black employment at the stores .`9<br />
With negotiations stalled, the Voters League commenced picketing six stores on<br />
April 14 . The new city ordinance restricted the protestors to only two picketers per store .<br />
The situation was particularly difficult <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong>. The <strong>Deacons</strong> stood guard as the<br />
picketers were shadowed by Klan picketers who walked alongside carrying signs saying,<br />
"White Man give this merchant your business ." The following day the Klan threw a<br />
firebomb at a house on the edge ofthe black community where CORE volunteers had<br />
stayed . The local fire department refused to respond to the call <strong>for</strong> help . s o<br />
Ifthere were ever any doubts that the Bogalusa Police and the Klan were<br />
collaborating, the events of April 15 would soon dispel them. Earlier that day Bogalusa<br />
Police arrested and detained Charles Williams, a local black man . As Williams was<br />
being booked, a door opened to an adjacent room and Williams saw six men dressed in<br />
j9Bogalusa Daily News, 14 April 1965 .<br />
so T~mes-Picayune, 14 April 1965 ; "Summary of Incidents : Bogalusa, Louisiana,<br />
January 28 - July 1, 1965 ."<br />
18 6
Klan robes--one of them wearing a law en<strong>for</strong>cement uni<strong>for</strong>m under his robe . The hooded<br />
officer entered the booking room and cursed at Williams, "You black son ofa bitch,"<br />
barked the officer, "pull off the damn cap ."s '<br />
Government offcials scrambled to head offa major clash . McKeithen made a<br />
presentation to the Bogalusa Chamber of Commerce in which he sounded a new theme of<br />
reconciliation and patience . McKeithen told the Bogalusa business leaders that their<br />
"generation in Louisiana has the responsibility to keep the peace" and to keep their<br />
"heads while those about us lose theirs .' °s2<br />
The Easter holiday was rapidly approaching and Mayor Cutrer appealed to the<br />
Voters League to halt the picketing <strong>for</strong> the Easter weekend . The League refused to call a<br />
moratorium on picketing until the city agreed to negotiate their demands . But the<br />
situation on the picket line was becoming more tense and creating insurmountable<br />
problems <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Klansmen marched side by side with the black picketers as<br />
mobs of whites waved rebel flags and jeered from the sidelines . Law en<strong>for</strong>cement<br />
official stood by idly during the harassment ; some police even joined in the heckling . By<br />
Good Friday it was clear that the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the Voters League could not guarantee the<br />
safety of the pickets, so they decided to temporarily withdraw the pickets and file a<br />
complaint with city officials . s'<br />
si Times-Picayune, 29 June 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 29 June 1965 ; Will Ussery to<br />
Ed Hollander, April 16, 1965, box 7, file 6, CORE(SRO) .<br />
s2TimesPicayune, 16 April 1965 .<br />
ssBogalusa Daily News, 16 April 16 1965 ; TimesPicayune, 17 April 1965 .<br />
187
Police abuse was beconung a paramount issue ofthe Voters League, and on Good<br />
Friday the League presented Mayor Cutrer with additional demands calling <strong>for</strong> an `'end<br />
of unequal en<strong>for</strong>cement of law in Bogalusa" and "the end ofabuses and harassment of<br />
Negro picketers ." The League demanded that the city fire officers involved in<br />
harassment . They underscored their new demands by announcing that they had invited I<br />
James Farmer to return to Bogalusa to lead another march to City Hall, this time<br />
protesting potce abuse.`<br />
Farmer returned on Apri122 to address an evening rally at the Ebenezer Baptist I<br />
i<br />
Church filled with nearly five-hundred people, almost all of them school children . An<br />
army of State police guarded all the intersections leading to the church, part of a massive<br />
influx of 375 state troopers earlier in the day . The growing generational schism between<br />
the young and old was apparent at the rally . Youth leader Don Lambert rose to give a ~ i<br />
. . I<br />
speech chast~smg adults <strong>for</strong> not assisting in the civil rights drive . The issue had come to I<br />
light earlier in the week when CORE s okes erson Wilfred T . Usse told the media that<br />
P P rY<br />
a militant teenage element in the League was pushing <strong>for</strong> bigger demonstrations than<br />
what the leadership wanted . Ironically, the militant leaders of the Voters League and the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> were finding themselves cast as moderates in the rapidly radicalizing<br />
movement . ss<br />
The rally at Ebenezer Church was not the only civil rights event where sharp<br />
generational conflicts were manifest . A few weeks later comedian Dick Gregory spoke<br />
syLouisiana Weekly, 1 May 1965 .<br />
ss Accounts ofmeeting found in Times-Picayune, 23 April 1965 and Bogalusa Daily<br />
News, 23 April 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 17 April 1965 .<br />
18 8<br />
I<br />
I<br />
i
at another Voters League rally, offering a humorous respite from the grim business of<br />
political protest . Gregory delighted his young audience of more than five-hundred by<br />
excoriating old folks as "too lazy or scared" to participate in the civil rights movement .<br />
"When you die, Lord knows I hope it's soon," Gregory said to the older generation, "then<br />
the civil rights movement can move <strong>for</strong>ward .' °s6<br />
As time progressed the <strong>Deacons</strong> would also become more explicit in their view<br />
that the Black freedom movement required a revolution against both the old leadership<br />
and the world view produced by the economic reality ofthe past . Accommodation had<br />
been an effective strategy ofresistance <strong>for</strong> the powerless . But times had changed .<br />
Deacon member R. T . Young advised young Voters League members that "the young<br />
~egro must erase the image of the older Negroes--we must turn their young nunds to<br />
education, one of the biggest weapons ." Young counseled the youngsters that<br />
"automation is here to stay and the Negro ofthe cotton field is gone <strong>for</strong>ever . . . abide by<br />
the Constitution of the United States and seek what your government has promised you<br />
and mankind ." s'<br />
Farmer played down the generational divisions in his rally speech, though he<br />
reserved criticism <strong>for</strong> the timorous black ministers who had refused to support the<br />
movement and declined to allow their churches to be uses <strong>for</strong> organizing activities . The<br />
charges of accommodation peeved many ofthe black clergy . One minister, Reverend W .<br />
s6Bogalusa Daily News, 2, 3 May 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 4 May 1965 ; Louisiana<br />
Weekly, 15 May 1965 .<br />
s'TimesPicaytme,2 April 1966 .<br />
189
J. Nelson, publicly protested to the Bogalusa Daily News that he had been unfairly<br />
labeled an "uncle tom ." ss<br />
The black movement's resolve and the potential <strong>for</strong> mass violence was beginning<br />
to <strong>for</strong>ce both federal and state governments to intervene in the Bogalusa crisis . The U.S .<br />
Department of Justice filed the first of several legal actions on April 20 designed to<br />
en<strong>for</strong>ce the Civil Rights Act in Bogalusa . Attorney General Nicholas Katzenbach signed<br />
the suit Sled in federal district court in New Orleans asking that six restaurants be<br />
enjoined from refusing service to blacks . Meanwhile, Governor McKeithen was working<br />
assiduously to restart the stalled negotiations in the city. McKeithen was particularly<br />
anxious that another major march would ignite open warfare between the <strong>Deacons</strong> and<br />
the Klan . Gun sales had increased dramatically in Bogalusa, a city that was already an<br />
armed camp. s9<br />
On April 22, McKeithen arranged <strong>for</strong> three state leaders to publicly offer to<br />
mediate the crisis : Senator Michael O'Keefe, AFL-CIO State leader Victor Bussie, and<br />
Democratic Party leader Camile Gravel . The next day McKeithen met with Bogalusa<br />
City officials and the Community Affairs Committee and persuaded them to meet with<br />
the "Bussie Committee" mediators on Friday, Apri124 . Simultaneously, McKeithen was<br />
working to persuade the Voters League to suspend its rallies and picketing in exchange<br />
<strong>for</strong> new negotiations . For this task he turned to Vice-President Hubert Humphrey .<br />
Humphrey had been in Louisiana two weeks prior and had been following the situation in<br />
SBTimes-Picayune, 23 April 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 23 April 1965 ; Bogalusa<br />
Daily News, 25 April 1965 .<br />
S9Times-Picayune, 21 April 1965 .<br />
190
Bogalusa . Humphrey contacted CORE's James Farmer and persuaded him to help ease<br />
tensions by leaving Bogalusa on the 23rd . Farmer also agreed to cancel a planned rally<br />
that was to feature Dick Gregory . On Good Friday, as the Klan taunted black protestors<br />
on the picket line downtown, the Bussie Committee began intense meetings with the<br />
Voters League and City Officials and the Community Affairs Committee . By the end of<br />
the day the Bussie Committee had scored a major breakthrough. The City and the<br />
Community Affairs Committee agreed to begin new negotiations with the Voters League<br />
the following week. In exchange, the League agreed to suspended picketing . The Voters<br />
League and the <strong>Deacons</strong> had <strong>for</strong>ced the city back to the bargaining table.°<br />
McKeithen, feeling that the crisis had been surmounted, withdrew the army of<br />
335 state police from Bogalusa over the Easter weekend . But segregationists and the<br />
Klan were not to be denied . The OKKKK distributed several hundred leaflets<br />
announcing a boycott of merchants who complied with integration, as well as the<br />
Bogalusa Daily News and WBOX radio station . On April 27, George L . Singleman,<br />
executive secretary of the New Orleans Citizen Council, joined Paul Farmer of the<br />
Washington Parish Citizens Council (and brother ofKlan leader Saxon Farmer) to<br />
announce plans <strong>for</strong> a major march and rally on May 7 to protest the compromise .<br />
Singleman denounced the Bussie Committee and claimed that Bogalusa had been<br />
targeted by communists since 1956 . 6 '<br />
6° TimesPicayune, 23 April 1965 ; New York Times, 26 April 1965 .<br />
61 Times-Picayune, 25, 24 April 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 28 April 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily<br />
News, 28, 30 April 1965 .<br />
191
Now McKeithen and Cutrer were <strong>for</strong>ced to take measures to undermine the Klan<br />
march and rally . Rally organizers had invited SheriffJim Clark of Montgomery,<br />
Alabama, a hero to white supremacists . McKeithen personally contacted Clark and<br />
convinced the Sheriffto withdraw from the rally . McKeithen had always been a staunch<br />
segregationist, but his new conciliatory approach to civil rights groups made him the<br />
Citizen Council's new bete noire . One Council spokesperson labeled McKeithen an<br />
"integrationist"sympathizer and castigated the Bussie Committee as "all out<br />
integrationists ." Compounding the Council's problems were rumors that the rally was<br />
actually being organized by the Klan and that two-hundred black Southern University<br />
students planned to attend and disrupt the rally. 62<br />
Despite the machinations of elected officials, the segregationists managed to stage<br />
an impressive march and rally on May 7 . Approximately three-thousand people<br />
participated in the march which ended at Goodyear Park . Marchers listened to George<br />
Singleman ofNew Orleans and Judge John Rarick berate Governor McKeithen and other<br />
officials <strong>for</strong> interfering in Bogalusa's affairs (that both Singleman and Rarick were<br />
"outsiders" escaped their attention) . The rumor that the Klan had actually organized the<br />
rally found some evidence on the speaker plat<strong>for</strong>m . Among the featured speakers was<br />
Saxon Farmer, Grand Wizard ofthe OKKKIC and Jack Helm, leader of the United Klans<br />
of America (LJKA) .`~<br />
Despite the Klan counteroffensive, negotiations got under way in May at the<br />
office ofJack Martzell, attorney <strong>for</strong> the city ofBogalusa . Lolis Elie, a black New<br />
sz TimesPicayune, 6, 7 May 1965 .<br />
ss Bogalr~sa Daily News, 9 May 1965 .<br />
192
Orleans attorney with ties to CORE, represented the Voters League . On May 16 the<br />
talks opened with Elie, Martzell, Mayor Cutrer, members of the Commission Council<br />
and the Bussie Committee in attendance . The talks were cordial but tense, with<br />
Klansmen circling City Hall in trucks . The initial meeting was productive and attorneys<br />
announced that a joint statement on Bogalusa racial progress would be issued at some<br />
point and that further conferences were planned .`<br />
With the negotiations in progress and the picketing halted, an eery calm began to<br />
envelope the city . There had been virtually no incidents of Klan violence since the City<br />
had announced negotiations with the Voters League three weeks prior . The BCVL<br />
decided to take advantage of the decreased tensions and quietly integrate Bogalusa's<br />
Cassidy Park . Bob Hicks secured permission from Mayor Cutrer in advance and notifieJ<br />
the city police and the FBI oftheir test plans <strong>for</strong> May 19 . On the afternoon of the 19th,<br />
Robert Hicks, his wife and son Gregory, approximately twenty other blacks, mostly<br />
teenagers, and one white volunteer arrived at the park to integrate it . Sam Barnes, the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' vice-president, came along to guard the group, equipped with his pearl handled<br />
.38 revolver . The adults stood by their cars watching the children playing on the swings<br />
and merry-go-rounds . Two policemen watched at a distance . 6s<br />
Soon the adults noticed a group of twenty-five white men approaching the park .<br />
The white men stopped and spoke briefly to the police . The men then walked toward the<br />
° TimesPica3n~ne, 17 May 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 17 May 1965 .<br />
6sThis account ofthis Cassidy Park assault is taken from Hicks, <strong>Hill</strong> interview;<br />
Bogal:~sa Daily News, 20 May 1965 ; New York Tirnes, 20 May 1965 ; TimesPicayarre, 20<br />
May 1965 ; and "Federal Complaint ." Klan leader Virgil Corkern and his two teen-aged<br />
sons were part of the white mob . See, `'Federal Complaint ."<br />
193
children brandishing guns and clubs . The leader of the mob took off his belt and<br />
wrapped it around his fist . He asked the children on the merry-go-round if they were<br />
having fun, then suddenly struck a seven-year-old girl . Mayhem broke out as the white<br />
mob charged through the playground ruthlessly attacking the children and women . Bob<br />
Hicks and Barnes rushed to their defense as city police waded into the melee<br />
indiscriminately clubbing blacks and unleashing their K-9 dogs . One policeman pulled<br />
his gun as he approached the children . Jackie Hicks pulled a pistol to fend offthe<br />
attackers . Sam Barnes also pulled his .38 revolver . Police restrained Bob Hicks as he<br />
watched a police dog viciously bite his son Gregory . Hicks could barely contain his rage .<br />
He wished he had brought a weapon . "I guess that's about the only time that if I had<br />
something, I probably would have done something," said Hicks years later.<br />
During the brutal attack several blacks were injured, including a 75-year-old<br />
woman who was knocked unconscious . Sam Barnes was arrested <strong>for</strong> assault <strong>for</strong> pulling<br />
his revolver to protect the children . As the dust settled, Bob Hicks took the elderly<br />
woman and his son Gregory to the Bogalusa Community Medical Center where they<br />
were both refused emergency room assistance. Eventually Hicks had to drive ninety<br />
miles to find treatment <strong>for</strong> the two at a New Orleans hospital .<br />
The following day a mob ofmore than five-hundred whites gathered to prevent a<br />
second attempt to integrate the park . When no blacks showed up, a gang of thirty whites<br />
brutally attacked Teny Friedman, a Times-Picayune photographer, as he walked toward<br />
Hicks, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
194
the park. The group kicked and beat Terry Friedman and threw parts of his camera<br />
equipment into a nearby creek as police stood by idly. 6'<br />
Even in the climate offear, the Bussie Committee was still having success, and on<br />
May 23 the committee made a major breakthrough. A. Z . Young and Cutrer signed a six-<br />
point agreement in which the city conceded almost all ofthe Voters League's demands .<br />
Cutrer took to the airwaves that night to announce the agreement in a radio speech .<br />
Cutrer announced that the Commission Council, with the full support of the Community<br />
Affairs Council, planned a series of sweeping desegregation re<strong>for</strong>ms . The city had<br />
agreed to repeal all segregation ordinances ; open all public facilities and parks to all<br />
races ; guarantee impartial law en<strong>for</strong>cement by city police and equal protection of citizens<br />
exercising their rights; and hire blacks as policemen and in other city positions . Cutrer<br />
also promised to promptly investigate any violations of these strictures by police and<br />
enact necessary ordinances regarding sewerage and water distribution to allow indoor<br />
plumbing in the black community and paved streets and improved lighting . The Voters<br />
League, in exchange, had agreed to cancel its picketing, pending negotiations with the<br />
store owners, and defer further attempts to integrate the parks . Cutrer argued that the<br />
re<strong>for</strong>ms were necessary to bring city laws in line with Federal Laws, and to restore calm<br />
and end the harm to the city's industrial and business growth . The Mayor's message was<br />
one of social peace and economic progress through unity . 6`<br />
It was a stunning victory <strong>for</strong> the Voter's League. Later that night James Farmer<br />
addressed a jubilant victory rally, declaring that the Klan had become "a laughing<br />
6'Times-Picayune, 21 May 1965 .<br />
6s Times-Picayune, 24 May 1965 .<br />
195
matter ." Farmer promised full cooperation with the Mayor and praised Cutrer <strong>for</strong> having<br />
gone further "than any other Southern Mayor ." Optimism had to be tempered with<br />
caution, though . "Now we must see to it that deeds follow these words," said Farmer. 69<br />
Not all CORE officials were as sanguine as Farmer. "Mike [Jones] reports that<br />
the Negroes' morale is quite low and that a number of whites seem angry at the mayor's<br />
conciliatory statement last night," said a CORE report filed on May 24 . "He fears that<br />
this is just the beginning of [the] expression of white frustration and anger at the mayor's<br />
betrayal of them ." As it turned out, Mike Jones was right . The Klan had lost the first<br />
battle by relying on Cutrer . Within hours of the Mayor's announcement, the Klan would<br />
regroup to mount its own lethal counteroffensive.' °<br />
69Louisiana Weekly, 30 May 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 24 May 1965 .<br />
' °"Telephone Report from Mike Jones, May 24, 1965," box 7, folder 6, CORE(SRO) .<br />
196
Chapter 9<br />
With a Single Bullet<br />
The morning following Cutrer's speech, Bogalusans awakened to find utility<br />
poles plastered with scores ofa new Klan poster : "Welcome to the Jungle, J. H. Cutrer,<br />
Chief; Victor Bussie, Ambassador; A . Z . Young, Witch Doctor ." Later that day a group<br />
ofwhites festooned the City Hall entrance with a sign reading, "Nigger Town, U.S .A."<br />
As darkness fell a mob of several hundred whites assembled at Cassidy Park and tore<br />
down the gates and signs announcing the park closed by order of the Commission<br />
Council . Members ofthe group raucously paraded around the park, honking their horns<br />
in celebration of their victory . An intimidating mob of one-hundred whites invaded a<br />
Community Affairs Committee meeting and denounced the Bussie Committee, calling<br />
<strong>for</strong> an end to "meddling in the affairs of Bogalusa ." The Committee, badly shaken by the<br />
confrontation, quickly began to distance itselffrom the Bussie Committee and the<br />
compromise . It was the first of a series of reversals in the face ofthe renewed Klan terror<br />
campaign . `<br />
The Klan also flexed its muscles in its first open confrontation with the <strong>Deacons</strong> .<br />
On May 26, 1965, a crowd of students had gathered on the evening ofgraduation "Class<br />
Night" at Central Memorial High School . As the graduation ceremonies were being<br />
`Bogalusa Daily News, 24, 25 May 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 25 May 1965 .<br />
197
conducted, a group of approximately seventy-Sve whites gathered outside the school,<br />
including Saxon Farmer and a group of Klansman . Minutes later, A . Z . Young and the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> arrived to confront the Klansmen, supported by an equal number of blacks .<br />
After an edgy standoff, city and state police descended on the scene and dispersed both<br />
groups . A few hours later another Deacon, Fletcher Anderson, 27, was sitting in his car<br />
in front of a restaurant when Deputy Sheriff Vertrees Adams approached . Adams<br />
ordered Anderson to start the car and race the engine and when Anderson complied, the<br />
deputy arrested him <strong>for</strong> a faulty muffler . During the arrest, Adams discovered a weapon<br />
in Anderson's car and added a concealed weapon charge. The Deacon was taken the<br />
Bogalusa police station where Adams and other offcers lined Anderson up against a wall<br />
and punched and kicked him. Z<br />
The Klan increased its pressure on local businesses as well . It had been over a<br />
month since the Voters League had suspended picketing on Columbia Street, yet none of<br />
the businesses had agreed to negotiate the League's demands <strong>for</strong>jobs . Their patience<br />
exhausted, the League decided to renew picketing. On Saturday, May 29, young black<br />
pickets appeared in front of stores in the downtown area . The situation soon deteriorated<br />
into chaos . The Klan ran amuck in the business district, brutally attacking the young<br />
picketers with impunity. Police did little to stop the attacks and harassment ; when they<br />
did act, they were more likely to arrest the black picketers than the Klan . Seventeen<br />
arrests were reported Saturday, eleven ofwhom were black--including Jackie Hicks . 3<br />
ZBogalusa Daily News, 27 May 1965 ; Mike Jones to Ed Hollander, May 26, 1965,<br />
box 7, file 6, CORE(SRO) ; States-Item, I July 1965 .<br />
;Bogalnsa Daily News, 30 May 1965 .<br />
198
Though the day had been a setback <strong>for</strong> the BCVL, the violent attacks and arrests<br />
of the black children did shake many black adults out of their lethargy . That night<br />
hundreds of angry adults attended a huge BCVL meeting at the Negro Ution Hall to<br />
discuss the day's events . The scene outside the hall was a surreal carnival of hate .<br />
Hundreds ofwhites waited menacingly outside the hall as the BCVL met . Smaller<br />
groups of whites stalked the downtown area late into the night . A convoy often cars<br />
drove past the house where CORE leader Ronnie Moore was staying that night as the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> stood guard . The Klan reigned supreme once again in Bogalusa . ;<br />
For the next few days the Klan escalated its well-coordinated attacks on the<br />
pickets . The wrecking crews staged diversionary attacks to draw police off the picket<br />
line, then sent flying wedges ofKlansmen to attack the pickets with clubs and lead pipes .<br />
The Klan assaults became so bold that on May 31 they drove a New Orleans television<br />
crew from the city . McKeithen once again deployed state troopers to quell the attacks,<br />
and by the end of the first week ofJune, 212 troopers were in Bogalusa . The Governor<br />
was reduced to personally pleading with the Klan and segregationists during a secret trip<br />
to Bogalusa. At the same time Mayor Cutrer had retreated from his detente with the<br />
Voters League, telling the media that the League was responsible <strong>for</strong> the increased<br />
tensions . In the end, only the League and the <strong>Deacons</strong> refused to be intimidated by the<br />
Klan counteroffensive . Rontie Moore announced that another major march would occur<br />
even ifthe City refused to grant a permit s<br />
TimesPicayune, 31 May 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 30 May 1965 ; Louisiana<br />
Weekly, 5 June 1965 .<br />
s "Summary of Incidents : Bogalusa, Louisiana, January 28 " July l, 1965" ; Times-<br />
Picayune, 1 June 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, l, 4, June 1965 .<br />
l99
The Klan campaign reached a bloody crescendo on June 2 . In 1964 Sheriff<br />
Dorman Crowe had hired two black deputies, honoring a campaign promise he had made<br />
in return <strong>for</strong> black votes during his unsuccessful reelection bid . The two deputies,<br />
O'Neal Moore and Creed Rogers, were limited to patrolW~g the black community . On<br />
the night ofJune 2, 1965, Moore and Rogers were patrolling as usual . They noticed a<br />
pickup truck following them but saw no reason <strong>for</strong> concern . Suddenly the truck pulled<br />
alongside the deputies and several shots from a high-powered rifle rang out . Moore was<br />
killed instantly . Fiis partner suffered facial wounds but survived .<br />
Within an hour Ray McElveen, a papermill worker at Crown-Zellerbach, was<br />
arrested in nearby Tylertown, Mississippi . McElveen was driving a truck that matched<br />
the description of the vehicle involved in the attack . When apprehended, McElveen was<br />
carrying membership cards <strong>for</strong> the Citizens Council ofGreater New Orleans and the<br />
National States Rights Party, an extremist white supremacist group . McElveen also<br />
carried a "Special Agent" card <strong>for</strong> the Louisiana Department of Public Safety, signed by<br />
State Police director Thomas Burbank . McElveen, who was later identified as an<br />
OKKKK member, was eventually bailed out by Klan leader Saxon Farmer . In the<br />
subsequent investigation even white police investigators became targets <strong>for</strong> the terrorists .<br />
On June 4 unknown assailants fired six shots into the home of deputy Doyle Holliday<br />
who was leading the investigation <strong>for</strong> the Sheriff s department . Within minutes ofthe<br />
shooting an anonymous caller phoned HoWday's house and asked "Did we get anyone?" 6<br />
Predictably, government officials professed outrage over the assassination of a<br />
law en<strong>for</strong>cement official . McKeithen condemned the Moore killing and offered a<br />
6TimesPicayune, 8, 10 June 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 6 June 1965 .<br />
200
$25,000 reward <strong>for</strong> the killers, but he continued to deny that the Klan was active in<br />
Bogalusa--despite the fact that he was secretly negotiating with Klan leaders . Speaking<br />
at a press conference following the murder, McKeithen said he was confident that justice<br />
would be served and predicted that Louisiana would be vindicated by guilty verdicts<br />
against the assassins . "We're going to catch them. We're going to catch them all,"<br />
promised McKeithen . History would prove otherwise . No one was ever convicted of the<br />
murder of O'Neal Moore .'<br />
The black community was outraged by the killing . The <strong>Deacons</strong> mobilized to<br />
guard Moore's widow after she received threatening calls, and Earnea~t Thomas traveled<br />
from Jonesboro the day after the shooting to assist the Bogalusa chapter. But Moore's<br />
murder temporarily eclipsed the direct-action protests in the mill town in June . On June<br />
25, the campaign broadened to legal strategy when CORE attorney Nils Douglas filed<br />
Hicks u Knight in federal court . The League's new tactic sought to have the federal<br />
judiciary compel law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials to protect the first amendment rights of civil<br />
rights activists . The suit requested $425,000 in damages from Police Chief Knight and<br />
other law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials <strong>for</strong> brutality and harassment of civil rights protestors . It<br />
also requested a restraining order to <strong>for</strong>ce local and state officials to end their attacks,<br />
harassment, and arrests ofblack demonstrators--and to protect the demonstrators from<br />
Klan and civilian attacks as well . Filed on behalf of eleven Bogalusa civil tights<br />
activists, including Sam Barnes, the <strong>Deacons</strong>' vice-president, and several other <strong>Deacons</strong>,<br />
the suit also asked the court to end racial discrimination and segregation in the<br />
Washington Parish Jail and to reopen city parks without discrimination . The legal action<br />
'Newsweek, June 14, 1965, p . 38 ; TineesPicayune, 4, 7, 29 June; 4 July 1965 .<br />
201
listed thirty allegations of brutality, harassment, interference and failure of officers to<br />
protect civil rights workers . $<br />
Testimony on the suit began the following Monday, June 28, in Judge Herbert W.<br />
Christenberry's court in New Orleans . It was the first thorough public airing of police<br />
abuse and misconduct in Bogalusa . Activists and Deacon members testified in vivid<br />
detail about the wild mob attacks at Cassidy Park; the police beatings of <strong>Deacons</strong> Wce<br />
Sam Barnes and Fletcher Anderson; and the reports of hooded deputies at City Hall . The<br />
defendants countered with testimony from a series oflaw en<strong>for</strong>cement officials who<br />
claimed to have seen no abuse . FBI Agent Sass took the stand and swore that he had<br />
never seen any armed men on Columbia Street, nor had hr: seen anyone, police or<br />
otherwise, harass or beat picketers . Major Tom Bradley ofthe State police claimed that<br />
in his months in Bogalusa he never saw any harassment of demonstrators ; indeed, he had<br />
never seen a white person even curse a demonstrator. The normally staid Judge<br />
Christenberry struggled to contain his skepticism . "You can hear all right?"<br />
Christenberry asked the officer .'<br />
Christenbecry took the case under advisement but his comments during the<br />
testimony left little doubt that he would find in favor of the civil rights activists . The trial<br />
sent the <strong>Deacons</strong> into a flurry of activity . Anonymous phone calls were made to Bob<br />
Hicks house threatening to kill him and anyone who testified at the hearing . The<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> tightened security measures and escorted the witnesses to and from court . On<br />
$Times-Picayune, 26 June 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 2? June 1965 .<br />
'TimesPicayune, 3 July 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News 2 July 1965 ; Times<br />
Picayuune, 2 July 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 2 July 1965 .<br />
202
the evening ofJune 28 Fletcher Anderson returned home after spending the day testifying<br />
in Christenbenry's court . Around midnight six white men approached the Deacon<br />
member's house and pounded on the door, identifying themselves as policemen .<br />
Anderson refused to open the door. Suddenly six shots were fired from outside the<br />
house . When Anderson called the police department to report the shooting, he was told<br />
"this is what happens to you when you go up against the police department ."'°<br />
During the hearings startling news leaked out that, after a two-month moratorium<br />
on mass marches, the League and CORE planned to step up their campaign with a bold<br />
series of seven marches in seven days . Beginning on July 7, each march would be led by<br />
a major civil rights leader, including James Farmer, Dick Gregory, Harry Belafonte,<br />
Elton Cox, and James Bevels . Rumors swept Bogalusa that CORE was calling in<br />
hundreds of volunteers from around the country <strong>for</strong> the marches. It appeared that<br />
Bogalusa would become the Selma ofLouisiana.'<br />
In the days preceding the planned marches, segregationists staged another rally in<br />
Bogalusa, this time attracting a crowd of4,500 . The rally featured arch-racist General<br />
Edwin Walker, whom Lee Harvey Oswald had attempted to assassinate in the Fall of<br />
1964 . Two East Indian students visiting Bogalusa were mistaken as blacks and attacker'<br />
and beaten by whites during the rally. Governor McKeithen later brushed off the attack<br />
'°"WATS Report, 6-28 to 7-65," box 4, file 2, CORE(SRO); "Summary of<br />
Incidents : Bogalusa, Louisiana, January 28 - July 1, 1965" ; Bogalusa Daily News, 1 July<br />
1965 ; TimesPicayune, 30 June 1965 ; "WATS Line Report," [July 1964],box 7, file 6,<br />
CORE(SRO) ; StatesItem, 1 July 1965 .<br />
''Rickey <strong>Hill</strong>, "The Character of Black Politics," p . 83 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 30<br />
June 1965 .<br />
203
on the students . "You're going to have some there who are going to want to hurt<br />
somebody," said McKeithen. "I'm just happy that something worse did not occur ."` 2<br />
Tension grew as the first march in the series drew near. It would be the first<br />
march since the murder ofO'Neal Moore and the filing ofHicks u Knight. The <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
prepared feverishly despite police harassment . A few days be<strong>for</strong>e the march, State Police<br />
arrested Sims <strong>for</strong> speeding following a harrowing high-speed chase in which Sims tried<br />
to elude Deputy Vertress Adams . On July 7 approximately 350 protestors, mostly<br />
teenagers, began the march to City Hall in a drenching thundershower . CORE organizers<br />
were disappointed that adults failed to attend, and their frustration began to show .<br />
"CORE is just wasting money here," complained Isaac Reynolds, a CORE field<br />
secretary . White bystanders honked their horns to drown out the freedom songs, but<br />
otherwise the march made it to City Hall without serious incident . At City Hall, Voters<br />
League leaders presented a new list of demands, including that Crown-Zellerbach hire<br />
black women, make promotions based on seniority, and dismiss employees that commit<br />
violence . The League also asked that the city dismiss outstanding charges against<br />
demonstrators, require establishments to desegregate, and require merchants to initiate<br />
fair hiring policies . `s<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> prepared <strong>for</strong> the second march ofthe series scheduled <strong>for</strong> the next<br />
day, July 8 . Henry Austin was assigned along with Milton Johnson to guard the rear of<br />
the march in A. Z . Young's car . The two <strong>Deacons</strong> were younger than most in the<br />
` 2 TimesPicayune, 10 July 1965 .<br />
` 30n the Sims arrest, see, "WATS Line Report, July 5, 1965," box 7, folder 6,<br />
CORE(SRO); Bogalusa Daily News, 8 July 1965 ; New York Times, 8 July 1965 ; Times-<br />
Picayr~ne, 7 July 1965 ; Bogal:~sa Daily News, 8 July 1965 .<br />
204
organization : Austin was only twenty-one and Johnson, twenty-six . Austin was without<br />
question one of the brightest and best educated of the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Escaping the slums of<br />
New Orleans, he served in the Air Force where he had taken a few college classes . Glib<br />
and personable, Austin made a good living selling small burial insurance policies . He<br />
wore a suit and tie when he made his rounds on Friday night to collect the modest weekly<br />
premiums--be<strong>for</strong>e the paychecks disappeared . Austin had been O'Neal Moore's<br />
insurance man and knew Moore well . The two frequently watched football games<br />
together."<br />
But Austin's talents were marred by two tragic character flaws : he was a heavy<br />
drinker had a volatile temper . Bob Hicks liked the bright young man but considered him<br />
a "hot head" who "couldn't control his emotions :" While in the Air Force, Austin<br />
stabbed a white soldier during an altercation in which the white man had called him a<br />
"nigger ." Austin spent two years in prison <strong>for</strong> the crime. It may have been Austin's<br />
temper combined with his youth that led Charlie Sims to initially reject his application to<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> . But eventually Sims succumbed to Austin's persistent requests . ` S<br />
The July 8 march wound its way to City Hall without any significant problems .<br />
But as the marchers began the return route, it became evident to Austin that the police<br />
were losing control ofthe white hecklers who lined the streets . The white mob was<br />
throwing rocks at Austin and Johnson and jumping on their car. Austin told Johnson to<br />
roll up the windows and lock the doors. Suddenly a piece of brick soared from the crowd<br />
and struck Hattie Mae <strong>Hill</strong>, a black teenager. Some volunteers from the Medical Rights<br />
"Austin, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Hicks, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
` AAustin, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
205
Committee rushed to the young girl's aid and attempted to move her into a station wagon .<br />
The white mob surrounded the frightened child and began hitting her and tearing her<br />
clothes . Austin told Johnson to get out and bring the girl back to their car. Johnson lea;~t<br />
from the car and managed to rescue the girl from the mob and throw her into the back<br />
seat . Now the mob turned on Johnson, pinning him against the driver's side door and<br />
preventing him from escaping . Austin grabbed his .38 caliber pistol, shoved open the<br />
driver's door and stepped in front ofJohnson to face the angry mob . "I have a gun!"<br />
shouted Austin, but his voice could barely be heard over the din of the crowd . Austin<br />
fired a warning shot into the air, but the mob continued to advance . Austin took aim and<br />
fired three shots into the chest of one of the white attackers, Alton Crowe . The mob<br />
recoiled in shock . They stared speechless at the black man holding the pistol .' 6<br />
Austin knew that the police would be there in seconds . He calmly threw the gun<br />
on the car seat and placed his hands above his head to show he was unarmed . The police<br />
arrived and handcuffed Austin and placed him across the trunk of the car as the white<br />
mob began to howl . As Austin stood handcuffed a wiry old white woman sprung from<br />
the onlookers and began shrieking, "They killed a white man . Kill the tiggers!""<br />
Austin was in imminent peril ofbeing lynched . Governor McKeithen arranged<br />
<strong>for</strong> Austin to be transferred to a jail in nearby Slidell, but the Bogalusa police panicked at<br />
the thought of moving Austin . The detective assigned to escort Austin demanded a<br />
machine gun <strong>for</strong> his car and the police deployed several decoy patrol cars from the<br />
'6The account of this incident taken from Austin, Hall interview; Austin, <strong>Hill</strong><br />
interview; TimesPiccryune, 9 July 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 9 July 1965 ; Newsweek,<br />
19 July, 1965, pp . 25-26 .<br />
"Austin, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
206
Bogalusa jail to mislead the white mob . An officer threw Austin into a patrol car and<br />
shouted, "Nigger, lay down in the back seat<br />
."` s<br />
Austin made it safely to the Slidell jail . In New Orleans Alton Crowe, the young<br />
white man Austin had shot, lay on an operating table fighting <strong>for</strong> his life. One bullet had<br />
missed his heart by inches. Austin had not intended to kill Crowe; he had aimed <strong>for</strong><br />
Crowe's midriffbut the pistol jerked upward at the last moment . But Austin's intentions<br />
were irrelevant given the circumstances . "If that man dies, " Austin told himself while<br />
sitting in jail, "they're damn sure going to electrocute your ass.""<br />
The Alton Crowe shooting marked a major turning point <strong>for</strong> the civil rights<br />
movement . It was the first time that blacks used armed violence to protect a civil rights<br />
march . Henry Austin's bullet had belied the myth of a nonviolent civil rights movement .<br />
The shooting also signaled that blacks were prepared to use lethal <strong>for</strong>ce ifthe Federal<br />
government failed to protect their rights--a bargaining chip that would ultimately <strong>for</strong>ce<br />
the Federal government to change its civil rights legal strategy in the South . "It was no<br />
longer a situation where they could take advantage ofblack people with impunity," said<br />
Austin thirty years Iater. 2°<br />
Austin was puzzled by the response of the policemen who questioned him while<br />
he was in custody. It was almost as if they felt betrayed by Austin . They told Austin that<br />
he had violated their trust; that they were adequately protecting the march and it was<br />
Austin and the <strong>Deacons</strong>, not the Klan, who had breached the peace . Austin found their<br />
ts ~id .<br />
'9Ibid .<br />
'-°Austin, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
?o~
esponse ironic, since he had only done what the white police officers would have done<br />
in the same situation .<br />
Still, there was good reason <strong>for</strong> the policemen to feet betrayed . Austin violated<br />
the racial code of conduct that had manacled black men <strong>for</strong> three centuries in the South .<br />
According to unwritten code, blacks were their masters' wards, be it plantation master or<br />
the federal government . The master alone was responsible <strong>for</strong> protecting his ward . And<br />
while ward status protected blacks, it also denied them the full rights and manhood .<br />
They had no right to defend themselves against violence, but instead had to rely on the<br />
protection oftheir masters--in this case, the local police . Henry Austin had shattered the<br />
ancient code with a single bullet .<br />
Initially A . Z . Young and Charlie Sims denied that Austin and Johnson were<br />
members of the <strong>Deacons</strong>, hoping to distance the Voters League and the <strong>Deacons</strong> from the<br />
shooting. But the denials did not last long. It soon became clear that most of the black<br />
community regarded Austin as a hero . After Sims bailed out the young Deacon, Austin<br />
returned to Bogalusa to a warm welcome . Men shook his hand and bought him drinks .<br />
Elderly women greeted him affectionately on the street and pressed a few dollar bills into<br />
his hand . The Crowe shooting did no damage to the <strong>Deacons</strong>' standing in the black<br />
community . The New York Times reported that at a mass rally the day following the<br />
shooting, A. Z . Young introduced Charlie Sims and four-hundred young black people<br />
"leaped to their feet in a delirious ovation ." Z '<br />
2'Austin, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; New York Times, 15 August 1965 . Austin admitted to<br />
police that he was a <strong>Deacons</strong> member. See, Newsweek, 19 July 1965 . Alton Crowe<br />
survived the shooting .<br />
208<br />
I
Governor McKeithen was not as enthusiastic . In the wake ofthe Crowe shooting<br />
McKeithen pursued "a plague on both houses" strategy toward the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the Klan .<br />
McKeithen condemned both the violent racists and the civil rights groups as equally<br />
responsible <strong>for</strong> the Bogalusa crisis . But while carefully omitting reference to the Klan,<br />
McKeithen singled out A. Z . Young and Charlie Sims as "cowards and trash" and argued<br />
that no "decent Ngroes" were participating in the civil rights marches.<br />
In the days to follow the Klan reacted to the Crowe shooting by denying the<br />
obvious . For a black man to shoot a white man in broad daylight--and live to tell about<br />
it--was simply inconceivable to the robed terrorists . The Klan pretended that nothing had<br />
changed . One Klan leader, speaking to the New York Times, dismissed the <strong>Deacons</strong> as<br />
cowards : "I don't care how many guns that bunch of black Mau Maus has," said the<br />
Klansman, "they don't have the prerequisite--guts ."~<br />
But it was manifest that the <strong>Deacons</strong> haunted the Klansmen's thoughts. At a<br />
huge Klan rally in Crossroads, Louisiana on July 18, United Klans of America leader L .<br />
C . McDaniel promised more violence against the <strong>Deacons</strong> . "I have never advocated<br />
violence," McDaniel told his audience, "but where such trash as the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense<br />
are on the scene, I don't think protecting our rights could be termed violence." 2t<br />
Professional racists Connie Lynch and J . B . Stoner whipped up a crowd of<br />
thousands at a Bogalusa segregation rally following the Crowe shooting . Lynch, a<br />
~Bogalr~sa Daily News, 9 July 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 10 July 1965 .<br />
'Fred Zimmerman, "Race and Violence : More Dixie Negroes Buy Arms to<br />
Retaliate Against White Attacks : Non-Violence Coming to End?" Wall Street Journal, 12<br />
July 1965, p . l .<br />
=jBogal:isa Daily News, 19, July 1965 .<br />
209
Cali<strong>for</strong>nia-based extremist, threatened genocidal warfare in Bogalusa : "We're gonna<br />
clean the niggers out ofthese streets . . . that means bashing heads or anything else it<br />
takes . There's lots oftrees around here and we don't mind hangin'em:" J . B . Stoner,<br />
erstwhile Imperial Wizard of the Christian Knights of the KKK, did his best to tap the<br />
economic anxiety of the white papenmill workers . "Every time a nigger gets a job,"<br />
Stoner told the rally audience, "that's just one more job that you can't have .' °zs<br />
But behind the bombast and threats was a profoundly distressed Klan. "Most<br />
whites don't admit it," wrote the New York Times after the shooting, "but the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
send a chill down their spines ." The truth of this was borne out in subsequent marches .<br />
In the days following the shooting the huge mobs of whites disappeared . The Crowe<br />
shooting--and increased police presence--discouraged ordinary whites from attending the<br />
Klans' counter-demonstrations . The Klan could no longer organize mass attacks on<br />
black demonstrations in Bogalusa. And the inability to organize mass direct action<br />
protests reduced the Klan to isolated terror tactics and diminished their influence over<br />
nonaffiliated segregationists in the mill town . Z6<br />
The Crowe shooting also marked a poetical watershed <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> . It would<br />
be difficult, if not impossible, <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> to continue to reconcile the group's self-<br />
defense philosophy with Martin Luther King's nonviolent strategy. It was clear that the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> were no longer simply exercising the right to def,nd hearth and home . Their<br />
actions now implied the right to defend black people against racist violence anywhere .<br />
Dr. King moved quickly to dissociate himself from the <strong>Deacons</strong> . "We can't win our<br />
zs Bims, "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense" ; New York Times, 11 July 1965 .<br />
=6Ibid .<br />
210
struggle with nonviolence and to cloak it under the name of defensive violence," King<br />
said in the wake of the shooting . "The line of demarcation between aggressive and<br />
defensive violence is very slim ." For King, the key issue was that armed self-defense<br />
jeopardized white support . "The Negro must have allies to win his struggle <strong>for</strong> equality,"<br />
warned King. "And our allies will not surround a violent movement . What protects us<br />
from the Klan is to expose its brutality . We can't outshoot the Klan . We would only II<br />
alienate our allies and lose sympathy <strong>for</strong> our cause ."~' I<br />
But the <strong>Deacons</strong> had made fiction of King's assertion that blacks could not<br />
"outshoot the Klan ." Bogalusa had demonstrated that simply the will to retaliate was<br />
sufficient to intimidate the Klan and <strong>for</strong>ce the federal government to intervene .<br />
Moreover, King's theory that the Klan could be defeated by exposing its brutality had<br />
proved false . The majority of whites already knew that the Klan was violent, and yet<br />
this did not translate into support <strong>for</strong> the civil rights movement . Public opition surveys<br />
indicated that whites opposed the Mississippi <strong>Freedom</strong> Summer project by a 2-1<br />
majority. -g<br />
What ultimately prompted federal action against the Klan in Bogalusa was black<br />
violence, not white violence . Racist terrorism had been ever present in the South during<br />
the modern civil rights movement . Yet the federal government had never attempted to<br />
Z'Louisiana Weekly 17 July 1965 .<br />
ZgNew York Times, 8 July 1964, p . 20 . For an assessment ofthe Justice<br />
Department's role in the civil rights era by a Justice Department officer, see John Doar<br />
and Dorothy Landsberg, "The Per<strong>for</strong>mance of the FBI in Investigating Violations of<br />
Federal Laws Protecting the Right to Vote--1960-1967," in Hearings be<strong>for</strong>e the Select<br />
Committee to Study Governmental Operations with respect to Intelligence Activities,<br />
United States Senate, Ninety-fourth Congress, first session, volume 6 (Washington : U . S .<br />
Government Printing Office, 1976) .<br />
21 1<br />
I<br />
I<br />
i<br />
i
destroy the Klan--nor even <strong>for</strong>ce local governments to uphold the Bill of Rights . The<br />
Justice Department's track record was limited to a handfu: ofvoting rights suits that had<br />
a negligible impact in white supremacist <strong>for</strong>ces . The FBI's ef<strong>for</strong>ts to disrupt the Klan<br />
were halfhearted and largely ineffectual . It was the unwillingness of the federal<br />
government to move swiftly and dramatically against the Klan that had prompted James<br />
Farmer to declare Bogalusa a test-case <strong>for</strong> the Johnson administration's putative "war<br />
against the Klan ." Johnson's inaction was possible only as long as blacks remained<br />
passive in the face of Klan terror. But when the <strong>Deacons</strong> threatened to plunge Bogalusa<br />
into a bloody civil war, Johnson was <strong>for</strong>ced to act.<br />
King's response to the <strong>Deacons</strong> underscored a fundamental feature of the<br />
nonviolent strategy : Its goal was to win white support <strong>for</strong> legislative re<strong>for</strong>ms at the<br />
expense of black security, manhood, and dignity . Every tactic ofthe nonviolent<br />
movement was measured against its ability to win white allies . It was a sound strategy<br />
<strong>for</strong> winning legislative re<strong>for</strong>ms, but a woefully flawed strategy <strong>for</strong> redefining black<br />
identity and defeating white terrorism . 3°<br />
The impetus <strong>for</strong> building King's biracial re<strong>for</strong>m coalition, on white terms, did not<br />
derive exclusively from the quest <strong>for</strong> political re<strong>for</strong>m . There were pragmatic concerns<br />
too . Foremost was that virtually every national civil rights organizations depended on<br />
white liberals <strong>for</strong> funding. National leaders understood that violence jeopardized their<br />
poetical legitimacy and financial support . CORE was already 5250,000 in debt and<br />
having difficulty raising money to underwrite its fifteen projects in Louisiana . Writing<br />
''Farmer quoted in Commonwealth, 29 July 1965, p . 517 .<br />
' °New York Times, 8 July 1964 ; Ibid ., 2 May 1965 .<br />
212
only days after the Crowe shooting, nationally syndicated columnist Nicholas Hoffman<br />
pointed out that CORE's collaboration with the <strong>Deacons</strong> could cause them to lose "the<br />
financial support of Northern liberal whites who are strongly moved by the idea ofa<br />
nonviolent social revolution ." But repudiating paramilitary groups tike the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
carried a price <strong>for</strong> national groups as well, observed Hoffiian . "If they have nothing to<br />
do with local Negroes who arm themselves," said Hoffman, "the locals will have nothing<br />
to do with them, and the big groups will lose their position of leadership.""<br />
Yet on the grassroots level there was little concern with jeopardizing white<br />
support <strong>for</strong> CORE . CORE's state leaders in Louisiana had always supported the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>, and, as Hoffman had pointed out, probably could not have af<strong>for</strong>ded to do<br />
otherwise . Richard Haley explained CORE's policy to Jet Magazine . "We live with the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>, even with our nonviolent philosophy, because we are able to accept each<br />
other's positions," said Haley . But like sinners, CORE tolerated the <strong>Deacons</strong> in order to<br />
convert them . "Even in the church you have your sinners : we feel we can demonstrate to<br />
these people with our philosophy of love and nonviolence that there is another way ."''-<br />
In an internal memorandum Haley sought to clarify CORE's relationship with the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> . Haley began by noting that it was "a generally accepted beliefamong our La .<br />
CORE workers that some ofour people might have been assaulted or even killed had the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> not taken over the job ofprotection ." But the <strong>Deacons</strong> posed problems <strong>for</strong><br />
CORE. Some in the media were questioning ifCORE had remained faithful to its<br />
PP- 8-9 .<br />
"Louisiana Weekly, 17 July 1965 ; Tiraes-Picayune, 13 July 1965 .<br />
s'- "Guns, Pickets Down; Talks Begin in Bogalusa Race Crisis," Jet, 24 June 1965,<br />
213
nonviolent principles . They wanted to know if CORE supported the <strong>Deacons</strong> and<br />
worked jointly with them . In addition, the <strong>Deacons</strong> had asked to use CORE automobiles<br />
and radios and had inquired about securing loans . It was clear that CORE needed to<br />
establish a "definite policy" toward the <strong>Deacons</strong> to provide guidelines <strong>for</strong> staff to<br />
standardize its public relations response . 3'<br />
Haley conceded that CORE workers were no longer united around nonviolence .<br />
He identified several "schools of thought" on nonviolence within CORE : absolutists who<br />
rejected all <strong>for</strong>ms ofviolence; those who regarded nonvio~ence as only a tactic; those<br />
who admired but did not practice the "judicious use ofviolence" ; and proponents of<br />
violence .'`<br />
Haley thought that <strong>Deacons</strong>' use of<strong>for</strong>ce was comparable to government <strong>for</strong>ce .<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> were merely ;acting in place of the police, thus CORE should "reg~v .v the<br />
protective measures ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> on behalf of CORE as we would regard any other<br />
proper police action ." Haley proposed a cooperative and reciprocal working relationship<br />
with the <strong>Deacons</strong> . "We took to them to help us in emergencies and in turn, offer to help<br />
them in times of crisis ." But Haley clearly wanted to limit the level ofjoint work . He<br />
cautioned against becoming "involved in the program of any local organization on a<br />
permanent basis" and warned against planning and recruiting <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> or<br />
'3Richard Haley, "Memorandum : CORE, Deacon, Relationship," [ 1965 }, reel no .<br />
19, Southern Civil Rights Litigation Records, Microfilm Edition, Yale University<br />
Photographic Services, Amistad Research Center, Tulane University, New Orleans,<br />
Louisiana.<br />
'~Ybid .<br />
2l4
providing financial support that was "likely to tie together these two groups" and become<br />
"damaging to both ." 3s<br />
"Thus I view it a necessary part ofCORE policy that we cooperate with the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> as a civic group and, when necessary as a protective agency," concluded Haley .<br />
But CORE staff was to adhere to nonviolent principles . "We are not prepared to violate<br />
the basis [sic] principles of nonviolence in conflict situations ."'~<br />
The problem ofviolence was not limited to the <strong>Deacons</strong> . The Crowe shooting<br />
also stimulated a new combativeness among young blacks outside the <strong>Deacons</strong> . The<br />
community as a whole was rapidly absorbing the <strong>Deacons</strong>' qualities . In the days<br />
following the shooting, young blacks began to independently retaliate against white<br />
harassment . When two white men jumped a lone black man near the edge ofthe black<br />
quarters, a group of six blacks attacked the whites and sent them to the hospital . On<br />
another occasion two young whites slowly drove by a black drive-in and found<br />
themselves dodging bullets . On July 18, four young black men were arrested <strong>for</strong><br />
shooting at whites in two separate incidents near Bogalusa . So many young people had<br />
taken to arming themselves that at one rally Farmer had to tell marchers to "leave your<br />
hardware at home ." 3'<br />
3s~id .<br />
36~id .<br />
''Times-Picayune, 11, 12 July 1965 ; News reports identified the four as members<br />
ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>, although Sims appeared to deny that they were members . The four were<br />
Joe Gatlin, Gerald Simmons, Harrison Andrews, and Lucious Manning ; Bogalr~sa Daily<br />
News, 19 July 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 19 July 1965 ; New York Times, 11 July 1965 .<br />
2l~
The <strong>Deacons</strong> did not welcome the new combativeness . The media frequently<br />
identified the young culprits involved in these incidents as <strong>Deacons</strong> . Charlie Sims<br />
berated the young militants <strong>for</strong> endangering the movement and issued explicit orders that<br />
only the <strong>Deacons</strong> could carry guns. At a rally in late July, Sims gave a stern warning to<br />
the "trigger happy" contingent . "Everything you do, whether you're a Deacon or not,<br />
they call you a Deacon . We've got enough trouble on our hands now without you going<br />
across town carrying guns and stirring up trouble," Sims told the teenagers . "We've got<br />
enough guns to go it without you people ." 3s<br />
The Crowe shooting sent local and state authorities on full alert . Bogalusa city<br />
officials vainly sought a restraining order to prevent the League from continuing to<br />
march . McKeithen asked the League to stop the marches and sent an additional 125 state<br />
troopers to Bogalusa, raising the total to 325 . Meanwhile, the National States Rights<br />
Party launched their own legal attack on the <strong>Deacons</strong>, delivering afl5davits to Washington<br />
Parish oi~cials charging that Charlie Sims and two other civil rights leaders were<br />
violating Louisiana's statute <strong>for</strong>bidding common law marriages (Sims was not married to<br />
his companion Bernice Harry at the time) . The federal courts also weighed in on the day<br />
following the shooting when Judge Christenberry issued a favorable ruling <strong>for</strong> the BCVL<br />
in Hicks v. K~right. Christenberry issued an injunction that ordered Bogalusa and State<br />
officials to protect civil rights workers against assaults, harassment, and intimidation .<br />
The jurist ordered law en<strong>for</strong>cement offcials to stop the use of unnecessary <strong>for</strong>ce and to<br />
' 88ogal:~sa Daily News, 20 July 1965 .<br />
216
cease unlawful arrests, threats of arrests, and prosecutions. Police were also ordered to<br />
stop concealing their identity by covering or removing their badges."<br />
Despite the Governor's entreaties the League refused to back off and instead<br />
announced another march <strong>for</strong> Sunday, July 11--the same day that segregationists had<br />
planned to march in Bogalusa. The League promised additional marches in the fixture,<br />
including a motorcade to the Parish seat ofFrankGnton . On Sunday, James Farmer led<br />
the marchers from the Negro Union Hall toward the downtown area . An eery silence<br />
descended on the march as Farmer walked quietly with his eyes looking straight ahead .<br />
The large mobs ofwhites that normally lined the streets had disappeared, the memory of<br />
Alton Crowe fresh in their minds . The marchers entered the downtown shopping district<br />
and passed through a subdued crowd ofwhites . National Guard helicopters hovered<br />
menacingly above the white mob as an army of several hundred police stood guard armed<br />
with machine guns . °°<br />
McKeithen decided to make another attempt at mediating the conflict, and on<br />
Monday, July 12 the Governor sent his official plane to bring A. Z . Young and Bob<br />
Hicks to Baton Rouge. At the Governor's mansion McKeithen implored Hicks and<br />
Young to call a thirty-day moratorium on marches---a "cooling off' period to renew<br />
negotiations . McKeithen promised to bring the city back to the negotiating table and<br />
arrange <strong>for</strong> segregationists Cootie Lynch and J. B . Stoner to leave Bogalusa. Swayed by<br />
the Governor's amiable charm--and no doubt impressed by the VIP treatment--Hicks and<br />
Young accepted the Governor's moratorium proposal and agreed to present the proposal<br />
39Bogalusa Daily News, 11 July 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 13, 1 l, July 1965 .<br />
'oTimes-Picay:ale, 12 July 1965 ; Bogaluso Daily News, 12, 15 July 1965 .<br />
217
to the BCVL executive board that night . Following the meeting with the Governor the<br />
two activists issued a statement saying that they agreed with the Governor that "the<br />
Bogalusa demonstrations are hurting the state and are increasing bitterness between the<br />
races ."~`<br />
Hicks and Young may have succumbed to McKeiti~en's charm, but the League's<br />
membership was not so easily seduced. When the compromise was introduced at a mass<br />
meeting later that night at the Ebenezer Baptist Church, cries of "No, No" rang out and<br />
the membership overwhelmingly shouted down the proposal . A somewhat shaken Hicks<br />
and Young adjourned the meeting and went into an executive session where the<br />
Executive Board <strong>for</strong>mally rejected McKeithen's moratorium proposal . Louis Lomax, a<br />
black journalist from Los Angeles, had attended the rally and McKeithen later accused<br />
Lomax of turning the BCVL membership against Hicks and Young by promising to raise<br />
$15,000 to continue the campaign. McKeithen claimed that the two League leaders were<br />
"lucky to get out of that hall alive ."'2<br />
But Lomax knew only too well that the League and the <strong>Deacons</strong> were no<br />
quislings . "The getius ofBogalusa is its spontaneity," Lomax told reporters . "The civil<br />
rights people are indigenously motivated and indigenously led ." Lomax caused a minor<br />
controversy when he ridiculed the "Christian Mothers of Bogalusa," a white<br />
segregationist women's group that had recently staged a protest at the Federal Building in<br />
New Orleans . These were the same "scrawny white women" who came into the black<br />
neighborhood "selling goat meat and string beans," joked Lomax . The barb provoked an<br />
°1 Times-Picayune, 13 July 1965 .<br />
j2 TimesPica~nine, 14 July 1965 ; Bogalr~sa Daily News, 15 July 1965 .<br />
218
indignant editorial in defense of Southern womanhood by the Bogalusa Daily 1Vews,<br />
which defended the white women as "fine ladies ." °s<br />
The next day a determined but fiustrated McKeithen flew to Bogalusa <strong>for</strong> a<br />
I<br />
second attempt to negotiate a truce, but not be<strong>for</strong>e the Governor sought and received the I<br />
~I f<br />
blessings of what he called Bogalusa's "white conservatives"--no doubt the Citizens<br />
Council and the Klan . The meeting was held in a room at the Bogalusa airport, with the<br />
League's Executive Board attending, along with Louis Lomax, Bogalusa City Officials I i<br />
and representatives of the Community Affairs Committee . At the table the Governor I I<br />
I<br />
found himself face to face with the <strong>Deacons</strong>' leader, Charles Sims . It was a distasteful<br />
I<br />
I,<br />
experience <strong>for</strong> McKeithen; still, the Governor was making history. He now had the<br />
distinction of being the first and only Southern Governor <strong>for</strong>ced to negotiate with a black<br />
paramilitary organization . It must have been a heady event <strong>for</strong> Sims; in a few short<br />
months the grisly brawler had risen from hustling in the streets to negotiating with a state<br />
Governor.'<br />
Little headway was made during the heated meeting . McKeithen refused to<br />
accede to the BCVL's demand that he hire black state police . Cutrer was similarly<br />
intractable on the issue of integrating the city police . The <strong>Deacons</strong> and the League<br />
remained defiant and refused to halt the demonstrations . During one angry exchange<br />
McKeithen told Sims that he had planned to have the Deacon leader arrested "on general<br />
principle" at the League march the prior Sunday . McKeithen told Sims, "I sent word if<br />
you were seen, to arrest you . You have been bragging you were going to kill people, you<br />
j3Times-Picayune, 13, 15 July 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 15 July 1965 .<br />
'''`Times-Picayune, 14 July 1965 .<br />
21 9<br />
I<br />
i
were going to have funerals ." McKeithen warned Sims that he would have him arrested<br />
if he made further threats . Sims was unfazed. The negotiations broke off after an hour<br />
and a half and McKeithen sulked back to Baton Rouge . "I don't know anymore that I<br />
can do at this time," said the Governor with a note of resignation. "I came over here to<br />
meet with colored people to demonstrate to them that I was prepared to humble myself as<br />
their governor, to listen to then complaints," said the Governor at a press conference.<br />
And how had the League repaid his magnanimity? They "talked kind ofugly" to him,<br />
complained McKeithen . "`Go ahead and take it,' I said to myself if it would bring peace<br />
to Bogalusa ."'S<br />
Later in Baton Rouge McKeithen publicly lashed out against the <strong>Deacons</strong>,<br />
announcing that he has ordered the state police to confiscate all weapons in cars or on<br />
persons in Bogalusa. The confiscation order would apply to both blacks and whites,<br />
explained McKeithen, but the Governor left little doubt about who his target was .<br />
"We're going to run the <strong>Deacons</strong> out ofbusiness and anybody else that's got pistols and<br />
rifles and shotguns," declared McKeithen . Charlie Sims responded to the Governor's<br />
threatened confiscation with characteristic aplomb . "I would rather be caught in<br />
Bogalusa with concealed weapons," snorted Sims, "than without them."~<br />
On July 14 Mayor Cutrer announced that the city had drafted a city ordinance to<br />
confiscate guns in the event ofan emergency. The League responded boldly to the<br />
challenge by promptly organizing a march and rally on Wednesday, July 14 to protest the<br />
' S TimesPiccryune, 14 July 1965 . Another account of the airport meeting is given<br />
in Time, 22 July 1965, pp . 19-20.<br />
ss ~id .<br />
220
threatened confiscation. It was a protest that Dr . King or any other civil rights leader<br />
would have found unimaginable : a nonviolent march demanding the right to armed self<br />
defense . i<br />
i<br />
The march ended with a spirited and defiant rally defending the <strong>Deacons</strong> . "If it<br />
weren't <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> not many ofus would be in this church toni ht," A. Z . Youn<br />
S g<br />
reminded his audience . "They would have run us aU out of town . . .We got the<br />
lowdowndest white people in Bogalusa than anywhere.""<br />
Louis Lomax assailed McKeithen's duplicity in threatening to disarm the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> while the Klan used guns with impunity . "They talk about picking up guns,"<br />
Lomax told the crowd . "They didn't talk about it 100 years ago . They only talk about it<br />
when Charlie Sims has guns . Why didn't they pick up guns when the two Negro<br />
deputies were shot?" Bob Hicks waxed indignant at the Governor's charge that Lomax<br />
had swayed the League to reject the moratorium . "We are in command . We nrn this<br />
campaign . This is our town . When the hard fight is over, we have to live in Bogalusa."<br />
Hicks told the audience that the state's leaders had created the conditions that called the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> into existence . "Guns are the only protection you have if laws are no good,"<br />
said Hicks . " I don't know if I'd be here today unless I had a gun ." It was McKeithen<br />
and Cutrer who had created the crisis by abdicating leadership to the Klan, continued<br />
Hicks . "The Governor has no power, the mayor has no power and if no one has any<br />
power everyone should run around wild ." Young summed up the tense, apocalyptic<br />
mood ofthe ragy : "We are on the verge of civil war ."`a<br />
"Bogalusa Daily News, 15 July 1965 .<br />
'BBogalusa Daily News, 15 July 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 15 July 1965 .<br />
22 1<br />
i<br />
I
Young was not dabbling in hyperbole . The League and the <strong>Deacons</strong> had pushed<br />
the state to the wall . They were inviting volunteers from ground the country to flood into<br />
the Bayou state and make Bogalusa the Selma ofLouisiana . McKeithen panicked at the<br />
thought ofthe Bogalusa crisis sparking a wildfire of protests throughout the state . He<br />
frantically sought the assistance ofa group of moderate black leaders . McKeithen<br />
convened a special Committee to assess the situation in Bogalusa and head offfurther<br />
crisis . The committee comprised the old civil rights leadership who, <strong>for</strong> the most part,<br />
had been superseded by the new militant direct action groups like the League and the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> . It included Dr . Albert W . Dent, President of Dillard University, Dr . Felton<br />
Clark, President of Southern University, and A. P . Tureaud, attorney <strong>for</strong> the NAACP .<br />
The committee was eventually expanded into a permanent integrated commission, the<br />
Louisiana Commission on Race Relations . The BCVL looked askance at the committee .<br />
CORE's Richard Haley would later belittle the commission as a committee "ofthe well-<br />
fed to deal with the problem ofthe hungry ." °'<br />
By Thursday, July 15 the crisis had come to a head . Beginning with the Crowe<br />
shooting on July 8, the League had conducted seven days ofrelentless marches . They<br />
had defied the Klan and threatened to plunge Bogalusa into a bloody civil war. People<br />
lined up fifteen deep in department stores to buy weapons. McKeithen had failed to<br />
negotiate a truce due to his unwillingness to concede any of the League's demands . Now<br />
the Governor decided to abandon Bogalusa and turn the crisis over to the federal<br />
government . The Governor announced that he was withdrawing 280 ofthe 370 state<br />
troopers, a move that guaranteed a free hand <strong>for</strong> the Klan.<br />
'9Times-Picayrme, 1 5 July 1965 ; Lo:usiana Weekly, 28 August 1965 .<br />
222
Simultaneous to withdrawing his state troopers, McKeithen contacted Vice-<br />
President Humphrey and asked him to intervene in Bogalusa . But Humphrey rebuffed<br />
the Governor . In the days to follow, Mayor Cutrer and A . Z . Young also sent telegrams<br />
to Washington urgently requesting assistance, this time addressed to President Johnson .<br />
James Farmer drew a line in the sand when he told the media that Bogalusa would test<br />
the sincerity of Johnson's declared war on the Klan--a judgement echoed by the national<br />
press . Finally on July 1 S Johnson relented and announced that he was dispatching John<br />
Doar, the head ofthe Justice Departments Civil Rights Division, to Bogalusa to negotiate<br />
a compromise to the crisis. Bogalusa was to become the first major test ofthe federal<br />
government's will to en<strong>for</strong>ce the Civil Rights Act and end Klan terrorism . so<br />
Johnson's emissary to Bogalusa, John Doar, was a legend in the Civil Rights<br />
Movement . Doar had been involved in some of the most intense and dangerous civil<br />
rights conflicts in the South . But even the veteran trouble shooter found Bogalusa a bit<br />
unnerving . Doar arrived in Bogalusa to find Klansmen wandering the streets in full<br />
regalia, hobnobbing and joking with local police. It became obvious to Doar that the<br />
Civil Rights Act could never be implemented as long as the Klan operated with impunity<br />
and local police refused to uphold first amendment rights <strong>for</strong> protestors . Doar decided on<br />
a two-prong strategy to restore order and en<strong>for</strong>ce the Civil Rights Act . First, he would<br />
<strong>for</strong>ce local authorities to uphold the law . Second, he would destroy the Klan.<br />
To carry out his plan, Doar first had to document violations of Chistenbenry's<br />
injunction issued in the Hicks v. Knight case . He immediately arranged <strong>for</strong> the FBI to<br />
collect evidence ofviolations ofthe injunction . He did not have to wait long. In the four<br />
so Commomvealth, 29 July 1965, p . 517 ; Times-Picayune, 15 July 1965 .<br />
223
short days Doar was in Bogalusa, the Klan staged a series carefully orchestrated attacks<br />
against isolated pickets . The smaller guerilla attacks were their only alternative : The<br />
white crowds that had spontaneously materialized along the march routes had now<br />
evaporated in a cloud of fear . Reminders of the <strong>Deacons</strong> and threats of retaliatory<br />
violence were manifest . "I do not advocate violence and we are going to do whatever we<br />
can to keep down the civil war in this area," A. Z . Young was quoted saying in the<br />
Bogalusa Daily News, "But, ifblood is going to be shed, we are going to let it rain down<br />
Columbia Street--all kinds, both black and white. We are not going to send Negro blood<br />
down Columbia Street by itself that's <strong>for</strong> sure ." s `<br />
Most whites heeded Young's warning . Only a small group of hard-core<br />
Klansmen remained bold enough to risk attacking the rights activists . The <strong>Deacons</strong> had<br />
always had problems protecting picketers and those difficulties were compounded when<br />
the picketing spread to Pine Tree and LaPlaza shopping centers located some distance<br />
from the Columbia Street stores . The pickets were also more vulnerable given the<br />
reduced state police presence which made it easier <strong>for</strong> the Klan to stage diversionary<br />
attacks and quick guerilla assaults . Within days the FBI documented and filmed 'i<br />
numerous Klan attacks on pickets and police brutality cases . John Doar personally<br />
watched in horror as the Klan attacked ten pickets at the La Plaza Shopping Center,<br />
pounding them into the pavement as <strong>for</strong>ty state police stood by idly. When local<br />
Bogalusa police finally arrived, they ended up arresting the picketer instead of the Klan<br />
attackers .<br />
s z<br />
5'Bogalusa Daily News, 18 July 1965 .<br />
SZTimes-Picayune, 17 July 1965 .<br />
224<br />
I<br />
I<br />
I
On July 16 the Justice Department began its lethal attack on white resistance in<br />
Bogalusa . Signed by Attorney General Katzenbach, Doar filed five federal suits designed<br />
to cripple the segregationist movement and assert the federal government's supremacy .<br />
Using the attacks at the La Plaza as evidence, first Doar intervened in the Hicks v. Knight<br />
case, asking that Sheriff Arnold Spiers and Police ChiefClaxton Knight be held in<br />
criminal and civil contempt <strong>for</strong> failing to en<strong>for</strong>ce Christenberry's order and allowing the<br />
attacks to continue . Doar also filed a criminal bill ofin<strong>for</strong>mation against officer Vertress<br />
Adams, charging him with violating the Hicks order through four counts ofbrutality and<br />
harassment . By seeking both criminal and civil contempt judgements against the law<br />
en<strong>for</strong>cement officers, the Justice Department was giving Bogalusa lawmen an ultimatum :<br />
en<strong>for</strong>ce the law or face fines and jail sentences. Taking aim at the remaining segregated<br />
businesses, Doar additionally filed a civil suit against four Bogalusa businesses to <strong>for</strong>ce<br />
them to desegregate and comply with the Civil Rights Act. ss<br />
But the most effective action was Doar's unique suit against the OKKICK asking<br />
the federal court to enjoin the Klan from depriving citizens oftheir constitutional rights<br />
through intimidating and threatening civil rights activists, Washington Parish officials,<br />
and businesses . The suit charged that the Klan's goal was to deprive individuals oftheir<br />
rights and preserve segregation and white supremacy in Washington Parish . The suit<br />
named batty-five defendants, including twenty members cf the Klan and fifteen<br />
individuals . Charles Christmas ofAmite was identified as the OKKKIt's principal leader<br />
and Saxon Farmer and Russell Magee were named as Washington Parish leaders . The<br />
suit charged that the group operated out of the Disabled Veterans Hall near Bogalusa and<br />
5'Bogalusa Daily News, 19 July 1965 ; Times-Picay:me, 19 July 1965 .<br />
22 5
had committed twenty specific acts of intimidation and harassment. The action marked<br />
the first time that the Justice Department had used a federal suit to destroy the Klan in the<br />
modern South . It would prove a potent weapon s°<br />
The Justice Department offensive crushed the white supremacist coup overnight .<br />
What was remarkable was how little was required to destroy the Klan and restore the<br />
moderates to power. The federal government merely threatened city officials with<br />
modest fines and light jail sentences . Suddenly Mayor Cutrer was falling all over himself<br />
to begin negotiations with the League . Cutrer hastily took to the airwaves to announce<br />
his support <strong>for</strong> the League's right to march and picket and urge citizens to simply ignore<br />
the protests . Commissioner 5piers and ChiefKnight ran large advertisements in the<br />
Bogalusa Daily News calling <strong>for</strong> people to obey the law or face arrests . Civic and<br />
religious leaders, at Cutrer's urging, went on the radio and echoed the call to ignore the<br />
protests and return the city to order . The Bogalusa Daily News mustered the courage to<br />
publish an editorial demanding that the city en<strong>for</strong>ce the law . And Crown-Zellerbach<br />
began negotiations with the BCVL to end segregation and promotion discrimination in<br />
the box factory . Even some Klan leaders jumped on the retreating band wagon too . At a<br />
United Klan's of America rally outside of Bogalusa on July 21, UKA leader Robert<br />
s°Bogalusa Daily News, 19 July 1965 ; TimesPicayune, 20 July 1965 . Klan<br />
members named in the suit were Dewey Smith, Virgil Corkern, Albert Applewhite,<br />
Arthur Ray Applewhite, Louis Apptewhite, E . J. Dixon, O'Neal Austin Jones, Delos<br />
VVilliams, James M. Ellis, Hardie Adrian Goings Jr., Esley Freeman, James A .<br />
Hollingsworth Jr., Randle C . Pounds, Sidney August Warner, Billy Af<strong>for</strong>d, an~ Rawlin<br />
Williams .<br />
226
Shelton told some four-hundred Klansmen to ignore the civil rights protests . "Violence<br />
is just ammunition <strong>for</strong> the opposition," Shelton told the crowd . ss<br />
Business establishments that had refused to integrate--out of fear or otherwise--<br />
suddenly opened their doors to blacks . On July 20, Deacon offcer Sam Barnes led<br />
successful tests at the LaPlaza Restaurant, the Redwood Cafe, and Acme Cafe, this time<br />
accompanied by a police escort . In total, five restaurants were tested and all complied<br />
with the law . By the end ofthe month nearly all public establishments were<br />
desegregated . Cutrer also arranged <strong>for</strong> two blacks to take the Civil Service exam <strong>for</strong> the<br />
police department. They passed, with the highest scores ever recorded, and promptly<br />
integrated the police <strong>for</strong>ce . s6<br />
After seven months ofwanton attacks by the Klan, none of the 40 segregationists<br />
arrested <strong>for</strong> crimes had been prosecuted. Now Bogalusa's judicial machinery went into<br />
motion . City Attorney Robert Rester, himselfa secret Klan member, stepped up<br />
prosecutions of the white attackers . hTot everything had changed, though . After pleading<br />
guilty to assaulting James Farmer, Klansmen Randle Pounds received a paltry 525 fine<br />
and a suspended sentence . 5'<br />
The hearings on the Justice Department's suits began on July 26, but the court<br />
proceedings were <strong>for</strong> the most part anticlimactic . The <strong>Deacons</strong> and the Voters League<br />
had already triumphed. They had <strong>for</strong>ced the Yankee government to invade the South<br />
ss Bogalusa Daily News, 18, 20, 29 July 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 22 July<br />
1965 ; Times-Picayune, 22 July 1965 .<br />
Bogalusa Daily News, 21, 30 July 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 21, 25, 30 July 1965 ;<br />
Bogalusa Daily News, 6 August 1965 .<br />
s'New York Times, 19 August 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 20 July 1965 .<br />
i
once again . V'u~tually all their demands would be met in the coming days . While<br />
traditional civil rights groups sought reliefthrough legislative strategies and prolonged<br />
legal challenges in the federal courts, the <strong>Deacons</strong> refirsed to place their destiny in the<br />
hands ofa beneficent master. The movement met the Klan head on and rebounded from<br />
every attack . The <strong>Deacons</strong> guaranteed there would be no peace without justice .<br />
The hearings did, <strong>for</strong> the first time, publicly expose the depth and pattern of<br />
official malfeasance and police abuse in Bogalusa. Christenberry convicted Knight,<br />
Spiers and one officer of civil contempt, and on July 30 ordered Knight and Spiers to set<br />
up a specific plan to ensure protection of civil rights workers . If they refused to comply,<br />
Christenbenry promised to proceed with criminal charges . s8<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> occupied center stage during the trial . In addition to being<br />
witnesses against the police and the Klan, Sam Barnes had a heated exchange with two<br />
white men in the Wildlife building and was threatened by one of them . Christenberry<br />
learned ofthe altercation and summoned Barnes and the two white men to testify . After<br />
hearing the testimony of the men involved and witnesses, Christenbeny reprimanded all<br />
three involved . s9<br />
With their terrorist wing effectively destroyed, segregationists were reduced to<br />
using the first amendment to make their case against the <strong>Deacons</strong> . During the federal<br />
court hearings white women picketers showed up in front of Doar's temporary<br />
headquarters at the Bogalusa Post Office to protest the Justice Department's cooperative<br />
policy toward the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Pickets carried signs demanding that the <strong>Deacons</strong> be<br />
se Tinres-Picayune 29, 30 July 1965 .<br />
s'TirnesPicayune, 28 July 1965 .<br />
~~g
prosecuted : "Mr. Doar, You have Indicted the Ku Klux Klan, How About the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
<strong>for</strong> Defense?," read one placard . Mrs . Dorothy McNeese, a Varnado resident who<br />
organized the protest, called <strong>for</strong> an investigation of the <strong>Deacons</strong> and assailed Doar as a<br />
minion <strong>for</strong> the paramilitary group . "We feel that Mr. Doar came to Bogalusa <strong>for</strong> one<br />
purpose only," McNeese charged, "and that was to draw nationwide attention and<br />
criticism away fiom an organization called the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defensive [sic] Justice ."~°<br />
McNeese's women's group of approximately thirty continued to picket at Doar's<br />
office throughout the week . McNeese claimed that the women were taking the lead in<br />
the protests to avoid disturbances . She accused the federal government ofinitiating a<br />
mysterious "Operation Nancy" in Bogalusa, though she declined to give details ofthe<br />
operation . The <strong>Deacons</strong> remained the focus ofthe women's protest . "Women and<br />
children are uneasy hearing of Negroes carrying guns on the seats of their cars and the<br />
recent shootings," said McNeese . 6'<br />
McNeese eventually <strong>for</strong>med a white version ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>. In late July<br />
McNeese organized a "women's civilian patrol" with the objective ofprotecting whites<br />
from the <strong>Deacons</strong> . McNeese claimed that the women's patrol was <strong>for</strong>med because blacks<br />
were intimidating white shoppers and the recent court orders had IeR whites with no<br />
police protection. McNeese described the organization as a "watchdog operation" and<br />
claimed to have recruited three-hundred women and already elected "patrol captains ."<br />
The organization planned to patrol areas around supermarkets and Laundromats in<br />
Bogalusa. Like the <strong>Deacons</strong>, the white patrols would use unmarked cars and will take<br />
° Times-Picayune, 28, 29, July 1965 .<br />
6`Bogalusa Daily News, 29 July 1965 .<br />
229
license plate numbers of "civil rights workers" involved in incidents . They even planned<br />
to train women volunteers in the "art of self-defense ." s2<br />
Nothing much came ofthe McNeese's "White <strong>Deacons</strong> ." By August, marches<br />
and pickets occurred only sporadically . The movement was spent and neither civil rights<br />
activists nor segregationists could muster much enthusiasm in the enervating tropical heat<br />
of August . Driven underground, the Klan launched a series of bomb attacks in early<br />
August . Two motels in Baton Rouge were bombed with a single slick of dynamite,<br />
including the Lincoln Motel where Ronnie Moore was staying and the International<br />
Motel where a Canadian civil rights medical team had registered . But the bombings<br />
could not revive the white mass movement . The BCVL also showed signs offatigue .<br />
Their marches were losing support and, in desperation, the leadership began pushing <strong>for</strong><br />
night marches to attract more adults . The courts prudently <strong>for</strong>bade what would have been<br />
an extremely dangerous and unmanageable <strong>for</strong>m ofprotest .<br />
Like most catalysts in a radical social movement, the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the League<br />
were never content with their achievements--which were substantial . StatesItem<br />
columnist Alan Katz wrote that Bogalusa had taught Southern whites that racist violence<br />
only generated national sympathy and resulted in federal repression--at the expense of<br />
local control . The Bogalusa civil rights movement had clearly won, said Katz. The City<br />
had recognized the Voters League as the primary bargaining agent <strong>for</strong> the black<br />
community . The movement had <strong>for</strong>ced the city to repeal its segregation laws, desegregate<br />
public accommodations, and conceded neighborhood improvements--including<br />
62Bogalusa Daily News 3 August 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 8 August 1965 .<br />
ssBogalr~sa Daily News, 13 August 1965 .<br />
230
lacktopping streets and installing mercury lights . In addition the city was negotiating<br />
with the FHA <strong>for</strong> loans to construct one-hundred low cost housing units.`<br />
But Katz recognized an even more significant accomplishment <strong>for</strong> the BCVL and<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Katz quoted a 13-year-old Bogalusa girl who had been harassed and<br />
arrested during the Bogalusa campaign . "My folk used to be scared of the Ku Klux<br />
Klan," said the girl . "I'm not scared ofthem . I'm not afraid of anybody ." 6s<br />
`States-Item, 9 August 1965 .<br />
6s ~id .<br />
231
Chapter 10<br />
Creating the Myth<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> struggled to define their political image in the media beginning with<br />
their first national publicity in February 1965 . They soon discovered that creating a<br />
political identity was not a unilateral process . The <strong>Deacons</strong> could not "invent"<br />
themselves in isolation ; external political developments and perceptions would define the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' identity as much as their own designs . The <strong>Deacons</strong>' image was ultimately<br />
shaped by the tension between their quest <strong>for</strong> legitimacy and the choices <strong>for</strong>ced upon<br />
them by white terrorism . On the one hand, the <strong>Deacons</strong> sought legitimacy by<br />
representing themselves as part of the nonviolent movement . On the other hand, Klan<br />
terror and police harassment <strong>for</strong>ced them to create an alternative strategy to nonviolence .<br />
Compounding this dilemma was another stubborn contradiction : that the violence and<br />
militancy that earned the <strong>Deacons</strong> respect and legitimacy in the local movement,<br />
simultaneously cost them legitimacy with the national civil rights organizations and the<br />
media.<br />
While there was a significant gap between the media image ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> and<br />
the organizational reality, in the realm of politics, myth was reality. The <strong>for</strong>mation of the ;<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' myth began with Fred Powledge's New York Times article on the Jonesboro<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>, published February 21, 1965 . Powledge's article was the first attempt by the<br />
national media to describe the new political phenomenon, and the <strong>Deacons</strong> first<br />
232
opportunity to project an image . In the Times article, the <strong>Deacons</strong> succeeded in<br />
portraying themselves as an auxiliary to the nonviolent civil rights movement : a<br />
peaceable, law-abiding organization <strong>for</strong>med in response to Klan terror and police<br />
indifference . The <strong>Deacons</strong> were not harbingers of some impending challenge to the<br />
nonviolent orthodoxy, according to the Times coverage. Nor was there any suggestion<br />
that the armed group reflected a growing disillusionment with nonviolence and<br />
established movement leadership .`<br />
This favorable media coverage continued throughout the Spring of 1965 .<br />
CORE's sophisticated public relations operation, as well as the presence of its national<br />
headquarters in New York City, guaranteed continuing publicity <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> .<br />
Although CORE initially downplayed its relationship with the <strong>Deacons</strong>, it was inevitable<br />
that the barrage of press releases and frantic calls regarding CORE's campaigns in<br />
Jonesboro and Bogalusa would draw additional media attention to the <strong>Deacons</strong> .<br />
In April of 1965, CORE's media work helped trans<strong>for</strong>m a Deacon-Klan shootout<br />
into another favorable front page story in New York City . The incident was the April 7<br />
Klan attack on Bob Hicks' house that resulted in a prolonged gun battle between the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> and the Klan . The following day the front page of the New York Post carried<br />
the dramatic headline : "Klansmen and CORE in Louisiana Gun Battle ." Apparently<br />
based on an interview with CORE staffer Bill Yates, the story featured a photograph of<br />
Hicks brandishing a rifle as he examined the shattered window of a student's van . The<br />
article did not mention the <strong>Deacons</strong> by name, only referring to CORE's armed defenders<br />
' The New York Times, 21 February 1965 .<br />
233
as "Negroes guarding the house." The Post article labeled Bogalusa as the "Klan<br />
Capital" of America, an unflattering moniker that gained popularity with the media . -<br />
On June 6, 1965, New York Times readers opened their Sunday edition paper to<br />
yet another front page story on the <strong>Deacons</strong>, this time carrying a portentous headline that<br />
read "Armed Negro Unit Spreads in South ." Only a few months earlier the Times had<br />
characterized the <strong>Deacons</strong> as merely a local phenomenon and a movement anomaly .<br />
Now the Times was taking a second look at the <strong>Deacons</strong>, acknowledging the armed<br />
group's growing popularity and the challenge they posed to entrenched civil rights<br />
leadership . ;<br />
The Times article contributed greatly to the image ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> as an expanding<br />
political organization that had to be reckoned with . The Times highlighted the <strong>Deacons</strong>'<br />
rapid growth, quoting Earnest Thomas and other sources as saying that the <strong>Deacons</strong> had<br />
"50 to 55 chapters" in Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama and as many as fifteen-<br />
thousand, although the Times cautioned readers that the figures were unreliable and that<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> were primarily in Louisiana.'<br />
The Times article described the <strong>Deacons</strong>' activities, including guarding civil<br />
rights workers with weapons and the groups' runting gun battles with the Klan. The<br />
Times quoted the <strong>Deacons</strong> as describing their organization as law-abiding, and, according<br />
to Earnest Thomas, "strictly <strong>for</strong> defense" and "highly disciplined ." s<br />
2 The New York Post, 8 April 1965 .<br />
;New York Times, 6 June, 1965 .<br />
°Ibid .<br />
SIbid .<br />
234
The Times article marked Earnest Thomas' first appearance as a national<br />
spokesperson <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong>, and his first opportunity to publicly defend the <strong>Deacons</strong>'<br />
self-defense policy within the existing fi`amework of nonviolence . Yes, civil rights<br />
workers willingly took risks on the picket line, Thomas told the Times . But hearth and<br />
home were another matter . Everyone had the right to defend the sanctity of the home,<br />
even the civil rights worker . An activist might <strong>for</strong>ego his right of self defense on the<br />
picket line, "But when he goes to bed at night he is entitled to rest without worry," said<br />
Thomas . "That's where the <strong>Deacons</strong> come in." 6<br />
The Times was skeptical that nonviolence could be so easily reconciled with self-<br />
defense . The <strong>Deacons</strong> organization "raises hard questions <strong>for</strong> advocates of nonviolence,"<br />
intoned the Times . "Should a civil rights organization committed to nonviolence align<br />
itselfwith the <strong>Deacons</strong>, and accept their services?" Richard Haley answered the Times'<br />
question with the same ambivalence toward the <strong>Deacons</strong> that plagued the rest ofthe<br />
movement . The Times had pointed out that CORE had a close, and seemingly approving,<br />
relationship with the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Haley admitted the close relationship, but suggested that<br />
it was, in part, based on self-interest . "The deacons made the difference between safety<br />
and bad health last summer <strong>for</strong> CORE workers in Jonesboro," Haley said in defense of<br />
the group . They "have the effect oftowering the minimur".i potential <strong>for</strong> danger now,<br />
which can only encourage people to participate in protests ." For Haley, there was no<br />
contradiction between the <strong>Deacons</strong> and nonviolence; the <strong>Deacons</strong> were practicing<br />
"protective nonviolence ." And though he worked with the <strong>Deacons</strong>, Haley remained<br />
6Ibid .<br />
23 5
faithful to his first principles . "But I still have to believe in my own mind that<br />
nonviolence is more effective than even the <strong>Deacons</strong> ."'<br />
Still, glimpses of Haley's own growing disenchantment with nonviolence came<br />
through in his comments to the Times. Haley pointed out that the nature of attacks on<br />
civil rights workers had changed dramatically in recent months. During the lunch<br />
counter sit-ins, white violence was usually limited to dousing a protestor with catsup, or<br />
shoving a protestor off a stool, said Haley. Now the attacks were frequently deadly .<br />
"The nonviolence theory holds that there is an innate goodness in a man," said Haley,<br />
"and that this works on his conscience while he is battering you on the head ." This<br />
nonviolent strategy had been effective in focussing national attention on the South and<br />
winning "sympathetic public opinion" in the North, said Haley, but Northern sympathy<br />
was stow to translate into protection -- something the <strong>Deacons</strong> provided . 8<br />
The June 1965 Times article redefined the <strong>Deacons</strong> as an alternative to the<br />
nonviolent movement, and recognized that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were more than a defense group--<br />
that they also played a role in changing black political consciousness . "One aim ofthe<br />
deacons," noted the Times, "is to dispel an old-Southern white notion that the Negro is<br />
docile and will not fight back ."'<br />
While the Times coverage was essentially sympathetic, it was inevitable that<br />
media coverage of the <strong>Deacons</strong> would turn critical . Two developments contributed to<br />
this turn of events. First, once the <strong>Deacons</strong> began to significantly expand and recruit in<br />
'Ibid .<br />
gIbid .<br />
'Ibid .<br />
236
new areas, they could no longer be dismissed as a marginal phenomenon . Their rapid<br />
expansion and growing media exposure threatened the hegemony of traditional civil<br />
rights organizations, such as SCLC, that enjoyed liberal media support . Segments of the<br />
media felt compelled to neutralize the upstart <strong>Deacons</strong> who promised to escalate the<br />
violence . Second, there were widespread and deserved fears that the summer of 1965<br />
would be wracked by explosive race riots . The previous summer had witnessed several<br />
small race riots in Northern cities, including New York and Chicago . Sitting on the<br />
powder keg ofracial turmoil in major urban areas, some media organizations sought to<br />
discredit any organization that legitimated violence as a political tool, fearing that self-<br />
defensive violence might ignite a major riot .<br />
Typical of the negative coverage was the shrill attack on the <strong>Deacons</strong> by the Los<br />
Angeles Times one week following the New York Times story . Los Angeles was a<br />
smoldering fire of racial discontent in June 1965, when Charles Sims arrived in the city<br />
<strong>for</strong> the first leg of a Cali<strong>for</strong>nia fund raising trip . The Los Angeles Times published two<br />
articles on the <strong>Deacons</strong> during Sims's visit . The front page of the June 13, Sunday<br />
edition of the Los Angeles Times carried the sensational headline, "Negro `<strong>Deacons</strong>'<br />
Claim They Have Machine Guns, Grenades <strong>for</strong> `War' ." The lead paragraph reported on a<br />
secret meeting in which the <strong>Deacons</strong> claimed to have "machine guns and grenades <strong>for</strong><br />
use in racial warfare," and the <strong>Deacons</strong> didn't make much ef<strong>for</strong>t to deny the allegation.<br />
"You don't tell your opponents what you are doing in any kind of conflict," Bob Hicks<br />
told the L. A. Times."'°<br />
'°"Negro `<strong>Deacons</strong>' Claim They Have Machine Guns, Grenades <strong>for</strong> `War'," Los j<br />
Angeles Times, 13 June 1965 . I i<br />
23 7
The L.A . Times article relied heavily a highly negative FBI reports on two<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' meetings conducted in Bogalusa in February 1965 . Apparently an in<strong>for</strong>mant<br />
had surreptitiously tape-recorded the meetings and the resulting in<strong>for</strong>mation was widely<br />
disseminated to the media in FBI memoranda . In one meeting, Thomas and Kirkpatrick<br />
claimed to have access to grenades and automatic firearms . At a second meeting, Bob<br />
Hicks was quoted as urging participants to <strong>for</strong>cibly obstruct police from making illegal<br />
arrests . `~To white person will be allowed in a Negro area at night--salesman or<br />
anybody," Hicks had told the meeting ."<br />
The talk about grenades and automatic weapon arsenals had been nothing more<br />
than boasts and exaggerations . The <strong>Deacons</strong> were not preparing <strong>for</strong> an apocalyptic race<br />
war, as the L. A . Times insinuated . But the hyperbole was grist <strong>for</strong> the mill . The<br />
damaging FBI allegations found their way not only into tha L.A . Times coverage, but<br />
also became a mainstay <strong>for</strong> negative media coverage in the months that fogowed .<br />
Despite their ef<strong>for</strong>ts to portray themselves as part of the nonviolent movement,<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> were depicted by the L.A . Times as a potentially violent organization<br />
masquerading as a self defense group . "The <strong>Deacons</strong> insist their purpose is only<br />
defensive," huffed the newspaper, "however at both February meetings they talked of<br />
preventing whites from going into Negro residential areas at tight" and encouraged<br />
"armed confrontation with policemen when negroes are arrested ."` Z<br />
"Two representative FBI reports on this meeting are New Orleans to Director,<br />
February 23, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-3 and SAC, New Orleans to Director,<br />
February 24, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-4 .<br />
` ZLos Angeles Times, 13 June 1965 .<br />
338
The paper also highlighted Kirkpatrick's comments quoted in the FBI<br />
memorandum in which he urged people to buy high powered rifles and ammunition and<br />
boasted that he carried more than one-hundred rounds ofammunition . "It takes violent<br />
blacks to combat these violent whites," Kirkpatrick was quoted as saying . "We're gonna<br />
be ready <strong>for</strong> `em . We're gonna have to be ready to survive<br />
."` s<br />
The story was so critical ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> that the Times' readers might have<br />
reasonably concluded that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were more of a threat to peace than the Klan .<br />
Indeed, the Times failed to mention the Klan carnage visited upon blacks in Bogalusa,<br />
ranging from beatings to the recent murder ofDeputy O'Neal Moore. The Klan had all<br />
but disappeared into smoke on the pages of the Times . But if readers were lulled into<br />
believing that the <strong>Deacons</strong>, not the segregationists, were the source ofviolence in the<br />
South, at least one quote may have brought them to their senses . "My men are watching<br />
them closely," growled Bogalusa Police Chief Claxton Knight to the Times. "Ifone of<br />
them makes the wrong move he's gonna get his head blown off "'a<br />
The Times resisted the <strong>Deacons</strong>' ef<strong>for</strong>ts to portray themselves as an auxiliary to<br />
the nonviolent movement, and instead defined them as part of an emerging "militant"<br />
movement. As with the New York Times, the Los Angeles paper recognized that the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' philosophy was inexorably counter posed to nonviolence, and that the<br />
paramilitary group was part of a growing revolt against the entrenched civil rights<br />
leadership . "The rising militancy ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>," noted the Times, "and the expansion<br />
`3Ibid .<br />
`jlbid .<br />
239
of the movement is a new element in the civil rights movement which federal and state<br />
ot~cials view with concern ."` s<br />
The harsh treatment ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> by the L.A . Times may have been, in part, a<br />
reaction to Sims' hint that the <strong>Deacons</strong> might organize a chapter in Los Angeles . Since<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong>' primary focus had been on the Klan, what conceivable role could they play<br />
in Cali<strong>for</strong>nia, asked the Times? "Man, there's police brutality and people with that white<br />
supremacy stuffeverywhere," replied Sims.` 6<br />
Sims' comments on police brutality would certainly resonate with Northern<br />
blacks . But were the <strong>Deacons</strong> prepared to radically change their emphasis from Klan<br />
violence to police violence? Sims was probably thinking aloud in the interview and had<br />
not given serious thought to the implications of such a strategic shift . Clearly the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' leadership was not of one mind . Interviewed by phone in Bogalusa, Bob Hicks<br />
openly disagreed with Sims' proposed Los Angeles <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter. "They got<br />
problems out there just like everywhere else," admitted Hicks, "but nobody's shooting at<br />
anybody in Los Angeles.""<br />
The following day the L.A . Times followed up with a second critical article titled<br />
"<strong>Deacons</strong> Chief Defends Aims on Visit to L.A . : "Use of arms Necessary Because of<br />
lack of Justice <strong>for</strong> Negro in South, He says." The <strong>Deacons</strong> had "amassed machine guns<br />
and grenades and rifles <strong>for</strong> any eventuality" reported Paul Weeks in the unflattering<br />
profile piece. Sims defended the <strong>Deacons</strong> by arguing that they only resorted to weapons<br />
is ~id .<br />
` 6Ibid .<br />
"Ibid .<br />
240
ecause law en<strong>for</strong>cement refused to protect blacks in the South . The Times was not<br />
convinced . "But federal and state authorities are worried," warned the Times . "The<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>, they say, are playing with matches in a powder magazine . Regardless of his<br />
words, how can Sims or his associate leaders ward off an explosion when mob passions<br />
flare?" `e<br />
There was some justification <strong>for</strong> the media's skepticism about the <strong>Deacons</strong>'<br />
commitment to purely defensive violence. Sims was tailoring his message to his<br />
audience, and the following day he struck a much more militant pose when he appeared<br />
on black journalist Louis Lomax's television show in Los Angeles. Now speaking to a<br />
sympathetic black studio audience, Sims dropped all pretense ofGandhian nonviolence .<br />
In the event offuture trouble in Bogalusa, Sims told the audience, "blood would be<br />
flowing down the streets Gke water." The audience greeted the threat with wild<br />
applause."<br />
The scathing L.A . Times rebuke set the pattern <strong>for</strong> future media attacks on the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> . The <strong>Deacons</strong>' detractors would argue that the self-defense group was taking<br />
the law into its own hands--that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were the black counterpart to the Klan.<br />
Evoking images ofirresponsible vigilantes and disruptive provocateurs, the L.A . Times<br />
coverage was the beginning of the media ef<strong>for</strong>ts to discredit the <strong>Deacons</strong> as an extremist<br />
"Negro KICK ."<br />
"Paul Weeks, "<strong>Deacons</strong> Chief Defends Aims on Visit to L.A . : "Use of arms<br />
Necessary Because oflack of Justice <strong>for</strong> Nego in South, :~e says," Los Angeles Times,<br />
14 June 1965 .<br />
"SAC, Los Angeles to Director, June 15, 1965 and Letter Head Memorandum,<br />
"Deacon <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice," June l5, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-16 .<br />
241
While there was an obvious moral chasm between the actions ofthe Klan and the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>, most white journalists in 1965 made no ethical distinction between offensive<br />
and defensive violence . Journalists feared that black retaliation against the Klan or<br />
police would only escalate the violence and lead to bloody civil disorders . Anxious<br />
about any ef<strong>for</strong>ts to arm blacks, large segments of the white media, particularly local<br />
news outlets, turned a deafear to arguments in support of self-defense .<br />
Nevertheless, most national publications, following the lead ofthe New York<br />
Times, were generally sympathetic . In July 1965 the story of the <strong>Deacons</strong> arrived on the<br />
coffee tables of millions ofreaders in a fairly balanced Life magazine article . Columnist<br />
Shana Alexander had read the Los Angeles Times articles and watched the Louis Lomax<br />
television interview, and later arranged an interview with Sims and a young white civil<br />
rights worker who had been organizing in Bogalusa in the Spring . The liberal columnist<br />
approached the <strong>Deacons</strong> with a mixture of trepidation and grudging admiration . Had<br />
nonviolence run its course, asked Alexander? Was it a luxury reserved <strong>for</strong> liberals<br />
observing the movement at a safe distance? "Both interviews strengthened my<br />
conviction that nonviolence must be the moral keystone of the civil rights movement,"<br />
wrote Alexander. But the terrifying accounts of Klan violence in Bogalusa made her<br />
realize "that one's feeling about nonviolence are influenced more by geography and<br />
circumstance than by moral principle ."2°<br />
Alexander's column underscored the martial spirit of the <strong>Deacons</strong>, characterizing<br />
them as "armed Negro vigilantes" led by a "warlike Deacon chieftain." "The <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
2°Sham Alexander, "Visit Bogalusa And You Will Look For Me,"Life, 2 July<br />
1965, p . 28 .<br />
2q2
say they have grenades and machine guns . . . and that they will not hesitate to use their<br />
entire arsenal if necessary . . .," said Alexander--converting the FBI's allegation into a<br />
fact . "Such militancy on the part of southern Negroes is so utterly without precedent that<br />
many people don't know what to make of the <strong>Deacons</strong>," said Alexander. Were they truly<br />
"freedom fighters" or, as had been rumored, "protection racketeers" or "Mao-inspired<br />
terrorist conspirators."<br />
Sims, with characteristic savvy, cast himselfa.s a reluctant apostate of<br />
nonviolence . "I don't approve of the deacons myself," Sims mockingly confessed to<br />
Alexander, "but we have no choice ." And if Alexander lived in Bogalusa, she wouldn't<br />
have a choice either. "Visit Bogalusa, andyon will look <strong>for</strong> me," chastened Sims .'=<br />
Sims punctuated his argument with his trademark blunt frankness . Sims<br />
suggested that the three civil rights workers murdered in Philadelphia, Mississippi in<br />
1964 were victims of nonviolence as well as the Klan. "If we'd had the <strong>Deacons</strong> there,<br />
three more men would be alive in Mississippi today," Sims told Alexander. "Or else a lot<br />
more would be dead.""<br />
The Sims interview left Alexander convinced of the necessity ofarmed self-<br />
defense in the South . "If I ever have to go to Bogalusa," concluded Alexander, "I should<br />
be very glad to have his [Sims] protection, despite the fact that where brave men tike<br />
2'Ibid .<br />
~Ibid .<br />
`~Ibid .<br />
?43
Sims really belong is not in the <strong>Deacons</strong> but in the ranks ofthe Bogalusa police<br />
department." z;<br />
A few days after the Life column appeared, the <strong>Deacons</strong> were again thrust into the<br />
headlines when Henry Austin, the young Deacon member, shot Alton Crowe during the<br />
July 7 march . The shooting propelled the debate on nonviolence into the national arena .<br />
One of the first stories to appear after the Crowe shooting was in the Wall Street Journal. ',<br />
"Race and Violence : More Dixie Negroes Buy Arms to Retaliate Against White<br />
Attacks," was the headline on the front page of the Wall Street Journal on July 12, 1965,<br />
i<br />
followed by the portentous subheading that posed the question : `lion-Violence Coming I<br />
to End?" Penned by Fred Zimmerman, the Journal article warned that "fear is mounting<br />
that angry Negroes are ready to reject the biblical induction to `turn the other cheek' and<br />
embrace an older, harsher code - an eye <strong>for</strong> an eye ." The Journal noted that bands of<br />
"militant, heavily armed" blacks were <strong>for</strong>ming in small sleepy southern towns and, unlike<br />
mainstream civil rights organizations, they "are locally led, and they share an open I<br />
contempt <strong>for</strong> the doctrine of nonviolence . . . "~<br />
The Journal reported that armed groups, primarily the <strong>Deacons</strong>, had spread to six<br />
states and had alarmed law en<strong>for</strong>cement and moderates who feared a "major<br />
bloodletting." The article detailed the <strong>Deacons</strong>' organizing ef<strong>for</strong>ts, repeating their claim<br />
of fifty active chapters centered in Louisiana and the Mississippi delta, and reporting tha±<br />
new chapters had recently been <strong>for</strong>med in north Florida, South Carolina, North Carolina<br />
ZsFred Zimmerman, "Race and Violence : More Di.~cie Negroes Buy Arms to<br />
Retaliate Against White Attacks," Wall Street Jo :irnal, 12 July 1965, p . 1 .<br />
?44<br />
i<br />
i<br />
i
and Alabama. "These groups are all over the state now," Charles Evers, brother of stain<br />
civil rights leader Medgar Evers, told the Journal, "and I'm glad they're around .' +zs<br />
The Journal 's source <strong>for</strong> most ofthis in<strong>for</strong>mation eras probably the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
themselves, although Zimmerman apparently corroborated some ofthe claims through<br />
other sources . Even if the <strong>Deacons</strong>' growth was considerably overstated--and it was-- the<br />
resulting media image enhanced their standing as serious and important opponents of the<br />
mainstream civil rights movement . In the short time of a few months, the <strong>Deacons</strong> had<br />
evolved from an anonymous guard group into a symbol ofthe revolt against nonviolence .<br />
The Journal touched on the quandary the <strong>Deacons</strong> posed to mainstream civil<br />
rights groups, speculating that some national organizations had refused to disavow the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> because they feared the loss of support from local black communities that<br />
favored the armed group . James Farmer of CORE told the Journal that, although<br />
CORE's demonstrations were nonviolent, "I don't feel that I have any right to tell a<br />
Negro community they don't have the right to defend the sanctity of their homes ." An<br />
utidentified SCLC aide told the Journal that his organization remained committed to<br />
nonviolence, but added that "there is such as thing as the cup of endurance running over ."<br />
"Dr. King's position makes a distinction between defensive violence and aggressive<br />
violence," said the aide. "I think the <strong>Deacons</strong> come in the category ofdefensive<br />
violence ." z'<br />
Still, the growing schism in the civil rights movement could not be denied . Other<br />
civil rights groups interviewed by the Journal refused to concede any ground to the<br />
zs ~id .<br />
z'Ibid .<br />
245
<strong>Deacons</strong> . Paul Anthony, field director ofthe respected Southern Regional Council, was<br />
deeply troubled by the <strong>Deacons</strong>. Anthony warned that if "the <strong>Deacons</strong> really catch<br />
hold, it could mean the end of nonviolence in some areas of the South . . . which could<br />
cause a wave ofviolence with national repercussions ." And the <strong>Deacons</strong> were growing<br />
increasingly confident in criticizing mainstream civil rights groups . "We're going to have<br />
a war, I honestly believe that," Bob Hicks told the Journal. "But we're not going to<br />
double up like CORE people do when we're attacked .' °z8<br />
Charlie Sims attempted to assuage fears of rampant violence by emphasizing the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' self-discipline and defensive goals . Members were to only use their weapons<br />
to defend themselves, Sims told the Journal . "We're constantly riding all the members<br />
all the time about this," said Sims . Still, the Jounra! was apprehensive about the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>, fearing that defensive violence would provoke more Klan violence. "It's true<br />
that much of their activity is, in effect, guard duty," wrote the Journal . "But to Southern<br />
law en<strong>for</strong>cement agencies and to many groups trying to promote integration without<br />
violence---these armed bands are essentially vigilantes posing an increasing threat of<br />
bloodshed ."<br />
That the <strong>Deacons</strong> were becoming a symbol of a new militant challenge to the<br />
politics of nonviolence could no longer be doubted . The <strong>Deacons</strong> had initially sought<br />
respect and legitimacy by pledging loyalty to the mainstream groups and their nonviolent<br />
philosophy . Now the <strong>Deacons</strong> were increasingly abandoning this tactic and developing a<br />
coherent alternative strategy that justified defensive violence and militant protest .<br />
ze ~id.<br />
~'Ibid .<br />
246
In part, the shift was a consequence ofclarifying their own thinking, discovering<br />
the logical contradictions in their initial approach, and gaining confidence and<br />
independence from the support they received from an increasingly militant black<br />
community . The mass movement was shaping the <strong>Deacons</strong> as the <strong>Deacons</strong> shaped the<br />
mass movement . But the media also played a role in the <strong>Deacons</strong>' strategic shift . By<br />
casting the <strong>Deacons</strong> as symbols of a changing mood among blacks, the media helped<br />
anoint them as leaders ofthe insurgent militant movement .<br />
The trans<strong>for</strong>mation ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> into spokespersons <strong>for</strong> self-defensive violence<br />
continued in the media throughout the summer of 1965 . On August 2, 1965, only days<br />
be<strong>for</strong>e the Watts riot, Newsweek weighed in wish a balanced article on the "highly<br />
disciplined group ofNegro vigilantes" whose "swift rise" and "spread" presented<br />
"nonviolence civil rights groups with a quandary.' °s°<br />
The article reprised the allegation that the <strong>Deacons</strong> possessed an arsenal of<br />
automatic weapons and grenades, and cited a taunting speech in which Kirkpatrick<br />
assailed black leaders . "You been led by the tap-dancing Negro, the head-tapping Negro,<br />
in other words, the plain old Uncle Tom," Kirkpatrick had told his audience . Kirkpatrick<br />
also lambasted the tendency of mainstream groups to equate civil rights with liberation .<br />
"You got to <strong>for</strong>get about right," Kirkpatrick said, "because right aint gonna get you<br />
justice ." Newsweek labeled Kirkpatrick's comments a "violent repudiation of nonviolent<br />
leaders .""<br />
' °"The <strong>Deacons</strong>," Newsweek, pp . 28-29 . The article also gave credit to the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' "counter-intimidation" techniques <strong>for</strong> discouraging Klan terror in Bogalusa.<br />
3'Ibid ., emphasis added .<br />
247<br />
i<br />
I<br />
I
Lodged in the "militant" camp by the media and their own rhetoric, the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
now found themselves with some unwanted allies. When Newsweek questioned Charlie<br />
Sims about the similarities between the Black Muslims and the <strong>Deacons</strong>, the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
leader took pains to dissociate his group from the separatists . "I despise the Muslimsjust<br />
as much as I do the Ku Klux Klan," Sims protested to Newsweek. "I don't believe in<br />
either white or black supremacy. I believe in equality.' °s2<br />
In an interview with the San Francisco Chronicle in August 1965, Earnest<br />
Thomas echoed Sims' sentiments about nonviolent organizations . "They can come down<br />
and play non-violence with those rednecks all they want," Thomas said . "We who live<br />
down there have our own way of handling things. We will submit peacefully to legal<br />
arrest, but ifyou think one of us is going to be peacefully hauled offto some jail to get<br />
beat up or killed, you'll be making the same mistake some southern sheriff will ." The<br />
Chronicle asked if it were true that the <strong>Deacons</strong> had an arsenal ofmachine guns . "I wish<br />
they did," replied Thomas coyly. "We don't intend to turn the other cheek . Only a fool<br />
does that<br />
."' 3<br />
On August 15, Roy Reed, writing <strong>for</strong> The New York Times Magazine, produced<br />
one of the most extensive and thoughtful stories published on the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Titled "The<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>, Too, Ride by Night," the lengthy articled featured several prominent<br />
photographs of armed <strong>Deacons</strong> and a steely-eyed Charles Sims. Reed described the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> as an "armed, semisecret, loosely organized fade :ation" that was widely<br />
32Ibid .<br />
s3Article Quoted in SAC, San Francisco to Director, September 21, 1965, FBI-<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-67 .<br />
248
supported and was "well on their way to community leadership ." The <strong>Deacons</strong> were not<br />
a new or isolated phenomenon either, pointed out Reed, but part ofa growing number of<br />
self-defense groups that continued a tradition ofself-defense dating back to Robert F .<br />
Williams and the black men who guarded Daisy Bates in Little Rock . What was unique<br />
about the <strong>Deacons</strong> was that they had given organizational <strong>for</strong>m to the growing<br />
disillusionment with nonviolence . "With the <strong>Deacons</strong> and their organization, the<br />
advocates of armed defense have a symbol and a rallying point," observed Reed."<br />
Reed saw a major strategic difference underscoring the division between the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> and the mainstream civil rights organizations . The division, according to<br />
Harvard scholar Dr . Thomas Pettigrew, stemmed from the fact that oppressed<br />
communities may choose several paths to liberation, including moving toward their<br />
oppressor to "seek equality"--as symbolized by the NAACP and CORE--or to "move<br />
against the oppressor and fight him ." The <strong>Deacons</strong> had taken the second path . Reed<br />
alluded to the inflated membership claims, but gave little credence to the figures or to the<br />
reports of a cache of illegal weapons . Size was not an important factor <strong>for</strong> a symbolic<br />
organization like the <strong>Deacons</strong>, said Reed . "The importance of the <strong>Deacons</strong> at the<br />
moment is not in their numbers but in their psychological impact on both whites and<br />
Negroes ." And what was that impact? The <strong>Deacons</strong> were an intimidating symbol to<br />
whites. Their willingness to shoot back had frightened whites and reduced harassment in<br />
Jonesboro, said Reed, although it had raised racial tension in Bogalusa. Reed recounted<br />
several armed skirmishes between the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the Klan, including the shooting of<br />
'Roy Reed, "The <strong>Deacons</strong>, Too, Ride by Night, The New York Times Magc4ine,<br />
I S August, 1965, pp . 10-24 .<br />
249
Alton Crowe by Henry Austin one month earlier . "Far from dampening the spirit of<br />
Bogalusa Negroes, this foolhardy shooting seemed to stir their passions higher," wrote<br />
Reed, citing A . Z . Young's ominous warning that, "If blood is going to be shed, we are<br />
going to let it run down Columbia Road--all kinds, both white and black ." 3s<br />
The psychological impact ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> on blacks was equally significant . "Part<br />
of the Negro's task in his struggle <strong>for</strong> equality is to convince the nation, and particularly<br />
the white south, that he is competitive, that he has will and backbone," said Reed . To do<br />
this, blacks had to overcome the deeply imbedded white stereotype ofblacks as "docile,<br />
unaggressive and martially inferior ." In the past blacks used nonviolence to prove their<br />
mettle, that they were "tough enough to take it and big enough not to hit back ." Now<br />
groups like the <strong>Deacons</strong> in the South, like the Muslims in :he North, were choosing a new<br />
direction, according to Reed . "They are determined to prove to the white racists, and<br />
perhaps to themselves, that the Negro not only can take it but that he can also dish it out ."<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> had inspired pride in the community and had "proved to be a natural<br />
instrument <strong>for</strong> building community feeling and nourishing the Negro identity ." Their<br />
strategy demonstrating that they could "dish it out" had also contributed positively to the<br />
new Negro identity. 36<br />
Reed's analysis was subtle and discerning, and among the first to appreciate that<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> shaped white as well as black consciousness . Reed was correct to argue that<br />
blacks had to overcome their obsequious image, but he was mistaken in thinking that<br />
blacks believed that nonviolence could disabuse whites of the image ofblacks as "docile,<br />
3s ~id .<br />
36~Id . II<br />
250<br />
I
unaggressive and martially inferior ." Indeed, nonviolence perpetuated the image of<br />
blacks as docile and helplessly dependent on the beneficence of whites . The goal of<br />
nonviolence was to reveal the inhumanity of the oppressor, not the hr~manity of the<br />
oppressed . In contrast, the <strong>Deacons</strong>' strategy was designed to establish black men as the<br />
equals of all men ; to claim their rightful place in society as fully human, invested with<br />
the same rights, privileges, and prerogatives as whites, and deserving of the same honor,<br />
respect--and fear . "They finally found out that we really are men," Royan Bums told<br />
Reed," and that we would do what we said, and that we meant what we said. They found<br />
out that when they ride at night, we ride at night ."<br />
s '<br />
The growing class tensions within the movement also emerged in the story . The<br />
Times described Charlie Sims as a "good example of the new non-middle class Negro<br />
leader in the Southern Civit Rights movement ." His police record and street-wise<br />
demeanor were no obstacles to leadership . "In other times he would have been simply a<br />
tough ; now he is a hero ." Kirkpatrick also underscored the <strong>Deacons</strong>' resentment of<br />
middle class black leaders, telling Reed that he was fighting "Uncle Tom" preachers and<br />
their fatalist religious belief that "all good things come to those who wait ." Kirkpatrick,<br />
a minister himself, scoffed at passive religious doctrine, arguing that "every generation is<br />
put here <strong>for</strong> a purpose, not to lollygag and do nothing ." He planned to enlist young mer<br />
to dig sewer lines in the black community, and in turn, black residents would be expected<br />
to register to vote . "And if they don't?" asked Reed . "We might have to make `em go,"<br />
251
eplied Kirkpatrick bluntly . "We might have to drag `em down . You see, they're<br />
holding back the whole program ." 38<br />
Reed touched on how CORE and SNCC had quietly cooperated with the <strong>Deacons</strong>,<br />
but noted that Dr. King had opposed the <strong>Deacons</strong>' version of self-defense . "The line<br />
between defensive violence and aggressive violence is very thin," King had said in July.<br />
"You get people to thinking in terms of violence when you have a movement that is built<br />
around defensive violence." Sims made little ef<strong>for</strong>t to conceal his contempt <strong>for</strong> King .<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> had recently invited a host of civil rights leaders to Bogalusa, said Sims, but<br />
not King. "I want everybody here except Martin Luther King," said Sims . "Ifhe came<br />
and they gun him, I couldn't protect him, because he don't believe in me ." 39<br />
While Reed's coverage ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> was generally favorable, he did note a few<br />
shortcomings . Foremost was the potential <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> to cross the line from<br />
defensive to offensive violence. The <strong>Deacons</strong> were "poorly controlled" and little more<br />
than a loose federation of local chapters, said Reed . Bogalusa's assistant police chief,<br />
G.C . Terrell, opined that "this haphazard organizational control could open the door to<br />
aggressive terrorism by Negroes ." Though this was not an immediate threat, Reed<br />
conceded that ifblacks began initiating violence, "the <strong>Deacons</strong> would be its first logical<br />
agent ."'°<br />
Publications like The New York Times and Newsweek shaped the debate within<br />
the national movement which, in turn, had local ramifications . But most blacks in the<br />
3s~id .<br />
39~Id .<br />
252
South learned about the <strong>Deacons</strong> through local white media or national black media. As<br />
might be expected, white newspapers in Louisiana gave virtually no coverage to the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> and, when they did, it was inevitably negative . The only story in the New<br />
Orleans Times-Picayune was a short disparaging article reporting on the Deacon leaders'<br />
arrest records . The same was true <strong>for</strong> the Bogalusa Daily News.'<br />
The principal black media source ofin<strong>for</strong>mation on the <strong>Deacons</strong> was the<br />
Louisiana Weekly, south Louisiana's only black weekly newspaper . For the most part,<br />
the Weekly provided favorable coverage ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>, beginning with a lukewarm<br />
reception in Leon Spivak's syndicated column in March 1965 . Spivak, a liberal white<br />
columnist, thought that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were more "constructive" than nationalists, but<br />
feared that a "demagogue" might seize control of the organization . In May the Weekly<br />
carried a wire story on the <strong>Deacons</strong> by the Negro Press International, a national black<br />
news syndicate, titled "Decons (sic] of Defense Ready Should the Occasion Arise ." The<br />
article reported that a "fierce, new readiness to strike back ifattacked has injected a new<br />
factor into Louisiana's civil rights problems ." The syndicated story quoted Charlie Sims<br />
commenting on the distinction between offensive and defensive violence ." The only<br />
thing I can say is that we will not go on the offense. We are the defensive team . Ifthey<br />
come in here to hit us, they will get hit back ." u<br />
National black media also had significant influence within the black community .<br />
Periodicals like the diminutive Jet magazine were widely read by black opinion-makers<br />
{iTimes-Picayune, 12 April 1965 ; 31 May 1965 .<br />
°2Lou~siana Weekly, 13 March 1965 ; Louisiana Weekly, 8 May 1965 . For other<br />
Deacon references, see Lo:iisiana Weekly, 19, 26 June ; 17 July 1965 .<br />
?53
on a grass roots level . In contrast to the white media, the black media utiversally greeted<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> as a positive development and never succumbed to the "Negro KKK"<br />
phobia . Perhaps the only distortion in coverage was the tendency of some black media to<br />
downplay the political schism in the black movement that the <strong>Deacons</strong> symbolized.<br />
Jet magazine played a major role in popularizing the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Jet was the most<br />
widely read black weekly digests . Much of its coverage ofthe civil rights movement was<br />
gleaned from news services and clippings from other papers . Its youthful staffincluded<br />
reporters like Larry Still, who was highly sympathetic to militant groups counter posed to<br />
the NAACP and other mainstream organizations.<br />
Jet carried the New York Post's story about the Klan shootout at the Hicks' house<br />
in the Spring of 1965, but did not mention the <strong>Deacons</strong> by name . On June 24 Jet<br />
published a second story on Bogalusa, this time highlighting the <strong>Deacons</strong>' impact on<br />
whites . "With deadly guns and bullets and the nonviolent philosophy living side by side<br />
in tense Bogalusa, La.," wrote Jet, "whites in that area--perhaps <strong>for</strong> the first time in any<br />
Deep South civil rights drive-have a clear choice ofalternatives." Jet clearly viewed the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> as a lever to <strong>for</strong>ce whites to negotiate with nonviolent leaders--the militant<br />
alternative that made re<strong>for</strong>mers look reasonable . But the magazine also took pains to<br />
portray the <strong>Deacons</strong> as part ofthe nonviolent movement--an image that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were<br />
promoting in their early stage. The <strong>Deacons</strong> worked with the Voters League and<br />
participated in other nonviolent activities, Jet said in the <strong>Deacons</strong>' defense. "Their total<br />
program is not centered around guns . The members have been <strong>for</strong> years demanding<br />
proper mail service, improved schools, and paved streets in Negro sections ." To <strong>for</strong>tify<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong>' nonviolent credentials, Jet pointed out that during demonstrations "the<br />
254
<strong>Deacons</strong> are unarmed and are totally committed to nonviolence," The Alton Crowe<br />
shooting, of course, would later prove this claim false . j'<br />
Jet carried a major story in July based on interviews with Charlie Sims during his<br />
Los Angeles visit . Louie Robinson and Charles Brown penned the story, featuring a<br />
cover headline that read : "Negro Most Feared by Whites in Louisiana ." The story was a<br />
virtual paean to Sims, complete with a photograph of Sims captioned "reflects<br />
determination; inward, unswerving courage ."*`<br />
Sims was at his best in the interview : disarming, unpredictable, and charming. He<br />
had honed his new image as a tough-talking militant . Sporting bloodshot eyes and his<br />
ragged smile, Sims first apologized to his interviewers <strong>for</strong> wearing a suit with a white<br />
shirt at the interview . "This white shirt makes a good target at night," confessed Sims<br />
whimsically . In Bogalusa he wore overalls . "They have nice, big pockets," Sims added,<br />
"so you can cant' your pipe [gun] and plenty of shells ." as<br />
Eschewing the white media's pejorative term of"vigilantes," Jet described the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> as "a determined band of heavily armed Negroes who have vowed to defend<br />
themselves with guns from marauding whites who have terrorized black communities in<br />
the south." The interview had been conducted in June, and Sims had not yet taken a hard<br />
stance against King and the nonviolence movement . Sims said the <strong>Deacons</strong> were<br />
committed to protecting all leaders of civil rights organizations--even those who opposed<br />
'~"Bogalusa Riflemen Fight Off OKKK Attack," Jet, 22 April 1965, p . 5 ; "Guns,<br />
Pickets Down : Tallcs Begin in Bogalusa Race Crisis," Jet, 24 June 1965, p . 8 .<br />
`Louie Robinson and Charles Brown, "The Negro Most Feared by Whites in<br />
Louisiana," Jet, 15 July 1965, pp . 14-17 .<br />
is ~id .<br />
255
the Deacon's tactics . "As long as his face is black and he is in Bogalusa, we feel his<br />
safety is our responsibility ."'~<br />
Sims related a series ofviolent incidents, all enlivened with his characteristic<br />
dramatic embellishments . The Klan had a $1,000 reward on him, Sims told the young<br />
reporters--a dubious claim at best . He recounted a questionable tale about capturing<br />
Klansmen during the February Klan attack on Miller and Yates . The Deacon leader also<br />
recalled an incident in which Claxton Knight had warned that "whites were massing<br />
nearby to break up the meeting" and there was nothing the police could do about it ."<br />
Sims told Knight "since you brought a message you go back and carry one : Tell them to<br />
come on we're going to stack `em up like cross ties ."~'<br />
Whether or not the exchange actually occurred--and it probably did not--is not<br />
particularly important . The <strong>Deacons</strong> had become a symbolic organization, and their<br />
objective, in addition to self-defense, was to project a new black identity based on<br />
masculine values, honor, and racial pride . Sims' occasional exaggerations did not distort<br />
the essential truth about the <strong>Deacons</strong> : they were defiant, fearless, capable ofviolence and<br />
impervious to white terror.<br />
"I was a shooting instructor in the Army, and my nerves are pretty good," bragged<br />
Sims, "I can strike a match at SO feet ." And he was not to be intimidated :<br />
They know this : they can't fighten me . They can put me in jail but they have to<br />
let me out one day . They can't curse and harass me and frighten me . I'm fighting<br />
harder now than ever be<strong>for</strong>e because I've got something to fight <strong>for</strong> that the<br />
'~Ibid .<br />
"Ibid .<br />
256<br />
~<br />
i
average white man doesn't . I've never been free be<strong>for</strong>e and I want a whole lot of<br />
freedom . as<br />
Near the end of the interview Sims waxed philosophical about his role as paladin<br />
in the movement :<br />
Most of us will age be<strong>for</strong>e our time--if we make it . But most of us realized when<br />
we took this stand the danger we faced . You have to make up your mind that it's<br />
now or never. I learned a slogan in the Army and I've always remembered it;<br />
`Ails fair in love and war.' When you don't want me to be free, that's war . {'<br />
Jet had difficulty finding civil rights leaders in Los Angeles who would speak<br />
favorably ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> . Don Smith, the president ofthe Los Angeles chapter of CORE<br />
told Jet "this may be a necessary part of the Negro revolu~ion, but philosophically I am<br />
opposed to all <strong>for</strong>ms of violence, no matter who preaches it ." Reverend Thomas Kilgore<br />
chairman ofthe Western Christian Leadership Conference, was even more firmly<br />
opposed to the Louisiana group . "I disapprove of keeping civil rights workers alive with<br />
guns," fumed Kilgore . "The non-violent approach has brought pressure to bear on those<br />
elements which discriminate . The Bogalusa movement, under the <strong>Deacons</strong>--a misnomer-<br />
-represents a danger to 20 million Negroes ." Sims had little patience <strong>for</strong> his critics<br />
com<strong>for</strong>tably ensconced in Cali<strong>for</strong>nia : "I wonder ifthose men think that I risk losing my<br />
life <strong>for</strong> kicks?" asked Sims contemptuously .' °<br />
The Jet article was widely read in the black community and apparently caught the<br />
attention of other Southern blacks facing similar problems in their communities . On<br />
{gIbid .<br />
;9Ibid .<br />
so lid.<br />
257
more than one occasion <strong>Deacons</strong> chapters were <strong>for</strong>med by men who had read the Jet 's<br />
coverage. The magazine followed up with a story on John McKeithen's call <strong>for</strong> a<br />
"cooling off' period following the Crowe shooting and his threat to confiscate the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' weapons . The article noted Louis Lomax's criticism of McKeithen's<br />
moratorium on marches, and predicted that, "Bogalusa Negroes are not going to permit<br />
their weapons to be confiscated," despite McKeithen's order. Jet 's photographs centered<br />
on images of the armed movement in Bogalusa, featuring a picture of a gun in Charlie<br />
Sims' car and photographs of Henry Austin being led away by state police after the<br />
Crowe shooting s '<br />
The most influential coverage ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> by the black media was also the last<br />
major news story on the armed group--and the only major profile of the group to come<br />
after the Watts riot . In September 1965, Ebony magazine, the leading black monthly<br />
magazine, published an extensive story by Hamilton Bims titled "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense :<br />
Negroes are fighting back in Bogalusa, other Towns ." The headline was superimposed<br />
over a stark background photograph ofa faceless black man holding vigil in a doorway,<br />
the barrel of his rifle raised upward . The extensive five-page story captured the<br />
excitement caused by the <strong>Deacons</strong>, identifying them as "one of the fastest growing"<br />
organizations in the civil rights struggle ." s'<br />
Eborry acknowledged that the <strong>Deacons</strong>' success was accompanied by controversy<br />
and criticism from Dr. King and other civil rights leaders . "For all their effectiveness,<br />
6-7 .<br />
s `"`Let Whites Give Something' Lomax says in Bogalusa," Jet, 29 July 1965, pp .<br />
52Hamiiton Bims, "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense," Eborry, September 1965, pp . 25-30 .<br />
258
however," noted Ebony, "the <strong>Deacons</strong> have become perhaps the most criticized and<br />
feared Negro organization since the Black Muslims ." The <strong>Deacons</strong> were not the black<br />
counterpart to the Klan, as some critics had suggested . "I'm glad the <strong>Deacons</strong> exist,"<br />
said James Farmer when questioned about CORE's "strange relationship" with the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> . "I know some are comparing them to the Ku Klux Klan . But how many<br />
lynchings have they committed? The <strong>Deacons</strong> are not night riders and anyone who<br />
likens them to the Klan is just evading the issue ." s3<br />
Not only did Bogalusa's blacks believe that the <strong>Deacons</strong> deterred Klan violence,<br />
but with the Watts riot fresh in people's minds, the <strong>Deacons</strong> now appeared to be a<br />
moderate alternative to random violence. "By giving the job to mature and restrained<br />
men," Eborry argued, "they discourage Negro hotheads, who otherwise might trigger a<br />
racial bloodbath in the tense city." The magazine recounted a recent demonstration in<br />
which the <strong>for</strong>eboding Sims mounted the podium with a wanting . "I want you to leave<br />
your pistols, your knives, your hammers at home," Sims growled . "Leave the protecting<br />
to us . That's ourjob ." s1<br />
Ebony recognized that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were not some marginal fringe group<br />
alienated from the mass movement, but instead an organization that reflected a profound<br />
change in the political consciousness of Southern blacks--the emergence ofthe New<br />
Negro . "The Negro in the South is a brand new breed," declared Sims . "He's not the<br />
same man he was ten years ago ."ss<br />
ss ~id .<br />
s s ~id .<br />
ss ~id .<br />
259
The Ebony and New York Times Magcuiire stories were the apex of national<br />
media coverage <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> and crystallized the group's media image as militant<br />
re<strong>for</strong>mers and a political alternative to nonviolence . The <strong>Deacons</strong> had made a<br />
remarkable transition in the media from civil rights group to a symbol ofarmed<br />
resistance . It was an image partly oftheir own design, and partly imposed by the media<br />
and pressures from the black mass movement . More than a defense group, the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
now posed a credible political challenge to nonviolence . Their credo was simple. They<br />
argued that blacks needed to rely on themselves rather than the government <strong>for</strong> freedom<br />
They sought re<strong>for</strong>m by coercing whites rather than accommodating them . They refused<br />
to win white sympathy through ritual self-abuse and passivity . <strong>Freedom</strong> would be won<br />
through fear and respect rather than guilt and pity . In short, they demanded that black<br />
men win their freedom by acting like free men .<br />
The national media focus on the <strong>Deacons</strong> was short lived . By the end of the<br />
summer of 1965 the media had lost interest in the <strong>Deacons</strong> . There were several reasons<br />
<strong>for</strong> this turn of events . Foremost was the Watts riot in August 1965--which changed<br />
everything in American racial politics . Now the focus was on Northern blacks and<br />
longstanding class grievances that had been subordinated by the nonviolent strategy's<br />
emphasis on civil rights . The new issues were police brutality and inequality in<br />
employment, housing, and education . Leading the attack on these injustices was the new<br />
Black Power movement epitomized by the Black Panther Party . And although the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> had helped inspire the Panthers, they were never fully a part of the Black Power<br />
movement . The deeply religious rank and file <strong>Deacons</strong> were not black separatists,<br />
Marxists, or revolutionaries. They only desired the same fruits of life enjoyed by whites .<br />
260
The media also lost interest in the <strong>Deacons</strong> because there was nothing more to the<br />
story . By <strong>for</strong>cing the federal government to en<strong>for</strong>ce the Civil Rights Act and destroy the<br />
Klan in Louisiana, the <strong>Deacons</strong> had eliminated the raison d'etre <strong>for</strong> their existence .<br />
Moreover, the <strong>Deacons</strong> had fulfilled their goal of redefining black consciousness when<br />
young blacks began to absorb the <strong>Deacons</strong>' masculine and martial values .<br />
By the end of 1965 the <strong>Deacons</strong> had rendered themselves obsolete through their<br />
success. Still, they continued to expand .<br />
26 1
Chapter 11<br />
Expanding Through the South<br />
In<strong>for</strong>mal self-defense groups had existed in the black community prior to the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' <strong>for</strong>mation, but two factors distinguished the <strong>Deacons</strong> from their predecessors .<br />
First, the <strong>Deacons</strong> elevated self-defense from a pragmatic activity to a political strategic<br />
challenge to nonviolence . They moved from merely protecting the movement to<br />
redefining the movement by preaching the gospel ofself-defense to black communities<br />
throughout the South . Second--and most unportant--was that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were<br />
organizational expansionists . Unlike their predecessors who were content with local<br />
organizing, the <strong>Deacons</strong> consciously sought to reproduce their organizational model<br />
across the country.'<br />
`Robert F . Williams, of Monroe, North Carolina, was the first person in the<br />
modem civil rights movement to make self-defense a political issue. But Williams lacked<br />
an organizational vehicle <strong>for</strong> this strategy, and, <strong>for</strong> many civil rights activists, the debacle<br />
in Moaroe became a persuasive argument against self-defense . Oa Williams' view ofthe<br />
incident, see Robert F . Williams, Negroes With Guns, ed. Marc Schleifer (New York:<br />
Marzani and Munsell, Inc ., 1962) . Similarly, Malcom X's call <strong>for</strong> Negro rifle clubs in<br />
1964 offered no organizational framework . Other self-defense groups in the South<br />
included one <strong>for</strong>med in August 1963 in Clinton, Louisiana where they guarded CORE<br />
rallies . See "Intimidations and Harassments Against Negroes and CORE Workers,<br />
Summer, 1963 to Summer, 1964," [August, 1964], box 4, folder 13, CORE(SRO) . In<br />
Meridian, Mississippi, Reverend R . S . Porter organized a self-defense organization in<br />
1964, which included one white member, Bill Ready . See, Jack Nelson, Terror in the<br />
Night (New York : Simon and Schuster, 1993), pp . 108-109 .<br />
262
From 1964 to 1966, the <strong>Deacons</strong> developed local affiliates in twenty-one cities,<br />
seventeen in the South and another four in the North. Affiliates ranged from <strong>for</strong>mal<br />
chapters to loosely associated networks of members . Some affiliates lasted only a few<br />
months ; others endured <strong>for</strong> several years . But it is clear that the <strong>Deacons</strong>' organizational<br />
breadth and political influence far exceeded previous estimates by historians .=<br />
At the height ofhis organizing, Sims professed to have <strong>for</strong>med more than sixty<br />
chapters with several thousand members. The claim ofsixty chapters is an exaggeration,<br />
if by "chapter" Suns meant fully operational and dues-paying affiliates, and the total<br />
dues-paying membership nationally never exceeded five hundred . Still, there was<br />
something to Sims' use of the number "sixty." FBI records, news reports, and interviews<br />
with <strong>Deacons</strong> yield a total of sixty-four cities in which the <strong>Deacons</strong> were reported or<br />
rumored to have established local affiliates . Always quick to inflate the organization's<br />
size and importance, Sims probably stretched the definition of a chapter to include cities<br />
with even a single Deacon recruit. Ifthat were the case, he could have easily calculated<br />
sixty nominal chapters. 3<br />
=One author concluded that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were a "gigantic hoax," numbering less<br />
than twenty-four members in only three chapters; see Adam Fairclough, Race and<br />
Democracy: The Civil Rights Struggle in Louisiana, 1915-1972 (Athens, Georgia : The<br />
University of Georgia Press, 1995), pp.345,359 . In fact, in Louisiana alone there were<br />
<strong>for</strong>mal chapters in Jonesboro, Minden, Homer, Tallulah, Ferriday, Grambling, Bogalusa,<br />
St. Francisville, and New Orleans. Mississippi counted active chapters in Natchez, Port<br />
Gibson, Woodville, and Columbia . Additionally there were four active chapters in the<br />
North : Chicago, Boston, Cleveland, and Newark . The chapters are discussed below .<br />
'A complete reading ofthe FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> files indicates suspected organizing<br />
activity in fifty-one cities and countl~s .<br />
363
Several factors make it difficult to precisely assess the size ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>'<br />
organization, the most significant being that the national leadership did not keep records .<br />
In addition, many chapters were clandestine organizations and, to this day, many of their<br />
members refuse to discuss the organization. Even the FBI, with its extensive network of<br />
in<strong>for</strong>mants, frequently failed to uncover chapters until they had been operating <strong>for</strong> some<br />
time .<br />
Notwithstanding their inflated claims, the <strong>Deacons</strong> were aggressive organizers<br />
and did manage to develop an impressive network of self-defense groups in Louisiana<br />
and Mississippi . They launched their campaign to expand in the summer of 1965, first<br />
targeting Louisiana cities where CORE had been active. The Pelican state became the<br />
site of nine <strong>for</strong>mal chapters : Jonesboro, Bogalusa, New Orleans, St . Francisville, Minden,<br />
Homer, Tallulah, Femiday and Grumbling (a rumored Varnado chapter was primarily an<br />
auxiliary to the Bogalusa chapter) .<br />
The Jonesboro chapter took the lead in recruitment in the Northern part of the<br />
State . In the fall of 1965 Frederick Kirkpatrick, one ofthe founders of the Jonesboro<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>, took a position at Grumbling University's physical education department and<br />
immediately established a <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter . There was no significant civil rights<br />
movement in the city ofGrumbling, sutce the all-black town primarily served as the home<br />
<strong>for</strong> the 350 Grumbling University faculty and staff The Grumbling <strong>Deacons</strong> focused<br />
their activity in nearby Ruston, where Civil Rights Laws were still flaunted and federal<br />
courts were <strong>for</strong>cibly integrating Louisiana Technical College . Little is known about the<br />
Grumbling chapter other than that it provided defense <strong>for</strong> civil rights projects in Ruston<br />
and neighboring cities .<br />
264
Kirkpatrick also took the lead in organizing Grambling students and faculty into a<br />
community organization titled the "Great Society Movement ." The militant group issued<br />
demands including integration of schools and public accommodations, improved<br />
curriculum in black schools, and street and plumbing improvements in black<br />
neighborhoods . The organization filed desegregation suits on public accommodations in<br />
Ruston, protested at the Lincoln Parish School Board, picketed seventeen business<br />
establishments which refused to hire blacks, and organized voter registration drives .`<br />
Kirkpatrick also organized two <strong>Deacons</strong> chapters in nearby Minders and Homer in<br />
Claiborne Parish. Kirkpatrick had been raised in the Parish and knew the region well .<br />
Minders and Homer were only a short distance from Grambling and Jonesboro.<br />
Ultimately these four chapters in the North Central part of the state would operate as a<br />
regional security network, assisting each other in protecting civil rights activities in the<br />
region .<br />
Minders was located in Webster Parish and had garnered national attention in 1947<br />
when a white mob lynched a local black man. An NAACP investigation eventually<br />
culminated in a rare federal prosecution . Although the accused murderers were<br />
eventually acquitted by an all-white jury, the unprecedented Justice Department<br />
intervention, over the vociferous protests ofJ. Edgar Hoover, had an impact on vigilante<br />
terror. The Minders murder was the last lynching in Louisiana .s<br />
'Investigative Report, November 22, 1966, New Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no .<br />
157-2466-176 ; Jet, 19 May, 1966, p . 7<br />
SFairclough, Race and Democracy, pp . 113-119 .<br />
26~
CORE workers arrived in Webster Parish in 1964, full of optimism about<br />
developing a project, but soon found their organizing ef<strong>for</strong>ts frustrated by the principal<br />
black organization, the Better Citizens and Voters League . The Voters League was led by<br />
funeral director M . M . Coleman, a conservative middle class leader who was opposed to<br />
CORE's emphasis on desegregation, antipoverty projects and job discrimination .<br />
Coleman favored voter registration and came to regard CORE as needless intruders.<br />
"There is an extreme caste system in Webster Parish," complained one CORE staffer in a<br />
memo . "The middle class Negro wants nothing to do with the lower classes ." CORE<br />
was not alone in its assessment of Coleman. "He wasn't moving," said James Harper, a<br />
local activist and <strong>Deacons</strong> leader . "He didn't want to test the lunch counters . He didn't<br />
want to try to integrate nothing. He just wanted somebody to sit and talk about it."<br />
Despite widespread dissatisfaction with Coleman's accomodationism, CORE staffers<br />
committed a tactical blunder by attempting to prematurely oust him from leadership . The<br />
result was 400 black people walking out ofa CORE meeting . Eventually CORE and<br />
local militants split off into the Webster Parish United Christian <strong>Freedom</strong> Movement<br />
(WPUCFM), headed up by J . D . Hamilton 6<br />
In the sununer of 1965 CORE workers contacted Earnest Thomas in Jonesboro<br />
and indicated that a group of men in Minden was interested in <strong>for</strong>ming a <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
chapter. The Minden men had learned about the <strong>Deacons</strong> from Fred Lewis, the leader of<br />
the Homer <strong>Deacons</strong> . Things were heating up in Minden with J . D . Hamilton at the helm<br />
e "WATS Line Report," 30 June 1965, box 7, folder 7, CORE(SRO) ; James<br />
Harper, interview by author, 11 November, 1993, Minden, Louisiana, tape recording ;<br />
Meier and Rudwick, CORE, p . 352 .<br />
?66
of the insurgent WPUCFM. The planned marches and threatened boycott of downtown<br />
businesses critically increased the need <strong>for</strong> protection .'<br />
J. D . Hamilton and James Harper, a 27-year-old munitions plant worker, traveled<br />
to Jonesboro to meet with Earnest Thomas and establish a Minders Chapter . Harper was<br />
the son ofa lumber mill worker and had served in the National Guard . His commitment<br />
to the civil rights movement was rooted in the desire <strong>for</strong> dignity <strong>for</strong> his children . He<br />
recalls when he was a child white children would pass by in school busses and throw<br />
things and shriek racial epithets. "And I felt like things needed to change," said Harper .<br />
"For especially if I had kids, I didn't want then to go through this kind of flack." e<br />
The Klan had little presence in Minders . Still Harper and other activists were<br />
concerned by the lack ofpolice protection. The Mindea police department boasted two<br />
black officers, but they were seldom sent to investigate harassment of civil rights<br />
activists . "When we called them when we was being harassed, they always sent a white<br />
anyway," said Harper . Nonviolence was not as option either. Harper participated in<br />
some CORE demonstrations, but his notion of manhood prevented him from abiding<br />
CORE's proscription against fighting back. "Most ofthe time, I didn't put myself in a<br />
position where it might come to that," says Harper ofnonviolent demonstrations .<br />
"Because I was going to strike back, and they would blame CORE oa it." 9<br />
Harper was impressed with Earnest Thomas at their first meeting. Thomas told<br />
Harper that the lack ofpolice protection in Minders was no anomaly ; that in most cities in<br />
'"WATS Line Report," 30 June 1965 ; Meier and Rudwick, CORE, p . 352 .<br />
SHarper, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
9Ibid .<br />
?67
the South "you wasn't going to receive much protection from the police, so we had to<br />
protect ourselves ." After the meeting, Thomas sent Harper membership cards and<br />
literature on the <strong>Deacons</strong> and Harper officially established a chapter and Fred Kirkpatrick<br />
became the principal liaison from Jonesboro . Thomas instructed Harper that the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
were strictly <strong>for</strong> self-defense and that he should "notify the sheriff's department, police<br />
department, and FBI" in the event of a problem.' °<br />
The Minden chapter began weekly meetings at CORE's <strong>Freedom</strong> House and other<br />
homes, coordinating closely with J. D . Hamilton's group . There was no need <strong>for</strong> patrols<br />
in the black community, but the <strong>Deacons</strong> did guard homes and escort marches . In<br />
contrast to Jonesboro and Bogalusa, the Minden chapter enjoyed a cooperative<br />
relationship with local police . The <strong>Deacons</strong> even assisted local police by furnishing them<br />
the names and auto license numbers ofindividuals who harassed civil rights workers .<br />
There was only one shooting incident and the <strong>Deacons</strong> subsequently guarded the<br />
activist's home and pressured the police into arresting the three white assailants . Harper<br />
believes that the low level of vigilante terror and police violence can be attributed to<br />
Minden's relatively enlightened white business leaders who reigned in the violent racist<br />
element ."<br />
The Minden chapter attracted approximately fifteen members and a much larger<br />
group of eager and willing supporters . The chapter comprised young men in their twenties<br />
and thirties, most ofthem military veterans and, because ofemployment at the nearby<br />
' °Ibid .<br />
"Investigative report, "<strong>Deacons</strong> of Defense and Justice, Inc : ' March 28, 1966,<br />
New Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no. 157-2466-120 ; Harper, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
?68
munitions plant, economically independent ofthe local white elite . Among the applicants<br />
were a number of zealous young men attracted to the romantic image and prestige that the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> offered. "They just wanted to have a pistol on," recalls Harper with a smile .<br />
'`They just wanted to shoot somebody . Yeah, we had them old radicals." Harper screened<br />
out the young hotheads in preference to military veterans who could "take an order" and<br />
"wouldn't just fire at random ."' =<br />
Although the Minders chapter did not flaunt their weapons as did other chapters,<br />
they were armedjust the same . On one occasion Harper was arrested <strong>for</strong> carrying a<br />
concealed weapon while guarding J . D. Hamilton . The FBI also visited Harper at his job<br />
in an attempt to intimidate him, peppering him with questions about illegal weapons and<br />
rumors of planned violent actions . Rather than feel intimidated, Harper found the FBI's<br />
attention encouraging . "It made me feel a little better, because it let me know that the<br />
word [about the <strong>Deacons</strong>] was getting around, that somebody else might be getting a little<br />
afraid--on the other side oftown," says Harper. "They figured that we nught be a little<br />
more powerful than we were<br />
."' 3<br />
Indeed, like other chapters, the Minders <strong>Deacons</strong> played on white fears and<br />
assumed as influence beyond their numbers . In the eyes ofwhites, the <strong>Deacons</strong> were<br />
synonymous with militant protest in Minders, and whites frequently attributed to the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> actions <strong>for</strong> which they had no responsibility. If there was nay sit-in or a protest,<br />
' =Ibid.<br />
"Ibid.<br />
?69
Harper recalls with amusement, "you could hear the white guys say : They ain't nothing<br />
but the <strong>Deacons</strong>:''<br />
Sometimes the mere presence ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> discouraged racist harassment . In<br />
one incident Harper received a report that whites were harassing blacks at a recently<br />
integrated public pool . Harper summoned the <strong>Deacons</strong>, and, to his astonishment, the<br />
word spread quickly and nearly two-hundred men arrived on the scene . The men exited<br />
their cars and began nonchalantly talking with the white adults around the swimming<br />
pool . The show of <strong>for</strong>ce brought a quick end to the harassment. To be safe, the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
sent <strong>for</strong> sandwiches and drinks and spent the rest ofthe day leaning against their cars,<br />
watching the children peacefully frolic in the pool .' s<br />
The spontaneous turnout ofmen during the pool incident demonstrated how the<br />
martial spirit of the <strong>Deacons</strong> was rapidly absorbed into the community as a whole . The<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> had rendered themselves obsolete. By 1967 integration was proceeding<br />
smoothly . "The city had gotten better, and the civil rights movement seemed to have<br />
moved on," says Harper . "And we started getting pretty good response from the police ."<br />
By the Fall of 1967 the Minden chapter faded away.' 6<br />
Just north of Minden was the site of another <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter. Homer, Louisiana<br />
is nestled in the pine hills ofNorth Louisiana, approximately an hour's drive from<br />
Jonesboro . Named after the Greek poet Homer, the city takes pride in its imposing Greek<br />
ia ~id .<br />
vsIbid.<br />
' 6Ibid. ; Investigative Report, New Orleans, November 27, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file<br />
no . 157-2466-2~0 .<br />
270
evival courthouse in the center of the town square . A chapter of the NAACP had existed<br />
in the 1940s and reorganized as the Claiborne Parish Civic League (CPCL) during the<br />
repression ofthe 1950s . The CPCL was a weak and timorous organization until January<br />
1965 when a small group of men led by Frederick Douglas Lewis infused the<br />
organization with a new militancy . Lewis was elected president ofthe CPLC and would<br />
also become the president ofthe Homer <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter .<br />
Lewis was a pugnacious and short-tempered man from Holsey Stop, Louisiana, a<br />
small settlement outside of Homer. For most of his adult life, Lewis was disabled and<br />
lived on disability benefits, providing him with a measure ofindependence . He attributed<br />
his commitment to the civil rights struggle to an incident from his childhood . He recalls<br />
that at the age of twelve, he once overheard a white man tell his father that he would not<br />
be permitted to vote. The young Fred Lewis adored his father and thought there was<br />
nothing he couldn't do--including vote . The injustice was etched is his mind <strong>for</strong>ever .<br />
'`And at that age, it never did leave me," recalls Lewis . "And I vowed right then, at the<br />
age of twelve, that if I ever got a chance, I was going to hit this thing a blow."" j<br />
The black community in Claiborne Parish resembled the independent industrial I 1<br />
working class communities of Jonesboro and Bogalusa . The lumber industry and a<br />
nearby munitions plant provided employment <strong>for</strong> many ofthe rugged descendants of<br />
wood cutters and yeoman farmers . Yet segregation remained entrenched in the spring of<br />
1965 . Fear overwhelmed the community as racist <strong>for</strong>ces torched four Black churches and<br />
two other buildings where voter registration had been conducted . In May 1965 Fred<br />
"Frederick Douglas Lewis, Interview by Miriam Feingold, ca. July 1966, tape<br />
recording, Miriam Feingold Papers, SHSW.<br />
271
Kirkpatrick began to organize in Homer, bringing in CORE task <strong>for</strong>ce members and a bus<br />
load of singing students from Jonesboro . At the same time Pam Smith, a young white<br />
student from Massachusetts, arrived to head up a CORE summer project in Homer.'$<br />
By the end of May, Kirkpatrick had organized a Homer chapter of the <strong>Deacons</strong>,<br />
with Fred Lewis serving as President. Since Lewis also served as president of the Civic<br />
League, the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the league were virtually indistinguishable . The <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
chapter had approximately twenty members and fiuictioned as the armed auxiliary ofthe<br />
Civic League, with their meetings often taking place along with the League's . Although<br />
Fred Lewis was technically the leader of the Homer <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter, George Dodd, a<br />
munitions worker, served as the principal coordinator <strong>for</strong> the chapter. Other officers<br />
included Otis Chatman, Joe Lester Green, and Fred Lewis's brother, George Lewis .' 9<br />
The summer of 1965 brought intensified activity by CORE in Homer. Pam Smith<br />
worked with local activists to organize mass meetings, desegregation tests, and<br />
nonviolent workshops . During the summer the CPCL presented a list of demands to the<br />
Mayor, School Board, and Parish Jury, calling <strong>for</strong> desegregation, administrative jobs and<br />
black police . The CPLC also targeted the black middle class, organizing a student march<br />
and community protest that <strong>for</strong>ced school officials to dismiss an unpopular black<br />
' BPam Smith and Dan Paik, "Follow-up Scouting Report , May 25, 1965," box 4,<br />
folder 12, CORE(SRO) ; "Field Report, Apri125 to Apri130, 1965," bax 4, folder 6,<br />
CORE(SRO) .<br />
' 9SAC, New Orleans to Director, June 24, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-<br />
18 and Investigative Report, New Orleans, August 17, 1965, FBI-Deacon file, no . 157-<br />
2466-41 .<br />
27?
principal at Mayfield High School . In addition, Lewis's CPLC had plans to oust five<br />
other black principals .'-°<br />
Initially local law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials were hostile toward the Homer <strong>Deacons</strong>,<br />
as was demonstrated by an incident involving one Deacon member, Harvey Malray.<br />
Malray was one ofthe first recruits to the <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter. Courageous but slightly<br />
eccentric, Malray prided himselfon being a member of an organization comprising, in his<br />
words, "classy people ." On June 26 Malray had been guarding a fish-fry fundraiser at the<br />
Masonic Hall . He left around midnight to go back to the <strong>Freedom</strong> House to receive his<br />
new assignment . As he strolled down the dark road with his shotgun cradled in his arm, a<br />
Homer policeman saw him and screeched his car to a halt. "Don't you know it's against<br />
the law to be walking up and down a road with a loaded shotgun?" asked the officer .<br />
Malray pulled out his wallet and proudly presented the officer with his <strong>Deacons</strong>'<br />
membership card--executing the gesture as ifthe card conferred obvious and indisputable<br />
rights . The flustered officer had to think <strong>for</strong> a moment, then, with a note of<br />
bewilderment, he retorted, "Still, I don't see anything on here about walking up and down<br />
a road with a loaded shotgun!"= '<br />
New rights gave birth to aew mea . Makay personified the way that the movement<br />
changed the black self-image and sense ofentitlement. Once the <strong>Deacons</strong> believed that<br />
=°Pam Smith, "Claiborne Parish (Homer) July 12, 1965," box 4, folder 6,<br />
CORE(SRO); Pam Smith, "Homer Report," 15 July 1965, box 4, folder 6, CORE(SRO) ;<br />
Lewis, Feingold interview.<br />
='"Statement of Harvey Malray," n .d ., box 4, folder 6, CORE(SRO); Harvey<br />
Malray, interview by author, 14 November 1993, Homer, Louisiana, tape recording .<br />
273
they had legal authority to exercise their rights, it was difficult <strong>for</strong> law en<strong>for</strong>cement to<br />
convince them otherwise .<br />
Makay managed to avoid arrest that night but three days later, police arrested him<br />
as he stood guard with his shotgun on the porch of the freedom house . While in jail<br />
Malray refused to cooperate with the FBI and was eventually bailed out after a few days.<br />
Malray persisted in his <strong>Deacons</strong>' activities, guarding marches in Homer and in Jonesboro<br />
where local police brutalized him . Years later when asked why he joined the <strong>Deacons</strong>,<br />
Malray's explanation was simple . "I just wanted something to do <strong>for</strong> the colored man, "<br />
said Malray .~=<br />
Change came slowly in Homer, but eventually public accommodations opened<br />
their doors, the library was desegregated, and the school system began implementing<br />
curriculum re<strong>for</strong>ms . City officials also hired two black officers in August of 1967 .<br />
Despite the shaky beginning, relations between the <strong>Deacons</strong> and Homer police improved .<br />
On August 20, 1967, the CPCL organized a march to the local school board and,<br />
amazingly, local officials asked the <strong>Deacons</strong> to provide five members to help police the<br />
march . Lewis did not mince words with the local officials when he described what they<br />
could expect from the <strong>Deacons</strong> . "You know that it's nonviolent," Lewis told the city<br />
officials, "but we can get violent ."=~<br />
'-'"WATS Line Report, June 29, 1965," box 1, folder 9, Monroe Project Files,<br />
CORE Papers, SHSW, Madison [hereinafter cited as CORE(Nionroe) ; Harvey Malray,<br />
interview by author, 11 November 1993, Homer, Louisiana, tape recording.<br />
=~Lewis, Feingold interview .<br />
27=1
More meaningful was the change in black men in Homer. After only seven<br />
months o<strong>for</strong>ganizing, the Homer <strong>Deacons</strong> felt confident enough to stage a remarkable<br />
nighttime rally in Homer . On New Years Eve, 1965, approximately fifty <strong>Deacons</strong> from<br />
surrounding chapters in Jonesboro, Minden, and Grambling assembled along with local<br />
men <strong>for</strong> a night ofcelebration in an empty lot owned by Reverend T. L. Green, also a<br />
Deacon member . As midnight drew near, the <strong>Deacons</strong> hoisted an effigy of a Klansman,<br />
marked with a crudely penned sign saying simply, "Whitey." The men lit the Klan effigy<br />
and roared with hoots and laughter as it burned to ashes . The Klan was vanquished into<br />
the night .'''<br />
The Homer chapter operated throughout 1965 and appears to have faded out after<br />
black officers were added to the city police <strong>for</strong>ce . A third <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter was<br />
established in North Louisiana in Tallulah, a tiny cotton town in the Northeast comer of<br />
the state . In May 1965, Gary Craven, a young CORE task <strong>for</strong>ce member, reported the<br />
"beginnings of a <strong>Deacons</strong> of Defense and Justice Chapter in Tallulah ." But the chapter<br />
had little to do . Tallulah was a black-majority commututy with several black policemen<br />
who provided adequate protection . And Tallulah's black community had a <strong>for</strong>midable<br />
and fearless leader, Zelma Wyche, who was eventually elected Chiefof Police . One<br />
CORE volunteer found the level ofarmed defense startling. "The day be<strong>for</strong>e I arrived to<br />
Tallulah, the Ku Klux Klan marched in the city," wrote John L. Gee. "The Klan was told<br />
=~Haiper, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
?75
y the sheriff ofTallulah, that the Negroes were armed and they wouldn't be unarmed.<br />
The people ofthe town also marched with their guns ."'~<br />
The short-lived Tallulah chapter did manage to organize a more active <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
chapter south of Tallulah in Ferriday, Louisiana . Ferriday was the the birthplace of singer<br />
Jerry Lee Lewis and his cousin, controversial television evangelist Jimmy Swaggart . The<br />
town's fame <strong>for</strong> pop icons was only exceeded by its notoriety <strong>for</strong> human rights violations .<br />
Racist repression was so severe that no church or fraternal organization would host civil<br />
rights activities . Young ci~~il rights activists were reduced to driving through the black<br />
commutity with a bullhorn to announce makeshift rallies held in empty lots . -6<br />
Ferriday sits across the Mississippi river from Natchez, Mississippi . Although the<br />
city had a 63 percent black majority, a white minority ruled the city with a SherifFs office<br />
that one activist characterized as "Klan ridden ." The black community had been besieged<br />
by Klan and police violence . On December 14, 1965, Frank Moms, a Ferriday civil<br />
rights leader, was burned to death at his home in as unsolved arson . One month later a<br />
local black grocery was fire bombed. In February 1965, racists firebombed two white<br />
nightclubs, the "Farm House" and the "Silver Dollar Club," in retaliation <strong>for</strong> hiring black<br />
bands .'-'<br />
'~Oretha Castle and Gary Craven to unidentified, 26 May 1965, box 5, folder 6,<br />
CORE(SRO) . FBI sources also confirmed that a chapter had been established in Tallulah.<br />
See "Investigative Report," March 28,1966, New Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> File no . 157<br />
2466-120; John L . Gee to David Dennis, ~ca . December 1965], Ferriday, Louisiana, box<br />
1, folder 1, Ferriday <strong>Freedom</strong> Movement Files, CORE Papers, SHSW [hereinafter cited<br />
as CORE(FFM)] .<br />
-6Whatley , <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
'-'Louisiana Weekly, 2 January 1965 ; Meldon Acheson to unidentified, 10 August<br />
1965, Ferriday, Louisiana, Meldon Acheson Papers, SHSW, Madison; "Chronology of<br />
276
"Nearly everyone seemed to be paralyzed by fear of the Ku Klux Klan," wrote<br />
Meldon Acheson, a young CORE worker from Tucson . Fear was so rampant that CORE<br />
workers could not find lodging in Ferriday's black community, <strong>for</strong>cing them to commute<br />
from Alexandria to establish a summer project in July 1965 . David Whatley, a local 18-<br />
year-old activist, saw economic intimidation as another major source of fear in<br />
Ferriday . "The older people were afraid, because they had jobs that placed them in<br />
white peoples houses as domestic workers, they were afraid to lose their jobs," said<br />
Whatley . "If they found out that their children were involved, they gave them an<br />
ultimatum : `you get them out or you <strong>for</strong>get the job' . "Zs<br />
CORE's reception in the black community got offto a bizarre start when two<br />
black men brutally beat the first white CORE staffer who visited Ferriday . Local civil<br />
rights leaders suspected that the two men were acting at the behest of local authorities .<br />
Finally, on July 13, a Ferriday black man offered CORE one of his rental properties .<br />
Three days later the Klan firebombed his home, and the man asked the CORE workers to<br />
move . The Klan then issued an ultimatum that the CORE task <strong>for</strong>ce had to leave by<br />
Saturday, July 17 .'-9<br />
Instead of retreating, CORE <strong>for</strong>ged ahead and organized their first meeting on the<br />
same day as the Klan's deadline, July 17 . CORE met with a group ofthirty interested<br />
high school youth who also expressed interest in <strong>for</strong>ming a <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter . But by July<br />
Events in Concordia Parish," 30 January 1966, box 4, folder 7, CORE (SRO) .<br />
=$Meldon Acheson to Gary Greenberg . 17 July 1965, Meldon Acheson Papers ;<br />
Whatley, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
'9 "WATS line report," 3 July 1965, box 1, folder 3, CORE(SRO) .<br />
277
20 work came to a standstill because locals were afraid to attend a meeting . While Mel<br />
Acheson and two other CORE workers waited to return to Alexandria, a white man<br />
viciously attacked and beat Acheson, blackening his eyes . Local blacks drove away the<br />
attacker and word ofthe attack spread quickly. Within thirty minutes an angry crowd of<br />
more than 250 blacks gathered . The CORE workers seized the opportunity and Archie<br />
Hunter, a Brooklyn native, mounted a car and began leading freedom songs . The police<br />
soon arrived and arrested Hunter <strong>for</strong> inciting a riot . But the silence had been broken.<br />
"Suddenly several people offered to let us stay with them," said Acheson . The issue now<br />
became one of honor. "The negro community feels guilty about letting 2 beatingw : :cur<br />
in their neighborhood," reported Acheson, "so I walk around with my black eye and<br />
people can't get involved fast enough ." In addition, a self-defense group was born<br />
overnight in Ferriday when "several local guys got their guns and guarded us that night<br />
and plan to continue as long as we're here."" Later that night electric and phone services<br />
were cut in the black community, and the Klan firebombed two homes and shot into the<br />
home ofCORE sympathizer Martha Boyd . Boyd was prepared and fired back at the<br />
nightriders, smashing their windshield .3o<br />
The incident sparked a rally of more than three-hundred on July 21 . Building on<br />
the momentum, CORE organized a mass meeting on July 24 which attracted 250<br />
participants, but, to CORE's dismay, almost all were children and teenagers. On the<br />
s°"Louisiana CORE Newsletter ." [ca . Summer, 1965], Feingold Collection ;<br />
Meldon Acheson to Mr . a~ Mrs . Robert Acheson, 22 July 1965, reprinted in<br />
"Richland Boy Beaten in Louisiana CORE Mission-Letter to Parents Outlines," a<br />
leaflet distributed by the Richland awl Ollie Methodist Churches, Richla~l, Iowa, n .d .,<br />
Meldon Acheson Papers ; and "Report 7-21-65 by Jim Peters on Ferriday," 22 July<br />
1965, box 4, folder 7, CORE (SRO).<br />
278
same day CORE met with twenty-four teenagers and <strong>for</strong>med their mass organizing<br />
vehicle, the <strong>Freedom</strong> Ferriday Movement (FFM) . A group of high school students<br />
immediately began circulating a petition door to door, and obtained nearly eight-hundred<br />
signatures calling <strong>for</strong> federal protection of "their rights, property, and persons ." The<br />
petition was sent to Attorney General Katzenbach, along with the threat that citizens<br />
would "take measures to protect themselves ifthe federal government did not<br />
intervene.""<br />
At the mass meeting on July 24, a small group ofyoung people decided to <strong>for</strong>m a<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' chapter. They were assisted by several CORE staffers who had worked with<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> in Tallulah, including Artis Ray Dawson . The chapter initially attracted only<br />
a few members who patrolled during rallies and protected activists' homes at night . 3-'<br />
The conditions were so perilous in Ferriday that CORE staffers welcomed the<br />
presence of the <strong>Deacons</strong> . "You should realize, I think, that most people in CORE are<br />
committed to nonviolence only as a tactic," Meldon Acheson wrote. "For many, it stops<br />
at the end of a demonstration or when the day's work is thru. Most take self-defense at<br />
night <strong>for</strong> granted (protecting the home, and all that) ." The armed guards had made the<br />
"Meldon Acheson to Mr . Garry Greenberg, Ferriday, Louisiana, 27 July<br />
1965, Meldon Acheson Papers ; Meldon Acheson to Mr. Garry Greenberg, Ferriday,<br />
Louisiana, 17 August 1965, Meldon Acheson Papers. The youthful FFM found itself<br />
competing with an older moderate organization : Father August Thompson, a black priest,<br />
headed up the Civic League which was attempting to bring about biracial talks . See<br />
Fairclough, Race and Democracy, p . 401 ; and Pat Scharber, `2legro Pastor Says People<br />
Have Love, But Frustrated, (St. Paul, Minnesota) Catholic Bulletin, September 1965,<br />
found in box 1, folder 6, CORE(FFM) .<br />
3=Archie Hunter, "Report," 24 July 241965, Ferriday, box 4, folder 7, CORE<br />
(SRO); David Whatley, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
279
night riders edgy as well . Acheson reported that the Klan did not linger in the black<br />
neighborhoods . Their tactic was to speed by a house and toss ``a badly-made molotov<br />
cocktail (usually a gallon jug of gasoline, burning rag on top)" out ofthe car, and then<br />
making a hasty retreat into the night. 3'<br />
CORE enjoyed modest success through the rest of the summer, organizing<br />
additional marches (though still dominated by children), a voter registration drive, a<br />
boycott of the local movie theater, and several desegregation tests . Their successes<br />
were remarkable given the age and inexperience of their front line . At a test of<br />
Walgreens' lunch counter, one nervous young participant gulped down his coke and,<br />
looking around at his fellow testers, nervously exclaimed, "What's taking you so long .<br />
Let's go! ""<br />
Meldon Acheson made a sober and honest assessment of CORE's summer project<br />
which came to as end on August 23 . CORE had emphasized voter registration as a "safe"<br />
project that would provide experience <strong>for</strong> the youth and enable them to move onward to<br />
desegregation projects, said Acheson . But the youth had little interest in voter<br />
registration, admitted Acheson, and only action could break the grip of fear . "The<br />
negroes are still very much afraid of the Klan and similar groups, as well as the police,<br />
"Acheson said . "But the fear is beginniung to channel itself into action instead of the<br />
paralysis we found when we came to Ferriday . . . the determination of the youth, and<br />
a3Meldon Acheson to unidentified, Ferriday, Louisiana, 30 July 1965, Meldon<br />
Acheson Papers.<br />
3aMeldon Acheson to Mr. Gamy Greenberg, Ferriday, Louisiana, August 17, 1965,<br />
Meldon Acheson Papers .<br />
?SO
their example ofovercoming fear, has begun to catch hold of their parents and<br />
neighbors ." 3s<br />
But there was still ample reason <strong>for</strong> fear . The Klan renewed their attacks as soon<br />
as CORE departed Ferriday . In September, Klansman from Mississippi attacked one<br />
dozen blacks picketing the Arcadia Theater and nightriders firebombed two more<br />
homes . The Ferriday <strong>Deacons</strong>' chapter was not much help . Victor Graham had assumed<br />
leadership ofthe chapter, but the group was on shaky ground . Graham was unable to<br />
organize regular meetings and had difficulty recruiting a sufficient number of adult men .'6<br />
In the fall of 1965, Robert "Buck" Lewis, became President of the FFM and<br />
immediately began to reinvigorate the organization . Lewis was one of the few adults in<br />
the FFM and was also a college student at Grambling University . On November 20,<br />
the Klan fire bombed Lewis's house, and when Lewis, with a gun at his side,<br />
summoned the police, he was arrested <strong>for</strong> aggravated assault in a subsequent argument<br />
with police . Lewis was unfazed by the bombing and arrest, and the following Sunday<br />
the FFM leader led 150 marchers in a protest against the black Rufus Baptist Church<br />
<strong>for</strong> refusing to allow the FFM to hold meetings at the church. The unwillingness of the<br />
local black clergy to aid the movement was a constant problem <strong>for</strong> Ferriday activists .<br />
3s ~id .<br />
'6Louisiana Weekly, 13 November 1965 ; "Chronology, January 1966" ; The first<br />
ef<strong>for</strong>ts to organize a chapter in Ferriday are noted in "Non-Prosecutive Summary Report,"<br />
New Orleans, October 14, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-73 .<br />
?81
'So far the Ministers have been making excuses ." David Whatley reported to the<br />
CORE regional office, "and in general just `plain scared]' ."s'<br />
The Original Ku Klux Klan (OKKK) responded to the FFM campaign by calling<br />
on whites to refuse to negotiate with the civil rights protectors . The OKKK distributed a<br />
leaflet that chastised government and business leaders in nearby Natchez <strong>for</strong> negotiating<br />
with blacks . Surprisingly, the Klan broadsheet argued that violence was "not the<br />
answer since it would "only produce more violence :' Instead, the OKKK advocated<br />
<strong>for</strong>ming an "economic leadership council" and urged Ferriday businesses, who were<br />
benefitting from business created by the Natchez boycott, to fire their black employees .<br />
Blacks needed the white man to survive, said the OKKK, but "no longer does the White<br />
man in Coacordia Parish need the Negro ." In the world of mechanization, "our cotton<br />
crops, our bean corps [sic] and other stable [sic] production can be produced without the<br />
Negro hand once touching it."<br />
The gain you are making today is going to be the hand that makes you slave of the<br />
very Negro from which You are gaining . The all powerful civic and business<br />
groups can stop this ifthey wish to . They can begin by starting to eliminate the<br />
Negro employees now .' 8<br />
Police also joined in on the assault oa the struggling Ferriday campaign . On<br />
November 30, two <strong>Deacons</strong>, Vernoa Smith and Joe Davis were patrolling around 10:00<br />
p.m . when city police stopped and arrested them <strong>for</strong> carrying a shotgun in the back seat<br />
""<strong>Freedom</strong> Ferriday Movement Release," 23 November 1965 ; Louisiana<br />
Weekly, 4 December 1965 ; David Whatley to Rev. Willie Johnson, 29 December 1965,<br />
Ferriday, Louisiana, box 1, folder 1, CORE(FF11r1) .<br />
3gOriginal Ku Klux Klan, Realm of Louisiana, Concordia Parish, "The Fiery<br />
Cross," November 1965, box 1, folder 15, CORE(FFM) .
and a pistol in the glove compartrnent. Artis Dawson, a Deacon leader, and David<br />
Whatley went to the jail to inquire about the arrested <strong>Deacons</strong> and were themselves later<br />
arrested by the police .' 9<br />
Three days later, on December 2, racists fired into three buildings in the black<br />
community, including Calhoum's Grocery and David Whatley's house . On the evening<br />
of December 18, a gas station owned by Anthony McRaney, a member of the <strong>Deacons</strong>,<br />
mysteriously burned down following an explosion. The damage to the station was<br />
compounded by the fact that McRaney's insurance company had recently canceled his<br />
insurance . Similar cancellation had occurred with two black churches that had been<br />
active in voter registration in Ferriday.~°<br />
But the attacks on the <strong>Deacons</strong> backfired, breathing life into the <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter .<br />
By December the chapter had twenty-three members and was meeting weekly . They<br />
conducted all-night patrols equipped with walkie-talkies, personal weapons, and three<br />
semiautomatic carbines . A large part oftheir responsibility was to guard the young<br />
activist David Whately. It was rumored that the Klan had offered a $1,000 reward <strong>for</strong> the<br />
assassination of David Whatley . Whatley had been a special target <strong>for</strong> the Klan since the<br />
Fall of 1965, when he singlehandedly integrated the local white high school . Whatley<br />
endured intense harassment at the school. Teachers left the classroom when he entered ;<br />
CORE(FFM) .<br />
s9 "Statement by Vernon Smith," box 1, folder 14, 30 November 1965,<br />
'°"Statement by David Whatley," 3 December, 1965, CORE(FFM), GMHP ;<br />
Louisiana Weekly, 4 December 1965 . Louisiana Weekly, 25 December 1995 ; "Negro<br />
Gas Station Burned after Insurance Canceled : Violence Continues in Ferriday, LA .,"<br />
News Release, Ferriday, Louisiana, 19 December 1965, CORE(FFM) .<br />
283
students screamed racial epithets at him inside the school ; snakes were placed in his<br />
locker and his clothes were stuffed into the toilet during physical education class. When<br />
he played football during physical education class, his own teammates would tackle him .<br />
Coming to and from the school, Whatley had to walk through a gauntlet of Klansmen<br />
who routinely waited outside the school to harass him . In response, the <strong>Deacons</strong> posted<br />
guards at his home which also doubled as the CORE headquarters . Whatley wrote the<br />
New Orleans CORE office that he clung to life "only by the grace of God and the<br />
tiresome and lonely Gardshifts [sick that we are undergoing every night from six o'clock<br />
until six thirty A.M."~~<br />
In the early hours of January 29, 1966, Joseph Davis and Charley Whatley, two<br />
Deacon members, were standing guard at David Whatley's house in the cold black<br />
night . The guard shifts lasted <strong>for</strong> twelve long hours, and by 3 :00 a.m . the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
were chilled to the bone and decided to go inside the house to warm themselves .<br />
Within a few minutes, two cars quietly pulled in front of Whatley's home . A white<br />
man exited one of the cars, lit the fuse of a dynamite bomb, and tossed it at the house .<br />
Joseph Davis heard the suspicious sounds outside and rushed to the door, catching a<br />
glimpse of the fleeing bomber . He fired off a round from a .22 caliber pistol and then<br />
grabbed a shotgun and fired a second round at the fleeing cars . Seconds later the<br />
`Investigative Report, New Orleans, December 30, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file 157-<br />
2466-102 . A "guard shift" book is one of the few remaining written records ofthe selfdefense<br />
group in Fenzday. See, "Guard Note Booklet," ca . December 1965, Ferriday,<br />
Louisiana, box 1, folder 16, CORE(FF1V1) ; Whatley, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; David L . Whatley,<br />
"Autobiography ofDavid Lee Whatley, n .d ., n .p . author's possession ; David L, Whatley,<br />
"Field Report ofConcordia Parish, LA .," Ferriday, Louisiana, 29 January 1966,<br />
CORE(FF1Vl), GN1HP .<br />
8=1
dynamite bomb exploded underneath the bedroom window where David Whatley and<br />
another CORE worker were sleeping . The two young men miraculously survived the<br />
bombing unscathed ; the first stick of dynamite had ignited prematurely and had blown<br />
the fuse off the second stick, reducing the impact of the bomb .°2<br />
By February 1966, the Ferriday <strong>Deacons</strong>' chapter slipped into inactivity, primarily<br />
because of reduced interest and scarce funds <strong>for</strong> gas <strong>for</strong> patrolling. But the Klan was not<br />
through. On March 16, 1966, the Klan held an open rally and in May several crosses<br />
were burned, including one near Deacon member Anthony McRaney's gas station and<br />
another at the high school that David Whatley had integrated .y3<br />
With the <strong>Deacons</strong> in disarray, the FFM desperately needed a new defense group .<br />
A new group of CORE workers had arrived in Ferriday 1966, among them was an<br />
African student Ahmed Saud Ibriahim Kahafei Abboud Najah--bmown to local activists as<br />
simply Najah. Najah helped organize a new paramilitary defense group appropriately<br />
called the "Snipers ." He selected approximately nine young men and provided them i<br />
training in martial arts . John Hamilton, one ofthe CORE staffers assigned to Ferriday,<br />
encouraged the Snipers and hoped that the young group might motivate the older <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
to reactivate. Although never well organized, the Snipers managed to equip themselves<br />
with walkie talkies and began to provide security <strong>for</strong> local activists . Seven ofthe Snipers<br />
guarded David Whatley when he and his date integrated the high school prom . In the<br />
°'-Whatley, "Autobiography" ; David L . Whatley, "Field Report of Concordia<br />
Parish, LA ."<br />
'Investigative report, "<strong>Deacons</strong> of Defense and Justice, Inc.," March 28, 1966,<br />
New Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-120 .<br />
28~<br />
j<br />
I
event ofan emergency, Whatley's date concealed a walkie talkie in her purse so that she<br />
could signal the Snipers who were patrolling outside the high school . The prom<br />
proceeded without incident, primarily because ofa strong presence of law en<strong>for</strong>cement<br />
officials, but the teenage Snipers were poised to act if called upon :~<br />
Young people remained the backbone of the militant movement in Ferriday, and<br />
by the spring 1966, with the Snipers in full bloom, there were additional signs that fear<br />
was on the retreat . In response to a Klan leaflet, an anonymous black poet penned a<br />
poem that was printed and distributed in white neighborhoods :<br />
As I began to read it my anger grew and bigger,<br />
Because the first line read, "Dear Nigger. "<br />
They've scared the people and have them upset .<br />
But I' Il get one of those peckerwoods yet .<br />
They still think I'm scared of ghosts .<br />
'Little is know about Najah or his place o<strong>for</strong>igin. There is a small collection of<br />
his donated by Miriam Feingold at the SHSW . See, El Ahmed Saud Ibriahim Kahafei<br />
Abboud Najah Papers, SHSW, Madison, Wisconsin ; On the Snipers, see : John Hamilton<br />
to Richard Haley [sic], 22 March 1966, Ferriday, Louisiana, box 1, folder 5,<br />
CORE(FFM) ; John Hamilton to Mr. Haley, Ferriday, Louisiana, May 1966,<br />
CORE(FFM) ; Unknown to Haley [sic], ca . April 1966, Ferriday, Louisiana, box 1,<br />
folder 5, CORE(FFM) ; John Hamilton to Haley (sic], 16 April 1966, Ferriday,<br />
Louisiana, box 1, folder 5,CORE ; and John Hamilton to Haily [sic], ca . May<br />
1966, Ferriday, Louisiana, box 1, folder 5, CORE(FFM) . Najah's paramilitary<br />
training ef<strong>for</strong>ts were not well received at CORE national New York office . "You<br />
indicated that Najah was teaching you Judo, well all that's good, however, we sent<br />
Najah a check <strong>for</strong> $50.00 <strong>for</strong> carfare to New York," wrote Fran Crayton from the<br />
national office . " . . .and to this date we have not seen nor heard from him. . .Please<br />
indicate to Najah our total disgust in the way he handled himself in this situation .<br />
Fran Crayton to John Hamilton, 23 April 1966, New York, box 1, folder 1,<br />
CORE(FFM) .<br />
286
But I'll send them to hell with the DEVIL as their host .<br />
When things are good and going alright<br />
PECKERWOOD stay from around my house at night .<br />
Because after reading the FIERY CROSS .<br />
I'm still the boss .<br />
To find out who's the best you need a good distinguisher,<br />
So I hope you understand -- THE FIERY CROSS EXTINGUISHER4s<br />
The militant spirit of the poem reflected a general shift toward Black Power<br />
politics among young blacks in the summer of 1966 . In August 1966, Lincoln Lynch,<br />
CORE's leading Black Power militant, toured Louisiana <strong>for</strong> a series of speakiag<br />
engagements that culminated in CORE <strong>for</strong>ming the "Louisiana Youth <strong>for</strong> Black Power"<br />
organi2ation . The new Black Power group had representatives from fourteen parishes--<br />
mostly CORE strongholds--with Ferriday's David Whatley serving as its first President'6<br />
Whatley was drafted into the army in the Fall of 1966 and the <strong>Deacons</strong> and<br />
Snipers both faded away . Robert Lewis, the <strong>for</strong>mer leader ofthe FFM, became the<br />
~s "The Fiery Cross Extinguisher," Ferriday, Louisiana, spriag 1966, Meldon<br />
Acheson Papers .<br />
Louisiana Weekly, 27 August 1966 . Other officers included Steven Ward,<br />
Bogalusa, vice-president ; Lillie Mae Thompson, Bogalusa, assistant-secretary ; and<br />
Willie Jackson, Lake Providence, treasurer.<br />
~s7
president of a new NAACP chapter, and he, along with other civil rights groups,<br />
eventually prevailed and <strong>for</strong>ced city leaders to negotiate their demands in 1967 . °'<br />
In South Louisiana the Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> took the lead in organizing new<br />
chapters. The Bogalusa group visited several towns where CORE had a presence and<br />
developed two chapters and numerous contacts . In Point Coupee Parish, where CORE<br />
had done some organizing, the <strong>Deacons</strong> had at least one very interesting member :<br />
Abraham Phillips, a leftist and veteran organizer who once worked as a labor organizer<br />
<strong>for</strong> the communist-run SCU . There was also a scattering of cities further South along the<br />
Mississippi River where the <strong>Deacons</strong> advised and assisted local activists . Among these<br />
was Plaquemine, a longtime CORE stronghold, Burns, and Donaldsonville . Although the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> did not establish functioning chapters in any ofthese communities, the visits did<br />
provide an opportunity to popularize their philosophy of self-defense . .°s<br />
New Orleans was the site of the first chapter in South Louisiana . The chapter was<br />
founded by Aubrey Wood, a Texan by birth who served in the Army during World War II<br />
and settled in San Francisco following the war. Wood became involved in civil rights<br />
protests in San Francisco in 1947 . He was a seasoned activist by the time he arrived in<br />
New Orleans in 1956 . While working as longshoreman in New Orleans, Wood met<br />
4'SAC, New Orleans to Director, February 6, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-<br />
2466-199 ; Fairclough, Race andDemocracy, p . 401 .<br />
°BRobin G. Kelly, Hammer andHoe: Alabama Communists During the Great<br />
Depression, (Chapel <strong>Hill</strong> : University ofNorth Carolina Press, 1990) p . 169 . Thanks to<br />
Arthur Carpenter <strong>for</strong> this citation ; Royan Bums, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Henry Austin, <strong>Hill</strong><br />
interview . Bill Yates reported that in May, 1965 Charlie Suns traveled to Donaldsonville<br />
on several occasions and met with CORE staffand local people . See, Bill Yates,<br />
"Memo," 6 May 1965, box 4, folder 3, CORE(SRO).<br />
288
Reverend Avery Alexander, a legendary figure in the local civil rights movement .<br />
Working with Alexander, Wood became active in the New Orleans movement and<br />
eventually left longshore work and established a small restaurant at Jackson and Dryades,<br />
in the heart ofthe black shopping district . He directed the Consumer League's picket<br />
committee during the leagues' boycott of white businesses on Dryades Street, and he also<br />
advised the NAACP Youth organization when they began picketing stores on Canal<br />
Street, New Orleans' premiere shopping district . When CORE descended on New<br />
Orleans in 1962, they set up an office in the same building that housed Wood's restaurant .<br />
Wood extended his hospitality to the energetic and idealistic young activists ; frequently<br />
the only meal the task <strong>for</strong>ce workers had was the free repast offered by Wood . °9<br />
Wood first learned about the <strong>Deacons</strong> when he traveled to Jonesboro with Oretha<br />
Castle to help install plumbing in the new buildings that replaced two churches destroyed<br />
by arson in January of 1965 . He admired what the <strong>Deacons</strong> had accomplished . "To be<br />
where they were, and have the feeling of courage to do what they did, yeah, they<br />
impressed me very much ." s°<br />
Wood discussed <strong>for</strong>ming a chapter while he stayed in Jonesboro <strong>for</strong> several days .<br />
"I started talking to the <strong>Deacons</strong> up there and I got a copy oftheir charter," recalls Wood.<br />
"Their charter was in line with my thinking, so I became involved with them ." Although<br />
he managed to avoid any direct confrontation with the Klaa in Jonesboro, the little<br />
Southern town offered a few tense moments . On one occasion he was guarding the<br />
°9Aubry Wood, interview by author, 21 February, 1989, New Orleans, Louisiana,<br />
tape recording .<br />
so lid .<br />
289
freedom house in Jonesboro with a group of local men . "The place was just crowded,"<br />
recalls Wood . But then the crowd started to thin out . "Say, around 3 :30, somebody would<br />
leave . Around 4:00 some more would leave. When it come around 6 :30, it was getting<br />
dark, the last of them left--- and left me there alone ." Abandoned in a strange house in<br />
the dark of night, sitting lone vigil only blocks from the Klan's rallying point, Wood was<br />
understandably anxious . "Didn't nothing happen," says Wood, "but it was a hell of a<br />
feeling."s '<br />
Wood <strong>for</strong>med the New Orleans <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter in the spring of 1965 and became<br />
its first and only president. But there was little to do <strong>for</strong> a chapter in New Orleans . The<br />
Klan was never strong in the Cradle ofJazz and mob violence on the picket lines had<br />
disappeared by 1965 . So most ofthe New Orleans chapter's activities centered on<br />
assisting the Bogalusa chapter and transporting visitors between New Orleans and<br />
Bogalusa, with Wood traveling to Bogalusa almost every week . s'-<br />
Wood recruited approximately fifteen members to his chapter, many of them<br />
longshoremen, personal friends, and drinking buddies who frequented the Dew Drop Inn<br />
on LaSalle street . The executive committee met weekly and general members met<br />
monthly . Members paid modest dues to cover gas and other expenses . Wood recalls his<br />
s ~Ibid.<br />
s=0n the New Orleans <strong>Deacons</strong> Chapter, see Investigative Report "<strong>Deacons</strong> of<br />
Defense and Justice," New Orleans, January 10, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no. 157-2466-<br />
104 ; Investigative Report, July 21,1966, New Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466<br />
152 ; and Investigative Report, New Orleans, November 27, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no .<br />
157-2466-250 .<br />
290
experience with the <strong>Deacons</strong> with unabashed pride . "When you're a Deacon," said<br />
Wood, "you walk tall ." ss<br />
Law en<strong>for</strong>cement in New Orleans also took note ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> . After the<br />
291 'i<br />
passage ofthe Voting Rights legislation, Wood frequently visited the Registrar of Voters ~i<br />
office to help register new voters . These visits often led to confrontations with city<br />
officials . On one occasion Wood, in his words, started "raising hell" and "talking loud,"<br />
and soon found himself handcuffed and arrested . "When I got back to the first precinct,<br />
they was going through my wallet to see ifthere was any identification," says Wood. j<br />
"And when they seen that membership card <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense, they said,<br />
`Ohhh. This nigger here is the one . He's a Deacon' ." sa<br />
'The New Orleans chapter helped spread the <strong>Deacons</strong>' creed ofself-defense<br />
through speaking events and television appearances . Charlie Sims made a presentation<br />
with Wood at the International Longshoreman's Association Hall on Claiborne Avenue in<br />
1965 . Wood also appeared on a local television show in which the interviewer asked<br />
what he thought of communism . "I don't know nothing about no communism," Wood<br />
replied tersely. "I don't know nothing about our capitalistic system we have here,<br />
because you ain't allowed me to paRicipate ." ss<br />
In February 1966, Joseph P . Henry, Jr ., executive secretary of the New Orleans<br />
chapter made a strange request ofthe FBI. Henry contacted the New Orleans FBI office<br />
s3 Wood, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
said .<br />
ss «<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice Rally," October 1965, broadsheet, Political<br />
Ephemera Collection, Special Collections, Tulane Utiversity Library, Tulane University,<br />
New Orleans, Louisiana ; Wood, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .
and asked <strong>for</strong> a representative to participate in a public debate on "law and citizenship"<br />
which the <strong>Deacons</strong> were organizing . The proposed debate was to include the Mayor of<br />
New Orleans and representatives of several civil rights organizations . The FBI declined<br />
the invitation, instead offering to send the <strong>Deacons</strong> several copies of an official FBI<br />
pamphlet titled, "The FBI, Guardian of Civil Rights ." It was an ironic gesture by a law<br />
en<strong>for</strong>cement organization that had worked assiduously to deprive the <strong>Deacons</strong> of their<br />
rights s6<br />
The New Orleans chapter experienced some difficulties as a consequence ofthe<br />
July 1965 Alton Crowe shooting. After the incident, Henry Austin, the Deacon assailant,<br />
was moved out ofBogalusa <strong>for</strong> his own protection and assigned to the New Orleans<br />
chapter. Wood was not pleased with his new colleague . "They kind of disorganized us<br />
here, by him being here," says Wood . "When the publicity got out that he was in New<br />
Orleans and that he was a Deacon, well that kind of frightened off some of our people."<br />
Despite the problems posed by his presence, Austin assisted the New Orleans chapter in<br />
several organizing <strong>for</strong>ays into adjacent Plaquemines Parish, the dominion oflegendary<br />
racist Judge Leander Perez . The New Orleans chapter contemplated organizing chapters<br />
in Burns and Boothville in Plaquemines, but the level of interest was not sufficient . In<br />
addition, geography worked against creating any chapters in Plaquemines . The parish is a<br />
narrow strip of land that follows the Mississippi river to the Gulf of Mexico . Only one<br />
highway runs through the parish : and with the river on one side, and an alligator infested<br />
swamp on the other, the highway made a poor escape route . The <strong>Deacons</strong> had engaged in<br />
2466-111 .<br />
ssNew Orleans, SAC to Director, February 8, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-<br />
292
enough high-speed chases with the Klan that they understood the importance of having<br />
multiple escape routes . Austin thought it was "suicide" to establish a chapter unless local<br />
members were willing to shoot their way out ofthe Parish, and, in Austin's opinion, they<br />
were not. s '<br />
Austin eventually left the Crescent City <strong>for</strong> the North, and the New Orleans<br />
chapter continued on until 1967 . The only other <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter in South Louisiana was<br />
organized in historic St. Francisville in West Helena Parish . An idyllic town on the<br />
Mississippi river, St . Francisville was replete with antebellum mansions and majestic oak<br />
canopies . CORE established a beachhead in St. Francisville in 1963, but the town<br />
remained one ofthe most impenetrable areas <strong>for</strong> CORE . Task <strong>for</strong>ce members found a<br />
community immobilized by fear, with black workers in the surrounding sweet potato<br />
farms living in virtual servitude . After a few years ofmeager progress, CORE abandoned<br />
the river towns$<br />
Local activists took up the banner after CORE's departure and by 1967 the<br />
movement revived under local leadership . As civil rights activities increased, so too did<br />
the need <strong>for</strong> protection . The Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter assisted in <strong>for</strong>ming a St.<br />
Francisville chapter through the aegis ofthe St. Francisville Voters League, headed by a<br />
young militant, Reverend George Noflin . The St. Francisville <strong>Deacons</strong> constituted I<br />
something of a family enterprise : Noflin's two brothers, John and David, served as I~<br />
S'Investigative report "<strong>Deacons</strong> ofDefense and Justice, Inc .," March 28, 1966,<br />
New Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-120 ; Austin, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
SgWood, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
293<br />
I<br />
i<br />
i<br />
I .<br />
I
officers in the <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter . Leo Johnson served as chapter president, presiding over<br />
a total active membership of approximately fifteen s9<br />
Because of the intense repression, the St . Francisville <strong>Deacons</strong> operated covertly,<br />
limiting themselves to guarding the homes of civil rights activists . But as time<br />
progressed they became involved in day-to-day protest activities . In 1967 the St .<br />
Francisville chapter organized a picket protest against the "Red and White" department<br />
store in downtown St . Francisville . Racist opponents frequently harassed the protectors,<br />
and in February 1968 a white man attempted to run a pickup truck between the pickets.<br />
The State Police alsojoined in harassing protectors, arresting approximately thirty-five<br />
blacks on various traffic violations oa the weekend of February 24-25 . The St .<br />
Francisville chapter continued to be active until the 1970s, then quietly disbanded.°<br />
Mississippi was also prime organizing territory <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> . On August 29,<br />
1965, Charlie Suns and a nine man delegation of <strong>Deacons</strong> traveled to Jackson,<br />
Mississippi to attend a meeting ofthe Mississippi <strong>Freedom</strong> Democratic Party (MFDP) .<br />
The MFDP, an electoral civil rights organization led by Aaron Henry, had attracted<br />
national attention at the 1964 Democratic Party national convention . The New York<br />
Times covered the <strong>Deacons</strong> appearance at the Jackson meeting, which was organized by<br />
Ed King, a white teacher and civil rights activist at Tougaloo College in Jackson . The<br />
SgReverend George Noflin, interview by author, 4 September, 1993, St .<br />
Francisville, Louisiana .<br />
6°Investigative Report, New Orleans, November 27, 1967, FBI <strong>Deacons</strong> file no .<br />
157-2466-250 ; SAC, New Orleans to Director, February 27, 1968, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no .<br />
157-2466-264 ; Noflin, <strong>Hill</strong> Interview. Several years after the end of the movement, Leo<br />
Johnson, leader of the St . Francisville <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter, was convicted and sentenced to<br />
prison <strong>for</strong> the murder of his wife .<br />
294
MFDP's invitation to the <strong>Deacons</strong> reflected the growing disenchantment with<br />
nonviolence, but the Mississippi group was not ready to fully embrace armed self-<br />
defense. When pressed by the media to explain the relationship ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> and the<br />
MFDP, Ed King said that the MFDP was not endorsing the <strong>Deacons</strong> but merely providing<br />
them a <strong>for</strong>um. "The Mississippi Negro is very interested in them," King told the press . b `<br />
More than three hundred people filled the Negro Masonic Hall and exploded in<br />
thunderous applause when Sims was introduced . Sweating profusely in his Sunday suit<br />
in the sweltering 99-degree weather, Sins entertained the crowd with his trademark gritty<br />
bravado . The Deacon leader taunted the White Knights ofthe Ku Klux Klan and scoffed<br />
at threats ofviolence . "I've been shot five times, and shot at ten times," boasted Sims .<br />
"So I'm not scared to come to Jackson ." His message was a clarion call to manhood,<br />
bluntly challenging black men to prove their mettle against the Klan. "It is time <strong>for</strong> you<br />
men to wake up and be men," Sins admonished his audience 6=<br />
Sims also spoke ofplans to organize a chapter in Jackson and suggested that<br />
interested parties confer with him after the meeting. The next day a recruiting team of<br />
Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> was dispatched to Natchez to explore organizing the first Mississippi<br />
chapter . Recruiting teams simultaneously departed <strong>for</strong> the Mississippi towns of<br />
Greenville and Columbia.<br />
6 'New York Times, 30 August 1965 ; Louisiana Weekly, 11 September 1965 . The<br />
FBI's account of the Jackson meeting is contained in : SAC, Jackson to Director,<br />
September 3, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, no . 157-2466-59 and SAC, Jackson to Director,<br />
October 25, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2456-78 .<br />
6-New York Times, 30 August 1965 .<br />
?9~
Mississippi was a <strong>for</strong>midable challenge <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Conditions were so<br />
desperate that even the nonviolent martyr Medgar Evers once entertained the idea of<br />
armed resistance in the Magnolia state . Both Medgar and his brother Charles were deeply<br />
impressed with Jomo Kenyatta and the Mau Mau uprising in Kenya in 1952 . In her<br />
memoir, For Us, The Living, Medgar's wife Myrlie recalls that "Medgar himself flirted<br />
intellectually with the idea of fighting back in the Mississippi Delta . For a time he<br />
envisioned a secret black army of Delta Negroes who fought by night to meet oppression<br />
and brutality with violence ." Charles Evers says that he and Medgar went beyond mere<br />
fantasies of a Mississippi Mau Mau, and actually began to stockpile ammunition <strong>for</strong> the<br />
revolt. Their father eventually discovered his sons' plans and quickly scuttled the<br />
incipient rebellion s'<br />
Now Charlie Sins and the <strong>Deacons</strong> were preparing to resurrect Medgar's dream<br />
of a black army in the heart ofKlan country.<br />
63Mrs . Medgar Evers and William Peters, For Us, The Living (New York : Ace<br />
Books, 1970), pp . 82-84 ; Charles Evers, Evers (New York : The World Publishing<br />
Company, 1971) pp . 74-75 .<br />
?96
Chapter 12<br />
Mississippi and Beyond<br />
As the <strong>Deacons</strong> fanned out around Mississippi, the Klan and other racist<br />
vigilantes were launching their own offensive . The first violence came oa August 20 .<br />
Two white civil rights workers, an Episcopal seminarian and a Roman Catholic priest,<br />
were on their way to a small grocery store in the black section of Hayneville, Alabama.<br />
They were confronted by a special deputy sheriff, Thomas L. Coleman, a member of a<br />
prominent Lowndes County family. Without warning, Coleman blasted his shotgun at<br />
the two, killing Jonathan Daniels the 26-year-old seminarian. Two days later, three white<br />
men wounded a Unitarian minister in a similar shotgun attack as he stood outside his<br />
apartment house in Jackson, Mississippi . The bloody assaults were accompanied by a<br />
wildfire of cross burnings, including three crosses torched in Philadelphia, Mississippi--<br />
apparently in protest of plans to desegregate the city's schools . Klan passions had been<br />
inflamed the previous week when officials desegregated Neshoba Central School just<br />
outside Philadelphia .'<br />
During the last week ofAugust, the Klan trained its sights on the black leadership<br />
in the city of Natchez in Adams County, Mississippi . The Klan had engaged in<br />
'Joyce Thomas, "The `Double V' was <strong>for</strong> Victory : Black Soldiers, The Black<br />
Protest, and World War II" (Ph.D . diss., The Ohio State University, 1993), p . 121 . ; Sobel,<br />
Civil Rights, pp . 360-61 ; New York Times, August 30 1965 .<br />
?9 7
systematic guerilla warfare against the county's black residents since 1964, unchecked by<br />
compliant law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials . Robed hooligans bombed churches and flogged and<br />
tortured blacks with impunity . By 1965 the situation had grown so critical that the U . S .<br />
Commission on Civil Rights conducted hearings in Mississippi to investigate the wave of<br />
violence and intimidation . =<br />
Natchez was the pearl of Adams County. Perched upon a bluff on the winding<br />
Mississippi, the city stood like a sentinel over the sprawling river bottom lands in<br />
neighboring Concordia Parish. In the nineteenth century the city had prospered as a key<br />
commercial and financial center <strong>for</strong> Mississippi's slave economy . By 1965 Natchez had<br />
survived the demise of king cotton and trans<strong>for</strong>med itself into a bustling manufacturing<br />
town. Wood products and rubber manufacturing had given rise to a highly unionized and<br />
sophisticated black working class, largely independent ofthe white power structure .<br />
Similar to Jonesboro and Bogalusa, Natchez's mill-town culture produced fiercely<br />
independent and courageous black men and women. Their independence derived in part<br />
from the protection offered by unions . Trade unions, despite their poor record on racial<br />
equality, generally safeguarded the right of black members to participate in the civil rights<br />
movement without fear ofreprisals by employers . Typical ofthis practice was the United<br />
Rubber Workers Union local at Armstrong Tire Company in Natchez . "There would<br />
have been a many one of us that would have been fired from Armstrong," recalls James<br />
=U.S . Commission on Civil Rights, Justice in Jackson, Mississippi : Hearing Held<br />
in Jackson, Miss. February 16-20, 1965, i'ols . 1 and II (New York: Amo Press and The<br />
New York Times, 1971) .<br />
?98
Young, a member of the Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong>, "but the union wasn't going to stand <strong>for</strong> it. So<br />
that's what saved us ." 3<br />
Ironically, the relative freedom from economic coercion may have contributed to<br />
Klan violence. Ia contrast to the black sharecropper, whites could not intimidate<br />
unionized black industrial workers by threatening to deprive them of income or shelter .<br />
White elites and competing white workers were <strong>for</strong>ced to tum to other methods of<br />
disciplining the black working class . Terrorist violence replaced economic threats as the<br />
principal coercive instrument of white supremacy . To a significant degree, the revitalized<br />
Klan and the <strong>Deacons</strong> were both products ofthe decline of the agricultural oligarchy and<br />
its traditional social control mechanisms .<br />
Despite being insulated from some reprisals, voter registration policies still<br />
prevented Natchez blacks from translating economic independence into political power.<br />
In 1965 Natchez was a black majority city still dominated by a white minority ; 12,300<br />
blacks lived under the rule of 11,500 whites . Attempts to implement the 1964 Civil<br />
Rights Act had failed miserably as Natchez whites clung unyieldingly to the old<br />
traditions.<br />
In the summer of 1965 local civil rights activists launched a boycott of white<br />
businesses, targeting stores owned by Natchez Mayor John Nosser . Nosser had incurred<br />
the wrath of the Klan <strong>for</strong> his relatively moderate policies, but also found himselfthe<br />
target of black protest <strong>for</strong> refusing to integrate the clerical staff at his four stores . The<br />
boycott failed to generate enthusiasm among blacks and dragged on through the summer,<br />
;James Young, interview by author, 19 April, 1994, Natchez, Mississippi, tape<br />
recording .<br />
299
little more than symbolic protest. To many it appeared that Natchez had averted the kind<br />
of divisive confrontations that had marked the Spring of 1965 in Selma and Bogalusa .<br />
Yet the sleepy calm of summer in Mississippi was not to last .<br />
On Friday, August 27, at 12:30 p.m . George Metcalfe casually strode to his car in<br />
the parking lot at the Armstrong Tire and Rubber Company . Weary, Metcalfe had just<br />
finished an exhausting twelve-hour shift at the plant where he worked as a shipping clerk .<br />
Outside the factory gates Metcalfe's life as a clerk gave way to his role as president ofthe<br />
Natchez chapter of the NAACP . Metcalfe's visibility had increased dramatically in the<br />
past weeks . He had led a delegation to the city school board demanding that the schools<br />
desegregate in con<strong>for</strong>mance with the Civil Rights Act . He had also been recently named<br />
as a defendant in a suit filed by Mayor Nosser to prevent the NAACP from picketing his<br />
store . The civil rights leader's tenacity was bound to antagonize elements ofthe white<br />
community . Compounding the danger to Metcalfe was the increased tension at<br />
Armstrong after the plant cafeteria had recently been desegregated;<br />
Metcalfe eased into his car, put the key into the ignition and turned the switch. A<br />
tremendous explosion rocked the windows of the plant as a bomb ripped apart the vehicle<br />
and mangled Metcalfe's legs and arms .<br />
Metcalfe clung precariously to Gfe as his blood-soaked body was rushed to the<br />
Jefferson Davis Memorial Hospital. As he lay in critical condition in his hospital bed, the<br />
bomb's explosion began to reverberate through the black community. But instead of<br />
immobilizing the black community with fear, the bomb detonated a new combative<br />
'New York Times, 28 August 1965, p . 49 .<br />
300
consciousness among Natchez blacks . News of the bombing swept through the black<br />
community like a fire storm, bunting away the bonds ofpassivity and fear . "I think one<br />
of the greatest mistakes [whites] made was when they bombed George Metcalfe's car,"<br />
says James Young, a Natchez activist. "Well, that made everybody in this area feel like,<br />
`whether I'm a part of it, they're just subject to do the same thing to me, so I'm coming<br />
out front ."'S<br />
Theologian Thomas Aquinas once suggested that anger was the precondition of<br />
courage . His maxim appeared to be home out in Natchez the night ofAugust 27 . Rage<br />
electrified young blacks throughout the community . Indignation metamorphosed into<br />
courage ; courage into action. Decades of humiliation, frustration, and resignation were<br />
eclipsed by a new militant consciousness . Sober and established black community<br />
leaders sensed danger in the restive mood and worked frantically to control and redirect<br />
the youthful passions . The situation was so <strong>for</strong>bidding that NAACP state secretary<br />
Charles Evers rushed to Natchez to assist .<br />
The brother of slain civil rights leader Medgar Evers, Charles Evers quickly found<br />
himself entangled in the awkward role as conciliator and peacemaker. A group of angry<br />
young blacks had gathered early Friday night near Metcalfe's home, which also served as<br />
the NAACP headquarters . Evers attempted to calm the crowd, empathizing with their<br />
vengeful mood. "If they do it anymore, were going to get those responsible," warned<br />
Evers . "We're armed, every last one ofus, and we are not going to take it ." But Evers<br />
SAccounts ofthe bombing and response are taken from New York Times, 28<br />
August 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 28 August 1965 ; Louisiana Weekly, 4 September 1965 ;<br />
and Young, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
301
tempered his threats with a plea <strong>for</strong> restraint and order . "We want no violence," Evers<br />
implored the crowd. "We want no violence ."~<br />
A few blocks away James Stokes lay sound asleep . A member ofthe NAACP,<br />
Stokes had spent the day helping out at the NAACP office in the wake of the bombing .<br />
Stokes was typical ofthe working class men who were the backbone ofthe Natchez<br />
NAACP . He worked as a printer operator at the International plant making egg cartons,<br />
had leadership experience as a union steward and was an army veteran .'<br />
The Metcalfe bombing had sent the NAACP office into a flurry of activity that<br />
Friday, and Stokes, after putting is a long day at the office, had retired to his house <strong>for</strong> a<br />
few hours rest . He was abruptly aroused from his sleep by a pounding on his door. Two<br />
friends were at the door. "Come on let's go," they told Stokes, "all hell broke loose<br />
downtown." a<br />
It was an apt description . The serene jewel on the Mississippi had exploded into<br />
violence . As the night wore on, hundreds ofenraged black youth filled the streets of the<br />
black business district. Primed <strong>for</strong> battle, the swarm of youth armed themselves with<br />
rocks, bottles, pistols and rifles. James Stokes remembers arriving on the scene and<br />
6New York Times, 29, 28 August 1965 . Years later Evers told the story ofhow he<br />
had arranged <strong>for</strong> national television crews to tape a local minister bragging about how he<br />
"would shoot a white man." "This is the sort ofthing that frightens white people," said<br />
Evers. "They expected me to say it, but a localjackleg preacher would really have some<br />
effect on them ." Evers said Natchez's black community was ready <strong>for</strong> full-scale war.<br />
"We had guns and hand grenades, and everything it took to work--and we meant to use<br />
them ifwe had to ." Charles Evers, Evers, p . 132 .<br />
'James Stokes, iate:view by author, 12 November, 1993, Natchez, Mississippi,<br />
tape recording.<br />
$Ibid .<br />
302<br />
i
seeing snipers firing from rooftops "shooting at everything that was moving ." Roving<br />
groups of young blacks roamed the streets, shouting threats at white motorists and<br />
venting their rage by hurling bricks, bottles, and tomatoes at police cars . Stokes and a<br />
small group ofNAACP members quickly joined Evers as he attempted to restore order.<br />
The improvised security group gave as much attention to protecting whites as they did<br />
blacks . In several incidents, they prevented the agitated crowd from attacking innocent<br />
whites who accidentally drove into the fray . But the security group's principal objective<br />
was to prevent white police from assaulting young blacks . Stokes and his compatriots<br />
were on the streets, "to keep our eyes on police officers," and "to make sure if they shoot<br />
somebody, we going to shoot them ." e<br />
Stokes could empathize with the mob's rage toward the police . As a young boy in<br />
rural Adams County he had witnessed police complicity with barbaric racism . "One of<br />
my neighbors was running a little social club," he recalls, "and the Klan ran down on this<br />
club and took this man out aad cut his penis out and drug him up and down the road ."<br />
Local law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials participated in the grisly torture . "That night, it was<br />
some members of the sheriffs <strong>for</strong>ce, police <strong>for</strong>ce," remembers Stokes. "All ofthem was<br />
Klan." to<br />
The day following the bombing, Natchez teetered on the precipice ofopen<br />
rebellion . In the morning a group of black leaders met and hurriedly drew up a list of<br />
demands . The bombing had galvanized the black community around a militant program<br />
9The account ofthe riot is drawn from New York Times, 29 August 1965, p . 51 ;<br />
New York Times, 30 August 1965 ; and Stokes, <strong>Hill</strong> interview . Stokes quote in Ibid.<br />
~ o ~id.<br />
303
<strong>for</strong> equal opportunity . The demands included : hiring at least four additional black police<br />
to complement the two cuaently on the <strong>for</strong>ce ; desegregating public facilities, schools,<br />
parks, hospital, playgrounds and the city auditorium ; naming a black representative to the<br />
school board ; cooperating in a poverty program with funds divided evenly with whites ;<br />
and issuing a statement denouncing the White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan and another<br />
local white supremacist group, the Americans <strong>for</strong> the Preservation of the White race."<br />
In an unusual move, the black leadership also demanded that city employees be<br />
required to address blacks with "courtesy titles ." For decades whites had addressed<br />
blacks with condescending or overtly degrading titles, such as "auntie," "missie," "boy,"<br />
"hoss," and "uncle :' The leadership insisted that city employee address blacks with the<br />
respectful titles of Mister and Missus . Civil equality was not sufficient; Natchez blacks<br />
wanted dignity and respect as well .' -<br />
But black leaders issuing demands did little to quell the temper of the young<br />
community . As the sun slipped into the Mississippi hills on Saturday, August 28, the tide<br />
of anger rose once again . Young men swarmed into the streets to vent their rage . A rock<br />
sailed through the air shattering a police car window . Four grim city policemen<br />
brandishing shotguns faced offin a tense confrontation with the undaunted crowd . At an<br />
open-air rally that night some of the crowd openly spurned the pleas <strong>for</strong> nonviolence . As<br />
community leaders spoke to the crowd, one group began a chant that grew into a defiant<br />
"New York Times, 29 August 1965 .<br />
' =Ibid .<br />
304
chorus : "We're going to kill <strong>for</strong> freedom," rose the chant, "We're going to kill <strong>for</strong><br />
freedom.""<br />
The two days of rioting trans<strong>for</strong>med the terms ofthe conflict in Natchez . Prior to<br />
August 28, whites could expect blacks to respond peacefully and lawfully to Klan terror<br />
and police brutality. Blacks now had a new bargaining chip .<br />
The day following the riot, the Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> had announced in Jackson that<br />
they planned to travel to Natchez to develop a <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter : The presence of<br />
Louisiana <strong>Deacons</strong> in Mississippi posed a dilemma <strong>for</strong> Charles Evers . Though he would<br />
benefit by their protection, to welcome the <strong>Deacons</strong> into Mississippi could be taken as a<br />
sign of weakness on the part of the NAACP, and invite organizational competition .<br />
Evers was already fighting off a serious challenge to his leadership by young militants in<br />
SNCC and the MFDP . Another organization on his left flank would only add to his<br />
troubles .' y<br />
Ewers had only a short tune to weigh his options. The media was pressuring Ewers<br />
to comment on the <strong>Deacons</strong>' planned campaign in Mississippi . Evers finessed the issue<br />
by repudiating the <strong>Deacons</strong> but not armed self-defense . The NAACP leader told the Netiv<br />
York Times that Mississippi did not need the <strong>Deacons</strong> because the "state's Negroes are<br />
arming and organizing in their own way ."' s<br />
Natchez was a political tightrope <strong>for</strong> Ewers. Even his hesitant endorsement of<br />
self-defense appeased militants at the cost of rankling the NAACP national leadership .<br />
"Ibid .<br />
' °New York Times, 4 September 1965 .<br />
~ sIbid .<br />
30~
Roy Wilkins, the NAACP's national director, told the Times that Evers' comments on<br />
violence had not been approved by the national office. Ewers ignored Wilkins and<br />
continued to raise the specter of retaliatory violence, a few days later announcing again<br />
that Natchez blacks were arming themselves and were prepared to "fight back ."' e<br />
Ewers' comments provoked a volley of unheeded criticism from other NAACP<br />
leaders in addition to Wilkins . But Evers' decision to ignore the admonitions was a<br />
shrewd maneuver. IfWillcins pressured Ewers too strongly, the national office risked<br />
alienating him and losing control ofthe Natchez campaign . Competing <strong>for</strong>ces were<br />
already descending on Natchez . Within a few days ofthe bombing, Martin Luther King's<br />
SCLC had sent Andrew Young to visit Natchez . Young was assessing the possibility of<br />
making Natchez the centerpiece ofa campaign <strong>for</strong> federal legislation against killing a<br />
person engaged in civil rights activities . Ifthe NAACP national office could<br />
accommodate Evers, the Natchez campaign promised to regain prestige lost to younger<br />
and more militant groups such as SNCC and CORE."<br />
The rank and file black activists ofNatchez were not diverted by the factional<br />
maneuvering of the national organizations . They saw a need <strong>for</strong> organized self-defense<br />
and the <strong>Deacons</strong> were the only organization prepared <strong>for</strong> the challenge . Stokes, James<br />
Young, and the rest of the in<strong>for</strong>mal self-defense group that activated following the<br />
Metcalfe bombing ignored Ewers' rebuke to the <strong>Deacons</strong> . By the fast week of September<br />
they had <strong>for</strong>med a Natchez chapter of the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice .' 8<br />
' 6Ibid . ; New York Times, 9 September 1965, p . 22 .<br />
"Ibid ; New York Times, 4 September 1965 .<br />
' SSookes, <strong>Hill</strong> interview. j<br />
306
The group set about build'mg an o rganiza ' t'ion<br />
and electing officers . Their first<br />
president was James Jackson, a colossal, street-tough man who operated a popular barber<br />
shop . Isaac Terell, a sawmill millwright, was elected vice-president; Sandy Nealy<br />
became the group's treasurer; James Stokes, the NAACP militant who had assisted in<br />
quelling the riot following the Metcalfe bombing, was appointed spokesman. The<br />
secretary was James Young, a coworker of Metcalfe's at Armstrong Tire and Rubber .<br />
Young had guarded Metcalfe in the hospital and, like most ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>, was an army<br />
veteran, having served as a demolition technician in the South Pacific during World War<br />
a .'9<br />
The rapidly unfolding events provided the <strong>Deacons</strong> with considerable work.<br />
Mayor Nosser had rejected the demands presented by the blacks leaders the first week of<br />
September, and when the black leadership threatened a series ofmarches, Nosser<br />
persuaded Governor Paul Johnson to send a massive contingent of 650 national guard<br />
troops to Natchez. The invading <strong>for</strong>ce converged on the city on September 3 and<br />
promptly sealed offthe black community . A strict 10:00 p.m . to 5:00 a.m . curfew was<br />
imposed . Although prohibition was already in effect in Natchez, city officials banned the<br />
previously tolerated bootlegged liquor trade in the black community . City officials also<br />
ordered the closure of several black-owned businesses on the theory that they threatened<br />
civil order by allowing blacks to congregate on their premises . 2°<br />
' 4'Young, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
'-°Jet, "Natchez Hurries Bi-Racial Talks as Fear grips City," 16 September 1965,<br />
pp . 14-I5; Louisiana Weekly, 11 September 1965 ; Netiv York Times, 4 September, 1965 .<br />
~o~<br />
I<br />
i
Given that the riots had subsided be<strong>for</strong>e the National Guard arrived, many blacks<br />
felt that the National Guard's presence was intended to discourage legal protest--not<br />
violence. Upon their arrival the National Guard mounted .50 caliber machine guns in the<br />
downtown area . Evers and other black leaders debated whether to defy the guns and<br />
march. They were confronted with a grim choice. James Young recalls that a guard<br />
official told them "ifyou march, we will open fire ." Evers prudently canceled the march<br />
and charged that the National Guard was in Natchez with one purpose : to "beat and kill"<br />
black citizens ifthey exercised their right to demonstrate . = '<br />
The National Guard never had an opportunity to confirm Evers' fears . In response<br />
to protests by Aaron Henry, head ofthe MFDP, Governor Johnson withdrew the troops<br />
after three days on September 6 . The guard's departure cleared the way <strong>for</strong> the first ofa<br />
series of marches in a bitter four-month boycott campaign . Negotiations over black<br />
demands soon reached an impasse as city officials remained intransigent. Instead of<br />
negotiating in earnest, city fathers grasped <strong>for</strong> a legal instrument to suppress protest. On<br />
September 30 they succeeded temporarily when they secured an injunction from the<br />
Chancery Court <strong>for</strong>bidding demonstrations .<br />
T1le injunction set offa stunning wave of mass arrests . Between October 1-7, 544<br />
blacks were arrested <strong>for</strong> violating the injunction, including Charles Evers . But the arrests<br />
did little to restrain the increasingly militant youth . On October 5, a group of enraged<br />
'-'Young, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; New York Times, 3 September, 1965 .<br />
308
young blacks attempted to attack a mob of 150 whites and relented only after Evers<br />
personally intervened.'=<br />
The mass arrests were another shameful chapter in Mississippi history. Prisoners<br />
were herded into buses and shipped two-hundred miles to the infamous state prison at<br />
Parchman . At Parchman, guards subjected protectors to unspeakable abuses . The wife<br />
and daughter ofDeacon leader James Stokes were both arrested and imprisoned . Stokes'<br />
wife never recovered from the trauma and she died shortly afterwards .=<br />
Evers suspended the demonstrations on October 7 after city officials agreed to<br />
consider a revised list ofNAACP demands . The boycott ofdowntown stores continued<br />
and by October 12 Mayor Nosser admitted that business was down as much as 50<br />
percent. Demonstrations were renewed briefly in mid-October when city officials and<br />
black leaders failed to reach a settlement . The business community's support <strong>for</strong><br />
segregation was quickly eroding and by the end ofOctober most of their resistance to<br />
black demands was due to Klan threats and intimidation .=<br />
Throughout the eight-month boycott the Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong> served as the black<br />
community's in<strong>for</strong>mal police <strong>for</strong>ce, furnishing protection denied by local law<br />
en<strong>for</strong>cement (the police were more accommodating to the dead than the living ; funerals<br />
were the only occasion when blacks were guaranteed a police escort) . Beginning with the<br />
Metcalfe bombing, the <strong>Deacons</strong> regularly patrolled the black community by car and on<br />
'New York Times, 6 October 1965, p . 3 ; Sobel, Civil Rights, pp. 319-320 .<br />
~Ibid . ; New York Times, 8 October 1965, p . 3 ; Stokes, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
-°New York Times, October 13 1965 . New York Times, October 14 1965, p. 40 ;<br />
`R~Tatchez Crisis Eases a Bit ; City Fathers Still Evasive," Jet, 28 October, 1965, pp . 6-7 ;<br />
Francis Ward, "Economic Squeeze Highlights," Jet, 1 l November 1965, pp . 16-20 .<br />
309
foot to prevent Klan attacks, maintaining contact through a CB radio network . The<br />
patrols effectively discouraged Klan harassment without resorting to gunfire, as was<br />
necessary in Bogalusa and Jonesboro . White interlopers were stopped and politely yet<br />
firmly told to leave the area . "A guy driving through first, you wouldn't say nothing to<br />
him," recalls James Young . "You didn't bother him . But now if he just constantly<br />
driving through, back and <strong>for</strong>th, then you stopped him . . . we'd tell him unless he has<br />
some business through that way, don't come through no more ." The <strong>Deacons</strong> also<br />
guarded the homes of civil rights activists and provided escorts <strong>for</strong> visiting activists and<br />
supporters . Prior to rallies, they inspected the event area and posted guards . In contrast<br />
to Bogalusa, the Natchez Klaa balked at attacking blacks in their own neighborhoods .<br />
Instead, they were constrained to rattling their sabers and organizing patrols in white<br />
neighborhoods .=<br />
Most of the <strong>Deacons</strong>' activity centered on guarding demonstrators during the<br />
scores of pickets and marches . The Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong> were always armed-often openly .<br />
James Young walked along the marches sporting a pistol in a side holster . White<br />
hecklers lined the streets but generally the presence ofarmed <strong>Deacons</strong> curbed violent<br />
attacks . The display of resolve and firepower served as a suffcient deterrent. "Just the<br />
presence of the <strong>Deacons</strong> kept a lot of things from happening that would have happened,"<br />
says Young . Occasionally a white antagonist disregarded the danger. In one incident a<br />
white man attempted to disrupt a march when he recklessly steered his car into the line .<br />
'~"Natchez Crisis Eases a Bit; City Fathers Still Evasive," Jet, 28 October 1965 ;<br />
Young, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; New York Times, 31 October 1966, p . 60 .<br />
310
Within seconds the <strong>Deacons</strong> converged on the car with weapons drawn and detained the<br />
startled driver, later delivering him to the police .'<br />
As the boycott proceeded, the organizational life ofthe Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong> fell into<br />
a regular pattern . Monthly meetings were scheduled, but during the height of the boycott<br />
campaign, the group met daily ifnecessary. The chapter operated in a modified<br />
democratic style. As a paramilitary organization, the <strong>Deacons</strong> found it necessary to<br />
delegate authority to a leader. But the group reserved the right to overrule the leader's<br />
decision. As Young describes the process, the leader "would make the decision, or he<br />
would say that this is the way that he thinks it should be . Well, if we felt like it was<br />
meant to be a little different than that or what not, we would discuss it, and whatever we<br />
come up with was what we would do ."'-'<br />
Approximately fifteen men comprised the core of the chapter, regularly attending<br />
meetings and per<strong>for</strong>ming duties . Complementing this core was a network of roughly one-<br />
hundred men who considered themselves members, either <strong>for</strong>mally or in<strong>for</strong>mally, and<br />
who assisted the chapter when necessary .'-$<br />
The Natchez Police Department's stance toward the <strong>Deacons</strong> differed markedly<br />
from the belligerent policy of Bogalusa authorities . In general, Police Chief J . T .<br />
Robinsoa followed a neutral policy toward the <strong>Deacons</strong>, refusing to harass them with<br />
arrests or intimidation . Indeed, James Stokes had a surprisingly cordial relationship with<br />
Chief Robinson . At one point a Deacon was arrested and assessed a fine following a<br />
'-YYoung, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
"Ibid .<br />
'-$Group size is drawn from : Young, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; and Stokes, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
311
scuffle with police . Stokes asked Chief Robinson to intervene, and Robinson complied .<br />
paying the Deacon's fine and promising to prevent future incidents . =9<br />
Chief Robinson's policy was not all that mystifying. In truth, the police benefited<br />
from having a disciplined militia is the black community . "Well really, the Chief always<br />
looked to us to help him to keep law and order," says Young. The <strong>Deacons</strong> purpose was<br />
not to provoke confrontations with the Klan, says Young, but rather to minimize conflict .<br />
"We were out to see that there were law and order carried out." Nevertheless, Chief<br />
Robinson wasn't averse to manipulating the group . On one occasion a black deputy<br />
brought Stokes a message offering him a police deparhnent job ifhe would quit the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> . Stokes was polite but firm. "I'll tell you like this : I really don't need that<br />
job ." ao<br />
From the outset, the Natchez chapter distanced itself from the Louisiana <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
organization . The reason <strong>for</strong> this decision is unclear. It may have been emblematic ofthe<br />
fierce independence ofmill-town culture . Or the policy may have been pragmatic . The<br />
Natchez chapter had little to gain by submitting themselves to the discipline ofthe<br />
national organization based in Bogalusa . Bogalusa offered meager benefits is return <strong>for</strong><br />
affiliating . At best, subordination to Bogalusa garnered prestige at the price of<br />
independence .<br />
-4Young, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Stokes, <strong>Hill</strong> interview . The FBI knew virtually nothing<br />
about the Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong> until 1966 . See, SAC, Jackson to Director, October 25, 1965,<br />
FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, no . 157-2466-78 ; and Director to SAC, Jackson, January 11, 1966,<br />
FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, no . 157-2466-105 .<br />
3°Young, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Stokes, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
313
Typically, most <strong>Deacons</strong> chapters regarded themselves as an autonomous local<br />
organization within a loose federation . This relationship mirrored the independent and<br />
democratic nature of most organizations in Southern black communities . Baptist<br />
ministers served at the pleasure ofthe church laity, unlike Roman Catholic, Methodist<br />
and other hierarchical denominations . Segregation gave rise to a wide range of locally<br />
organized mutual self-help organizations, including benevolent associations, and<br />
insurance and burial societies . Additionally, the community was honeycombed with self-<br />
organized recreational clubs, including the social and pleasure clubs and travel clubs .<br />
These highly independent, localized organizations provided a model <strong>for</strong> the relationships<br />
between the national <strong>Deacons</strong> organization and its local chapters . In fact, members of the<br />
Natchez and Jonesboro <strong>Deacons</strong> frequently referred to the organization as a "club."<br />
The Natchez group decided to organize under a name other than the <strong>Deacons</strong>, to<br />
ensure that state officials would accept their application <strong>for</strong> a corporate charter. The<br />
group chose the innocently deceptive name "Natchez Sportsmen Club ." The name was<br />
not without irony; the Klan frequently named their klavems "sportsmens" clubs to<br />
conceal their identity . Ia public fund raising appeals the Natchez chapter acknowledged<br />
the subterfuge, explaining that "the name `sportsmen club' is used in order to obtain a<br />
Mississippi state charter.""<br />
As in Jonesboro, the charter carried a special significance <strong>for</strong> the group. They<br />
were convinced that the charter gave state sanction to their right of self-defense, thus<br />
protecting them from interference by law en<strong>for</strong>cement . "In the charter, we had to protect<br />
105 .<br />
"Director to SAC, Jackson, January 11, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, no . 157-2466-<br />
313
people's property and churches and so <strong>for</strong>th," Stokes points out, "and there<strong>for</strong>e couldn't<br />
no one take our weapons from us . So we could carry our weapons just like the local law<br />
en<strong>for</strong>cement officers carry theirs ." When the police challenged Stokes' right to carry a<br />
weapon, the Deacon leader would stand fast, produce the charter like a talisman and<br />
demand that the poli~c.e honor his rights 3=<br />
The Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong> maintained strict membership standards and sought matwe<br />
recruits, fearless men capable ofsound judgment and restraint . The front line against the<br />
Klan was no place <strong>for</strong> hotheads and impulsive youth. The chapter generally attracted rnen<br />
of character and good standing in the community . The mission of the organization<br />
appealed to men independent is spirit and mind . "If we thought that they were the type of<br />
person who was easily persuaded or swayed, we didn't want that type ofperson," said<br />
Stokes . Most recruits were stable family men, often in their thirties ; nearly all were<br />
members ofthe NAACP . Mill workers, log haulers, barbers and contractors, most ofthe<br />
Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong> had the security of professions that shielded them from economic<br />
retaliation.''<br />
Typical ofthe members was James Young. Young was <strong>for</strong>ty-one years old when<br />
he joined the <strong>Deacons</strong> in 1965 . He had lived his entire life in Adams County . His<br />
memories of Mississippi in the 1930s are of an arduous yet peaceful childhood with few<br />
incidents of racial harassment. His sharecropper parents lived among poor whites and the<br />
children played together unencumbered by the prejudices of their parents . Young<br />
' -'Stokes, <strong>Hill</strong> interniew .<br />
33~id .<br />
31=~
dropped out of high school in ninth grade to work the fields, and perhaps would have<br />
lived out his life on the farm had not the dogs of war invaded the slumbering world of<br />
rural Mississippi .<br />
In September of 1943 Young joined the Army and soon found himself loading<br />
bombs onto war planes in the South Pacific . The demolition training he received paid<br />
few dividends later in life ; more profitable were the lessons learned about discipline and<br />
collective action . Returning to segregation in Mississippi was a painful and degrading<br />
experience <strong>for</strong> the young soldier. Young sought refuge on his parents' farm to avoid<br />
Natchez and the inevitable humiliations attendant to contact with whites . Young recalls<br />
the solace of the farm : "It was kind of hard at first," he says . "The main thing about it is<br />
youjust have to adjust . . . I spent most of my time out there . I didn't even come around<br />
to town ." The military had taught him to accept the bitterness in life . He says all he<br />
could do--all any man could do-- was "adjust and fall in line." sa<br />
Risking life and limb <strong>for</strong> a nation that denied them full citizenship, black veterans<br />
like Young returned with rising expectations <strong>for</strong> democracy and declining tolerance <strong>for</strong><br />
Jim Crow. "This is what started changing," contends Stokes . "Men vowed, `If I go to<br />
Korea, or Vietnam, I'm damn sure not going to go back home to nothing like the other<br />
soldiers did is World War One and Two ."'3s<br />
But not all men were prepared to fight <strong>for</strong> their freedom . There were <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
who faltered under the pressure of their duties and quit. "The wives was scared,''<br />
'Young, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
3sStokes, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
31~
explains Stokes . "Or the fellows was scared that they were going to get killed or go to<br />
jail--when they were the sole provider." Fear was even more pervasive in the small towns<br />
dotting the hills and the delta in Mississippi . Accompanying Charles Evers as body<br />
guards on organizing drives, the <strong>Deacons</strong> frequently arrived at a courthouse rally to find<br />
only one or two people in attendance . These visits to remote communities offered an<br />
opportunity <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> to spread the gospel of self-defense and recruit new<br />
members, but first they had to overcome the ever present nemesis offear. "We had to sort<br />
of get the fright out of any county that we went into," admits Stokes . "We had to get the<br />
fright out ofthose guys." s6<br />
The gun was the <strong>Deacons</strong>' principal organizing tool in these isolated<br />
communities . Rural blacks couldn't help but be impressed by the <strong>Deacons</strong>' audacity .<br />
Their exemplary courage mitigated the fear and anxiety that immobilized black men in<br />
isolated communities . "We would go to then town, and they would watch us in action,<br />
doing our job with our guns" explains Stokes . "Police officers didn't bother us . If he<br />
did, he was in trouble . So there<strong>for</strong>e, that made him [the black man] not be afraid." The<br />
Natchez chapter's habit of openly carrying weapons was a novelty in rural Mississippi .<br />
"We were armed at all times," says James Young. "There wasn't no certain time . We<br />
were armed day and night . ..and everybody knew that and I think that's what made it so<br />
much the better." Simply the willingness to defend themselves bred confidence . "I didn't<br />
316
want to come to the point to have to pull a gun to use it on nobody," says Young, "but<br />
knowing that you had the gun was a bit of relief because it was more <strong>for</strong>ceful that way ." 3'<br />
To some observers, the Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong> did more than bear arms ; they recklessly<br />
flaunted them . The Natchez chapter developed a reputation <strong>for</strong> openly carrying their<br />
weapons, a practice that disturbed the Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> . Royan Burns was the Bogalusa<br />
chapter officer who initially helped organize the Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter. On several<br />
occasions he returned to Natchez as a liaison to the Mississippi chapters . He was<br />
troubled by the brazen display of weaponry. "The <strong>Deacons</strong> in Natchez really got violent,"<br />
recalls Burris . We had to, kind of call their hand because they felt like because, `we had a<br />
charter,' they could just walk around with guns . . . guns everywhere they went . Just like<br />
it wasn't nothing . And that wasn't our purpose. They said they just needed to do it<br />
because that was the only way they could walk the streets at the time ." 3e<br />
Bums' plea <strong>for</strong> discretion had little effect . The Natchez Chapter, according to<br />
Bums, continued to swagger through the streets "with guns hanging outside like<br />
COWbOyS ." 39<br />
Like other chapters, the Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong> regarded nonviolence as a futile<br />
strategy. James Stokes equated nonviolence with the passivity exhibited by preceding<br />
generations. "They [old people] believed in nonviolence," points out Stokes . And the<br />
Klan "had gone out and caught old people who believed in nonviolence, killed them, set<br />
them afire, cut their penis out and stuffed it in their mouth, drug them up and down the<br />
3'Stokes, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Young, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
38BL1rrIS, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
'9Ibid.<br />
317
oads, whipped them with barbed wire ." History had fumed Stokes against nonviolence .<br />
"I believe if you shoot at me, I'm going to shoot at you."~°<br />
Nor was Stokes impressed with the partisans ofnonviolence . "Those crazy<br />
rascals would lay down in the street and so <strong>for</strong>th," muses Stokes . "The NAACP got rid of<br />
CORE and SNCC . After a few people got killed, we just asked them to pack up and<br />
leave and let us take care of everything ourselves . Thankyou but no thank you."'"<br />
The NAACP under Evers' leadership gave the <strong>Deacons</strong> ample berth . "The<br />
NAACP was a frilly nonviolent organization," says Young, and "they still stood <strong>for</strong> that .<br />
But they didn't stand in the way ofno one else that decided that it took some violence to<br />
protect yourself. They didn't stand in the way ofthis, no way."~ =<br />
Although the Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong> came to an understanding with the NAACP, they<br />
did not enjoy acceptance from all segments of the black community . And when they<br />
encountered opposition within the black community, fear changed from adversary to ally<br />
<strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong>. As with other <strong>Deacons</strong> chapters, the Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong> frequently used<br />
violence to discipline critics and collaborators within their own ranks.s'<br />
In Natchez this internal intimidation was not carried out by the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
themselves, but by individuals associated with the <strong>Deacons</strong> . A vigilante group of women<br />
and men occasionally assaulted blacks who violated the boycott by making purchases at<br />
ao stokes, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
° 'Ibid .<br />
°=Young, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
°'The <strong>Deacons</strong> were implicated in shooting attacks and other assaults against their<br />
black critics in Bogalusa, Natchez, and Port Gibson .<br />
318
targeted stores . `'There was a little group that would go around," says Young, "and if they<br />
had violated the boycott, whatever they had, they took it from them and possibly would<br />
whup them up ." In addition to boycott violators, in<strong>for</strong>mants within the black community<br />
caused problems by providing whites with critical in<strong>for</strong>mation about organizational plans<br />
and internal conflicts. Because of their regular contact with whites, black domestic<br />
workers sometimes came under suspicion . In these cases, women members of the<br />
NAACP were encouraged to take measures against in<strong>for</strong>mants . "So we'd have these<br />
women, that wasn't members of our organization," says Stokes, "they were people in the<br />
NAACP . . . they would go catch them and beat them up ." The vigilante groups also<br />
attacked black ministers who they thought betrayed the community by providing<br />
in<strong>for</strong>mation to the white community . Stokes, who eventually became a minister, says that<br />
some black clergy sold in<strong>for</strong>mation and campaign endorsements to white politicians . "It<br />
almost makes you feel somewhat embarrassed to say you are a minister, because of the<br />
things you see ministers do . Every four years they put black people on sale ."''''<br />
The Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong> had ample funds to carry on their work, thanks to Clif<strong>for</strong>d<br />
Box, a Natchez native who made his home in Redwood, Cali<strong>for</strong>nia. Box, a postal<br />
worker, returned to Natchez <strong>for</strong> a visit during the height of the boycott and was impressed<br />
by the <strong>Deacons</strong>' work . He arranged <strong>for</strong> a fund raising tour in Cali<strong>for</strong>nia by lames Stokes<br />
in November 1965 . Stokes was a natural choice as a spokesperson <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> . He<br />
was a well spoken, articulate man with a flair <strong>for</strong> the dramatic . He had honed his<br />
'Young, <strong>Hill</strong> interview ; Stokes, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
319
leadership abilities as a church deacon and choir director, and had traveled extensively<br />
around the world in the army's entertainment unit from 1953 to 1955.5<br />
Born in 1928, Stokes grew up on a dusty sharecropper farm on the Linwood<br />
Planation, a few miles outside of Natchez. For generations Stokes' ancestors had toiled<br />
as slaves and sharecroppers on the plantation . All they had to show <strong>for</strong> their labor was a<br />
small family cemetery atop a hill on the plantation . In the 1960s a highway was charted<br />
to carve through the cemetery . The Stokes family had long since left the plantation, and<br />
despite the desecration, the plantation owners warned Stokes to stay away from the<br />
cemetery and offthe property . One morning Stokes strapped on a gun, drove out to the<br />
plantation and defiantly marched up the hill to the cemetery. He came down the hill with<br />
his mother's tombstone on his shoulder . He took the stone to the cemetery where his<br />
father was buried, and laid them to rest together . His defiance toward the white<br />
plantation owner was a trait acquired early in life . "My mother used to be afraid <strong>for</strong> me to<br />
leave home, and afraid when I came back," recalls Stokes . "Because, even in my teen-<br />
age days, I would say something . I don't know. Maybe I was too crazy to be scared."~<br />
Stokes exhibited the same outspokenness as a fund raiser <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> during<br />
his tour of Cali<strong>for</strong>nia . On November 9, Stokes appeared at a speaking event at San Mateo<br />
College . A handbill distributed at the event claimed the <strong>Deacons</strong> purpose was to "protect<br />
the lives and property ofnegro citizens from hooded night riders :' The leaflet requested<br />
contributions "to purchase such items as Walkie Talkies, Radio equipment, Uni<strong>for</strong>m<br />
;SSookes, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
°61bid .<br />
3 20
Equipment, and cars that are radio equipped to patrol the negro neighborhood ." Though<br />
the circular omitted mention ofweapons, the FBI reported that in his speech Stokes said<br />
that funds would also be used to purchase weapons . Years later Stokes confirmed the<br />
report and frankly admitted that the objective ofthe fund raising tour was to "buy guns ."~'<br />
Stokes traveled throughout Cali<strong>for</strong>nia <strong>for</strong> approximately a week, speaking at<br />
several churches is Redwood aad also appearing at fund raising events in Los Angeles,<br />
Oakland and San Francisco . He claims to have returned to Natchez with contributions<br />
totaling $'7,000, several guns and a donated automobile . All the funds went to purchase<br />
additional guns and radios . °s<br />
Stokes' successful fundraising enabled the <strong>Deacons</strong> to give their full attention to<br />
the boycott, which was entering its third month in November. During the course of the<br />
boycott, the old moderate civil rights leaders were displaced by militants such as Charles<br />
Evers, Rudy Shields, NAACP director Archie Jones and the Reverend Shead Baldwin .<br />
The wintry winds of December finally brought a sober reappraisal of the situation by the<br />
white power structure . The boycott had effectively eroded business class solidarity to the<br />
extent that twenty-three merchants had already hired blacks as clerks or cashiers . Finally,<br />
on December 3, city government and local businessmen conceded defeat . The white elite<br />
agreed to one of the most comprehensive racial re<strong>for</strong>m programs in the twentieth century,<br />
acceding to virtually all the original NAACP demands . Evers hailed the agreement as the<br />
"greatest concession" ever made in the civil rights movement . Evers was right . The<br />
'"Director to SAC, Jackson, January 11, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, no. 157-2466-<br />
105 ; Stokes, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
~ BIbid .<br />
321
ombing of George Metcalfe had backfired and fatally wounded Jim Crow in Natchez.<br />
Evers and Mayor Nosser announced the accord at a joint press conference, and Evers took<br />
the occasion to dance on the grave ofJim Crow . Standing next to the chagrined Mayor,<br />
Evers gloated to the media that the black movement had set out to make Natchez "a<br />
whipping boy" and warned the rest of Mississippi to "take heed ." a9<br />
The city agreed to several civil re<strong>for</strong>ms, including integrating schools and<br />
hospitals . Although not agreeing to mandatory courtesy titles, government and<br />
businesses promised to discharge clerks ifthey addressed blacks with demeaning terms .<br />
In addition to civil re<strong>for</strong>ms, the Natchez elite also consented to several economic equity<br />
re<strong>for</strong>ms, including hiring more blacks, upgrading current jobs, en<strong>for</strong>cing building codes<br />
to eliminate slums, creating a biracial committee to advise the City Council, and<br />
implementing a beautification program in black neighborhoods . so<br />
But the December 3 agreement did not end the movement in Natchez. Picketing<br />
at stores continued, and on December 22 a fight between a black picketer and a white<br />
man resulted in charges ofpolice brutality . The following day Evers announced that the<br />
boycott was in effect again . The boycott <strong>for</strong>mally ended March 3, 1966 when the city<br />
agreed to fire two policemen and reinstate several black store employees who had been<br />
dismissed is retaliation <strong>for</strong> the renewed boycott .<br />
''9Francis Ward, "Economic Squeeze Highlights" ; New York Times, 4 December<br />
1965, p . 1 ; Louisiana Weekly, 11 December 1965 ; New York Times, 4 December 1965, p .<br />
1 .<br />
5°Ibid .<br />
322
The end ofthe boycott brought an end to the <strong>Deacons</strong> work in Natchez. The<br />
chapter then turned its attention to civil rights campaigns in the surrounding area. On one<br />
occasion the chapter provided security <strong>for</strong> Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in Jackson,<br />
Mississippi and later offered to assist him in McComb . Some ofthe Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
were deputized by Charles Evers and provided security <strong>for</strong> Evers as he organized in<br />
Southwest Mississippi, including trips to McComb, Hazelehusrt, and Brookhaven .<br />
Although Evers had initially rebuked the <strong>Deacons</strong>, by the spring of 1966 he apparently<br />
began to see the advantages of having a paramilitary group at his disposal . With planned<br />
boycotts in the unchartered territories of Fayette and Port Gibson, Evers needed a security<br />
apparatus . "Deep down in himself, he knew he needed this protection," said James<br />
Stokes . "Because he wasn't going to get it from nowhere else . Nobody else was going to<br />
protect him." Evers began cooperating with the <strong>Deacons</strong>, using one ofhis assistants,<br />
Rudolph "Rudy" Shields, as a liaison. Though he was reluctant to discuss his use of <strong>for</strong>ce<br />
at the time, years later Evers admitted that he used armed guards and offensive violence<br />
is his Mississippi organizing. "We had our protective squad," Evers wrote in his<br />
autobiography, Evers. "We had our guns . We didn't go around bragging about it, but we<br />
were ready to en<strong>for</strong>ce those boycotts, to die if necessary . And they knew we were<br />
ready ."<br />
s '<br />
The Natchez <strong>Deacons</strong> went on to organize several <strong>Deacons</strong> chapters and in<strong>for</strong>mal<br />
groups in Port Gibson, Fayette (where Evers was eventually elected to office), Vicksburg,<br />
Kosciusko, Woodville, Centerville, and St . Francisville, Louisiana . The Natchez chapter<br />
s'On Port Cribson, see Investigative Report, New Orleans, November 27, 1967,<br />
FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-250 ; Stokes, Hitl interview; Charles Evers, Evers, p . 134 .<br />
3?3
continued to meet and maintain activities through 1968 . It continues to survive today as<br />
the "Natchez Sportsmen Club," having made a peaceful transition to a hunting club s=<br />
Three ofthe in<strong>for</strong>mal <strong>Deacons</strong> groups that Natchez organized had little activity :<br />
Fayette, Kosciusko, and Vicksburg . Fayette, a tiny, predominantly black town a short<br />
drive from Natchez, was the site of a NAACP boycott of white stores . Little is known<br />
about the Fayette chapter, other than it was headed by J. D . Washington . The Vicksburg<br />
chapter consisted ofonly a few members and had little success . The same was true <strong>for</strong><br />
the Kosciusko chapter . ss<br />
By January 1966, Port Gibson was still thoroughly segregated, untouched by the<br />
Civil Rights Act . When Port Gibson's white leadership learned that Charles Evers was<br />
planning a campaign in Port Gibson, they quickly sought out a group of compliant black<br />
leaders to negotiate a compromise . In response, an NAACP chapter was <strong>for</strong>med in Port<br />
Gibson to represent the black community in place ofthe white elite's minions . But even<br />
the new NAACP chapter, led by a local minister was considered too accommodating by<br />
the increasingly nnilitant community . "He was a minister there, but the black community<br />
felt like he could be no spokesman <strong>for</strong> them, "says Walker, "because whatever they<br />
[whites] told him, he was going to do that ." sa<br />
In the spring 1966, activists presented a list ofdemands to local authorities but<br />
had failed to receive an acceptable response . On April 1, Charles Evers announced a<br />
boycott of all white-owned businesses in Port Gibson, hoping that white merchants<br />
s'-Ibid .<br />
s3Stokes, <strong>Hill</strong> interview ; Young, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
s.~~,id .<br />
324
would, in turn, pressure municipal and county government officials to accept the<br />
demands . Ewers set the tone of the boycott when he announced that "uncle toms" would<br />
pay a price <strong>for</strong> violating the boycott. A local law en<strong>for</strong>cement official later testified in<br />
court that Ewers told the rally, "Ifwe catch any of you going in any of them racist stores,<br />
we're gonaa break your necks ." Ewers denies he made the remark, but, as the events in<br />
Natchez demonstrated, the iconoclastic NAACP leader was more than willing to use<br />
threats and <strong>for</strong>ce to discipline dissidents and ensure unified action . ss<br />
To assist with the boycott, Rudy Shields helped <strong>for</strong>m the Port Gibson <strong>Deacons</strong> of<br />
Defense and Justice chapter in July 1966 . Shields became a chapter member and served<br />
as the liaison between Ewers and the chapter . A retired professional fighter and streetwise<br />
operator, Shields was a popular and accomplished grass-roots organizer. Like Ewers,<br />
Shields had lived in Chicago <strong>for</strong> several years and returned to his native Mississippi to<br />
organi2e in the movement se<br />
Although officially a <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter, the Port Cribsoa group quickly acquired the<br />
name "Black Hats of Claiborne County,"owing to their habit of wearing black hats to<br />
identify themselves to police and community members . George Walker, a lifelong<br />
resident of the county, became the chapter's first president s'<br />
Walker had learned responsibility at a young age on a sharecropper farm. At the<br />
age of nine, Walker took over farming the cotton crop while his father staved off<br />
ssS~te Court findings quoted in, "Blacks Terrorized into Boycotting White<br />
Stores," The Citizen, November, 1976, pp . 4-14 ; Ewers quoted in ibid; George Wallcer,<br />
interview by author, 19 April 1994, Warren County, Mississippi, tape recording .<br />
s6 The Citizen, "Blacks Terrorized," p . 12 .<br />
s'Walker, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
~?j
starvation by doing "public work," i .e . logging and other <strong>for</strong>ms ofhired labor . "We<br />
didn't never do nothing but work," recalls Walker. "Didn't think about nothing else.<br />
And just trying to do what we was supposed to do : take care of each other." Walker<br />
served three years in the Army in Korea as a corpsman and returned to a job at Thompson<br />
Funeral Home. He supplemented his income with masonry and electrical works$<br />
In his youth, segegatioa seemed natural and immutable to Walker. He never<br />
entertained the thought ofchallenging Jim Crow. "It never dawned on me," says Walker.<br />
"I just thought this was a way of life ." But in the 1960s, when Walker saw the movement<br />
unfolding around him, his outlook oa segregation began to change radically . `'And then<br />
aRer I got involved with everything else, everything started coming out . Looked like the<br />
sun was coming out where I could see . And it come to me--well maybe things not<br />
supposed to be like this ." s9<br />
As the head ofthe Port Gibson <strong>Deacons</strong>, Walker was preoccupied with ensuring<br />
that the black community complied with the boycott . Most blacks did, but a few were<br />
intractable . The NAACP resorted to <strong>for</strong>ceful tactics to reign in boycott violators . At the<br />
regular Tuesday night NAACP meetings, Evers would read aloud a list of boycott<br />
violators and warn them that "the spirit's going to get you ." Ia most cases the "spirit"<br />
assumed the <strong>for</strong>m of a brick flying through a window. Boycott violators' names were<br />
also published in a mimeographed tabloid called the "Black Times: '6°<br />
ss ~id .<br />
s9Ibid .<br />
° The Citi:en, "Blacks Terrorized," p . 12 ; Evers quote in, Walker, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
3?6
Early in the boycott Evers recruited a group of "store watchers" to en<strong>for</strong>ce the<br />
boycott, many ofwhom eventually made up the Port Gibson <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter. The<br />
watchers frequently used strong-arm tactics to en<strong>for</strong>ce the boycott . They routinely<br />
stopped shoppers and intimidated them into not patronizing the store . If the shoppers had<br />
already made their purchases, the watchers would seize and destroy the purchased items .<br />
Boycott breakers received threatening calls and, on two occasions, assailants fired guns<br />
into their homes . 6 '<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> aided the "watchers' in en<strong>for</strong>cing the boycott, clearly crossing the<br />
line between defensive and offensive <strong>for</strong>ce . Their actions won them the enmity of<br />
many, particularly middle class blacks and ministers . "The ministers, is general, they<br />
were opposed," says Walker . "Some people hated us ." Within a few months the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> found themselves blamed <strong>for</strong> aay act of intimidation that occurred . Walker<br />
says the <strong>Deacons</strong> "got labeled <strong>for</strong> harassing people" because of their association with<br />
Evers, but he denies that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were intimidating people . "We were just there<br />
to see that the people were protected ." 62<br />
The Claiborne County Sheriff's office thought otherwise . The Sheriff s office<br />
suspected that the Port Gibson <strong>Deacons</strong> were involved in at least one shooting attack on<br />
a black boycott breaker . One night a car cruised by the home of Ed Gilmore and fired<br />
several shots into his house . Gilmore, a black mechanic, had been one of the high-<br />
6'The Citizen, "Blacks Terrorized," p . 11-12 .<br />
6=Walker, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
3?7
profile boycott breakers . Within minutes, Sheriff s deputies stopped Elmo Scott as he<br />
and two other <strong>Deacons</strong> were driving on highway 61 . 63<br />
Although the Sheriff's office could never prove that the three <strong>Deacons</strong> were<br />
involved in the shooting, they did make a major find in Ehno Scott's car that night .<br />
Scott was carrying minutes of the <strong>Deacons</strong> meetings and a complete membership list of<br />
<strong>for</strong>ty-two members . The incident was a convincing argument <strong>for</strong> the secrecy practiced<br />
by most other <strong>Deacons</strong> chapters . By keeping written records, the Port Gibson chapter<br />
had exposed itself to potential retaliation by police and racist <strong>for</strong>ces . Indeed, the Citizens<br />
Councils ofAmerica subsequently published all ofthe names of the <strong>Deacons</strong>.`<br />
The Port Gibson chapter held regular meetings at several sites, including the First<br />
Baptist Church . Be<strong>for</strong>e meeting they would check the church <strong>for</strong> bombs and then post<br />
guards on the roof of an adjacent building. The chapter charged dues to pay <strong>for</strong><br />
ammunition and individual members paid <strong>for</strong> their own weapons and CB radios that<br />
were used to coordinate actions and monitor Klan activity . The chapter conducted both<br />
motor and foot patrols, and even organized regular target practice at a target range south<br />
of Port Gibson . "We had our weapons everywhere we went," says Walker . But similar<br />
to the Jonesboro chapter, the Port Gibson <strong>Deacons</strong> did not publicly display their<br />
weapons .<br />
63 Ibid; The Citizen, "Blacks Terrorized," p . 12 .<br />
~Ibid . ; The FBI reported that "members ofthe DDJ organization are again active<br />
in Port Gibson, Mississippi" and that "Negroes wearing black hats were on the streets on<br />
January 14, 1967, harassing other Negroes." See, Investigative Report, New Orleans,<br />
November 27, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-250 .<br />
6sWalker, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
3?8
In addition to patrolling, their duties included guarding marchers and keeping a<br />
watchful eye on picketers at stores . They occasionally exported their services to other<br />
towns, as in the case when they provided guard services in nearby Tillman. By staying<br />
in contact by CB radios in their cars and homes, the chapters in Port Gibson, Natchez,<br />
and Fayette comprised a regional defense network that could instantly summon<br />
assistance or communicate alerts .<br />
The CB transmissions could be a source of fear as well as solace . Walker recalls a<br />
white man who spewed an unending torrent ofthreats on the CB radio . "He stayed on his<br />
walkie talkie and he was always talking about how he was going to `send them monkeys<br />
back to Africa . ..going to send them to the moon be<strong>for</strong>e June .' The whole situation was i i<br />
scary <strong>for</strong> me: ' The murders of the civil rights workers in Neshoba County also haunted<br />
Walker and the <strong>Deacons</strong> . "Didn't nobody really know what was going to happen . The<br />
three fellas hadjust got killed up there . It constantly stayed on all our minds and all our<br />
thoughts :'~<br />
The Klan went beyond mere insults and threats in Port Gibson . Alfred Lee Davis,<br />
a Deacon member, was once assaulted by armed white men during picketing at the Jones<br />
Furniture Store . Davis refused to back down in the face ofa gun, and within minutes<br />
George Walker and several other <strong>Deacons</strong> came to his aid. With his rein<strong>for</strong>cements at his<br />
side, Davis told one ofthe white men that he didn't have "nerve enough to shoot him ."<br />
Fortunately, the local sheriff intervened and defused the situation . 6'<br />
~Ibid .<br />
6'Ibid .<br />
329<br />
I
The Port Gibson boycott became a landmark legal case when white merchants<br />
sued the NAACP <strong>for</strong> conducting an illegal secondary boycott . The merchants claimed<br />
that the NAACP had no valid complaint against their establishments ; that the civil<br />
rights groups had targeted their businesses only to pressure city and county officials to<br />
accept the demands . After a prolonged court battle, on August 9, 1976, Hinds County<br />
Chancellor George W . Haynes awarded a $1,250,699 settlement to the white<br />
merchants .<br />
Walker says that the chapter finally dissolved in 1968 in response to complaints<br />
that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were intimidating blacks in the community. The Port Gibson NAACP<br />
had summoned the <strong>Deacons</strong> to answer a charge that they had thrown a brick at Alexander<br />
Collies' barber shop . The <strong>Deacons</strong> were incensed at having to defend themselves . "We<br />
done put our lives on the line out here . Ifthey think that low of us, then we'll just let<br />
what happens happen ." The need <strong>for</strong> self-defense did not end with the demise ofthe<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> : Only one year later a shooting incident at a church led to a riot and shootout<br />
between blacks and the highway patrol68<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> also found fertile organizing terrain in Wilkinsoa county in<br />
Southwest Mississippi . James Stokes from the Natchez chapter organized the Woodville<br />
chapter which eventually recruited approximately <strong>for</strong>ty members from Woodville,<br />
Centerville, and rural areas in Wilkinson county. William "Bilbo" Ferguson served as<br />
330
President ofthe Woodville Chapter and officers included Herman Burkes and <strong>Edward</strong><br />
Caine .69<br />
In 1967 the Woodville chapter's leader, Bilbo Ferguson, was a thirty-two year old<br />
scrap metal worker. Raised by his grandparents, his family escaped sharecropping by<br />
buying their own land in the 1940s . They lived a humble but relatively independent life<br />
raising cotton, sweet potatoes, corn, and a few livestock . A Masonic order member and<br />
churchgoing man, Fergusonjoined the NAACP in 1964 to, in his words, "help the<br />
advancement of black colored people ."'°<br />
Ed Caine, the spokesperson <strong>for</strong> the Woodville chapter, was a self-employed<br />
carpenter. Caine paid a price <strong>for</strong> his association with the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Caine lost all of his<br />
white customers after word circulated ofhis <strong>Deacons</strong> membership . Other chapter<br />
members included Henry Jones, another carpenter, 'Benjamin Groom; a logger, Elmo<br />
McKenzie, a saw mill worker, William Davis, and Earnest Tollivar. Nearly all the men<br />
were Masonic members as well ."<br />
The Woodville <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter worked closely with the NAACP and conducted<br />
monthly meetings at the Negro Masonic Temple in Woodville . Attendance varied from a<br />
dozen to just two or three members . Although <strong>for</strong>med in 1965, the Woodville chapter<br />
69SAC, Jackson to Director, June 29, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-234 ;<br />
William Ferguson, interview by author, 12 November 1993, Percy Creek Community,<br />
Mississippi, tape recording . For a personal autobiographical viewpoint on Willcinson<br />
county's black community, see Anne Moody, Coming ofAge in Mississippi (New York :<br />
Dial Press, 1968) .<br />
~o ~id.<br />
"Ferguson, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Herman Burkes, interview author, 11 September 1994,<br />
Centerville, Mississippi, tape recording; SAC, Jackson to Director, June 29, 1967, FBI-<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-234 .<br />
331
primarily assisted with marches in Natchez <strong>for</strong> the first two years of its existence . Then<br />
in August 1967, blacks became upset when they failed to win any county posts in the<br />
Democratic primary. In September the Wilkinson County branch ofthe NAACP led a<br />
series of protests and launched a boycott in Woodville to secure a new election and the<br />
appointment of blacks to Wilkinson County Election Commission . The NAACP was<br />
particularly upset with a Board ofEducation election in which a white candidate defeated<br />
a popular black leader, Anselm Joseph Finch. In that election several black teachers had<br />
supported the white candidate . The controversy sparked a protest led by James Joliff,<br />
President ofthe Wilkinson County NAACP, a tough uncompromising militant, called <strong>for</strong><br />
a boycott of white merchants until a new election could be held .'-<br />
On September 4, 1967, Joliff led a group of two-hundred blacks and a contingent<br />
ofarmed <strong>Deacons</strong> in a march to the Wilkinson County Training School on the outskirts<br />
of Woodville . The NAACP was demanding that school officials fire "Negro teachers<br />
there who did not favor Negroes running in the Democratic primaries ." "We are going to<br />
have to bury those Negroes who have sold themselves out to the white people," Joliff told<br />
the marchers at a rally."<br />
On the way to the school the marchers were con&opted by <strong>for</strong>ty-five steely-eyed<br />
Mississippi Highway State Patrolmen . In a subsequent skirmish, three <strong>Deacons</strong> were<br />
arrested <strong>for</strong> possession of illegal weapons . Later in the day Joliffand the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
''-SAC, Jackson to Director, June 29, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-234 ;<br />
Ferguson, <strong>Hill</strong> interview ; Ibid; SAC, Jackson to Director, September 6, 1967, not<br />
serialized; Investigative Report, New Orleans, November 27, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no .<br />
157-2466-250 .<br />
"New York Times, 5 September 1967, p. 31 .<br />
332
traveled the twenty miles to neighboring Centerville and staged a second march of<br />
approximately two-hundred blacks. This time a white man emerged from a gas station<br />
along the march route and menaced the marchers with a rifle . In an instant, twenty-five<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> pulled weapons--carbines, 30-30s, pistols-and surrounded the bewildered white<br />
gunman. The gunman wisely retreated back into the gas station . Ferguson was<br />
philosophical about the confrontation . "It would have been my time or theirs :''°<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong>' armed action at the march brought Charles Evers into the<br />
controversy . Evers arrived in Woodville the following day and addressed a gathering of<br />
one thousand blacks at a Methodist church . In typical high-handed fashion, Evers<br />
ordered an end to the marches and demonstrations but promised that the boycott would<br />
continue. Deacon president Bilbo Ferguson later met with law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials to<br />
discuss the march incident. To mollify the police, the <strong>Deacons</strong> promised that members<br />
involved in the incident would be dismissed, but Ferguson never followed through with<br />
the dismissal . Five <strong>Deacons</strong>, including Earnest Tollivar, were later arrested on charges<br />
arising from the September 4th incident.'S<br />
Lenox Forman, District Attorney <strong>for</strong> the Southwestern District of Mississippi, was<br />
also present at the September 4th march and was perturbed by the spectacle ofthe armed<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> walking the streets with imputity . Forman authorized the highway patrol to<br />
confiscate the <strong>Deacons</strong>' firearms-as Governor McKeithen had attempted in Bogalusa in<br />
1965 . The NAACP protested the flagrant violation of the second amendment, pointing<br />
'°Ibid . ; Ferguson, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
'SInvestigative Report, New Orleans, November 27, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no .<br />
157-2466-250 .<br />
333
out that the highway patrol was disarming the <strong>Deacons</strong> but not whites . Confiscating the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' weapons at the September 4th march was not difficult, but Forman had a<br />
problem carrying out his policy in the following months . The Woodville <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
maintained strict secrecy and law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials failed to learn the identity of all<br />
the group's members . As a result, the Mississippi highway patrol resorted to<br />
indiscriminately confiscating the firearms of all blacks . With complete disregard <strong>for</strong> the<br />
Bill of Rights, Mississippi law en<strong>for</strong>cement agents <strong>for</strong> several weeks arbitrarily stopped<br />
blacks in Wilkinson County--sportsmen and <strong>Deacons</strong> alike--and seized their weapons .'6<br />
Over the next several months the <strong>Deacons</strong> guarded NAACP meetings equipped<br />
with walkie-talkies and CB radios . "They wouldn't have no meeting without the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>," recalls Ferguson . Although the Woodville chapter per<strong>for</strong>med admirably, its<br />
record was marred by two shooting incidents . At one <strong>Deacons</strong>' meeting a young Deacon<br />
member argued with Deacon officer Ed Caine, then drew a revolver and shot and<br />
wounded Came . In a second incident Leon Chambers, a young Deacon member from<br />
Woodville, was convicted of shooting a black deputy sheriff, Aaron Liberty . Although<br />
Gable McDonald, another Wilkinson county man, confessed to the crime, Chambers<br />
stayed in prison <strong>for</strong> several years <strong>for</strong> the offense."<br />
In addition to strong chapters in Port Gibson, Natchez, and Woodville, there were<br />
Deacon groups and individual members spread throughout Mississippi. The Bogalusa<br />
and Jonesboro chapters recruited most ofthere contacts during organizing sorties in<br />
'6SAC, Jackson to Director, September 6, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, not serialized ;<br />
New York Times, 5 September 1967, p . 31 .<br />
"Stokes, <strong>Hill</strong> interview ; New York Times, 25 February 1973 .<br />
334
Mississippi from 1965 to 1966 . Recn~iters visited Greenville, Poplarville, Canton,<br />
Jackson, Meridian, Tougaloo, Columbia, Hattiesburg, Lexington, Holmes County, and<br />
<strong>Edward</strong>s County . Sometimes the <strong>Deacons</strong> merely advised local groups on how to set up<br />
their own security <strong>for</strong>ce . On other occasions they actually recruited members and<br />
established nominal chapters .'$<br />
Typical of Bogalusa's organizing ef<strong>for</strong>ts were their activities in Columbia,<br />
Mississippi, in Walthal county . After receiving several requests <strong>for</strong> assistance from<br />
Columbia, Deacon members Royan Burris and Henry Austin traveled to the Mississippi<br />
town--only an hour's drive from Bogalusa. The Columbia civil rights activists told Bums<br />
that the freedom house had been damaged by arson ; that whites wantonly drove by and<br />
fired shots into the house . "So we asked them, what was they doing, just sitting there<br />
letting people shoot at them," recalls Bums . "And they said, `Well we don't have no<br />
other choice . If we shoot, the police arrest us' :' Bums had little patience <strong>for</strong> this<br />
rationale . He told the Columbia men, "If I can walk out there and slap you, and you not<br />
going to slap me back, then I'll slap you anytime I get ready . But if I figure I'm going to<br />
slap you, and I'm going to be slapped back, I'll be skeptical about it.<br />
» '9<br />
Burns and Austin began guarding homes in Columbia and organizing a local<br />
chapter . To discourage the drive-by shootings without firing at the Klan, Austin worked<br />
with local men to booby trap the road . They drove nails into wooden planks, attached<br />
ropes to the planks, and then placed them in the road. They waited three nights until a<br />
'gRecruiting <strong>for</strong>ays are referred to in Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Bums, <strong>Hill</strong><br />
interview ; and Austin, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
'9Burris, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
33~
carload of Klansmen fell into the trap, flattening all their tires. The Klan never came<br />
back . The <strong>Deacons</strong>' guns had a chilling effect on the nightriders too, says Bums . The<br />
Klan "found out that the same type of guns that they had could kill themjust like they<br />
would kill us: 'a°<br />
In addition to Mississippi, there were reports that the Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> were<br />
recruiting individuals and <strong>for</strong>ming chapters in Alabama as well . Suns traveled to Eutaw,<br />
a small city in Greene County Alabama, and later claimed to have established a chapter<br />
there . The FBI received in<strong>for</strong>mation that a group ofblack men from Greene County, a<br />
SNCC stronghold, had deliberately spread a false rumor that the <strong>Deacons</strong> had organized a<br />
chapter. According to the FBI, the men had spread the rumor as "psychological<br />
retaliation to combat the parading and demonstrating of Klansman in and around Greene<br />
County ." si<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> also organized in Tuskeegee, Alabama, the site of the Tuskeegee<br />
Institute . A local man sent out a letter to Tuskeegee residents soliciting membership in<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> organization . At least one meeting was held, but the extent offurther<br />
organizing is unknown . CORE also had several projects in the Carolinas, and the<br />
connection between CORE and the <strong>Deacons</strong> soon brought the <strong>Deacons</strong> to the Southeast .<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> from Atlanta were sent to provide protection at a voter registration<br />
goInvestigative Report, New Orleans, January 10, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-<br />
2466-104 ; Austin, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Austin, HaU interview ; Burns, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
8'Investigative report, New Orleans, March 28, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no. 157-<br />
2466-120 ; SAC, Birmingham to Director, September 2, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-<br />
2466-56 . SAC, Birmingham to Director, September 3, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no. 157-<br />
2466-576.<br />
336
demonstration on August 14, 1965 at Plymouth, North Carolina . The <strong>Deacons</strong> followed<br />
up in September offering their assistance again, but it appears that their August visit had<br />
achieved the desired results s=<br />
A militant movement in St . George, South Carolina, led to questions about the<br />
links between the <strong>Deacons</strong> and another shadowy self defense group, the Saints of St.<br />
George . The FBI suspected that the Saints of St. George was "affiliated" with the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>, but no direct link was uncovered. There was no question that blacks in the<br />
lowlands of South Carolina were extensively engaged in armed self-defense, <strong>Deacons</strong> or<br />
otherwise . Victoria Delee, a black veteran ofthe civil rights movement, recalls armed<br />
men guarding the homes in Reidsville and Dorchester. The defense activities were in part<br />
linked to the unique culture ofthe lowlands . In contrast to the sharecropping culture in<br />
the Northern part ofthe state, many blacks in the lowlands were independent farmers and<br />
tradesmen. ss<br />
There was also Deacon activity south ofSt. George in Jacksonboro, South<br />
Carolina. The leader ofthe Jacksonboro <strong>Deacons</strong> was Bobbie Cox, a longtime civil<br />
rights activist and military veteran . It appears that the activists in Walterboro,<br />
Jacksonboro, and neighboring towns coordinated defense activities in the region. In April<br />
1966, a group of fourteen black men claiming to be members ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> attacked<br />
820n Tuskeegee, see SAC, Mobile to Director, September 13, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong><br />
file, not serialized ; On North Carolina, see SAC, Charlotte to Director, October I, 1965,<br />
FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-68 .<br />
$30n South Carolina, see FBI November 19, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file ; FBI<br />
November 26, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file ; and SAC, Savannah to Director, no <strong>for</strong>m<br />
markings, September 25, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, not serialized ; Victoria Delee,<br />
interview by author, 6 August 1994, Reidsville, South Carolina .<br />
337
and beat two Klansmen who were putting up posters <strong>for</strong> a Klan rally . One of the<br />
Klansmen was Kelly Morris, the owner of a local cafe . All of Moms' black employees<br />
quit when Morris advertised that the profits from his cafe would go to the Klan . Even<br />
some local whites boycotted the restaurant . Moms' luck got even worse when he and the<br />
Klan subsequently parted ways and Morris himselfbecame a target of a Klan cross<br />
bunzing .~`<br />
There were reports of the <strong>Deacons</strong>' organizing ef<strong>for</strong>ts in several other states,<br />
including Georgia and Florida. At least one report indicates that there were Deacon<br />
members in Atlanta, although these may have been members from other chapters staying<br />
temporarily in the city . The <strong>Deacons</strong> also claimed to have chapters is Noah Florida . An<br />
FBI investigation revealed that the <strong>Deacons</strong> had indeed stirred interest in the region . In<br />
July 1965 local blacks gave serious thought to <strong>for</strong>ming a chapter in Jefferson aad<br />
Madison Counties, but there a no evidence that the chapter ever <strong>for</strong>med. Unconfirmed<br />
organizing activity was also reported in Houston where Kirkpatrick had attended college<br />
in the late sixties . $ '<br />
'Klan incident cited in SAC, Columbia to Director, [April 13, 1966], FBI-<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> file, not serialized ; Lee Frazier, interview by author, 5 August 1994,<br />
Jacksonboro, South Carolina; Reverend James D . Riley, interview by author, S August<br />
1994, Jacksonboro, South Carolina .<br />
BSSAC, Mobile to Director, September 13, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, not serialized;<br />
SAC, Savannah, to Director, September 15, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-58 ;<br />
SAC, Savannah to Director, September 22, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-65 ;<br />
Houston reports in "Investigative Report," New Orleans, November 27, 1967, FBI-<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-250 and SAC, Houston to Director, March 14, 1967, FBI-<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466 (not recorded) .<br />
338
The <strong>Deacons</strong>' organizing ef<strong>for</strong>ts in the South were significant, certainly more<br />
influential than historians have previously recognized . They developed several effective<br />
chapters in the Deep South and recruited several hundred members . But more important<br />
than size was their influence on the grass-roots movement. Like a single cottonwood tree<br />
whose thousands of seeds are carried aloft to distant lands, the <strong>Deacons</strong>' message traveled<br />
far and wide across the fertile terrain of the South . In 1965 Thomas and Sims seemed to<br />
be everywhere in the Deep South . They crisscrossed Louisiana, Mississippi, and<br />
Alabama, visiting scores of cities and spreading the gospel of self-defense. CORE<br />
organizer Ronaie Moore recalls that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were widely known in the region--by<br />
whites as well as blacks . "I think that the greater white community became afraid," says<br />
Moore . "You have to understand that the Klan in the south had a free hand with no threat<br />
of retaliation is any organized fashion until the <strong>Deacons</strong> were announced. And just the<br />
thought that there might be a legitimate, or reactionary response to Klan activities made<br />
the white community afraid ." Virginia Collies, a New Orleans black activist, believes<br />
that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were a public expression of an old covert tradition . "Black people<br />
always did protect their young, but on the q . t . [quiet]," says Collies . The <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
trans<strong>for</strong>med a quiet practice into a political right . "It had an impact on all of Louisiana,"<br />
Says COIhnS . g6<br />
86Ronnie Moore, interview by author, 26 February 1993, New Orleans, Louisiana,<br />
tape recording; Virginia Collies, interview by author, 15 March, 1993, New Orleans,<br />
Louisiana .<br />
339
Chapter 13<br />
Up-South<br />
In June 1965 the <strong>Deacons</strong> began to expand outside the South. Their initial <strong>for</strong>ays<br />
into the North were primarily motivated by the desire to raise funds <strong>for</strong> Deacon<br />
organizing activity in the South . But the fundraising ef<strong>for</strong>ts in the North eventually led<br />
them to attempt to develop <strong>Deacons</strong>' chapters in Northern cities as well .<br />
In their early stages, the <strong>Deacons</strong> derived most oftheir financial support from<br />
local sources : chapter fees, membership dues, and community contributions . It is<br />
impossible to determine the precise amount of the organizations' income . Few chapters<br />
kept financial records and most of the income was collected and controlled by Earnest<br />
Thomas and Charlie Sims, neither ofwhom kept records. Chapters did not closely<br />
monitor the treasury nor did they require receipts <strong>for</strong> reimbursements . Sins and Thomas<br />
casually disbursed cash <strong>for</strong> travel and other expenses .`<br />
By the summer of 1965, both Sims and Thomas had become became fiill-time<br />
organizers <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong>, and both felt justified in compensating themselves <strong>for</strong> their<br />
work . Sims apparently used some ofthe income <strong>for</strong> his own personal expenses, a<br />
questionable but common practice in the civil rights movement . Sins and other members<br />
argued that they deserved to be compensated <strong>for</strong> loss of work due to organizational<br />
`Austin, <strong>Hill</strong> interview<br />
340
duties . Sims normally collected chapter fees himself, so he had wide discretion on how<br />
to use the funds . Neither Sims nor Thomas grew rich offthe <strong>Deacons</strong>, but the haphazard<br />
bookkeeping and indiscriminate spending raised questions about their motives and fueled<br />
ugly rumors about self-aggrandizement .-<br />
As the <strong>Deacons</strong>' organizing expanded, their need <strong>for</strong> additional funds soon<br />
outstripped local support . National fundraising not only represented a new source of<br />
revenue, but it also presented an important opportunity <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> to publicize their<br />
unique approach and win political support. The first major contribution to the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
from outside of Louisiana was the result of a Los Angeles fund raising ef<strong>for</strong>t headed up<br />
by blackjournalist Louis Lomax. Lomax raised $15,000 <strong>for</strong> the Bogalusa movement<br />
after Sims appeared on Lomax's Los Angeles television show in June 1965 . Fifteen<br />
thousand dollars was a staggering windfall <strong>for</strong> a small organization like the League,<br />
comparable to nearly two years income <strong>for</strong> a mill worker. Although Lomax's<br />
contribution went directly to the Voters League, it is probable that some ofthe funds<br />
underwrote the <strong>Deacons</strong>' activities as well (Charlie Sims was the Treasurer <strong>for</strong> the Voters<br />
League) .<br />
CORE organized most of the <strong>Deacons</strong>' fundraising <strong>for</strong>ays to the West Coast . In<br />
July 1965 it was Earnest Thomas' turn to tap Cali<strong>for</strong>nia <strong>for</strong> support. By this time,<br />
Thomas was billing himself as "Regional Vice-President and Director of Organization"<br />
far the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice, a self-appointed title that gave him autonomy<br />
from the Jonesboro Chapter . Thomas arrived in San Francisco the last week of July with<br />
-Ibid .<br />
341
the goal of raising funds and setting up a "Friends of the <strong>Deacons</strong>" organization that<br />
would serve as a permanent fund-raising support group . Thomas spoke at a CORE-<br />
sponsored reception oa July 24, 1965 in Berkeley and at a rally at the Macedonia Baptist<br />
Church in San Francisco on the following day . On August 5 he attended a reception at<br />
the Sua Reporter Newspaper Building to raise funds <strong>for</strong> bail <strong>for</strong> eighteen persons jailed in<br />
Jonesboro . The two-week trip also produced a sympathetic article in the San Francisco<br />
Chronicle : "Rights Army -- The Angry `<strong>Deacons</strong>' ." 3<br />
While in Cali<strong>for</strong>nia, TA : >mas also met with Bobby Sea1e, a member ofRAM, who<br />
later helped found the Black Panther Party . Seale was impressed with Thomas and the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> and raised the possibility of <strong>for</strong>ming a <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter in Los Angeles . Thomas<br />
let the subject drop, judging Sea1e too "radical" <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong>, but Thomas' visit<br />
planted a seed in Seale's mine, and Seale would later say that the <strong>Deacons</strong> served as an<br />
inspiration and model <strong>for</strong> the Panthers{<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> next turned their eyes north to Detroit . The Motor City had long<br />
been a center of black nationalist activity, dating back to the Marcus Garvey movement in<br />
the 1920s . Malcom X had spent a great deal of time in Detroit where his brother directed<br />
an important mosque <strong>for</strong> Elijah Muhammad's Nation of Islam . One of the most<br />
prominent black nationalist organizations in Detroit was the Group on Advanced<br />
Leadership (GOAL) which was led by Richard Henry and had close ties to Malcom X and<br />
other nationalists . Like most black nationalist groups, GOAL admired the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong><br />
3Article cited in, SAC, San Francisco to Director, September 21, 1965, FBI-<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> 81e no. 157-2466-67 .<br />
;Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
342
their willingness to challenge the nonviolent orthodoxy . "Birmingham shows . . . you just<br />
can't change the white man by letting him beat you over the head every day," said GOAL<br />
leader Reverend Albert B . Cleage in 1963 . "I'm sick and tired of singing `We Shall<br />
Overcome' ." Socialist as well as nationalist, GOAL charged that the mainstream black<br />
civil rights movement was controlled by white liberal institutions that were steering them<br />
toward voter registration and desegregation and away <strong>for</strong>m radical economic and political<br />
change5<br />
Like many Southern communities, Bogalusa had lost many of its black citizens to<br />
the industrial behemoth of Detroit. In August 1965, <strong>for</strong>mer Bogalusa residents Clement<br />
Johnson, Melvina Dexter, and Dexter's wife arranged <strong>for</strong> GOAL to sponsor a "freedom<br />
dinner" event in Detroit to honor Bob Hicks and raise funds <strong>for</strong> the Voters League . The<br />
League's attorneys had recently advised the League to maintain a clear distinction<br />
between itself aad the <strong>Deacons</strong>--although overlapping membership made the distinction a<br />
legal Sction . To comply with their attorneys' advice, Bob Hicks attended the Detroit<br />
event as a representative ofthe Voters League, and Charlie Sims attended as the Deacon's<br />
official spokesperson.<br />
Hicks and Suns may have been regarded as "militants" in Bogalusa, but their self-<br />
defense rhetoric paled by comparison to the revolutionary fervor oftheir hosts in Detroit.<br />
GOAL leader Richard Henry, who would later lead the militant Maoist-oriented Republic<br />
of New Africa, told the audience ofthree-hundred that violence was the only way "of<br />
letting `Mr. Charlie' know that the black people were tired ofbeing pushed around ."<br />
SLarry Still, "Talk is of a Revolution - Complete with Mixed Blood," Jet, 28<br />
November 1963, pp . 14-19 .<br />
3~3
Emblematic ofthe changing attitudes toward violence, Congressman John Conyers and<br />
Congressman Charles Diggs both took the podium to praise the <strong>Deacons</strong> and defend the<br />
principle ofself-defense, with Diggs observing that new situations called <strong>for</strong> ``new<br />
techniques ."<br />
Hicks and Sims both sounded moderate themes, talking of reconciliation and<br />
racial harmony . Sims told the audience that the "white man" respects three things :<br />
money, the vote, and <strong>for</strong>ce . The <strong>Deacons</strong> were going to fight until they had the "whole<br />
hog," declared Sims, since they were "backed up to the river and will drown or fight."<br />
The Detroit event was relatively successful, raising $509 <strong>for</strong> the Voters League .'<br />
Sims again went on the road in September 1965, this time with A . Z . Young to<br />
attend a San Bernardino, Cali<strong>for</strong>nia fundraiser <strong>for</strong> the Voters League . Their old supporter<br />
Louis Lomax had organized a "<strong>Freedom</strong> Festival" at the Swing Auditorium to benefit the<br />
Bogalusa movement and the "victims of Watts rioting." Lomax had recruited an<br />
impressive line up of famous entertainers <strong>for</strong> the festival, including actor Dick Van Dyke<br />
and comedians Bill Cosby and God&ey Cambridge . $<br />
But things began to unravel as the event drew near. Some of the Festival sponsors<br />
and stars withdrew at the last minute because, according to Lomax, the John Birch<br />
Society was applying "incredible pressure ." The extremist right wing in San Bernardino<br />
was familiar with the <strong>Deacons</strong> : the city was home to Reverend Connie Lynch, the racist<br />
6SAC, Detroit to Director, August 12, 1965, August 12, 1965, Detroit<br />
"Appearance of Robert Hicks," FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-40 .<br />
'Ibid .<br />
BSAC, Los Angeles to Director, September 29, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-<br />
2466-69 .<br />
34=~
leader who had descended on Bogalusa during the height of activities in July 1965 .<br />
Lomax and the festival promoters frantically fought to salvage the event in face of<br />
mounting pressure . A . Z. Young appeared on local television and later spoke at a<br />
Unitarian church, where he was introduced as a member ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> . Young tried to<br />
deflect the criticism that the funds raised by the event would help purchase guns and<br />
ammunition . Young announced that contributions would only go <strong>for</strong> children's clothes,<br />
and fines and bail <strong>for</strong> protestors . He told his television audience that the Klan was "on<br />
the way out" in Bogalusa . "They still ride, but now they are careful when they ride and<br />
where they ride," said Young . Despite Lomax's countermeasures, the right wing's<br />
campaign to discredit the <strong>Deacons</strong> in San Bemardino had considerable effect . Some stars<br />
canceled and a disappointingly small crowd of six-hundred attended the festival,<br />
entertained by Dick Gregory, singer Sally Jones, and a handfiil of local groups 9<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> also attracted financial and political support from an assortment of<br />
Marxist organizations, including the Communist Party U .S.A ., the Socialist Workers<br />
Party, the Workers World Party, and the Sparticist League . The more revolutionary of<br />
these groups, such as the Trotskyite Workers World Party and the Sparticists, admired the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' use of armed violence and viewed the defense group as a precursor of the<br />
coming revolution . It was not long be<strong>for</strong>e these leftist groups descended on Bogalusa<br />
offering assistance and support .<br />
In the summer of 1965, a young college student, Mark Klein, received permission<br />
from Sims to raise funds <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> by creating a "Committee to Aid the <strong>Deacons</strong> ."<br />
9Ibid .<br />
34~
Klein sponsored meetings and organized a modest fund raising campaign at the<br />
University of Texas in Austin, Texas . He continued his work <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> on the<br />
Cornell campus in the fall of 1965, but never generated significant funds .' °<br />
The Sparticist League was better suited <strong>for</strong> national fundraising <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> .<br />
A small but highly disciplined Trotskyite faction, the Sparticists had contacts throughout<br />
the country . They were perhaps the most radical of the predominantly white leftist groups<br />
courting the <strong>Deacons</strong> . The New Orleans Sparticist chapter arranged a meeting with<br />
Charlie Suns and Henry Austin in 1965 . The young Marxists began the meeting by<br />
melodramatically pulling their guns from under their shirts and laying them on the table .<br />
Henry Austin was not impressed . He thought the young leftists went overboard with "a<br />
lot of flattery and praise that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were the vanguard ofthe coming revolution and<br />
this general kind of crap ." Austin regarded the Sparticists as reckless dilettantes . "Their<br />
attitude was, regardless if it was necessary to have a bloodbath in Bogalusa, they wanted<br />
to start a revolution right then and there ." The Sparticists offered to assist the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
with defense duties and provide them guns if necessary. Though Sims politely declined<br />
their offer to help with patrols, he was not one to tum down money. The Sparticists<br />
publicized the <strong>Deacons</strong> in their national paper and organized a "buy a bullet <strong>for</strong> the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>" fund raising campaign that generated some contributions . The FBI suspected<br />
that the Sparticists had found an even more lucrative funding source <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> :<br />
Fidel Castro ."<br />
` °SAC, San Antonio to Director, August 9, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-<br />
35 ; San Antonio to Director, August 10, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-42 .<br />
"Austin, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
346
In the fall of 1965 an unidentified source contacted the FBI and charged that the<br />
Sparticists were financing the <strong>Deacons</strong> and speculated that Robert F . Williams was using<br />
the Sparticists to channel funds from the Cuban government to the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Following<br />
his legal problems in Monroe, Williams had fled to Cuba and since 1962 broadcast a<br />
radio program in Cuba titled "Radio Free Dixie ." The program was beamed toward the<br />
United States and could be heard in some areas of the Deep South . Williams took to the<br />
airwaves preaching a doctrine of armed revolution to blacks in the South, so it was only<br />
logical that U .S . law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials might suspect a relationship between the<br />
Cuban government and the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Although there was no evidence that the Cuban<br />
government was funding the <strong>Deacons</strong>, the <strong>Deacons</strong>' close ties to revolutionary black<br />
nationalists and white leftists continued to raise suspicions in the intelligence<br />
community.' Z<br />
Another leftist ally and fonder ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>, though not as radical and sectarian<br />
as the Sparticists, was the New York-based Workers World Party. A Trotskyite split-off<br />
from the older Socialist Workers Party, Workers World viewed the <strong>Deacons</strong> as the<br />
political heirs of Robert F . Williams and the vanguard ofa growing self-defense<br />
movement . The emergence ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> was a sign that despite "continuous<br />
propaganda of `turn the other cheek' encouraged by the white ruling class, armed defense<br />
will be adopted by the black masses all over the U .S : ' When Henry Austin shot Alton<br />
Crowe in July 1965, the Workers World newspaper praised Austin's actions as<br />
` DDreector to SAC, New Orleans, March 14, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-<br />
115 ; SAC, New Orleans to Director, March 23, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-<br />
117 .<br />
347
"commendable ." "Henry Austin, his fellow <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and all who take up<br />
arms along with them deserve the respect and support of every honest friend ofBlack<br />
<strong>Freedom</strong>," editorialized porkers World. `s<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong>' connection to Workers World introduced the Bogalusa Chapter to<br />
the rarified world of left-wing politics in New York . In the fall of 1965, Workers World<br />
organized several New York fundraising tours <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong>, featuring Charlie Sims<br />
and Bob Hicks . Workers World kicked offthe fundraising ef<strong>for</strong>ts in September, operating<br />
under the auspices of the "John Brown Commemoration Committee," by conducting two<br />
fundraising dances <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong>.`<br />
In the same month, the <strong>Deacons</strong> established a base in New York by creating a<br />
support organization, the "Friends of the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice (FDDJ),"<br />
housed at 271 W. 125th Street . The FDDJ chapter was coordinated by Rique LeSeur, a<br />
CORE member who had the title of"Special New York Assistant to Charles Sims ." The<br />
FDDJ office stayed open <strong>for</strong> approximately eight months, closing in April 1966 . The<br />
support organization failed to raise any significant funds . LeSeur, who also served as<br />
treasurer ofthe Staten Island CORE chapter, parted with Sins on bad terms .' S<br />
' 3Phylllis Fishberg, "Klan Stopped Cold When Masses Fight Back," Workers<br />
World, 29 April 1965 ; "Black Armed Groups Spread Across South," Workers World, 10<br />
June 1965 .<br />
' °SAC, New York to Director, October 28, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-<br />
80 ; Workers World, 14, 28 October, 1965 .<br />
' SSAC, New York to Director, June 30, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-140 .<br />
The Labadie Collection at the University of Michigan has one item ofcorrespondence<br />
from LeSeur written on stationary from the "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice - New York<br />
Chapter." See, Ricque LeSeur to utilmown, 7 January 1966, Staten Island, New York,<br />
Labadie Collection, University ofMichigan Library, Ann Arbor . Thanks to Caroline<br />
Melish <strong>for</strong> this citation .<br />
348
Hicks and Sims returned <strong>for</strong> a second fundraising tour in October. The day be<strong>for</strong>e<br />
they arrived, supporters organized a street rally in Harlem to benefit the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Jesse<br />
Gray, a Marxist nationalist and respected community organizer, coordinated the rally,<br />
which featured speakers Leroi Jones and Mae Mallory . Jones, who later changed his<br />
name to Amiri Baraka, was a nationalist leader and celebrated writer . Mallory, an<br />
African American woman, had become a minor celebrity on the left when she was<br />
arrested along with Robert F . Williams in Monroe . A supporter of Workers World,<br />
Mallory took the lead in fundraising <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> in New York, making an<br />
impassioned plea <strong>for</strong> funds at the Harlem rally .' 6<br />
Hicks and Sins anzved in New York the following day, October 24, and held a<br />
press conference hosted by the Reverend William H . Melish, a radical white minister and<br />
member ofthe Board of Directors ofthe National Council of American-Soviet<br />
Friendship . As was becoming the practice, Sins and Hicks contradicted each other in<br />
their statements . While Sims escalated the rhetoric at the press conference, suggesting<br />
that perhaps the time had come to arm people on the picket line, Hicks sounded a more<br />
moderate theme and argued that "laws must be obeyed:'"<br />
Later that day, Sims spoke at a luncheon held at the Harlem Unemployment<br />
Center, sponsored by the Center's Women's Committee and the Washington Temple in<br />
Brooklyn. The following day Sims and Hicks spoke at a rally at Emanuel Temple that<br />
' 6SAC, New York to Director, October 26, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-<br />
2466-81 .<br />
"SAC, New York to Director, November 24, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-<br />
2466-90 .<br />
3=19
once again featured Mae Mallory . Mallory highlighted the parallels between Robert F .<br />
Williams and the <strong>Deacons</strong>, but Sims appeared to distance himself from his newfound<br />
revolutionary partisans, muting his criticisms of nonviolent strategy and emphasizing the<br />
right of self-defense .' $<br />
The fundraising tour was cut short on October 25 when Hicks and Sims had to<br />
return to Bogalusa <strong>for</strong> a court date . Workers World had scheduled several events,<br />
including college campus rallies sponsored by Workers World's youth group, the Youth<br />
Against War and Fascism (YAWF) . A rally scheduled at Emmanuel A.M.E. Church in<br />
Harlem was conducted in the <strong>Deacons</strong>' absence . With Jesse Gray once again the rally<br />
master ofceremonies, Mae Mallory spoke to an enthusiastic group of four-hundred,<br />
asking <strong>for</strong> $80 pledges to purchase guns <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Several pledges were made and<br />
the hat was passed, raising an additional $126 . Sims returned from Bogalusa to continue<br />
the tour on October 29 . He addressed a rally ofthree-hundred at a YAWF event at the<br />
Academy Hall, raising $400, and later that night spoke at a Brooklyn event where he<br />
raised an additional $200 . In total, the New York tours had yielded nearly $1000 .' 9<br />
In December, Sims traveled again to New York <strong>for</strong> another fundraising event, this<br />
time sponsored by popular leftist activist Mary Kochiyama . The trip was nothing short of<br />
a calamity <strong>for</strong> Sims . His car broke down in New York, his clothes were lost, and he<br />
raised little money . Suns began the tour by joining SNCC militant Cleveland Sellers in a<br />
' aSAC, New York to Director, November 24, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-<br />
2466-90.<br />
' WWorkers World, 28 October 1965 ; SAC, New York to Director, November 24,<br />
1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-90 ; Workers World, 11 November 1965 .<br />
350
speaking event be<strong>for</strong>e a group of 150 at Kochiyama's home . Surrounded by leftist<br />
intellectuals and revolutionaries, the grizzled Sims must have felt like a fish out of water .<br />
When an audience member asked about the possibility of a black rebellion, Sims replied<br />
that even ifhe were in favor of rebellion, the time was not right. It is likely that Sims had<br />
figured out that leftist revolutionaries in New York had more fervor than money . To<br />
effectively raise funds, Sims would have to appeal to liberals and downplay the issue of<br />
violence. It was a dilemma that the <strong>Deacons</strong> had avoided in the past when they relied on<br />
local support from blacks in the South . Indeed, during his last tour ofNew York, Sims<br />
explicitly denied that contributions would support weapons purchases . His also placed<br />
increasing emphasis on centrist themes ofjobs and voting. Sins' New York per<strong>for</strong>mance<br />
reflected the growing division within the <strong>Deacons</strong>' leadership : while Earnest Thomas was<br />
moving toward the left, Hicks and Sims remained anchored in the center, maintaining<br />
their distance from their new-found leftist allies .'-°<br />
In addition to Workers World and the Sparticists, the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong>ays into the<br />
North <strong>for</strong> fundraising and organizational expansion brought them in contact with a variety<br />
of black nationalists . Foremost was the Revolutionary Action Movement~.<br />
RAM was a loose confederation of revolutionary black nationalists that began<br />
<strong>for</strong>ming in 1961 during a National Student Association (NSA) conference in Madison,<br />
Wisconsin--at the same meeting that gave birth to the premier white anti-war<br />
organization, the Students <strong>for</strong> a Democratic Society (SDS) . At the conference, Donald<br />
Freeman, an African-American student at Case Western Reserve College in Cleveland,<br />
'-°Investigative report, "<strong>Deacons</strong> of Defense and Justice, Inc ." March 28, 1966<br />
New Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-120 .<br />
3~1
Ohio, met several other black students who shared his emerging militant and nationalist<br />
viewpoint. Among them was Max Stan<strong>for</strong>d, a student at Wilber<strong>for</strong>ce College . Freeman<br />
and Stan<strong>for</strong>d would eventually become RAM's principal leaders . The fledgling black<br />
nationalist network that emerged from the Madison meeting comprised young blacks<br />
radicalized by the Civil Rights movement in the South, as well as <strong>for</strong>mer members ofthe<br />
Nation ofIslam and African nationalist organizations .'-<br />
In January 1963, a black study group calling itselfthe Revolutionary Action<br />
Movement <strong>for</strong>med in Philadelphia, organized by Stan Daniels and Playthell Benjamin .<br />
One year later the Philadelphia group combined with Freeman and Stan<strong>for</strong>d and<br />
crystallized into the secretive cadre organization known as RAM .'=<br />
RAM posed itself as a radical alternative to the mainstream black civil rights<br />
movement . The group published two periodicals, Black America and RAMSpeaks, and<br />
worked with a wide range of black organizations, including Richard Henry's GOAL in<br />
Detroit and SNCC in the South. By 1964, RAM had grown to several clandestine units .<br />
Politically it fused nationalism and socialism, and became an openly Maoist communist<br />
organization devoted to the overthrow ofcapitalism. The group adopted a twelve-point<br />
program which included a call <strong>for</strong> rifle clubs and the creation of an underground<br />
vanguard .'<br />
='Akbar Muhammad Ahmad, History ofRAM- Revolutionary Action Movement,<br />
(n .p ., n.d.), in author's possession, pp . 6-8 .<br />
-'-Ahmad, History ofRAM, pp. 10, 20 .<br />
=~Ahmad, History ofRAM, pp . l l , 14, 2 1, 14-15 .<br />
3~?
Robert F . Williams was an icon <strong>for</strong> the young nationalists, and accordingly, RAM<br />
named him the organization's first International Chairman . Don Freeman became the<br />
Executive Chairman and Max Stan<strong>for</strong>d was elected Executive Field Director. Detroit<br />
radicals played a prominent role in the organization, with James Boggs serving as the<br />
Ideological Chairman, and his wife, Grace Boggs, serving as Executive Secretary . In<br />
addition, Detroit GOAL Ieader Richard Henry, whom the Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> had worked<br />
with, and his brother Milton Henry were both active in RAM.=<br />
Historians normally date the beginning ofthe modern black nationalist movement<br />
with Stokely Carmichael's Black Power speech at the Meredith March in 1966 . The<br />
chronology fits neatly into the theory that black nationalism emerged as a result of<br />
frustration with the slow pace ofchange . In fact, the turning point <strong>for</strong> black nationalism<br />
came earlier, in 1964, when a series ofevents galvanized the modern nationalist<br />
movement. In March 1964, Malcom X left the Nation ofIslam and began <strong>for</strong>nung a<br />
secular nationalist alternative which gave impetus to nationalist organizing in general .<br />
The birth ofRAM in 1964 would eventually give rise to the widely popular Black Panther<br />
Party and a range of other nationalist groups in the late sixties . Nineteen-sixty-four was a<br />
watershed <strong>for</strong> important ideological changes in the black nationalist movement as well .<br />
In February 1964, Robert F . Williams published as influential article in RAM's<br />
Cr:~rader titled "Revolution without Violence :' Williams departed from his previous<br />
position advocating self-defense and now argued <strong>for</strong> urban mass rebellions and guerilla<br />
warfare . Three months later Monthly Review published a series of articles oa black<br />
=~Ibid ., 20 .<br />
3~3
nationalism that generated additional interest in the burgeoning movement . Among<br />
influential black activists and intellectuais, black nationalism had become a major<br />
political challenge to the nonviolent and integrationist orthodoxy by 1964 . Indeed, in<br />
September 1965, several months prior to the Meredith March, the "Organization <strong>for</strong><br />
Black Power," an umbrella group of black power organizations, had already convened a<br />
major national conference in Detroit.=<br />
Black nationalists began a concerted ef<strong>for</strong>t to influence students in the civil rights<br />
movement as early as 1964. In spring 1964, RAM and the Black Liberation Front (BLF)<br />
sponsored the Afro-American Student Conference on Black Nationalism at Fisk<br />
Uaiversity . At the conference, RAM sharply criticized SNCC, CORE and other<br />
mainstream nonviolent groups . But while the black nationalists were publicly attacking<br />
the nonviolent movement, RAM was simultaneously infiltrating CORE and working with<br />
SNCC in an attempt to pose an alternative strategy and win recruits to the nationalist<br />
movement . As a result oftheir fictionalizing inside CORE and SNCC, RAM seriously<br />
antagonized black-white relations in the groups . -6<br />
But RAM did manage to gain a beachhead in the civil rights movement in the<br />
South, ensconcing themselves in several CORE chapters in Spring, 1964 . RAM also<br />
proposed to John Lewis that SNCC establish an experimental self-defense project in<br />
Greenwood, Mississippi . Though Lewis acceded to the request, Bob Moses soon learned<br />
that the Greenwood office was arming and sent Stokely Carmichael to halt the practice.<br />
=Crusader article cited in Ibid., p . 18 .<br />
= 6Ahmad, History o}'RAM, p. 20 .<br />
3 ~=~
Officially, SNCC did not discourage self-defense by Southern blacks, but SNCC policy<br />
dictated that staffremain unarmed. The question of self-defense was splitting SNCC in<br />
1964 in the same way that the <strong>Deacons</strong> would divide CORE in 1965 . One faction argued<br />
that SNCC should openly endorse armed self-defense, and the other faction, led by James<br />
Foreman and Bob Moses, supported self-defense but argued that it should be clandestine<br />
to avoid legal harassment and repression.'-'<br />
RAM's attempt to import self-defense groups to the South was not unique . In<br />
March 1964, Malcom X had issued a call <strong>for</strong> blacks to <strong>for</strong>m "Negro rifle clubs" to resist<br />
racist attacks, proclaiming that the black man should "fight back whenever and wherever<br />
he is being unjustly and unlawfully attacked ." Malcom's clarion call went unheeded with<br />
a one notable exception . When a white clergyman was crushed by a bulldozer in a civil<br />
rights protest in Cleveland, Ohio, the tragedy sparked the development of the Medgar<br />
Ewers Rifle Club in Cleveland, led by a local black housing inspector, Louis Robinsoa .<br />
Ln July 1964, Malcom X, growing impatient with the lack ofresponse to his call <strong>for</strong> rifle<br />
clubs, publicly offered to provide defense <strong>for</strong> Martin Luther King, Jr . and James Farmer<br />
in Mississippi during the <strong>Freedom</strong> Summer . Ironically, the <strong>Deacons</strong> were quietly<br />
organizing their first self-defense group at the very moment that RAM and Malcom X<br />
were foundering in their ef<strong>for</strong>ts to develop self-defense groups in the South.'-$<br />
-'Ahmad, History ofRAM, pp. 15, 20, 28 ; James Foreman, The Making ofBlack<br />
Revolutionaries (Washington, D.C . : Open Hand Publishing Inc ., 1985), pp . 374-375 .<br />
=$New York Times, 13 March 1964 ; Sobel, Civit Rights, pp . 283-284 ;"North's First<br />
Rights Martyr Made in Bloody Cleveland," Jet, 23 April 1964, pp . 16-20 .<br />
35 "
Although stymied in their ef<strong>for</strong>ts to build paramilitary rifle clubs in Crreenwood,<br />
RAM did succeed in establishing rifle clubs in some cities in the North . Following<br />
Malcom X's lead, RAM publicly called <strong>for</strong> northern blacks to <strong>for</strong>m an army ofrifle clubs<br />
to defend blacks in the South in the coming "civil war ." Richard Henry took to the<br />
airwaves in the summer of 1964 calling <strong>for</strong> the "<strong>for</strong>mation of rifle clubs by Negroes all<br />
across the North." The rifle clubs were critical, according to Henry, because blacks in the<br />
South "will very shortly begin guerilla warfare against white terrorists" and that "white<br />
bigots will react by slaughtering wholesale, helpless Negroes---men, women sad<br />
children: '-9<br />
RAM's influence would grow in years following 1964 . But the organization<br />
collapsed in 1967 when severs! of its members were arrested on charges of organizing a<br />
terrorist plot in Philadelphia . 3o<br />
RAM saw great promise in the <strong>Deacons</strong> . The Marxist organization believed that<br />
black rifle clubs would provide the infrastructure <strong>for</strong> a revolutionary army, and they were<br />
determined to recruit the <strong>Deacons</strong> to their brand of revolutionary nationalism . But the<br />
black nationalists would have no more success in converting the <strong>Deacons</strong> than had the<br />
New York white leftists . "They were very unpolitical," complained Virginia Collies, a<br />
RAM member and a lifelong Garveyite nationalist from New Orleans . Collies, the only<br />
female RAM member in the South, met with the <strong>Deacons</strong> in Jonesboro and Bogalusa, but<br />
'-9Ahmad, History ofRAM, p. 28 ; "Form Rifle Clubs, Militant Detroiters Urges,"<br />
Jet, 16 July, 1964, p . 7<br />
'°Ahmad, History ofRAM, pp. 30-31, 33, 35, 16-17 . On imprisonment, see,<br />
Federal Bureau ofInvestigation, Revolutionary Action Movement (RAM) files .<br />
3~6
had little luck in moving them toward black nationalism . Collies found them<br />
independent, stubborn, and lacking the political sophistication to advance beyond their<br />
political views . And, according to Collies, the <strong>Deacons</strong>' men were plagued by the<br />
attitude that "women can't tell you nothing ." When Collies abandoned her plan to recruit<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong>, national RAM officials implored her to renew her ef<strong>for</strong>t ; they were<br />
confident that the <strong>Deacons</strong> could be "politicized" to a revolutionary viewpoint . "Ifyou<br />
think so," Collies responded curtly, "then you politicize them ." 3'<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> crossed paths with RAM repeatedly in 1965 and 1966, particularly<br />
in their ef<strong>for</strong>ts to raise funds and develop <strong>Deacons</strong> Chapters in the North . Their first<br />
contact with RAM was through the GOAL fundraiser that Hicks and Suns attended in<br />
Detroit in August 1965 . Richard Henry was not only the President of GOAL, but he also<br />
served as the Treasurer <strong>for</strong> RAM. The connection with RAM triggered an intense FBI<br />
investigation ofthe links between RAM and the <strong>Deacons</strong> . RAM was a revolutionary<br />
organization with strong ties to communist movements around the world, and the FBI<br />
suspected that the <strong>Deacons</strong> might become the unwitting pawns of political extremists .<br />
Several months after the Detroit GOAL event, Sims connected with RAM again, this time<br />
appearing with RAM's director, Don Freeman, at a Cleveland event on December 19,<br />
1965 .3 '-<br />
3'Collins, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
3=SAC, Detroit to Director, June 10, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file . 157-2466<br />
unserialized; Ibid ; "Revolutionary Action Movement," June 10, 1965 and appendix<br />
"Revolutionary Action Movement," On Sims' Cleveland appearance with RAM see<br />
Investigative report, "<strong>Deacons</strong> of Defense and Justice, Inc ." March 28, 1966, New<br />
Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-120 .<br />
3~7
Of all the <strong>Deacons</strong> leaders, Earnest Thomas probably had the closest ties to RAM<br />
and the black nationalist movement. In September 1965, Thomas represented the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> at a conference ofseveral hundred black militants organized by the Organization<br />
<strong>for</strong> Black Power (OBP) . The OBP was another attempt by the emerging black nationalist<br />
movement to develop a nationwide nationalist coalition organized around a common<br />
program. Organized by James and Grace Boggs, attendees included Jesse Gray ; John<br />
Strickland ofthe Northern Student Movement; the Associated Community Teams (ACT)<br />
represented by Nahaz Rogers and his wife from Chicago ; Julius Hobson, chairman ofthe<br />
Washington D.C . ACT chapter ; William R. Davis of the <strong>Freedom</strong> Action Committee of<br />
Philadelphia; and popular Detroit activist Reverend Albert B . Cleague, Jr . . The Boggs'<br />
were both members of RAM, but were not officially representing the group at the OBP<br />
conference . Jesse Gray invited RAM to attend and the organization sent representatives<br />
from New York, Philadelphia, Detroit, and Portland. The RAM invitation upset some<br />
members of the OBP steering Committee who feared that RAM was planning to take over<br />
the OBP .' 3<br />
Earnest Thomas was growing more militant in his politics in late 1965, but he still<br />
kept RAM and other revolutionaries at arms length at the OBP conference . Thomas<br />
addressed the conference and generally adhered to the <strong>Deacons</strong>' political program,<br />
cautioning the audience against committing acts ofviolence . The only sign of his<br />
changing political views was when he expressed opposition to the Vietnam war .''`<br />
33 SAC, WFO to Director, September 9, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> Sle originally<br />
serialized as no. 157-3022-156 .<br />
3~ 8
RAM quickly established themselves at the OBP conference as the most militant<br />
critics ofnot only the "ruling class," but their nationalist allies as well . As Marxist<br />
Leninists, RAM viewed the Vietnam war as an act ofAmerican imperialism . At the<br />
conference Thomas, the military veteran, listened to RAM members urge blacks to resist<br />
the draft, tear up selective service cards, and, ifdrafted, resist military orders . RAM<br />
members also criticized the OBP <strong>for</strong> being too moderate in their approach to problems of<br />
housing, jobs, education, and police brutality . On the second day ofthe conference RAM<br />
caused a stir when ten oftheir members equipped with M-1 automatic weapons attempted<br />
to enter the meeting . The armed group was turned away and told to return without their<br />
weapons . 3s<br />
RAM clearly had the momentum at the conference-and in the mass movement as<br />
well . Later that afternoon RAM organized a street tally that attracted several thousand<br />
people . Speakers included several militants who would eventually work with the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> in the North, including ACT leader Julius Hobson from Washington D.C . . The<br />
contacts Thomas made at the OBP conference and other black nationalist events provided<br />
a network <strong>for</strong> building Deacon chapters in the North .<br />
In August of 1965, as events were winding down in Bogalusa and Jonesboro,<br />
Thomas and Sims began organizing <strong>Deacons</strong> chapters in the North, primarily building on<br />
a preexisting network ofsocialist revolutionaries and black nationalists . Because ofthe<br />
political nature oftheir recruiting contacts, the social composition and political ideology<br />
ofthese Northern chapters were substantially different from chapters in the South . For<br />
3s Ibid. ; Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
3~9
the most part, this Northern organizing was not coordinated between the Jonesboro and<br />
Bogalusa chapters . Thomas organized when and where he pleased, regardless of Sims'<br />
wishes, and even independent ofthe Jonesboro chapter-- much to their consternation .<br />
Thomas enjoyed some success organizing Northern chapters, with the Chicago Chapter<br />
standing out as the most notable .<br />
In contrast, Sims found the North an inhospitable organizing terrain <strong>for</strong> the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>. Nonetheless, Sims managed to <strong>for</strong>m the fast northern <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter in<br />
Boston . Sims began by organizing a support group <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> in August 1965, the<br />
"Boston Friends ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>." Led by local black activist Roland Bed<strong>for</strong>d, the<br />
support group quickly evolved into a <strong>for</strong>mal <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter . The Boston chapterwas<br />
closely associated with the Boston Action Group (BAG), a local organization with links<br />
to the Maoist-communist Progessive Labor Party, which published a newspaper<br />
"Rebellion" and held public meetings addressing hot-topic issues ofpolice brutality and<br />
the Los Angeles riot . By October, the Boston <strong>Deacons</strong> chapterwas struggling with only<br />
four members and little activity. Sims traveled to Boston in July 1966, to shore up the<br />
chapter, but his ef<strong>for</strong>ts were to no avail . Henry Austin made a second futile attempt to<br />
revive the organization in 1967 during a trip to raise money <strong>for</strong> ammunition and bail36<br />
Cleveland became the second target <strong>for</strong> Deacon organizing in the Winter of 1965 .<br />
On December 19, 1965, Sims traveled to Cleveland and addressed a public meeting along<br />
'6SAC, Boston to Director, October 6, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-70 ;<br />
SAC, Boston to Director, November 3, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-85 ;<br />
Investigative Report, November 22, 1966, New Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466<br />
176 ; Investigative Report, New Orleans, November 27, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-<br />
2466-250 .<br />
360
with RAM's director, Don Freeman . The following month, Henry Austin, whom Sims<br />
had appointed Public Relations Director <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong>, spoke at a Socialist Workers<br />
Party Forum at the Eugene V. Debs Hall in Cleveland, announcing that he was organizing<br />
a local chapter of the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Cleveland already had one self-defense organization, the<br />
Medgar Evers Rifle club <strong>for</strong>med in 1965 in the wake of a civil rights protest. But the<br />
Cleveland <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter would assume a much more militant and nationalist stance<br />
than the Evers Club or the Southern <strong>Deacons</strong> chapters . Four months later, in April of<br />
1966, Harlell Jones, a local black nationalist, appeared <strong>for</strong> a taping <strong>for</strong> a local television<br />
program and identified himself as vice-president ofthe Cleveland chapter ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> .<br />
An FBI memo on the interview reported Jones saying that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were armed with<br />
high-powered rifles to protect blacks against the Klan and the police, who were agents of<br />
the Klan. Jones also predicted riots in Cleveland and said that the first ones to suffer<br />
would be the "`uncle tom negroes." Jones also made reference to being a part ofthe<br />
Bandung World, a concept associated with RAM. s'<br />
Throughout the 1960's the FBI sought to disrupt the black organizations through<br />
its COINTELPRO program, a "dirty tricks' and "black bag" operation . The Cleveland<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> chapter became a victim of the only documented COINTELPRO operation<br />
against the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Harlell Jones, the self-declared vice-president of the Cleveland<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> chapter, was raising money <strong>for</strong> a local community center that served as a black<br />
nationalist meeting place, the JFK house . When the FBI learned that Jones was soliciting<br />
;'Investigative Report, "<strong>Deacons</strong> of Defense and Justice, Inc.," March 28, 1966,<br />
New Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no. 157-2466-120 ; Investigative Report, "<strong>Deacons</strong> of<br />
Defense and Justice," January 10, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-104 .<br />
361
funds from area churches, they attempted to undermine his fund raising by circulating a<br />
phony letter to the churches that condemned Jones and his cohorts as radicals .'g<br />
trips to Cleveland from 1966 to 1967 . On October 23, 1966, Earnest Thomas and Henry<br />
Austin were back in Cleveland to address a meeting sponsored by RAM, the Socialist<br />
Workers Party (SWP), and the Cleveland Committee to End the War in Vietnam . Austin<br />
made a second appearance two days later at a meeting ofthe Committee to End the War<br />
in Vietnam, his comments reflecting his steady movement toward Marxism-Leninism . 39<br />
Austin made several trips back to Cleveland working closely with nationalists in<br />
the United Black Brotherhood and white anti-war groups . The FBI followed his activities<br />
closely, even reporting on an antiwar poster Austin had created and circulated under the<br />
auspices ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> . The poster featured a large picture of Uncle Sam with the<br />
caption "Uncle Sam Needs You Nigger ." The poster also carried the line, "Support white<br />
power--travel to Vietnam, you might get a medal" The broadside came to the FBI's<br />
attention when a group ofyoung people showed up to sell the poster at a press conference<br />
<strong>for</strong> the Ohio State Communist Party on February 12,1967 ~°<br />
' BSAC, Cleveland to Director, Apri121, 1966, not recorded; Investigative report,<br />
July 21, 1966, New Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-152 .<br />
3¢investigative Report, November 22, 1966, New Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no .<br />
157-2466-176 ; Austin, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
°°SAC, Cleveland to Director, June 14, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-221 ;<br />
SAC, Cleveland to Director, March 30, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157- 2466-205 .<br />
362 I<br />
Though the Cleveland chapter never materialized as an active organization, the I<br />
i<br />
Bogalusa and Jonesboro <strong>Deacons</strong> continued to make several organizing and fundraising<br />
I
Philadelphia was the next organizing target <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> . In December 1965,<br />
Sims had established a beachhead in Philadelphia during a fund raising tour. The<br />
Bogalusa leader appeared on WDAS radio and attended a small fund raising event hosted<br />
by local activist Martha Ricca . Five months later Earnest Thomas leaked the news that<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> were organizing a chapter in the city of brotherly love . Thomas had<br />
extensive political and personal ties to Philadelphia. He had worked closely with RAM,<br />
which had a strong presence in Philadelphia, and the Deacon leader frequently visited his<br />
sister who lived there. On April 17, 1966, Thomas made the front page of the Sunday<br />
edition ofthe Philadelphia Inquirer, with the headline "Negro Croup Vows to make City<br />
a Hot Spot ." In an interview with a freelance reporter investigating "Negro gun clubs,"<br />
Thomas had mentioned that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were planning a chapter in Philadelphia .<br />
Philadelphia had been wracked by a riot in 1964, and Thomas predicted a repeat of the<br />
riot if conditions did not change in the city . "There will be a lot ofkilling if something<br />
doesn't happen soon," warned Thomas . "The Negro lives in a violent country . We can't<br />
see how he can continue to live without weapons ." Thomas said the Philadelphia<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> chapter, which was being organized by as unnamed teacher, planned to create<br />
rifle clubs, and arm and train blacks to fight "brutal police and the white man's power"<br />
The rifle clubs would "make sure our people know how to shoot so they can defend<br />
themselves," said Thomas . "We are going to let the Philadelphia power structure know<br />
that we want action and, if there is trouble, we will know how to defend ourselves against<br />
the police ."<br />
~'On the Ricca event, see Investigative report, "<strong>Deacons</strong> ofDefense and Justice,<br />
Inc ." March 28, 1966, New Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-120 . The<br />
363
Mainstream black groups did not welcome the arrival ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> . Sadie T .<br />
M . Alexander, Chairman of the Philadelphia Human Relations Commission, scoffed at<br />
Thomas' plans <strong>for</strong> the City ofBrotherly Love . "I cannot imagine what the <strong>Deacons</strong>,<br />
residents of Louisiana, know about Philadelphia that would cause them to suggest that<br />
their Negro citizens need to be armed ."~=<br />
Wltile there is no doubt that there were members ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> in Philadelphia,<br />
there is no evidence that a Philadelphia chapter was ever <strong>for</strong>med . The FBI suspected that<br />
the chapter's anonymous leader was using the <strong>Deacons</strong> as a front <strong>for</strong> local black<br />
nationalists (RAM had a strong presence in Philadelphia). J. Edgar Hoover later ordered<br />
the Philadelphia office to investigate local <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> "in<strong>for</strong>mation concerning the<br />
supply of firearms allegedly in the possession of this group .'~as<br />
In the spring of 1966, Earnest Thomas was also pursuing a chapter in Washington,<br />
D .C ., this time through his contacts with the black nationalist Associated Community<br />
Teams (ACT) . ACT was <strong>for</strong>med in 1964 to unite black nationalist dissenters opposed to<br />
the nonviolent orthodoxy . In contrast to RAM, ACT was not a revolutionary or socialist<br />
cadre group . From the outset, the new organization sought a broad base by advocating<br />
militant re<strong>for</strong>mism with an overlay of black nationalism .<br />
Philadelphia Enquirer, 17 April, 1965, p.l . On organizing ef<strong>for</strong>ts in Philadelphia see<br />
also, Director to SACs, Newark, New Orleans, Philadelphia, and Washington Field<br />
Office, Apri120, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file, unrecorded memo ; SAC, Philadelphia to<br />
Director, April 17, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no. 157-2466-127 ; SAC, WFO to Director,<br />
Apri129, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-134 .<br />
~=The Philadelphia Enquirer, 17 April, 1965, p . l .<br />
'Director to SACS, Chicago, New Orleans, and Philadelphia, September 14,1967,<br />
FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-241 .<br />
364
Discussions about <strong>for</strong>ming ACT began at the GOAL conference in Detroit in fall,<br />
1963 . The conference came on the heels ofthe bombing ofthe 16th Street Baptist<br />
Church in Birmingham on September 15, 1963 . The attack, which killed four black girls,<br />
was one ofseveral bombings that occurred in 1963 in Birmingham, including a bomb at<br />
the home ofReverend A . D. King . The unabated terrorism convinced many black<br />
activists that nonviolence was political suicide ; that the Gandhian strategy presumed a<br />
latent compassion among whites that clearly did not exist. Suffering had not brought<br />
compassion. Moreover, in the fall of 1963 whites seemed indifferent to the fate of the<br />
Civil Rights bill that was languishing in Congress .<br />
The bombing ofReverend King's home triggered a three-hour riot on May 12,<br />
1963, involving 2,500 blacks . Police were attacked, several stores were burned, and<br />
whites were randomly assaulted . Arrayed against the rioters were not only white law<br />
en<strong>for</strong>cement officials, but also black civil defense workers and moderate black leaders .<br />
The riot, and subsequent police brutality, <strong>for</strong>ced President Kennedy to dispatch three-<br />
thousand federal troops to Birmingham and threaten to federalize the Alabama National<br />
Guard.''''<br />
The church bombing on September 15 ignited a second round of riots in which<br />
police killed two young black boys . Dr : King sent an urgent telegram to President<br />
Kennedy calling <strong>for</strong> immediate federal intervention and promising that King would<br />
"plead with my people to remain nonviolent in the face ofthis terrible provocation ." .ss<br />
'''Sobel, Civil Rights, pp . 184-185 .<br />
ysIbid ., p . 187 .<br />
365
It is difficult to exaggerate the impact of the 1963 Birmingham riots . Black<br />
retaliatory violence introduced the powerful dimension of<strong>for</strong>ce and coercion into the<br />
civil rights campaign . The alternatives confronting whites be<strong>for</strong>e Birmingham were<br />
nonviolent protest or the status quo : now the choice was nonviolence or violent civil<br />
disorders . For many whites, the threat ofviolence trans<strong>for</strong>med King from a radical into a<br />
moderate .<br />
It was this combination ofblack disillusionment and a growing appreciation ofthe<br />
power ofviolence that gave rise to ACT and other militant organizations in 1964 . Prior<br />
to 1964, militants and black nationalists had few altematives to nonviolent organizations .<br />
Their choices were limited to the Nation ofIslam, black nationalist groups, or one ofthe<br />
Marxist-Leninists organizations such as RAM. But neither Islam nor Marxism-Leninism<br />
had proved capable ofattracting broad-based black support . ACT attempted to broaden<br />
the nationalists' political base by advocating a secular militant re<strong>for</strong>mism . Their strategy<br />
might best be described as "autonomist" : winning re<strong>for</strong>ms through coercion rather than<br />
appeals to conscience or moral suasion. Between the revolutionaries and the nonviolent<br />
re<strong>for</strong>mers, ACT was, as they described themselves, a "third <strong>for</strong>ce action group" critical<br />
ofthe "polite" tactics ofmainstream civil rights organization and unwilling to "function<br />
in a manner that is acceptable to white people ." ~<br />
ACT had assembled a broad coalition that included Malcom X ; Harlem<br />
Congressman Adam Clayton Powell ; Gloria Richardson, a popular leader in the militant<br />
movement in Cambridge, Maryland; Chicago school boycott leader Lawrence Landry; A . i,<br />
~"Announce Formation ofNew Super-Militant Group," Jet, 7 May 1964 . P . 7 .<br />
366<br />
7<br />
i<br />
i<br />
I<br />
i
A . Rayner and Nahaz Rogers from Chicago; and Julius Hobson, a militant leader from<br />
Washington, D.C . In its first press conference in Washington, D.C . in the spring of 1964,<br />
ACT launched an attack on the quiescence ofthe civil rights organizations, condemning<br />
the mainstream groups <strong>for</strong> being ineffective and failing to address the needs ofNorthern<br />
blacks .°'<br />
Tapping into the ACT network, Earnest Thomas moved to establish a chapter in<br />
Washington, D.C . in 1966 . Thomas had worked closely with Julius Hobson, the <strong>for</strong>mer<br />
CORE leader who now headed up the Washington chapter ofACT . On February 26,<br />
1966, Hobson, Thomas, and Dick Gregory spoke at a militant rally of more than three<br />
hundred at radio station WUST's Music Hall in Washington . Thomas announced that<br />
Hobson would be the coordinator of the Washington <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter which would be<br />
<strong>for</strong>med the following summer. Thomas said the chapter would train members to deal<br />
with "police brutality" and other attacks on civil rights demonstrators . Three weeks later<br />
Hobson and some members ofACT and the <strong>Deacons</strong> picketed the fifth precinct ofthe<br />
Metropolitan Police Department . Hobson told the Washington Post that the <strong>Deacons</strong> in<br />
attendance were helping to <strong>for</strong>m a chapter ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> to protest police brutality ~s<br />
William Raspberry, the black columnist <strong>for</strong> The Washington Post, made a<br />
preemptory attack on the <strong>Deacons</strong> in April. Based on an interview with Hobson,<br />
Raspberry penned a column raising questions about the need <strong>for</strong> a <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter in the<br />
nation's Capitol. Raspbeny noted that Hobson had identiSed police brutality--and city<br />
y'Ibid .<br />
'BSAC, WFO to Director, March 16, 1966 FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no.157-2466-116 .<br />
367
officials' tolerance ofthe misconduct--as key reasons <strong>for</strong> <strong>for</strong>ming a <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter .<br />
Hobson had resigned from the Police Chiefs Citizens Advisory Board after seeing<br />
hundreds of brutality complaints go unanswered, and now, according to Raspberry,<br />
Hobson reasoned that this official complacence meant, "Negroes must strike back at<br />
brutal officers.'~'9<br />
"It is a dangerous theory," warned Raspberry . "It is one thing <strong>for</strong> a Negro in<br />
Bogalusa to take a shot at a fleeing car whose occupants have just fired into a home . It is<br />
quite another <strong>for</strong> an armed group to go gunning <strong>for</strong> a policeman because they have heard<br />
rumors of brutality .' °s°<br />
Hobson was furious about the column, and fired offa letter to the Post denying<br />
that he had "told Mr. Raspberry or any other newspaper reporter that I think the Negro<br />
citizens ofD. C. should arm and attack the policemen of this city:' Hobson said that he<br />
had only told Raspberry that "there is widespread police brutality practiced with official<br />
sanction against black citizens of this city," and that "the black community should<br />
organize to combat this brutality." Hobson signed the letter as "Cha rman ofACT and<br />
friend ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> of Defense: 's'<br />
Apparently Hobson's relationship with the <strong>Deacons</strong> did not advance beyond the<br />
"friend of the <strong>Deacons</strong>" stage . No <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter was <strong>for</strong>med in Washington, and the<br />
evidence indicates that the threat to <strong>for</strong>m a chapter was a ruse to <strong>for</strong>ce concessions from<br />
local authorities, a tactic that the <strong>Deacons</strong> had used in Philadelphia, Cleveland, and<br />
~9SAC, WFO to Director, March 31, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-121 .<br />
5°Ibid.<br />
s' Ibid .<br />
368
several Southern cities . Hobson later admitted to FBI sources that he and Thomas had<br />
used the <strong>Deacons</strong> as a psychological ploy ; that they had never intended to <strong>for</strong>m a chapter,<br />
and, in the FBI's words, had only hoped that the threat would "bring about changes in the<br />
attitudes displayed by the privileged toward the less <strong>for</strong>tunate as it regards jobs, housing,<br />
and freedom from police brutality : 's-<br />
Thomas continued to collaborate with Hobson and ACT throughout the spring of<br />
1966 . Hobson held a press conference in April 1966, announcing that a Committee had<br />
begun plans <strong>for</strong> a "Black March on Washington" to protest a scheduled White House<br />
conference on civil rights . The conference, titled "To Fulfill Our Rights," had caused<br />
resentment among civil rights organizations when the Johnsoa administration refused to<br />
invite representatives of SNCC and CORE . Hobson scolded the administration <strong>for</strong> failing<br />
to include militants and "ghetto organizations" in the planning session . Hobson named<br />
Thomas as a member ofthe planning committee organizing the protest, along with<br />
Mississippi civil rights leader Fannie Lou Hamer and New York activist Jesse Cray . Like<br />
many of ACT's national organizing ef<strong>for</strong>ts, the protest march fell far short of its plans,<br />
ending in a picket line with no <strong>Deacons</strong> present. 53<br />
While the Washington chapter fell flat, at least one <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter was <strong>for</strong>med<br />
spontaneously in the North--without the knowledge or consent of the <strong>Deacons</strong>' national<br />
leadership . In April 1966, a Newark, New Jersey group of black activists <strong>for</strong>med a secret<br />
chapter ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> out of "admiration" <strong>for</strong> the group, according to the FBI . The<br />
s2 SAC, WFO to Director, March 16, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no. 157-2466-116 .<br />
5'Jet, 21 April, 1966, p . 5 .<br />
369
ureau learned ofthe Newark chapter while investigating comments Earnest Thomas had<br />
made regarding an anti-Klan rally in Military Park in Newark. The chapter's founder was<br />
not named, but evidence points toward Clarence Coggins, a black leftist, a leader in the<br />
Negro Labor Vanguard Conference, and an associate of Jesse Gray and other nationalists .<br />
The Newark chapter had been quietly conducting meetings at members' homes and had<br />
attracted approximately seventy individuals interested in participating . The chapter's<br />
leader told the FBI that the group had an "implied" agreement to defend one another from<br />
the Klan, and described himself as a law-abiding "god fearing" individual, and assured<br />
the FBI that the chapter would even aid in preventing riots in Newark . s~<br />
Despite Sims' and Thomas' organizing ef<strong>for</strong>ts, the <strong>Deacons</strong> had little success in<br />
the Northeast . By 1966, the Boston chapter was inoperative, and the Cleveland and<br />
Philadelphia chapters were more myth than substance . Chicago was to be the only<br />
success story <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> in Malcom X's "Up-South ."<br />
S''SAC, Philadelphia to Director, April 18, 1966 . FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-<br />
128 ; SAC, Newark to Director, May 25, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-136 .<br />
370
Chapter 14<br />
Foundering in the North<br />
The Chicago Daily News carried a story on October 15, 1965 that gave the<br />
Chicagoans their first warning that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were heading North . "Militant Negroes<br />
Here Forming Armed Uait to Fight the Klan," announced the headline of a story based on<br />
an interview with Earnest Thomas . News reports in preceding days had detailed the<br />
resurgence of the Klan in nearby Indiana and Wisconsin, and Thomas was pointing to the<br />
renewed Klan activity as justification <strong>for</strong> the Deacon's expansion North.'<br />
"We believe there are Klansman active in this city and we're confident they have<br />
thousands of sympathizers," Thomas told the Daily News . The Deacon leader's claims of<br />
a mounting Klan resurgence in Chicago were met with considerable skepticism by both<br />
blacks and whites . Chicago had its share ofracists, as the response to Dr. King's<br />
campaign would soon demonstrate, but the windy city's most violent racists were more<br />
likely to wear a badge than a sheet . Racism in the North manifested itself in police<br />
brutality and discrimination, but seldom as vigilante violence . Thomas recognized the<br />
limitations of the <strong>Deacons</strong>' anti-Klan strategy in the North, and is his public statements<br />
he introduced objectives <strong>for</strong> the group that adapted to the speciSc local conditions . The<br />
'"Militant Negroes Here Forming Armed Unit to Fight the Klan," Chicago Daily<br />
Netivs, 15 October 1965 .<br />
371
Deacon strategy in Chicago would center on self-defense against police brutality and<br />
opposition to political corruption . Thomas told the Daily News that the <strong>Deacons</strong> would<br />
also "operate freedom patrols" that would "be alert <strong>for</strong> police brutality against Negroes"--<br />
a tactic that the Black Panthers would later successfully exploit. In addition, the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
would "campaign against shady deals that are often pulled off on us Negroes ." Thomas<br />
assured the Daily News that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were lawabiding and peaceful . "We don't teach<br />
hatred ."=<br />
Following months of futile attempts by the <strong>Deacons</strong> to fit their philosophy into the<br />
Procrustean bed of nonviolence, Thomas' opening salvo in Chicago marked a fuming<br />
point in the <strong>Deacons</strong> political thinking. Evoking the spirit of Malcom X, Thomas bluntly<br />
criticized Dr . King and the nonviolent orthodoxy . "Talk doesn't solve anything," scoffed<br />
Thomas . "We Negroes are not going to gain our freedom by talking. We Negroes can't<br />
continue to let the Klan and similar hate groups trample on us ." Thomas mused that<br />
perhaps the difference between him and King was the difference between national and<br />
local organizing. "King and I really live in two different worlds," said Thomas'<br />
Chicago's black press had supported the <strong>Deacons</strong>' actions in the South, but now<br />
balked at the idea of importing an armed black movement to Chicago. The respected<br />
Chicago Defender sharply rebuked the <strong>Deacons</strong>, ridiculing the idea that the Klan posed a<br />
threat in Chicago . "I don't know these fellows or anything about their activities," Timuel<br />
Black of the Negro American Labor Council told the Defender . "We don't run with this<br />
-Ibid .<br />
3Ibid .<br />
3 7?
kind of people." Reverend Lynward Stevenson, militant president ofthe Woodlawn<br />
Organization, dismissed the <strong>Deacons</strong> as vigilantes ignorant about democratic politics .<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> only "know how to get rid of the Klan," Stevenson told the Defender .<br />
"They don't know anything about law and order and the ordinary ways of achieving<br />
justice .'`<br />
The hostile reception by the black political establishment did not alter Thomas'<br />
plans . During his visit in October, Thomas appeared on two black radio programs : the<br />
Lou House Show and, along with Nahaz Rogers, the Wesley South Show on WVON<br />
radio . On the WVON program, Thomas boasted that he could bring ten-thousand<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> to Chicago to confront the Klan . Listeners who called in sounded dubious .<br />
Some callers challenged Thomas' assertion that the Klan was a menace in Chicago ;<br />
others chided Thomas <strong>for</strong> professing that he had ten-thousand <strong>Deacons</strong> at his disposal.<br />
Grasping <strong>for</strong> a role <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> in the North, Thomas suggested that the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
could protect demonstrators from attacks by police, as the <strong>Deacons</strong> had done in the South .<br />
But listeners were not convinced that the safety of protesters was in jeopardy in Chicago .<br />
It was a cool reception <strong>for</strong> Thomass<br />
While the interview did not go well <strong>for</strong> Thomas, it did allow him to clarify his<br />
views on nonviolence . Thomas told his listeners that many ofthe civil rights<br />
organizations were training blacks "into submission :' In contrast, the <strong>Deacons</strong> instilled<br />
°"Rights Leaders Reject Plan to Start <strong>Deacons</strong>," Chicago Defender, 18 October<br />
1965, p .3 .<br />
SSAC, Chicago to Director, November 2, 1965, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-<br />
84 . This document contains a complete transcript of the WVON program.<br />
373
manhood in black men, and manhood depended on the willingness to protect oneself. It<br />
was a quality missing in most blacks over the age of twenty-one, said Thomas. 6<br />
Thomas' comments were the most explicit exposition to date of the <strong>Deacons</strong>'<br />
philosophy. <strong>Freedom</strong> depended on manhood, and manhood meant the will to defend<br />
oneself. Without manhood status, all rights were meaningless . Moreover, black men<br />
could not attain manhood through nonviolence because nonviolence denied them the right<br />
of self-defense . For blacks to be free, whites had to regard them as social as well as civil<br />
equals .<br />
On Sunday, October 24, the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> the first time engaged the partisans of<br />
nonviolence in pubic debate . The West Side Organization (WSO), a Chicago black<br />
activist organization, invited Thomas and Nahaz Rogers to participate in a debate on the<br />
topic, "Non-violence vs Self-Defense ." Their opponents were two of SCLC's ablest<br />
representatives, the Reverend C . T. Viviaa and James Bevel .<br />
Ia many respects, Thomas and Rogers were badly mismatched in the WSO debate .<br />
Vivian and Bevel were bright, eloquent and <strong>for</strong>mally educated. Thomas had a sharp<br />
mind, but he was hardly a polished orator of Vivian's caliber. Rogers, like Thomas, was<br />
intellectually nimble but lacked sophistication .'<br />
Thomas suspected that the debate was part ofan ef<strong>for</strong>t by Dr. King to discredit the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> be<strong>for</strong>e they could get a foothold is Chicago . In the fall of 1965, King was taking<br />
his first steps toward organizing in Chicago, and Thomas believed that the Federal<br />
6lbid.<br />
'Nahaz Rogers, interview by author, 13 June 1993, Chicago, Illinois, tape<br />
recording .<br />
374
Government, "the man," had anointed King the leader ofthe movement in the North .<br />
"Well they was trying to ostracize me," charged Thomas years later. "You know, King<br />
and them was moving into Chicago . I don't know why he was moving into Chicago, but<br />
he was moving in and they had the blessing ofthe man." s<br />
Despite the mismatch of oratorical skills, Thomas and Rogers had a sympathetic<br />
audience at the debate and fared better than expected . SCLC had made a serious tactical<br />
error by opposing self-defense be<strong>for</strong>e a Northern black audience . "They brought their<br />
best speaker, and that's Vivian," recalls Thomas . "And this little country boy, they was<br />
going to eat me alive . But they made a mistake . The audience was more with me ." The<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> could be reasonably criticized on many issues, but SCLC had challenged the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> on their strongest point, the right ofblacks to defend themselves against violent<br />
attacks . "'They couldn't shoot a hole in that, because everyone had a right to protect home<br />
and family," recalls Thomas . "They never tried that again," says Thomas s<br />
During his speaking tour of Chicago, Thomas met <strong>Edward</strong> "Fats" Craw<strong>for</strong>d and<br />
Claudell Kirk, two local activists who began assisting Thomas in quietly recruiting<br />
members <strong>for</strong> a Chicago <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter. Craw<strong>for</strong>d, a seasoned community activist who<br />
was heavily involved in Chicago electoral politics, would eventually become the primary<br />
driving <strong>for</strong>ce <strong>for</strong> the new chapter.<br />
But it would be several months be<strong>for</strong>e Thomas would galvanize the Chicago<br />
chapter. In the interim, he continued to publicize the <strong>Deacons</strong> in the North through<br />
TThomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
9lbid .<br />
~~s
speaking events in the Chicago and Detroit area. In the same manner that the Workers<br />
World Party had adopted Charlie Sims and the Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> in New York, Thomas<br />
would find similar patrons among white leftists in the Midwest . The Socialist Workers<br />
Party, another Trotskyite Marxist organization, assiduously courted Thomas, inviting him<br />
to speak at several <strong>for</strong>ums around the Midwest. On February 18, 1966, Thomas was the<br />
featured speaker at the "Friday Night Socialist Forum" in Chicago . The <strong>Deacons</strong> had over<br />
five-hundred armed members and sixty-two chapters, Thomas told the audience, and the<br />
new Chicago chapter would become the regional headquarters ofthe North. Reflecting<br />
his radicalization toward left-wing politics that was occurring during the winter of 1965-<br />
1966, Thomas laced his speech with a class-analysis of black problems, arguing that<br />
social welfare legislation ofthe Great Society was a ploy by the rich to perpetuate their<br />
own power. For Thomas, the problem was no longer a few Klansman, but rather the<br />
entire American ruling class and government.' °<br />
The nonviolent movement's reliance on direct action was a diversion from<br />
effective change, Thomas told his audience of leftists . Civil rights demonstrations were a<br />
"game" and anti-poverty legislation had been enacted to placate black people . The only<br />
people benefiting from re<strong>for</strong>m legislation were "fat politicians ." "They get the cream<br />
while the masses get the non-fat milk," quipped Thomas ."<br />
Thomas ridiculed the idea that education would bring economic equality--another<br />
deception of the nonviolent strategy, he charged . Racial discrimination was the culprit,<br />
' °Letterhead Memorandwn, "<strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice," February 28,<br />
1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-113 .<br />
''Ibid .<br />
376
not the lack of skills . But inequality had its price . Thomas predicted a "black revolution '<br />
in Chicago during the coming summer that would make it unsafe <strong>for</strong> whites to travel in<br />
black neighborhoods . The threat of violence went well beyond the limits ofself-defense .<br />
At one point in his address Thomas warned that <strong>for</strong> every Deacon killed, the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
would respond by killing three whites .' =<br />
Significantly, <strong>for</strong> the first time Thomas publicly criticized U.S . <strong>for</strong>eign policy and<br />
the war in Vietnam . The <strong>Deacons</strong> leader pointed out that a high percentage of soldiers in<br />
Vietnam were black, and hinted at a genocidal plot . "I guess the power structure feels if<br />
they can kill off seven or eight million of us that will solve the problem.""<br />
Two months later Thomas addressed another SWP <strong>for</strong>um in Detroit, part of a tour<br />
to raise funds <strong>for</strong> a Chicago Chapter . Thomas laid out plans to make Chicago the training<br />
center <strong>for</strong> a <strong>Deacons</strong> organization that would have chapters in every major northern city<br />
by the summer of 1966 . Similar to his per<strong>for</strong>mance at the Chicago <strong>for</strong>um, Thomas<br />
departed from the "self-defense" rhetoric and ominously hinted that the <strong>Deacons</strong> would<br />
retaliate against FBI or CIA in<strong>for</strong>mants in the organization .' °<br />
The Detroit speech marked the end ofThomas' short relationship with the SWP .<br />
The socialists had asked to see his comments be<strong>for</strong>e he spoke in Detroit--a thinly veiled<br />
ef<strong>for</strong>t to censor his remarks. The SWP was probably concerned about a reprise of anti<br />
Jewish comments that Thomas allegedly made at the Chicago fonun . FBI records<br />
' 2Ibid .<br />
' 3lbid .<br />
'~"Investigative Report," July 21, 1966, New Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-<br />
2466-152 .<br />
377
eported that in commenting on the Watts riot, Thomas had argued that Jews were<br />
exploiting blacks, and that blacks had probably burned Jewish stores to destroy credit<br />
records . Thomas balked at the SWP's attempt to muzzle him . "I told them my speech is<br />
in my head," recalls Thomas . And even if he could produce written remarks, his new<br />
socialist friends shouldn't expect him to share their views . "I'm not a leR winger,"<br />
Thomas told his Trotskyite associates . "I'm just a capitalist that don't have a damn<br />
thing ." His rebuke had its effect on the SWP. "I never had as invitation from them<br />
again," said Thomas .' S<br />
By April 1966 Thomas had yet to establish a Chicago chapter, and he soon found<br />
himself competing with the Bogalusa Chapter in their ef<strong>for</strong>ts to organize in Chicago .<br />
Thomas had isolated himself from the Louisiana chapters, having severed relations with<br />
the dwindling Jonesboro Deacon chapter and anointed himself "vice-president and<br />
regional organizer" <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong>--a title that allowed him to organize chapters in the<br />
North without interference from Jonesboro or Bogalusa . His decision to unilaterally<br />
recruit in the North antagonized relations with both the Jonesboro and Bogalusa chapters .<br />
Soon the Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> were on their way North to test the waters in Chicago .<br />
In April 1966, Charlie Suns, Sam Barnes and A . Z . Young traveled to Chicago<br />
and held a press conference at the home of Lavemon Comelius, a Bogalusa native.<br />
Cornelius announced that the <strong>Deacons</strong> had been clandestinely recruiting <strong>for</strong> six months<br />
and had established a Chicago chapter at the request of the Olive Branch Masonic Lodge<br />
of the Prince Hall Masons (Comelius served as Grand Master ofthe branch) . Cornelius<br />
' SIbid . ; Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
378
was joined by Ray McCoy, a wealthy Chicago funeral home owner and also a native of<br />
the Bogalusa area . Comelius said that Chicago needed "a Negro Group that believed in<br />
defense and justice at any price ." He added that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were "primed to fight a war<br />
to protect Negro rights" and noted that "only last week a cross was burned on a lawn in<br />
Waukegan. There's no doubt that we need a chapter here ." Cornelius also suggested that<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> might provide defense at polling places .' 6<br />
The announcement was clouded with confusion . While Comelius clearly stated<br />
that the <strong>Deacons</strong> would conduct armed activities in Chicago, Hicks and Young later<br />
characterized the Chicago chapter as merely a support group <strong>for</strong> the movement in the<br />
South . Indeed, a second article on the <strong>Deacons</strong> appeared on Apri16 in the Chicago Daily<br />
News bearing the headline, "Not trying to start Movement in North" and "Negro<br />
Vigilantes Here Will Aid Dixie Fight ." In that article Sins told the paper that the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> were starting a branch "to help in the struggle in the South . . . We're not trying<br />
to come up here and start a movement: ' A . Z . Young said that they hoped to raise money<br />
<strong>for</strong> the defense of ninety children and six adults arrested the previous fall . Young also<br />
mentioned that the Bogalusa group was seeking support <strong>for</strong> a 105-mile march to Baton<br />
Rouge . "We're going to clean up the whole state ofLouisiana. The whole state is out of<br />
line.""<br />
' 6Cornelius quoted in SAC, Chicago to Director, April 5, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file<br />
ao . 157-2466-123 . Slightly different versions ofthe articles ofApri15 and 6 were<br />
published in different editions ofthe Chicago Daily News . Quoted material here is<br />
gleaned from the Chicago Daily News, 6 April 1966 and articles quoted in SAC, Chicago<br />
to Director, Apri15, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no. 157-2466-123 and SAC, Chicago to<br />
Director, April 13,1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-125 .<br />
"Ibid .<br />
379
The Chicago press conference underscored the growing schism between Thomas<br />
and the Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> . While Thomas was openly vilifying Dr. King and<br />
nonviolence, A . Z . Young went to great lengths to affirm the <strong>Deacons</strong>' loyalty to the<br />
nonviolent movement and to extend an olive branch to King. Young said that his group<br />
wanted to confer with the SCLC leader and "ask his support in our struggle in Bogalusa ."<br />
"King has been misled about <strong>Deacons</strong> and the Voters League in Bogalusa," said Young.<br />
"The Bogalusa Voters League is non-violent, just like Dr. Kings' organization . And the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> are nonviolent--up to a point." Emphasizing the <strong>Deacons</strong>' peaceful objectives,<br />
Sims suggested that the Chicago <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter might get involved in voter registration,<br />
and could endorse Dick Gregory who was planning a run <strong>for</strong> mayor. "We're a defensive<br />
organization, organized to defend people," Sims said . "We have a constitutional right to<br />
defend our home, our children's lives . In the South the [white] man is making us pick up<br />
arms in order to live . . . While the Northern Negro can use ballots instead of bullets,<br />
there's a need <strong>for</strong> <strong>Deacons</strong> anywhere in the country where,black men exist ."` $<br />
The Chicago press conference and subsequent rally backfired badly on the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>, creating more controversy thaa benefits . Election officials publicly protested<br />
against the <strong>Deacons</strong>' announcement that they planned to provide armed guards at polling<br />
places . Oscar Stanton DePriest, grand master ofthe Prince Hall Masons, disputed<br />
Lavemon Cornelius' claim that the Masons had requested the <strong>Deacons</strong> to <strong>for</strong>m a Chicago<br />
chapter. DePriest ordered a "sweeping investigation" of the Olive Branch Masonic Lodge<br />
' 81bid .<br />
380
and ordered Comelius to "cease and desist" any activity connected with the <strong>Deacons</strong> .<br />
Masonic leaders also canceled a planned contribution to the <strong>Deacons</strong> from the Masons .' 9<br />
The Bogalusa group had failed to <strong>for</strong>m their Chicago chapter . A Z . Young found<br />
the experience discouraging . "I raised more money in San Francisco when I was there by<br />
myselfthan we have been able to scrape up here," complained Young afterwards .=°<br />
One month after the Bagalusa Chapters' abortive organizing ef<strong>for</strong>t, Thomas<br />
appeared on the pages ofNewsweek touting plans <strong>for</strong> a Chicago chapter . The tough-<br />
talking pool-hustler didn't hesitate to berate Martin Luther King's ef<strong>for</strong>ts to import<br />
nonviolent strategy to Chicago . "I don't see where in hell nonviolence is going to solve<br />
anything," Thomas told Newsweek. "When you deal with the beast, you better deal with<br />
him appropriately : ' Thomas punctuated his attack oa nonviolence with a call <strong>for</strong> blacks<br />
to arm themselves . "The black man is a fool if he doesn't have a gun or two--and<br />
ammunition in abundance," said Thomas . The Los Angeles Watts riot was an argument<br />
<strong>for</strong> more violence rather than less . "Throwing bricks is going out of style," said Thomas .<br />
"Thirty black people and only four whites died in Los Angeles [in the riots] . We've<br />
learned from that--it won't happen again ." = '<br />
Newsweek questioned how successful the <strong>Deacons</strong>' anti-Klan strategy would be in<br />
Chicago, given that "racial discrimination there goes in many guises, but bed sheets are<br />
not among them." Exhibiting the same ambiguity that plagued the Bogalusa chapter's<br />
<strong>for</strong>ay into the North, Thomas insisted that the Chicago chapter would primarily support<br />
' 9Chicago Daily News, 8 April 1966 ; Hicks, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
=°"<strong>Deacons</strong> Come to Chicago <strong>for</strong> Money and Muscle," Jet, 21 April 1966<br />
- '"The <strong>Deacons</strong> Go North," Netivsweek, 2 May 1966, pp . 20-21 .<br />
381
the movement in the South, through fund raising and--a new twist--bringing blacks,<br />
instead of whites, into the South to aid the movement. Thomas said that he picked<br />
Chicago because the <strong>Deacons</strong> could raise money <strong>for</strong> Southern operations through<br />
initiation fees often dollars, membership dues oftwo dollars a month, and selling<br />
"Friends ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>" bumper stickers <strong>for</strong> fifty-cents . But Thomas intimated that the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> might get involved in armed actions in Chicago . "Chicago is no different from<br />
anywhere else," said Thomas . "The Southern red-neck lets you know where he's at . The<br />
Northern red-neck is a little smarter; but they are still exploiting my people ." Echoing<br />
Malcom X's famous dictum, Thomas added, "I believe in freedom by any means<br />
necessary ."=<br />
In early May 1966, Thomas opened a <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice office at<br />
1230 Pulaski on the West Side . The chapter elected offcers, with Thomas serving as<br />
president, Fats Craw<strong>for</strong>d as vice-president, and Claudell Kirk as secretary . The first<br />
public appearance of the Chicago chapter was on May 23, when Thomas appeared <strong>for</strong> a<br />
second time on WVON's Wesley South radio program . During the interview, Thomas<br />
made a series of exaggerated claims that tested the credulity of his black listeners .<br />
Thomas claimed that 455 members had already joined the Chicago chapter since he began<br />
his ef<strong>for</strong>t in October 1965, and that the <strong>Deacons</strong> now had sixty-seven chapters<br />
nationwide . The Deacon leader also bragged that he was taking two-thousand <strong>Deacons</strong> to<br />
Washington, D.C . <strong>for</strong> the June demonstration protesting the White House Conference on<br />
Civil rights (in fact, no <strong>Deacons</strong> attended the demonstration) . He followed up with the<br />
'=Ibid . ; On the <strong>Deacons</strong>' Chicago tour, see "<strong>Deacons</strong> Come to Chicago <strong>for</strong> Money<br />
and Muscle," Jet, 21 April 1966, p . 5 .<br />
~s~
preposterous claim that he was summoning fifteen-thousand <strong>Deacons</strong> to Chicago in the<br />
next three months . The hyperbole only prompted black listeners to call in and openly<br />
ridicule Thomas <strong>for</strong> his obvious exaggerations .=<br />
Given the hostile reception from the local black community, it was not surprising<br />
that the Chicago chapter's first major project took the <strong>Deacons</strong> back to the South. On<br />
June 5, 1966, James H. Meredith began a quiet 220-mile protest pilgrimage from<br />
Memphis to Jackson, Mississippi . The iconoclastic and inveterate loner set off on his<br />
solitary journey joined by only a few supporters. His goal was to encourage black voter<br />
registration and draw national attention to the "the all-pervasive and overriding fear that<br />
dominates the day-to-day life" ofblacks in the South . Now a Columbia University Law<br />
School student, Meredith had first attracted international attention during his ef<strong>for</strong>ts to<br />
integrate the University of Mississippi in 1962 . Little had changed in Mississippi since<br />
his graduation from Ole Miss in 1963 . Segregation remained virtually undisturbed by the<br />
Civil Rights Act, and blacks received little federal protection from the newly enacted<br />
Voting Rights Act . =<br />
On the second day ofMeredith's pilgrimage near Hernaado, Mississippi, a white<br />
man emerged from the brush along the highway and fired three shotgun blasts at the civil<br />
rights leader. Meredith miraculously escaped the attack with only superficial wounds .<br />
But the shooting triggered a major reaction by national civil rights organizations<br />
='SAC, Chicago to Director, June 8,1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no. 157-2466-137 ;<br />
"Investigative Report, July 21, 1966," New Orleans, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-152 .<br />
-°John Dittmer, Local People : The Struggle ofCivil Rights in Mississippi (Urbana :<br />
University of Illinois Press, 1994), pp . 389-391 .<br />
383
determined to use the incident to call <strong>for</strong> additional voting rights and poverty legislation<br />
and highlight the failure ofstate and local governments to fulfill the promised rights . On<br />
June 7, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., of the SCLC, Floyd McKissick, national director of<br />
CORE, and Stokely Carmichael, chairman of SNCC, announced that the three<br />
organizations would continue Meredith's march to Jackson . The subsequent "Meredith<br />
March Against Fear" was the last great march of the modern civil rights movement,<br />
stretching out <strong>for</strong> nearly three weeks and covering 260 miles .<br />
The Chicago <strong>Deacons</strong> became involved in the march immediately . When the<br />
news ofthe Meredith shooting reached Chicago, Thomas departed the city with a<br />
contingent of <strong>Deacons</strong> bound <strong>for</strong> Memphis . They planned to join <strong>for</strong>ces with <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
from Mississippi and Louisiana. Thomas pulled his van into the Lorraine Motel and<br />
quickly caught the attention of Memphis police as the <strong>Deacons</strong> piled out with M-1 rifles<br />
and bandoliers . A police superintendent questioned the <strong>Deacons</strong> and ran arrest warrant<br />
checks The group checked out clean but the superintendent was still wary of the surly<br />
looking armed gang . He asked Thomas why they were so heavily armed . "That's the<br />
only way I'm going to Mississippi, sir," replied Thomas coolly .s<br />
Thomas tallced briefly with Dr. King that night . Although the two had crossed<br />
swords in the media in the past, Mississippi had a way of making fizends of old enemies.<br />
They appeared to put aside their differences and King even took to calling Thomas<br />
"Deac ." Tuesday night Dick Gregory told Thomas that there was a meeting in King's<br />
room at the Lorraine . As soon as they entered the room Hosea Williams, an SCLC aide,<br />
-TThomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
3 8=~
immediately protested Thomas' presence . '`Well I'm going to tell you right now, there<br />
ain't going to be no <strong>Deacons</strong> on the march," Williams announced. Tempers flared <strong>for</strong> a<br />
moment as King calmly sat on the edge of his bed quietly eating a steak . Carmichael and<br />
McKissick, who supported the <strong>Deacons</strong>, were present along with Roy Wilkins ofthe<br />
NAACP and Whitney Young of the National Urban League. The NAACP and the Urban<br />
League were appalled at the idea of armed guards in the march and adamantly opposed<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> . Thomas fumed at Williams and warned him that SCLC risked losing the<br />
support of rank-and-file blacks, "because you getting people hurt, and you get back on<br />
them god-damn planes and you fly off and <strong>for</strong>get about them ." The <strong>Deacons</strong> weren't<br />
going to allow that to happen again. This was going to be a "different march," promised<br />
Thomas . King looked surprised and quit carving his steak <strong>for</strong> a moment . "Deac, you<br />
mean you're going to march?" asked King. "I don't have no intention ofmarching one<br />
block in Mississippi," Thomas told King. "But we're going to be up and down the<br />
highways and the byways . And if somebody gets shot again, they going to have<br />
somebody to give account to <strong>for</strong> that ."=6<br />
The Mississippi Delta was SNCC country and King could ill-af<strong>for</strong>d to alienate the<br />
young radicals . He would need their support and organizational network in the region if<br />
the march were to succeed. To many who listened to the debate at the Lon~aine that night,<br />
-6There are several differing historical accounts of this meeting . I have combined<br />
Thomas' recollections with David J . Garrow, Bearing the Cross: Martin Luther King, Jr.<br />
and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (New York : William Morrow and<br />
Co ., 1986), p . 477 ; Stephen Oates, Let the Trumpet Sound. The Life ofMartin Luther<br />
King, Jr.(New York : Harper and Row, 1982), pp. 397-398 ; and Cleveland Sellers, The<br />
River ofNo Return: The Autobiography ofa Black Militant and the Life andDeath of<br />
SNCC (New York : William Morrow and Co ., 1973), p . 162 .<br />
385
King's silence appeared to be tacit support <strong>for</strong> SNCC and the militants . SNCC not only<br />
demanded that the <strong>Deacons</strong> be invited to guard the march, but also argued that the focus<br />
ofthe march should be "an indictment of President Johnson over the fact that existing<br />
laws were not being en<strong>for</strong>ced." Reflecting the growing "black power" politics in SNCC,<br />
Carmichael also demanded that whites be excluded from the march. Wilkins and Young<br />
opposed SNCC's strategy as divisive--and they wanted nothing to do with the gun-toting<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> . The two moderates left the meeting and the remaining organizers drafted a<br />
march "manifesto" that contained much of SNCC's militant rhetoric . By the end ofthe<br />
night King reluctantly agreed that the <strong>Deacons</strong> could remain in the march. = '<br />
Why King assented to having the <strong>Deacons</strong> on the march remains something of a<br />
mystery . He may have assumed that the armed group would not become a media issue,<br />
given Thomas' assurances that the <strong>Deacons</strong> would not carry weapons on the march . Still,<br />
it was a risky concession <strong>for</strong> King . The attitude of Southern blacks toward nonviolence<br />
was changing and the media was alert to symbols of the growing political schism .<br />
NAACP leader Charles Evers received deafening applause when he told a Mississippi<br />
rally that he and his follower were coming to Meredith's aid "like Buck Jones and Tim<br />
McCoy," the popular matinee gunslingers . Meredith himself bluntly repudiated<br />
nonviolence while recuperating from his wounds . He told reporters that be<strong>for</strong>e the march<br />
he had debated whether to bring a gun or a bible . To his regret, he chose the bible . "I<br />
was embarrassed because I could have lmocked the intended killer off with one shot if I<br />
had been prepared," said Meredith. "I will return to the march . . . and I will be armed<br />
='Dittmer, Local People, p . 393 .<br />
386
unless I have assurances I will not need arms . I believe in law and order, but ifthe whites<br />
continue to kill the Negro in the South, I will have not choice but to urge them [Negroes]<br />
to go out and defend themselves ." Meredith Gad little to say about the <strong>Deacons</strong>, other<br />
than he did not "favor" the <strong>Deacons</strong>--or any group <strong>for</strong> that matter. The <strong>Deacons</strong> would be<br />
there to protect Meredith just the same . "If a white man starts shooting again," Thomas<br />
told reporters, "you'll know where to find him :'=8<br />
As the march continued, the <strong>Deacons</strong> positioned themselves in cars in front ofand<br />
behind the marchers . Some <strong>Deacons</strong> walked in the march guarding King, but without<br />
weapons . They scouted the march route, guarded campsites, and escorted travelers to the<br />
Memphis airport at night. Charlie Sims brought a contingent of <strong>Deacons</strong> from Louisiana,<br />
and the New Orleans and Jonesboro Chapters also sent members . "I was carryin' two<br />
snub-nosed .38s and two boxes of shells," recalled Suns, "and had three men ridin' down<br />
the highway with semi-automatic carbines with thirty rounds apiece . . . See, I didn't<br />
believe in that naked shit no waS" ." Although there were rumors that 350 <strong>Deacons</strong> were at<br />
the march, the figure was probably closer to thirty. As promised, the <strong>Deacons</strong> kept a low<br />
profile . Nonetheless, the march was a milestone <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the civil rights<br />
movement . The Meredith March, the last great civil rights march of the century, became<br />
the first national march to officially embrace armed self-defense .=<br />
16-19 .<br />
'~"Meredith Threat to Arm Not the Answer, says Dr. Kang," Jet, 23 June 1966, p .<br />
=9Interview in Howell Raises, My Soul is Rested: Movement Days in the Deep<br />
South Remembered (New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1977), pp . 416-423 ; Ibid. p. 422 ;<br />
Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
387
On June 9, Armistead Phipps, a 58-year-old black Mississippi marcher, collapsed<br />
and died of a heart attack . "Dr. King was asked to preach his funeral, and that was way<br />
up in the Delta," recalls Sims . King's principles didn't prevent him from accepting a<br />
Deacon bodyguard :<br />
[King] preached his funeral, but he would not go into the Delta unless I carried<br />
him . And he knowed the only way <strong>for</strong> me to carry him in the Delta, I had to carry<br />
him with my guns and men, not his . . . So, when the chips were down, I won't say<br />
the man woulda picked up a gun, but I'11 say this, he didn't run one away .'°a°<br />
Despite their ef<strong>for</strong>ts to remain out of the public eye, the <strong>Deacons</strong>' role in the<br />
march soon surfaced in the media . On June 13, Thomas got involved in a heated debate<br />
with a white pastor who had objected to the <strong>Deacons</strong> carrying weapons at the march<br />
campsite . Thomas told the pastor that he was wrong to tell blacks not to fight back when<br />
their lives were at stake . The argument spread among marchers throughout the camp<br />
until CORE field secretary Bruce Baines admonished the group not to air their dispute in<br />
front ofthe press . It was too late . The New York Times carried a story on the argument<br />
and quoted Thomas as saying that the <strong>Deacons</strong> were guarding the campsite at night "with<br />
pistols, rifles and shotguns" and providing armed escorts of marchers who traveled at<br />
night to the Memphis airport . "But we don't take guns with us when the people are<br />
marching," said Thomas. "The march is nonviolent." s '<br />
Floyd McKissick attempted damage control by telling the Times that he had no<br />
knowledge of weapons around the campsite and'that he had talked "way into the night"<br />
telling the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the marchers that the march "must remain nonviolent." Not<br />
3°Raines, My Soul is Rested, p . 422.<br />
"Ibid . ; New York Times, 14 June 1966, p . 19 .<br />
388
everyone agreed with McI{.issick . Earlier in the day Bishop Charles Ewbank Tucker of<br />
the African Methodist Church gave the blessing <strong>for</strong> the marchers and added his own<br />
opinion on nonviolence . "Any Negro or white has the right to defend himselfwith arms,"<br />
Bishop Tucker told the marchers, and "any man who didn't ought to take offhis pants<br />
and wear skirts .''s=<br />
Tension began to grow between SCLC and the <strong>Deacons</strong> . On June 21, King asked<br />
Thomas if the <strong>Deacons</strong> could set up a series of radio base stations along the march route .<br />
King said that he feared that there were "dark days ahead" <strong>for</strong> the march and the<br />
communication system would aid security (pay phone lines were frequently cut along the<br />
route) . Thomas agreed and left <strong>for</strong> Jonesboro to retrieve the radios . In his absence, King<br />
left the Meredith March and took approxunately twenty persons to Philadelphia,<br />
Mississippi, to attend a memorial service <strong>for</strong> the three civil rights workers slain there two<br />
years be<strong>for</strong>e . King lead a memorial march in Philadelphia that was quickly surrounded<br />
by a mob of several hundred armed whites . A group oftwenty-five whites broke away<br />
from the mob and viciously assaulted the marchers . Half a dozen black marchers vauily<br />
fought back as police and FBI looked on <strong>for</strong> several minutes . Later that night marauding<br />
whites made four gunfire attacks on the black community, including an attack on the<br />
headquarters of the Mississippi <strong>Freedom</strong> Democratic Party. Blacks at the headquarters<br />
returned fire during two of the attacks and wounded one ofthe white assailants .' 3<br />
' -'Ibid .<br />
' TThomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview ; New York Times, 22 June 1966, p . 1 .<br />
389
Thomas was furious with King when he returned to the Meredith March and<br />
learned ofthe detour to Philadelphia and the subsequent attacks . Right or not, Thomas<br />
suspected that the radio errand was a ruse to prevent him from accompanying King to<br />
Philadelphia. "This is the end ofthis," Thomas told King's aides in disgust . 3°<br />
Relations between King and the <strong>Deacons</strong> were clearly strained by the incident .<br />
The same day as the Philadelphia fiasco, the Meredith March arrived in Indianola where<br />
SNCC field secretary Charles McLaurin led marchers in a chant <strong>for</strong> "black power"-- a<br />
chant that Carmichael had first introduced in the March at Greenwood . King flew from<br />
Philadelphia back to Indiaaola where he addressed a rally that night. He took the<br />
opportunity to bitterly condemn the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the Black Power advocates . "Some<br />
people are telling us to be like our oppressor, who has a history ofusing Molotov<br />
cocktails, who has a history of dropping the atom bomb, who has a history of lynching<br />
Negroes," said King . "Now people are telling me to stoop down to that level . I'm sick<br />
and tired of violence ." ss<br />
King's harsh criticism ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> had the ring of hypocrisy to Thomas and<br />
other <strong>Deacons</strong> . It was true that King had opposed the <strong>Deacons</strong> participating in the March .<br />
But he had not declined their services when he traveled to the Phipps funeral in the Delta .<br />
And King had personally asked Thomas to assist in march communications . Still, the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> could hardly expect King to remain silent in the face of their own vitriolic<br />
attacks on the champion of nonviolence .<br />
3 ''Ibid .<br />
3s "Dr . King Score `<strong>Deacons</strong>," New York Times, 22 June 1966, p . 25 .<br />
390
The Meredith March ended without incident and the Chicago <strong>Deacons</strong> returned to<br />
the windy city to begin the process of building a chapter around urban issues . During the<br />
summer of 1966, the Pulaski Street headquarters began to come to life, taking on the<br />
trappings ofNorthern militants such as the emerging Black Panther Party . The storefront<br />
window featured a rifle balancing the scales ofjustice . Some ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong> donned<br />
berets like the Panthers, and the local chapter offered &ee training in martial arts .<br />
Comprising no more than ten to Sfteen active members, the Chicago chapter began an<br />
ef<strong>for</strong>t to establish offices in surrounding communities, including Harvey and Evanston .<br />
The FBI kept a close watch on the Chicago chapter, and when a small riot erupted on<br />
August 4 in nearby Harvey, the FBI suspected that the <strong>Deacons</strong> had supplied weapons to<br />
youth involved in the shooting, though there was no evidence .'6<br />
The Chicago chapter did not restrict its activities to support work <strong>for</strong> the Southern<br />
movement, as Thomas had promised, but instead became involved in local black issues .<br />
In August 1966, local courts issued an injunction preventing Dr. King and SCLC from<br />
marching through the volatile white neighborhoods of Gage Park and Cicero . In<br />
response, the <strong>Deacons</strong> joined several militant groups in threatening to march, despite the<br />
order . A planned march on August 28 through Cicero, a racist stronghold, particularly<br />
troubled law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials because ofthe potential <strong>for</strong> violent attacks by whites,<br />
and retaliation by blacks . It was rumored that young blacks were practicing with weapons<br />
in preparation <strong>for</strong> the march. But once Dr. King acceded to the injunction and pledged a<br />
360n the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the Harvey incident, see SAC, Chicago to Director, August<br />
10, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-158 .<br />
391
moratorium on the marches, SCLC condemned the militant's plan <strong>for</strong> the Cicero march .<br />
In the end, the <strong>Deacons</strong>' threatened march failed to materialize . 3 '<br />
The Chicago chapter's relationship with King was cloaked in mystery. The<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> provided security <strong>for</strong> King at speaking events in Chicago, and later when King<br />
traveled in the South . But King's lieutenants were divided over the role ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>,<br />
with Jesse Jackson adamantly opposing any contact between King and the <strong>Deacons</strong> . In<br />
the end, Fats Craw<strong>for</strong>d and the <strong>Deacons</strong>, working through intermediaries like activist<br />
Bennet Johnson, provided security <strong>for</strong> King, but not openly as <strong>Deacons</strong> . Craw<strong>for</strong>d,<br />
although <strong>for</strong>mally chapter vice-president, began to play a more prominent role, in large<br />
part because ofThomas's frequent absences . Thomas still had a wife and several children<br />
in Jonesboro, and he was constantly traveling between there and Chicago .'$<br />
Thomas' life took a bizarre twist in July 1966 . A writer <strong>for</strong>NOW magazine<br />
contacted Thomas and indicated that exiled nationalist leader Robert F . Williams was<br />
interested in meeting with Thomas in Cuba . Thomas leapt at the opportunity, and was<br />
soon on a plane to Mexico City . As soon as he arrived in Havana, Thomas lea:raed that<br />
Williams had departed the previous day <strong>for</strong> the Peoples Republic of China . Williams had<br />
1966 .<br />
3'SAC, Chicago to Director, August 22, 1966, not recorded and FBI August 29,<br />
' $The FBI reported that approximately <strong>for</strong>ty <strong>Deacons</strong> guarded King during a<br />
speech on July 29, 1966 in Chicago . See Investigative Report, November 22, 1966, FBI-<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> file no. 157-2466-176 . On <strong>Deacons</strong> secretly guarding King, see interview with<br />
John Harris, a Chicago chapter member : John Harris, interview by author, 23 January<br />
1994, Chicago, Illinois, tape recording .<br />
392
told the Cubans that he wanted to visit the communist country, but in fact, he had become<br />
disillusioned with Castro's Cuba.39<br />
Thomas was assigned an interpreter and was taken on a series oftours, including<br />
the Cuban countryside . He quickly tired of the official tours and political<br />
propagandizing . Thomas in<strong>for</strong>med his hosts that he would not participate in any more<br />
tours, preferring to mingle with the common working people . The Deacon leader took<br />
advantage ofhis liberty aad walked the streets ofHavana, chatting with ordinary people .<br />
He met bricklayers (his old trade) and learned that they earned a paltry eighty-five cents<br />
an hour yet were <strong>for</strong>ced to pay $24 <strong>for</strong> a fifth of rum--a profound injustice to a drinking<br />
man like Thomas'°<br />
The Cuban government treated Thomas considerably better than their bricklayers,<br />
providing him with a &ee hotel, sumptuous meals, and all the perks ofa visiting<br />
dignitary . He met with nulitary officials, including a Cuban General, "Commandant<br />
Bayou," who had received training in New Orleans . The General, who had been treated<br />
as a white during his stay in segregated New Orleans, recounted how his American<br />
superiors had once reprunanded him <strong>for</strong> politely stepping offthe sidewalk to allowa<br />
black couple to pass. Later, Thomas attended the annual ceremony commemorating the<br />
July 26th revolution, and was assigned a prestigious seat only a few rows from Castro.<br />
The pool hustler from Jonesboro was coming up in the world:"<br />
3~'Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
°°lbid .<br />
°'Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
393
But Thomas never received an introduction to Castro, and after a few days in<br />
Cuba he began to run afoul of the government . Part ofhis difficulties arose from his<br />
characteristic frankness. Thomas had noticed early on that a clear color line divided<br />
blacks and whites in Cuba. Whea Cuban officials inquired about his impression of Cuba<br />
in comparison to the United States, Thomas replied indelicately, "I see the same thing . I<br />
see a lot of black people working on the farm and I see all the white follcs got the best<br />
jobs . I don't see no difference ." His criticisms did not endear him to his hosts.''-<br />
Within a few days after his arrival Thomas asked Cuban officials to allow him to<br />
travel to China to meet with Williams, but the Cuban government dragged their feet in<br />
providing an exit visa, no doubt a consequence of increasing tensions between the<br />
Chinese and Soviet blocs . Growing impatient with the bureaucratic delays, Thomas<br />
attempted to secure an exit through several of the embassies in Havana. He had little luck<br />
with the African embassies and the North Vietnamese offered to help on the condition<br />
that he would urge black U.S . troops to refuse to fight in Vietaam . "I said shit with that.<br />
I can't do that," recalls Thomas . Finally he went to the Chinese embassy and, after they<br />
contacted Williams in China, the embassy arranged to expedite his departure. After four<br />
weeks in Cuba, Thomas left <strong>for</strong> China by way ofEurope. °s<br />
Thomas rendezvoused with Williams in China and began another whirlwind tour<br />
ofoffcial sites : military bases, war museums--in Thomas's words, "nothing of interest."<br />
He admired the Chinese <strong>for</strong> not attempting to proselytize him as the Cubans had . After<br />
~=Ibid.<br />
394
two weeks in China, Thomas departed <strong>for</strong> the United Sates . Originally he planned to<br />
arrive in the United States through New Orleans, but the Chinese government warned that<br />
he might encounter diffculties with U.S . Officials, so he returned through Canada and<br />
drove across the border .*'<br />
The news that Thomas had traveled to Cuba and China sent the FBI into an<br />
apoplectic fit . The FBI knew that the <strong>Deacons</strong> had close contact with revolutionary<br />
nationalists and suspected that the defense group had purchased hundreds of automatic<br />
weapons . After Thomas returned to the United States via Canada, the FBI received<br />
in<strong>for</strong>mation that he had served as a courier <strong>for</strong> Chinese funds <strong>for</strong> RAM or other Maoist<br />
groups . FBI headquarters sent their <strong>for</strong>ces scurrying from London to Hong Kong to<br />
determine where Thomas had been and whether he had been a conduit <strong>for</strong> Chinese money<br />
to RAM or other U .S . revolutionaries . Hoover ordered the New Orleans SAC to monitor<br />
"[deleted] to determine if[deleted] has handled large sums ofmoney recently, particularly<br />
since his return from Europe ." The New York SAC was instructed to see if Thomas had<br />
contact with RAM since his return, and Hong Kong was queried about Thomas, RAM<br />
and connections to China. Thomas denies that he served as a courier <strong>for</strong> the Chinese .<br />
Robert F . Williams, in an interview shortly be<strong>for</strong>e his death, refused to confirm or deny<br />
the reports . °s<br />
''~Ibid .<br />
asSAC, Chicago to Director, July 19, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-153 ;<br />
Director to SAC, New Orleans, October 12, 1966, not recorded; Hong Kong to Director,<br />
July 20, 1967 and July 2$, 1967, not recorded ; Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Robert F .<br />
Williams, interview by author, 11 November 1995, tape recording.<br />
39~
Rubbing shoulders with Third World revolutionaries had some effect on Thomas .<br />
but it is doubtful that it significantly changed his political views . Thomas did not return a<br />
Marxist-Leninist ; he was too firm in his convictions to succumb to revolutionary politics .<br />
He would be a prize catch <strong>for</strong> any ofthe leftist groups, but they all found his political<br />
stubbon~ness impenetrable. "Everyone was trying to get a hold of him," remembers<br />
RA.M leader Virginia Collins, but "Chilly Willy just couldn't catch on ."''6<br />
Leftists were not the only unrequited lovers ofthe Deacon leader. Elijah<br />
Muhammad's black Muslims made a concerted ef<strong>for</strong>t to recruit Thomas to the Nation of<br />
Islam (NO)) . After Thomas appeared on Wesley South's radio program in the spring of<br />
1966, Dick Durham, the editor of the NOI's newspaper, Muhammad Speaks, sent<br />
members ofthe Fruit of Islam to the <strong>Deacons</strong>' offffce on North Pulaski and requested that<br />
Thomas come <strong>for</strong> an interview . It was not the first contact with the Muslims <strong>for</strong> Thomas<br />
and the <strong>Deacons</strong> . The Muslims had a strong presence in Monroe, Louisiana and<br />
frequently traveled to Jonesboro to sell Muhammad Speakr . When the NOI group was<br />
harassed by local police in Monroe, Thomas led a delegation ofJonesboro <strong>Deacons</strong> to<br />
confront the Mayor and Police Chief. The Muslims were also actively recruiting in<br />
Bogalusa as early as 1965 .4'<br />
Durham interviewed Thomas and published an article about the <strong>Deacons</strong> in<br />
Muhammad Speaks . In the weeks to follow, Elijah Muhammad invited Thomas to his<br />
palatial home <strong>for</strong> several Sunday dinners . It was an impressive experience ; bountiful<br />
4~Collins, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
4'Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
396
meals in a luxurious setting, complete with celebrity dinner guests like Muhammad Ali .<br />
But one of Elijah Muhammad's habits annoyed Thomas . At their first dinner the Muslim<br />
leader was fasting and did not join Thomas in eating. Thomas, the small town<br />
Southerner, found this behavior inexplicably rude . He told Mubammad that it made him<br />
"feel bad" to be eating while his host ate nothing. The next time Thomas was invited,<br />
Muhammad joined in the meal .'$<br />
But the food and flattery did little to win Thomas to Islam. When Muhammad<br />
finally asked Thomas to join the NOI, the Deacon leader warned him that the Muslims<br />
would only be gaining a hypocrite, not a convert . "I smoke, I drink, and I don't have any<br />
intention of quitting either ofthem," Thomas told Muhammad . Thomas also had some<br />
trepidations about the Muslims . He had heard the dark rumor that Fard Muhammad,<br />
Elijah Muhammad's mentor, had mysteriously disappeared and that some suspected foul<br />
play . He also objected to the Muslim's separatist political program . Thomas sought<br />
justice within America, not without . "I don't want no separate state," he told the<br />
Muslims . The Muslim's radical ideas and asceticism were a bit much <strong>for</strong> the old barroom<br />
pool hustler. The Muslims told Thomas that ifhejoined them, he would have to learn<br />
Arabic so that he could read the Koran . Thomas had heard enough . "I can hardly speak<br />
English,"said Thomas, "and they wanted me speaking Arabic ." a9<br />
By the fall of 1966 Thomas had returned to his family in Jonesboro, leaving the<br />
Chicago chapter to the leadership ofFats Craw<strong>for</strong>d. The chapter allied itself with a host<br />
°Blbid.<br />
;gIbid .<br />
397
ofemerging Black power groups that <strong>for</strong>med the Community Coalition <strong>for</strong> Black Power<br />
(CCBP) . The CCBP linked the <strong>Deacons</strong> with a broad range ofgroups : radicalized<br />
Chicago chapters ofCORE and SNCC ; Lawrence Laadry and Nahaz Rogers ofACT; the<br />
W. E. B. Dubois Club ; activists like Monroe Sharp; and members of the two major youth<br />
gangs, the Blackstone Rangers and the Vicelords . Through the CCBP, the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
became involved in several community protests with mixed success. They also did<br />
community organizing independently, as in November 1966, when the chapter organized<br />
a protest against Clark Super Market . The action succeeded in <strong>for</strong>cing the store to raise<br />
the wages of black workers and increase business with black wholesalers . so<br />
The chapter encountered some police harassment. In one incident the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
accused the Chicago police of shooting out the front window of their Pulaski Street<br />
office . But the Chicago chapter's encounters with law en<strong>for</strong>cement were usually quite<br />
different from the experience in the South . Some of the chapter's activities skirted the<br />
boundaries of the law, especially in the area of fundraising . White businesses on the West<br />
Side, desirous of good relations with the militants, supplied a significant portion ofthe<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong>' funds . Ia the process of soliciting funds from businesses, the <strong>Deacons</strong> walked a<br />
thin line between fundraising and extortion . At least one local business accused the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> of extorting money from them, a charge that lead to the arrest of Fats Craw<strong>for</strong>d,<br />
though no charges were filed . The <strong>Deacons</strong> became involved in another controversial<br />
incident in nearby Gary, Indiana. Richard Hatcher, a black political leader, was running<br />
<strong>for</strong> Mayor when another black candidate with the same name placed his name on the<br />
soSAC, Chicago to Director, November 7, 1966, not recorded.<br />
398
allot . It was an obvious attempt to confuse voters and take votes from Hatcher. The<br />
Chicago <strong>Deacons</strong> were called in to assist . What they did in Gary remains a mystery. All<br />
that is certain is that the second candidate withdrew his name from the ballot,<br />
complaining that he had been "coerced" by unnamed partiess'<br />
In November 1966, Craw<strong>for</strong>d was <strong>for</strong>ced to close the <strong>Deacons</strong>' office at 1230<br />
Pulaski . In the coming months he occasionally rented hall space at the Democratic party<br />
office at 712 Pulaski <strong>for</strong> Deacon activities . The Chicago chapter continued to struggle<br />
throughout 1967 to find an issue that would galvanize support . Thomas was frequently<br />
on the road--at times traveling with the militant Stokely Canaichael .<br />
Occasionally the Chicago chapter reverted to the <strong>Deacons</strong>' traditional role of<br />
defending homes . Carrying weapons in Chicago was not as risky a proposition as it had<br />
been in the South. Working through a sympathetic black detective agency, the Chicago<br />
chapter had obtained offcial permits to carry weapons . In January 1967, the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
offered to employ these weapons to protect two black families who were under attack <strong>for</strong><br />
integrating a suburban white neighborhood, but the families never responded to the<br />
offers'-<br />
Anti-police brutality organizing took center stage with the <strong>Deacons</strong> in the winter<br />
of 1967 . On February 17, 1967, Chicago Police shot and killed George Jennings, a young<br />
black man . The shooting sparked angry protest in Chicago's black community, and the<br />
s '"Investigative Report," New Orleans, November 27, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no .<br />
157-2466-250 ; Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
5'-SAC, Chicago to Director, January 16, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-<br />
186 ; Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview .<br />
399
<strong>Deacons</strong>, collaborating with ACT, quickly plunged into organizing demonstrations and<br />
rallies . But while Craw<strong>for</strong>d was operating under the <strong>Deacons</strong>' banner in community<br />
organizing, he was also moving the organization in the direction ofelectoral politics . Ln<br />
February 1967 the <strong>Deacons</strong> and ACT co-sponsored rallies supporting independent<br />
aldermanic candidates like Curtis Foster. Craw<strong>for</strong>d also helped <strong>for</strong>m the Garfield<br />
Organization, an umbrella group initially created to support Curtis Foster's bid <strong>for</strong> office .<br />
The Garfield Organization eventually evolved into a combination ofelectoral campaign<br />
committee and community organizing group . Most of the <strong>Deacons</strong> joined the Garfield<br />
Organization which Foster headed . Craw<strong>for</strong>d soon moved the remaining <strong>Deacons</strong>' office<br />
furniture into the Garfield Organizations office on North Keeler Streets '<br />
Within a few months the <strong>Deacons</strong> took a dramatic detour from their community<br />
organizing strategy to work oa an ill-fated voter registration project in Mississippi . In<br />
April 1967, Craw<strong>for</strong>d, Foster ofthe Garfield Organization, and Doug Andrews of ACT,<br />
traveled to Indianola, Mississippi to assist in a voter education project organized by<br />
Chicago socialite Lucy Montgomery, a wealthy contributor to the civil rights movement<br />
and an heir to the Montgomery Ward <strong>for</strong>tune . Craw<strong>for</strong>d, whom, Montgomery described<br />
as "fearless," brought along a small contingent of<strong>Deacons</strong> to provide protection s°<br />
The project had a strangely nostalgic quality to it : reprising the voter education<br />
projects ofthe South, several years after the tactic had run its course in the civil rights<br />
s3 SAC, Chicago to Director, February 21, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no.157-2466,<br />
not recorded ; SAC, Chicago to Director, March 31, 1 967 FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-<br />
2466-208 .<br />
s'`Lucille Montgomery, interview by author, 29 May 1993, Chicago, Illinois, tape<br />
recording.<br />
goo
movement . But Lucy Montgomery was a patrician iconoclast with a penchant <strong>for</strong><br />
quirkiness . Her political interests shifted from one socialjustice cause to another in the<br />
sixties ; her organizing exploits dutifully reported in the society page of Chicago papers.<br />
Montgomery had campaigned against nuclear testing in the early sixties; then detoured to<br />
the Dominican Republic in 1963 to work with the poor during the short-lived leftist<br />
administration of Juan Bosch ; and finally, in 1964, joined the civil rights movement.<br />
Montgomery wanted to conduct workshops in preparation <strong>for</strong> <strong>Freedom</strong> Summer, and she<br />
plunged into the project with upperclass panache . At one event, Montgomery<br />
presumptively began to collect names and numbers in a meeting where she was a virtual<br />
stranger. "I had the gall to pass around a legal pad asking <strong>for</strong> everyone's phone number<br />
and address," recalled Montgomery. "They must have thought I was crazy : °ss<br />
The odd caravan that entered Mississippi from Chicago must have provoked some<br />
curious if not baleful stares . One ofthe cars held Fats Craw<strong>for</strong>d, Montgomery, the white<br />
socialite activist, and Craw<strong>for</strong>d's two menacing German shepherd attack dogs, Otto and<br />
Freda. Montgomery crouched down on the car floor to avoid attracting attention to the<br />
integrated delegation .<br />
The Mississippi excursion was nothing short of a disaster. Amzie Moore, the<br />
venerated NAACP activist, was responsible <strong>for</strong> organizing the voter education<br />
workshops, but he had no funds nor staff "When I got there, he hadn't done anything,"<br />
recalls Montgomery. Only four or five people attended the workshops. "My god,"<br />
Montgomery told herself, "I got all these people organized <strong>for</strong> this :' The experience was<br />
ssSAC, Chicago to Director, May 5, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-217 ;<br />
Montgomery, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
=t01
even more discouraging <strong>for</strong> some of the black activists Montgomery had recruited from<br />
Chicago . Curbs Foster, of the Garfield Organization, returned to Chicago complaining to<br />
his friends that Mississippi blacks were "politically dead ." s6<br />
But the experience was not entirely disheartening <strong>for</strong> Craw<strong>for</strong>d and the <strong>Deacons</strong> .<br />
Craw<strong>for</strong>d got to meet Fannie Lou Hamer, Lawrence Guyot, and other lions of the civil<br />
rights movement. Fear was still palpable in the Delta, and the <strong>Deacons</strong>, equipped with<br />
the two attack dogs, did an admirable job ofproviding security at workshops and rallies .<br />
And Lucy Montgomery, despite the project's failure, could add at least one new milestone<br />
to her life : she got to sample her first plate of chitlins . s '<br />
Craw<strong>for</strong>d was deeply moved by the level ofpoverty he saw in Mississippi, and, in<br />
July 1967, the Chicago <strong>Deacons</strong> shifted from voter registration to a strategy of<br />
humanitarian aid, this time working with the CCBP in "Operation Opportunity" and the<br />
"Mississippi Misses Me" projects . The programs provided food and clothing to the poor<br />
in Mississippi, and enjoyed the support of Muhammad Ali who helped raise funds <strong>for</strong> the<br />
project . An entourage of fourteen blacks in three vans departed <strong>for</strong> Mississippi in late<br />
July, with Craw<strong>for</strong>d leading the way accompanied by his two German shepherds . Police<br />
stopped the caravan on its way to Mississippi, suspicious ofthe small army ofblacks<br />
sporting "black power" buttons . The police released the caravan but Doug Andrews,<br />
not recorded .<br />
s6 Ibid . ; SAC, Chicago to Director, Apri124, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466,<br />
s'SAC, Jackson to Director, April 18, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no.157-2466-214 ;<br />
FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file ; Chicago to Director, Apri121, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466 no<br />
recorded Montgomery, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
=~o~
anticipating more problems in Mississippi, telegrammed the Jackson FBI and Mississippi<br />
Governor Paul Johnson, requesting that the caravan be "given adequate protection ." ss<br />
The humanitarian aid mission was completed without incident and the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
returned to Chicago in August and began working with ACT to build the Chicago Black<br />
Youth Alliance, a coalition to reduce gang violence through building alliances between<br />
rival gangs . The <strong>Deacons</strong> had always had a close relationship with Chicago's powerful<br />
street gangs . In the spring of 1967, Earnest Thomas had joined Stokely Carmichael in<br />
speaking to several hundred gang members at a unity dance at Princeton Hall . The dance<br />
nearly erupted into a riot when one ofthe speakers made a reference to one ofthe gangs,<br />
the Blackstone Rangers . But the <strong>Deacons</strong>' gang work, like so much ofthe Chicago<br />
chapter's organizing, was inconsistent and largely ineffective s9<br />
The Chicago chapter's dilemma was the same one that plagued all the Northern<br />
chapters : inadequate strategy and ideology . Unlike the Black Panther Party, the <strong>Deacons</strong><br />
lackzd a clear revolutionary vision that could attract militant young blacks. Even with the<br />
adjustments made to adapt to the concerns of Northern blacks, the <strong>Deacons</strong>' admixture of<br />
self-defense rhetoric, community organizing, and racial pride, could not compete with the<br />
Panthers' romantic revolutionary image. Moreover, the <strong>Deacons</strong>' call <strong>for</strong> manhood<br />
through violence had little appeal in the North, where fear and servile attitudes were<br />
SBSAC, Chicago to Director, August 4, 1976, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-236 ;<br />
SAC, Jackson to Director, August 15, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-238 ;<br />
"Investigative Report," New Orleans, Louisiana, November 27, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file<br />
no . 157-2466-250 .<br />
S9SAC, Chicago to Director, July 7, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-228 ;<br />
SAC, Chicago to Director, May 16,1967, not recorded .<br />
403
virtually nonexistent among blacks . Despite their criticism of the nonviolent movement, j<br />
the <strong>Deacons</strong> had framed their politics in the same language of rights and liberties . Once<br />
those rights and re<strong>for</strong>ms were secured--as they had been by 1965--the <strong>Deacons</strong> lost their<br />
raison d'etre .<br />
By December, 1967--a short twenty moaths after the chapter had <strong>for</strong>med--the<br />
Chicago <strong>Deacons</strong> chapter was a shell ofan organization . The chapter still maintained an<br />
office at the CJarfield Organization headquarters on North Keeler, but membership had<br />
dwindled to five members . Craw<strong>for</strong>d, with his fondness <strong>for</strong> electoral politics, was<br />
devoting most ofhis time to planning <strong>for</strong> his own campaign <strong>for</strong> an Alderman seat in the<br />
election scheduled <strong>for</strong> February 1968 . By December 1967, the chapter ceased to exist.°<br />
Occasionally rogue Deacon chapters cropped up in the North . In 1967 a<br />
Minneapolis activist, Matthew Eubanks, publicized a meeting to organize a chapter of the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> . The meeting was to feature H. Rap Brown, but Eubanks could not raise the<br />
$1000 speaking fee Brown required . The Bogalusa chapter learned ofthe Minneapolis<br />
activities and promptly contacted Eubanks and reproached him <strong>for</strong> unauthorized<br />
organizing. The Minneapolis chapter never materialized . 6 `<br />
~°"Investigative Report," New Orleans, November 27, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file<br />
no.157-2466-250 . Despite the demise ofthe chapter, the FBI continued to take an interest<br />
in the activities of its leaders, placing at least two members on the FBI's security index .<br />
SAC, Chicago to Director, December 20, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-2466-253<br />
suggests that two members have a "propensity <strong>for</strong> violence" and should be included on<br />
the "rabble rouser index."<br />
6`SAC, Minneapolis to Director, December 29, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no . 157-<br />
2466-254 ; Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.
There were reports of Deacon organizing in Los Angeles, Detroit, and San Diego,<br />
but none ofthese resulted in functioning chapters . The <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong>ays into the North had<br />
failed--even in Chicago where they had experienced leadership . Fats Craw<strong>for</strong>d had<br />
experimented with a variety ofpolitical alternatives to the <strong>Deacons</strong>' self-defense strategy,<br />
including community organizing against police brutality and discrimination, electoral<br />
politics, and humanitarian and political aid <strong>for</strong> Southern blacks . But none of the<br />
approaches resonated with Northern blacks. Meanwhile, black militants were flocking to<br />
the Black Panthers and other black power organizations that projected revolutionary and<br />
separatist images .6-<br />
While the <strong>Deacons</strong> helped inspire the <strong>for</strong>mation ofthe Black Panthers and other<br />
militant organizations, they failed to make the transition to a national organization<br />
themselves . Their emphasis on the right of self-defense was both their strength and<br />
weakness . While it provided legitimacy in the South, where their foe was vigilante<br />
violence, it failed in the North against police brutality--violence cloaked in state<br />
legitimacy : The <strong>Deacons</strong> had pinned their legitimacy on constitutional rights, the rule of<br />
law and order, rather than revolutionary rights, the right to disobey law and authority .<br />
The latter path, taken by the Panthers, had its own perils as well.<br />
In 1967 Thomas ceased organizing <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong> and began traveling as a<br />
combination body guard and political activist <strong>for</strong> Stokely Carnuchael . Thomas returned<br />
to Louisiana in May 1967, guarding Carmichael during a speaking engagement at<br />
6~Investigative Report, New Orleans, November 22, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no .<br />
157-2466-176 . On San Diego, see, Ibid . and Investigative Report, New Orleans, January<br />
10, 1966, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no.157-2466-104 .<br />
=~os
Southern University at Baton Rouge. In an incident outside the university, police arrested<br />
Thomas on a concealed weapon charge . Thomas failed to appear <strong>for</strong> a June 14 hearing<br />
and subsequently was found in contempt of court and received a sentence of fifteen days<br />
in jail and a $500 fine e'<br />
By 1968 Thomas had left the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> a new career. On his way back from<br />
China, Thomas had met football and movie star Jim Brown at the London airport . The<br />
two developed an instant rapport and Brown soon asked Thomas to come to work <strong>for</strong> him<br />
as a bodyguard . Thomas jumped at the opporhu~ity and was soon on his way to<br />
Cali<strong>for</strong>~a a, leaving the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the civil rights movement in his past ~``<br />
ss "Investigative Report," New Orleans, November 27, 1967, FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no .<br />
157-2466-250 ; Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
`"`Thomas' chance meeting with Jim Brown placed the celebrity under added FBI<br />
scrutiny . A memorandum from the Cleveland SAC detailed Brown's current movie<br />
production and included a transcript ofa speech Brown gave in January during a "Jim<br />
Brown Farewell Night" at the Cleveland Arena. The memo also mentioned outstanding<br />
paternity charges against Brown . See SAC, Cleveland to Director, February 28,1967,<br />
FBI-<strong>Deacons</strong> file no. 157-2466-200 .<br />
~t06
Chapter 15<br />
A Long Time<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong>' victory in Bogalusa in July 1965 coincided with several momentous<br />
events that would dramatically alter the group's future course . The Watts riot in Los<br />
Angeles erupted the first week ofAugust and radically changed black political<br />
consciousness unlike any event in modern history . For the first time in the twentieth-<br />
century, racial politics were shaped by the threat of black violence and civil disorder. The<br />
Watts rebellion not only provided blacks with the strategic bargaining option of violence,<br />
but it also shined the nation's focus from civil inequality in the South to economic<br />
inequality in the North .<br />
By 1965 the civil rights movement's singular focus on civil inequality had become<br />
an albatross around the neck of the black liberation movement . The strategy implied that<br />
civil discrimination was the primary cause <strong>for</strong> racial economic inequality, an argument<br />
that conservatives would later exploit in their battle against affirmative action and other<br />
compensatory programs . Nothing in the civil rights strategy explained the legacy of<br />
racism, nor suggested that enormous educational and economic resources would have to<br />
be marshaled to reverse the effects of three centuries of oppression . Although the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> were critics of the nonviolent movement, the defense group's future was<br />
inextricably bound to the fate ofthe civil rights movement .
The Voting Rights bill, enacted only days be<strong>for</strong>e the Watts riot, also undermined<br />
direct action politics in the South and shifted the focus away from the <strong>Deacons</strong> . As<br />
hundreds of thousands of blacks flooded the voter rolls in the South, blacks gained a new<br />
bargaining power that made direct action unnecessary . There was also fear that direct<br />
action protests during the 1965 presidential elections might cause a white backlash<br />
against the civil rights movement, and the prime beneficiary would be the arch-<br />
conservative Barry Goldwater, who had opposed the Civil Rights Act .<br />
By the fall of 1965 the <strong>Deacons</strong> had become victims oftheir own success . The<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> had compelled the federal government to en<strong>for</strong>ce black rights and destroy the<br />
Klan in Bogalusa. As the Klan went, so too would the <strong>Deacons</strong> . The <strong>Deacons</strong> had also<br />
popularized attitudes that gave birth to a new black identity in the South. Southern blacks<br />
had internalized the <strong>Deacons</strong>' combativeness and political militancy, so there was no<br />
longer a need <strong>for</strong> a distinct paramilitary group.<br />
Although July 1965 was the apogee <strong>for</strong> the <strong>Deacons</strong>, the Bogalusa chapter still<br />
had unfinished business at home . In the fall of 1965 the concerns of young blacks began<br />
to take center stage in the Bogalusa movement. In October 1965, several hundred<br />
students boycotted classes and marched to the annual Washington Parish Fair . The<br />
students were protesting a school policy that released white students from classes <strong>for</strong><br />
three days to attend the fair, while black students were given only one day. The student<br />
protestors marched through the fair grounds, drawing little more than a few critical stares<br />
from the hundreds of whites in attendance . The protest was also aimed at black teachers<br />
who had crossed the picket line at the fair to work on an exhibit. It was not the first time<br />
that middle class blacks had been singled out <strong>for</strong> organized protest in Bogalusa . Earlier<br />
408
in the year Bogalusa students had marched in protest against black ministers who refused<br />
to participate in the movement or honor the downtown boycott . `<br />
One week later the <strong>Deacons</strong> became embroiled in a controversial school boycott .<br />
School integration had never been a paramount issue <strong>for</strong> the Bogalusa movement.<br />
Instead, the October school boycott focused on demands <strong>for</strong> equal distribution of<br />
resources, consistent with the Bogalusa movement's emphasis on moral and economic<br />
equity. The BCVL Youth Organization demanded improved facilities, equal<br />
expenditures, new books (rather than castoff books from white schools) and <strong>for</strong>ei~<br />
language course offerings. The youth group also called <strong>for</strong> more and better teachers and<br />
demanded disciplinary action against teachers who were perceived as hostile toward the<br />
movement . In addition, the students demanded an end to the degrading practice of<br />
<strong>for</strong>cing black students to cut the lawn at the Superintendent's home . Leading the student<br />
boycott was Don Expose, son ofBCVL officer Gayle Jerkins . After the School Board<br />
rejected the demands, students boycotted classes and picketed the school gates and<br />
staged militant marches to the School Board offices .-<br />
The School Board countered with a new tactic . With the Klan in retreat, local<br />
courts and police now became the principal instruments of repression. At the request of<br />
the School Board, on October 19, District Judge Jim Warren Richardson signed an<br />
injunction prohibiting the BCVL from encouraging or assisting school children to absent<br />
themselves from school . Simultaneously, Washington Parish District Attorney W. W .<br />
`Bogalusa Daily News, 12, 16 October 1965 .<br />
-Bogalusa Daily News 18 October 1965 ; Rickey <strong>Hill</strong>, "The Character of Black<br />
Politics," p . 86 .<br />
409
Erwin filed a criminal bill of in<strong>for</strong>mation against leaders of the BCVL charging them<br />
with contributing to the delinquency of school children .'<br />
Undeterred by the legal actions, the following day BCVL and Deacon leaders<br />
joined a group ofmore than two-hundred <strong>for</strong> a protest march to the School Board<br />
building . A few minutes be<strong>for</strong>e the march was to begin, City police swooped down on<br />
the site and arrested virtually all ofthe League and Deacon leaders . Among those jailed<br />
were all the <strong>Deacons</strong>' elected officers : Charlie Sims, Fletcher Anderson, Royan Bums<br />
and Sam Barnes . Police also arrested BCVL leaders Robert Hicks and Gayle Jerkins . A .<br />
Z . Young, who was hospitalized at the time, was the only leader to escape arrest . All<br />
were charged with contributing to the delinquency ofa minor. °<br />
Ifthe city fathers had hoped to neutralize the movement by beheading its adult<br />
leadership, they had seriously underestimated the determination and organization ofthe<br />
youth. When in<strong>for</strong>med that they could not march, the militant group oftwo-hundred<br />
students began shouting "let's go to jail ." They <strong>for</strong>ged ahead with the march <strong>for</strong>cing<br />
police to arrest <strong>for</strong>ty-six students, including march leader Doa Expose . A second march<br />
staged later that day led to another twenty-one arrests. s<br />
By nightfall all the adult leaders, with the exception of Sims, remained in jail .<br />
The arrests sent tempers flaring in the black community. At 10:00 p.m. a large angry<br />
crowd of approximately 250 blacks gathered at the Negto Unioa Hall and began a<br />
spontaneous march to protest arrests earlier that day. Charlie Sins was the lone<br />
;Times-Picayune, 20 October 1965 .<br />
Louisiana Weekly, 6 November 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 21 October 1965 .<br />
LLoussiana Weekly, 6 November 1965 ; Times-Picayune, 21 October 1965 .<br />
~lo
emaining adult leader on the scene, joined by Henry Austin, who had heard of the arrests<br />
and had traveled from New Orleans to lend a hand . When the police Teamed that the<br />
marchers were moving toward the downtown area, they quickly sent all available units to<br />
the scene. There the police were confronted by a mob that was a far cry from the polite,<br />
nonviolent marchers that had walked the picket line the summer be<strong>for</strong>e. "You could have<br />
heard them <strong>for</strong> three or four blocks, whooping and hollering, calling us cowards," bristled<br />
Chief Knight . The crowd began chanting "<strong>Freedom</strong>" and--more ominously-"War ." 6<br />
Police claimed that the crowd tossed beer bottles at them . Whatever the<br />
provocation, there is little doubt that police grossly overreacted. Instead ofasking the<br />
marchers to disperse, Chief Knight sent the police into the crowd to disperse it. The<br />
result was nothing short of a police riot. Police stormed through the black community,<br />
wantonly arresting innocent bystanders, people returning from work, people eating in<br />
restaurants, even business owners in their own establishments . When Police found Henry<br />
Austin in the Bamboo Club, they dragged him out and brutally beat him with clubs .<br />
'`You niggers aren't going to rule this town," one policeman screamed at Austin. Police<br />
indiscriminately clubbed and manhandled children and pulled hapless passerbyers from<br />
their cars and beat them. Reverend Nathan Lewis went to the police station to bail out his<br />
son-in-law and afterwards was stopped, roughed-up, and arrested by police <strong>for</strong> possession<br />
of a pocketknife . One policeman threatened the minister that be might be found with '`a<br />
weight around your head in the Pearl River."'<br />
6Times-Picayune, 7, 30 December 1965 .<br />
'Ibid . ; Bogalura Daily News, 2 November 1965 ; Austin, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Times-<br />
Picayune, 29 December 1965 .<br />
X11
The "Bloody Wednesday" attack, as it came to be known, brought Bogalusa<br />
police offcials back into federal court where Judge Christenberry aptly described the<br />
events ofthe night as "more like East Germany than the United States ." Charges under<br />
Hicks u Knight were filed against several officers, including Vertrees Adams, Sidney J.<br />
Lyons and John <strong>Hill</strong> . At the hearing Judge Christenberry lectured police officials <strong>for</strong><br />
engaging in a "deliberate scheme to harass these people and throw them in jail ." s<br />
Bloody Wednesday left the League and the <strong>Deacons</strong> in bad shape . Bail <strong>for</strong> the<br />
arrested marchers drained the League's resources . The Boycott had little success and<br />
students soon returned to school . By the end ofthe year the BCVL's focus shifted from<br />
school issues back to equal employment . Ia November the BCVL launched a new<br />
boycott of twenty-four stores that had still not hired blacks . The picketing was effective,<br />
and by December Bogalusa shop owners admitted that business was down--although they<br />
accused the League offrightening away blacks through threats and intimidation. There<br />
was some merit to their claim . For most ordinary blacks in Bogalusa, the civil rights<br />
movement had ended in the summer of 1965 . It is diffcult to sustain interest and support<br />
<strong>for</strong> any social movement <strong>for</strong> long periods, especially when the movement's goals appear<br />
to be accomplished . Christmas holidays were approaching and the temptation to slip<br />
downtown <strong>for</strong> a little holiday shopping was irresistible to some . It became difficult <strong>for</strong><br />
the League to recruit pickets and the group increasingly turned to threats to en<strong>for</strong>ce the<br />
boycott9<br />
BTimes-Picayune, 28, 29, 30 December 1965 .<br />
9Times-Picayune, 21 November 1965 ; Times-Picayune 8 December 1965 ;<br />
Bogalusa Daily News, 5 December 1965 .<br />
=11
"blaming, Warning, Warning," read one BCVL leaflet distributed to shoppers .<br />
'`Any persons found shopping at any of these stores will have to pay the penalty.<br />
Cooperate and together we shall overcome . Don't cooperate and we shall overcome you<br />
along with the white man." During a rally in January 1966, A. Z . Young berated the<br />
black community <strong>for</strong> lack ofparticipation . "I am not getting the cooperation you<br />
promised me," Young lectured his audience . "You promised 24hour-a-day cooperation .<br />
I have been embarrassed at marches and rallies by your not turning out ." Young accused<br />
the BCVL youth organization of "dragging its feet" and he laid the blame on parents who<br />
prevented their children from participating . "You had betterjoin me," Young warned his<br />
audience. "If you don't join me, we are out to get you, baby ."` °<br />
Occasionally the <strong>Deacons</strong> made Young's threats a reality . On April 16, 1966,<br />
several shots were fired at the home of Reverend Herrod Morris, a longtime black critic<br />
ofthe BCVL . Shots were also fired at the home ofanother black resident, Raleigh Lucas .<br />
Several weeks later Sam Barnes, the <strong>Deacons</strong>' vice-president, and George Skiffer were<br />
arrested and charged with attempted murder <strong>for</strong> the shooting incident at the Morris home .<br />
Although there was enough evidence to indict Bames and Skiffer, the case never came to<br />
trial . Barnes, the SS-year-old Deacon officer, died ofa heart attack a few weeks after his<br />
arrest."<br />
The Klan was also having trouble s»st~"'" -g interest in the fall of 1965, having<br />
lost the ability to organize mass marches and counter protests . The night riders were<br />
' °"Bogalusa Voters League Boycott List," n.d., box 1, folder 6, CORE(Bogalusa) ;<br />
Bogalusa Daily News, 5 December, 30 January 1966 ; Louisiana Weekly, 6 February<br />
1966 .<br />
' `Bogalusa Daily News, 7 June 1966 .<br />
-113
educed to an occasional skirmish with local blacks . In September, only a few days<br />
be<strong>for</strong>e the OKKKK federal hearing was to open, police arrested Saxoa Farmer <strong>for</strong><br />
brandishing a .38 caliber pistol during a brawl between blacks and whites at the Bogalusa<br />
Dairy Queen . `-<br />
The Klan hearing began September 7 in New Orleans with a special threejudge<br />
panel composed of Christenberry, Robert A . Ainsworth, Jr ., and Joha Minor Wisdom .<br />
Seventy-one witnesses were sworn in, including members ofthe <strong>Deacons</strong>, the BCVL,<br />
CORE, Bogalusa city officials, and FBI agents . The Klan defendants appearing be<strong>for</strong>e<br />
the court were Charles Christmas, the OKKKK's Grand Dragon ofthe Sixth<br />
Congressional District, and Saxon Farmer, the sixth district's Grand Titan . In what<br />
would prove to a fatal blow to the Klan, the court subpoenaed Christmas and Farmer to<br />
produce Klan records including a "list of members and officers:' The Court also<br />
demanded records <strong>for</strong> several affiliated and phony "front" organizations that the OKKKIC<br />
had created to protect itself from legal action, including the Anti-Communist Christian<br />
Association (ACCA), the name that the OKKKK had assumed in spring 1965 . Other<br />
organizations targeted by the court included the Bogalusa Rifle Club, the United<br />
Conservatives, the Young Conservatives of Bogalusa, and the Minutemen of Bogalusa . `'<br />
The subpoena <strong>for</strong> the Klan's membership list proved troublesome <strong>for</strong> Christmas<br />
and Farmer . The Klan survived on secrecy. No Klaa leader could af<strong>for</strong>d to make public<br />
the organization's membership list . At first Christmas and Farmer feigned ignorance<br />
` =Bogalura Daily News, 3 September 1965 .<br />
` 3 Times Picayune, 8 September 1965 .<br />
-11 ~
e<strong>for</strong>e the court. Christmas told the court that he knew nothing about the ACCA--or any<br />
other Klan front groups, <strong>for</strong> that matter. Although Farmer admitted that he was the vice-<br />
president of the ACCA, the Klansman denied the existence ofany Klan membership lists<br />
or other records .'<br />
The federal judges were not amused by the Klan leaders' memory lapses . Under<br />
sharp questioning led by Judge Wisdom, Christmas eventually admitted that the Klan and<br />
the ACCA often met in the same place and used the same oath . But Christmas described<br />
the ACCA as something akin to a benevolent society . Indeed, he told the court that he<br />
had left the Klan because "some of us felt that there were some facets of the activities in<br />
the Sixth District that we did not agree with. We were opposed to violence and<br />
coercion ." Christmas said that had hoped to trans<strong>for</strong>m the image ofthe Klan through the<br />
ACCA . "We felt that we had to improve the public image of the KKK to that of a more<br />
law-abiding organization ."' S<br />
Christmas admitted that the OKKKK had maintained a "bureau of investigations''<br />
and a secret "wrecking crew"--which he characterized as peacekeepers : "That was one<br />
of the big reasons <strong>for</strong> the change," Christmas said ofthe wrecking crew . "I guess you<br />
might call it the police <strong>for</strong>ce. We ofthe ACCA felt that this should be left to the<br />
regularly constituted police officers of the community<br />
."' 6<br />
After considerable threats by the Judicial panel, eventually the ACCA's financial<br />
officer, John Magee, agreed to tum over the ACCA financial records . Magee admitted<br />
' °Ibid .<br />
' slimes-Picayune, 9 September 1965 .<br />
' 6Times-Picayune, 8 September 1965 .<br />
=11 ~
that Saxon Farmer controlled the ACCA funds in Washington Parish and he testified that<br />
the ACCA's policy was to destro;~ all records .<br />
Still, Christmas and Farmer balked at handing over the Klan's membership list .<br />
As the hearing progressed, there were ominous reports ofa hurricane stirring to life in the<br />
Gulf of Mexico . With the storm looming, Judge Christeaberry had little patience <strong>for</strong><br />
Farmer wasting the court's time . "I suggest that it might be better to let the hurricane hit<br />
over Parish Prison with Mr . Farmer is it until he decides to tell the truth," Christenberry<br />
told Farmer's attorneys . At first Farmer was intractable . "I will just have to go to prison<br />
because I have no lists," insisted Farmer . But the idea of a prolonged stay in the steamy<br />
Orleans Parish Prison apparently weakened the Klansman's resolve . Farmer and<br />
Christmas soon arrived in court with an ACCA membership list containing eighty-seven<br />
names . The Justice Departrnent later supplemented the list by introducing into evidence a<br />
second list of 151 names of Bogalusa Klan members which they obtained from a <strong>for</strong>mer<br />
Klan official turned in<strong>for</strong>mant, Clayton Hines . Although most ofthe names on the list<br />
were relatively anonymous citizens, at least one name raised a few eyebrows in the<br />
courtroom : Bogalusa City Attorney Robert Rester."<br />
The scope of the Klan's terror campaign in Bogalusa never came to public light at<br />
the hearing. To spare themselves the embarrassment ofa public airing oftheir crimes,<br />
Christmas and Farmer admitted to most ofthe counts against the OKItKK, including the<br />
numerous assaults and intimidations agaiast civil rights workers, business people, Judges,<br />
Congressmen, and even Governor McKeithen . The evidence thatdid emerge indicated<br />
"Times-Picayune, 10, 12 September 1965 .<br />
416
that the Klan had been behind most ofthe seemingly spontaneous violence in Bogalusa .<br />
FBI Agent Sass, whose memory had also failed him in previous hearings, now recalled<br />
that he had seen Klansman Adrian Goings Jr. dispense baseball bats and two-by-four<br />
clubs to a group of young white teenagers in a parking lot near a civil rights protest .<br />
Armed with the bats and clubs, the teenagers were then apparently deployed <strong>for</strong> attacks<br />
by Randle C . Pounds, the Klansman who had assaulted James Farmer .' g<br />
The hearings did not go well <strong>for</strong> the Klan, and on December 22, the threejudge<br />
panel issued a permanent injunction against the OKKKIC . Naming a total of234<br />
OKKKK members in Washington Parish, the injunction <strong>for</strong>bade Klansmen from<br />
harassing and intimidating blacks who were exercising their civil rights, voting rights, or<br />
pursuing equal employment . Klansmen would face fines or jail ifthey threatened or<br />
intimidated blacks, business owners, or city officials and employees . The court also<br />
ordered Christmas and Farmer to maintain a record of members ofthe ACCA and the<br />
OKKKIC, and to post copies of the injunction in a conspicuous place where they met .<br />
Federal marshals flooded into the Parish in the following weeks and individually served<br />
the injunction papers oa x11234 Klan members . Saxon Farmer remained defiant in the<br />
face of a defeat . "So what?" Farmer said of the injunction . "I think the decision was<br />
actually rendered be<strong>for</strong>e we entered into the hearing ."' 9<br />
Along with the federal judicial attack on the OKKKK, Congress opened a second<br />
front against the Klan. In the fall of 1965 the House Un-American Activities Committee<br />
`grimes-Picayune, 9 September 1965 ; 4 December 1965 .<br />
'grimes-Picayune 23 December 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 2 February 1966 ;<br />
Times-Picayune, 4 December 1965 .<br />
417
(HUAC) announced plans <strong>for</strong> a public investigation ofthe Klan in response to President<br />
Johnson's call <strong>for</strong> hearings following the Viola Liuzxo shooting. HUAC announced that<br />
it was subpoenaing at least fifteen members ofthe OKKKK from the Bogalusa area. In<br />
protest of the hearings, the Klan covered the Deep South with a firestorm ofburning<br />
crosses the fast week ofJanuary. In Mississippi the Klan ignited 134 crosses . Several<br />
hundred crosses were set ablaze in Louisiana's Southern "Florida parishes ." Nearly one-<br />
hundred crosses were burned in Tangipahoa Parish alone . But while crosses flared<br />
throughout Louisiana, the Klan in Bogalusa could barely muster a flickering flame .<br />
Waiting until the late hours of the night, the Bogalusa Klan managed to ignite only a<br />
handful of crosses--safely on the outskirts of town.'-°<br />
Several OKI{KK members eventually testified be<strong>for</strong>e HUAC in October 1965,<br />
although the hearings never made headlines in Louisiana. Nevertheless the hearings,<br />
combined with the federal injunction and massive police infiltration, did much to drive<br />
the remnants of the Klan underground . HUAC's final report was a damning<br />
condemnation of the Klan, and stood in stark contrast to the findings of a similar<br />
investigation into the Klan conducted by the Louisiana Joint Legislative Committee on<br />
Un-American Activities . The Louisiana committee issued a final report that likened Klan<br />
secrecy and intrigue to the "Halloween spirit that is common to most Americans :'= '<br />
-'°Times-Picayune, 1 December 1965 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 4, 9 January 1966 .<br />
'-'Times-Picayune, 25 January 1965 . The HUAC hearing resulted in six volumes<br />
oftestimony and reports, contained in Activities o,fKu Kluz Klan and The Present-Day<br />
Ku Klux Klan Movement. The court records ofthe federal court's injunction against the<br />
OKKKIC contains a complete list ofthe 234 OICKKI{, members who were served with the<br />
restraining order. See, United States vs . Original Knights ofthe Ku Klux Klan, Federal<br />
Records <strong>Archives</strong>, Fort Worth, Texas .<br />
418
Deprived of the ability to mobilize large-scale demonstrations and direct actions,<br />
penetrated by government in<strong>for</strong>mers, and discredited in the public eye, the remaining<br />
Klan members retreated into a world of clandestine terror and paranoia . Racial<br />
stereotypes of blacks had historically swung between two opposite images : the harmless<br />
maa-child (Sambo) and the lustful beast (Nat Turner) . When the <strong>Deacons</strong> exploded the<br />
notion that Southern black men were emasculated and passive, whites inevitably<br />
resurrected the old bestial stereotype--and all the fears of black vengeance and rebellion<br />
that had haunted whites from the days of slavery . This paranoia came into play in the<br />
bizarre Mississippi Klan Patic of 1965 .'=<br />
In November 1965, J . H. Wood, a member of the Utited Klans ofAmerica<br />
(iJKA), contacted Washington County Deputy Sheriff Earl Fisher ofGreenville,<br />
Mississippi with an odd tale ofa black conspiracy and imminent race war . The Klansman<br />
told Deputy Fisher that he and his associates had uncovered a conspiracy in which the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> and the Black Muslims were smuggling guns, automatic weapons, and<br />
thousands of rounds of ammunition into Mississippi through the Gulf ofMexico . The<br />
Klan was convinced that the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the Musluns had joined <strong>for</strong>ces to foment a<br />
violent revolt against whites in the South . Though dubious, Deputy Fisher began<br />
investigating the allegations . Fisher talked to other UKA members who had staked out<br />
the Delta Memorial Gardens Cemetery outside the city limits of Greenville . The<br />
'Slave revolt panics periodically swept across the South in the nineteenth century .<br />
In Mississippi the paranoia was heightened by emancipation, as in the case ofthe 1865<br />
insurrection panic in Mississippi . See, Vernon Lane Wharton, The Negro in Mississippi<br />
1865-1890, The James Sprunt Studies in History and Political Science, vol . 28 (Chapel<br />
<strong>Hill</strong> : The University of North Carolina Press, 1947), p. 218 .<br />
419
Klansmen claimed they had observed several suspicious black burials in recent months .<br />
One burial was mysteriously attended by only one person . In another burial the Klan<br />
claimed there was no record of a recent death. The Klansmen were convinced that the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> were concealing weapons and ammunition in empty graves . The Alcohol<br />
Tobacco and Firearms Department also became interested in the Klansmen's claims and<br />
even interviewed Earnest Thomas about the allegations .'<br />
The Klansmen made Fisher an offer. They would lead him to the graves where<br />
the weapons were ifthe Klan would receive a percentage ofthe guns and ammunition to<br />
protect whites against the planned uprising. They also insisted that if weapons were<br />
found, that the Highway Patrol should post guards at every black cemetery in the state.<br />
The Klan was in panic over the prospects of the looming race war, and even offered to<br />
help the Highway Patrol contain the Deacon-Muslim conspiracy . "One of our members is<br />
in tears out there thinking about those guns," said iJKA. Kleagle Ernest Gilbert. =°<br />
Deputy Fisher was growing concerned that the rumor of a black revolt might<br />
spread in the white community. His fears were well founded . Paranoid fantasies of<br />
bloody and vengeful black revolts were deeply imbedded in the Southern white psyche,<br />
dating back to the times of slavery when revolt was a real threat . The <strong>Deacons</strong> had<br />
jogged the phantom memory to the surface.<br />
Compounding the problem was that the Klan was insisting on massive publicity to<br />
unmask the black insurrection . ""They wanted ABC, NBC, CBS, and the Jackson<br />
=~"Miss . KKK Scared Stiff Say Black Muslims Hide Guns in Graves, Coffins,"<br />
Jet, 2 December 1965, pp . 6-8 ; Thomas, <strong>Hill</strong> interview.<br />
420
Newspapers on hand when the graves were opened," said Fisher. Fisher feared a riot if<br />
the rumors reached the white public . The anxious deputy contacted the Mississippi State<br />
Attorney General who authorized the investigation to continue . Fisher then secured<br />
permission to exhume the grave of an elderly black man where the Klan believed<br />
weapons had been secreted . To muumize publicity, the police dug up the grave at night,<br />
working secretly and under armed guard . At last they reached the coffin and anxiously<br />
pried offthe lid. Inside they found the remains of James Turner, a 64-year-old black man<br />
who had been buried on November 4 . There were no guns .<br />
Fisher invited the local media to examine the ridiculous scene at the cemetery the<br />
following day . "This was done to disprove once and <strong>for</strong> all that Negroes are not stashing<br />
guns," solemnly announced Fisher. "The Black Muslims and the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense<br />
and Justice are not in here creating an uprising." The photograph accompanying the news<br />
story pictured three slightly befuddled deputy sheriffs peering into a gaping and harmless<br />
grave . To add insult to injury, Fisher announced that his office was now opening an<br />
investigation of the Klan.'s<br />
Despite the rash ofcross bun~ings in January 1966, the Klan was virtually dead in<br />
Louisiana . Their offensive in 1965 had included hundreds of cross burnings and assaults,<br />
twenty-two shootings, twenty-eight bombings and arson . But they had lost their ability to<br />
intimidate blacks. On January 28, 1966, James Farmer returned to Bogalusa <strong>for</strong> the first<br />
large march in several months . In response, the Klan held a rally and burned five crosses<br />
in a circle around Ebenezer Baptist Church . Initially the League decided to retaliate by<br />
donning Klan robes and parading through Bogalusa to ridicule the Klan as cowards . The<br />
zs ~id .<br />
=121
provocative plan was dropped, but a rally on January 29 provided a <strong>for</strong>um <strong>for</strong> the League<br />
to issue a stern threat to the Klan . "Thursday there were four crosses burned in the Negro<br />
section of town," A. Z. Young told a rally audience . "They don't scare us," continued<br />
Young. "But if any more are burned, we'll strike a match on you baby ." The audience<br />
roared its approval . Charlie Sins echoed Young's message . Ifthe police attempted a<br />
repeat of"Bloody Wednesday," the <strong>Deacons</strong> would "come offofdefense and go on<br />
offense," promised Sims . =~<br />
As the rally ended, Fletcher Anderson joined Charlie Suns on the stage and<br />
donned a wrinkled sheet with a pointed Klan hood painted with the letters "ICKK ."<br />
Anderson pronounced the Klan officially "dead" and pranced around the stage in his<br />
costume to gales of laughter from the audience . -'<br />
The Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> continued to operate sporadically until 1967, but most of<br />
their activities ceased after the end of 1965 . There were few marches but the Klan had<br />
faded away and black police now patrolled the community. There were still occasional<br />
isolated racially motivated attacks . In March 1966, a white man shot and wounded a<br />
black army Captain, Donald R. Suns, as Sins talked on a public phone in downtown<br />
Bogalusa. Sins, not related to Charlie Sims, was home on leave and was dressed in<br />
civilian clothes at the time . The shooting was universally condemned--even by the Klan .<br />
In New Orleans, Grand Dragon Jack Helm announced that the L1KA was offering a<br />
$1,000 reward <strong>for</strong> in<strong>for</strong>mation leading to the conviction ofSims' assailant. Within days<br />
=6Louisiana Weekly, 29 January 1966 ; Bogalusa Daily News, 28, 30, January<br />
1966 ; Times-Picayune 6 February 1966 .<br />
'-'Bogalusa Daily News 30, January 1966 ; Lo:~isiana Weekly, 6 February 1966.
Thomas Bennett, of Bogalusa, confessed to the crime and was charged with attempted<br />
murder. He later explained that Sins angered him when the serviceman had remained on<br />
the pay phone preventing Bennett from using the phone . Bennett was bailed out by seven<br />
people, including local Klan leader Saxon Farmer, and Ray McElveen, the white man<br />
accused of murdering Deputy O'Neal Moore . -'8<br />
A few months later the <strong>Deacons</strong> were involved in an incident that led to charges<br />
against Deacon leader Fletcher Anderson . Anderson, Layton Griffin, Jr. and CORE field<br />
secretary Bruce Baines were eating at the ACME Cafe when Anderson went outside to<br />
investigate a group of white men standing next to his car . Four of the men attacked and<br />
beat Anderson leaving him bloodied in the parking lot. When Baines and Griffin went to<br />
investigate, they were also attacked . Griffin pulled a pistol and fired two shots into<br />
pavement and one shot at the cafe entrance. The three were later arrested, but never<br />
prosecuted, <strong>for</strong> attempted murder of Beulah Crockett and Ruby Lumkin, two ACME cafe<br />
waitresses . -9<br />
On July 30, 1966, John W . Coplin, Jr. ruthlessly gunned down Clarence Trigg, a<br />
24-year-old black construction worker and civil rights activist . Coplin and Homer<br />
"Kingfish" Richard Seale, both white Bogalusa residents, had picked up Borneo Cram, a<br />
nineteen-year-old white woman from nearby Varnado . The two men began to scuffle in<br />
the front seat and the car veered off the road into a ditch . Clarence Trigg saw the<br />
accident and, playing the good Samaritan, approached the car and asked Bumett if she<br />
=BTimes-Picayune, 12, 13, 14, 16, March 1966 .<br />
-9Times-Picayune, 15 May 1966 ; Times-Picayune, 23 July 1966 .<br />
423
were hurt. Without warning, Coplin fired the fatal shots at Trigg. When Royan Bums<br />
went to the scene ofthe murder to provide police with in<strong>for</strong>mation on the assailants, he<br />
was arrested <strong>for</strong> interfering with police ao<br />
The <strong>Deacons</strong> followed CORE as it veered toward black power in 1966 . James<br />
Farmer had stepped down as CORE's director and was replaced by the young militant<br />
Floyd McKissick. In the summer of 1966, CORE's Associate Director, Lincoln Lynch,<br />
another black power advocate, toured Louisiana <strong>for</strong> two weeks speaking at several<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> strongholds, including St. Francisville, Ferriday, Tallulah, Minden, and New<br />
Orleans . His trip culminated in CORE <strong>for</strong>ming a new organization, the "Louisiana Youth<br />
<strong>for</strong> Black Power," led by David Whately of Ferriday ."<br />
In September 1966, the BCVL escalated its own black power rhetoric, stirring a<br />
storm ofcontroversy . During an interview on WDSU television in New Orleans on<br />
September 16, Bob Hicks bemoaned the slow pace of change and intimated that violence<br />
was necessary. "The federal government won't do anything, the state government won't<br />
do anything, so somebody has to die," said Hicks . "It won't do aay good <strong>for</strong> a Negro to<br />
die, so somebody else has got to die." A . Z. Young took the same tact at a subsequent<br />
rally . "Ifyou own a gun buy plenty of ammunition <strong>for</strong> it and get ready to use it," Young<br />
said, "because we might have to bum this baby down ." Hicks' and Young's threats<br />
s oTimes-Picayune, 15 May 1966 ; Times-Picayune, 22 July 1966 ; Times-Picayune,<br />
2 August 1966, Times-Picayune, 31 July 1966 .<br />
3 'Louisiana Weekly, 6, 27, August 1966 . The black power group had<br />
representatives from fourteen parishes. Other officers included Vice-President Steven<br />
Ward, Bogalusa, Secretary Bertha Reed, Lake Providence, Assistant Secretary Lillie Mae<br />
Thompson, Bogalusa, and Treasurer Willie Jackson, Lake Providence.<br />
-t24
provoked a near-hysterical response by Bogalusa whites . Gayle Jerkins did her best to<br />
defuse the situation. "You know A. Z . as well as I do," Jerkins told reporters . "He makes<br />
all those kinds of statements ." 3=<br />
But Robert Rester, Bogalusa City Attorney--and Klan member--was not willing to<br />
<strong>for</strong>give Young's hyperbole. Rester announced that he would ask the 22nd District Court<br />
to convene a Washington Parish Grand Jury to investigate the <strong>Deacons</strong> and<br />
"inflammatory" statements by BCVL . The investigation would determine ifthe BCVL<br />
"advocates violence" and if the <strong>Deacons</strong> "have violated state statutes on purchase, sale,<br />
or possession of firearms ."<br />
3 '<br />
Rester's threats never bore fruit but they represented the white political<br />
establishment's new strategy of using the courts to neutralize the League and the<br />
<strong>Deacons</strong> . In addition to Rester's threats, City officials sued several League and Deacon<br />
members in the fall of 1966 .3<br />
The last armed confrontation between the <strong>Deacons</strong> and the Klan occurred the<br />
same day as Hicks' television appearance, on September 12, 1966 . A rumor had spread<br />
that James Meredith had been invited to speak at the newly integrated Bogalusa Junior<br />
High . Black and white students had been involved in a series of fights in recent days,<br />
adding to the tension . A group offifty white men and twelve women, many ofthem Klan<br />
1966 .<br />
''-Bogalusa Daily News, 16 September 1966 ; Times-Picayune, 16 September<br />
'3Bogalusa Daily News, 16 September 1966 . In July of 1967 City Attorney Rester<br />
and nine other men were charged with littering <strong>for</strong> throwing Klan leaflets on lawns . See,<br />
Bogalusa Daily News, 28 July 1967 .<br />
3Times-Picayz~ne, 22 December 1966 .<br />
~2~
members, assembled outside the school a few hours be<strong>for</strong>e classes began . They were led<br />
by Paul Farmer, the Citizen's Council leader and brother of Klan leader Saxon Farmer .<br />
Hicks, Young, about twenty members ofthe BCVL and the <strong>Deacons</strong> arrived at the<br />
school . Guns were drawn but police eventually persuaded the Klan and the <strong>Deacons</strong> to<br />
leave . It was the last time that the Klan used <strong>for</strong>ce is an effoR to intimidate the Black<br />
community is Bogalusa.' S<br />
The BCVL's protests revived in July 1967, <strong>for</strong> the fast demonstration in nearly a<br />
year. "The people of Bogalusa are probably wondering why we are starting our<br />
demonstrations again," Young told a rally audience, " Well it's to let them know that we<br />
have the same problems with which we began this program . We have accomplished a<br />
few things but have not gotten into the mainstream of life here in Bogalusa ."<br />
There are no Negroes except at the broom and mop level at United Gas, Louisiana<br />
Power and Light, Southern Bell, and here at city hall . Tura in your phones, turn<br />
your Lights off and stop paying your water bill ; let them know how important<br />
Negro money is and they begin to hire Negroes . 3s<br />
Fifty-six persons were arrested at the march on July 4 <strong>for</strong> marching without a<br />
parade permit . Charlie Sims, who was also arrested later, promised that if any protestor<br />
was injured injail, he would "have so many <strong>Deacons</strong> in here it'll be like a flood. They'll<br />
have to call out the national guard and blood will flow in the streets ."<br />
3 '<br />
;SThe account ofthis incident is taken from Burris, <strong>Hill</strong> interview; Bogalusa Daily<br />
News, 16 September 1966 ; Times-Picayune, 21 September 1966 ; and Sobel, Civil Rights,<br />
p . 407 .<br />
'slimes-Picayune, 3 July 196?.<br />
;'Times-Picayune 5, July 1967.<br />
426
The League organized a second march, this time to the Parish seat in Franklinton .<br />
The march highlighted a wide range of issues, including the release ofthe two white men<br />
who killed Clarence Trigg and the "inferior status under law" that blacks continued to<br />
endure . The BCVL was determined to prove that blacks could "travel the highways of<br />
Louisiana" without fear.'<br />
The twenty-one-mile march began Sunday, July 23 with twenty-one adults and<br />
eighty-seven juveniles . The group arrived at the Washington Parish Courthouse in<br />
Franklinton on the 24th, where they were exhorted to revolution by CORE's Lincoln<br />
Lynch. "There's a new movement afoot," Lynch told the rally audience, "Its not civil<br />
rights any longer--it's the movement of revolution<br />
."' 9<br />
Some call it black power, others may call it the black revolution, but it's all the<br />
same . Ifthose rednecks in Bogalusa wont hire you, don't picket at their stores<br />
anymore, run them out of your neighborhood. The days ofblack people clapping<br />
their hands and singing are over and many ofyou are going to be asked to kill <strong>for</strong><br />
freedom - and you'd better be ready to kill'°<br />
A. Z . Young echoed Lynch's revolutionary theme . Referring to the release of<br />
Clarence Trigg's killers, Young told the rally, "There's a penalty <strong>for</strong> killing birds out of<br />
season, but there is never any penalty <strong>for</strong> killing a Negro---there has never been a white<br />
man convicted <strong>for</strong> killing a Negro in the history of Washington Parish ." Young added<br />
that he was going to see Governor McKeithea about the situation and ifhe didn't get any<br />
38Times-Picayune, 23, 24, July 1967 .<br />
se Times-Picayune, 25 July 1967 .<br />
'°Ibid.<br />
-~37
esults, "Get Ready, LBd, to open those pearly gates . They talk about Watts and the<br />
burning--everything will bum in the state ofLouisiana," shouted Young to an ecstatic<br />
crowd. "Burn, burn, burn ."<br />
Building on the momentum ofthe Franklinton march, the League announced an<br />
even more ambitious protest trek from Bogalusa to the state capitol in Baton Rouge . The<br />
march would culminate in a rally in Baton Rouge featuring black power firebrands H.<br />
Rap Brown and Lincoln Lynch . The 105-mile march route would take the League<br />
through Klan strongholds in Tangipahoa and Livingston Parishes. °=<br />
The march began on August 10 with a meager <strong>for</strong>ty-four participants . Though it<br />
had little support, the Baton Rouge march became one ofthe most highly publicized<br />
marches in Louisiana history. A small contingent of <strong>Deacons</strong>, including Hicks' body<br />
guard, Burte Wyre, walked with the marchers. But the <strong>Deacons</strong> were little help on the<br />
isolated highway far from Bogalusa .<br />
During a rally in Hammond a group of blacks attempted to be served at the<br />
Riverside Inn . They were refused service and one black was beaten . The group soon<br />
returned with a more dramatic strategy <strong>for</strong> integrating the Inn. Shouting, "we want beer,"<br />
the young black mea fired a shotgun into a group of whites near the Inn entrance,<br />
wounding four whites . A . Z . Young later denied official reports that the blacks involved<br />
in the shooting were part ofthe march:"<br />
°'Ibid.<br />
=Times-Picayune, 11 August 1967 .<br />
°'Times-Picayune, 15 August 1967 .<br />
4?8
The last leg of the march tested the mettle of even the bravest marchers .<br />
Livingston Parish stood between the marchers and Baton Rouge, with only a small<br />
contingent of state troopers standing guard . A Klan stronghold with virtually no black<br />
population, the Parish had a deserved reputation as dangerous to blacks . The militant<br />
tone ofthe march had attracted statewide attention . Governor McKeithen blustered with<br />
threats to arrest anyone at the Baton Rouge rally who made "inflammatory statements ."<br />
In Tangipahoa a group of whites broke through state troopers and attacked the marchers .<br />
The next day McKeithen dispatched 150 state police to guard the march which had<br />
dwindled down to only six participants*`<br />
A second attack in Satsuma <strong>for</strong>ced state police to wade into a mob of seventy-five<br />
whites, slugging away at them with carbine butts and Billy clubs . Several whites were left<br />
bloodied and eight were arrested <strong>for</strong> disturbing the peace or simple battery . The<br />
following day McKeithen called out 650 national guardsmen to protect the march in<br />
Livingstoa Parish and announced that he would go on statewide television to urge calm .<br />
Young halted the march in Walker on Wednesday night to allow the marchers to rest .<br />
The marchers' fate now lay with McKeithen . Young abandoned his militant rhetoric,<br />
now sounding more like Martin Luther King than Malcom X . "We're not going to<br />
protect ourselves ; we're just going to march," Young told reporters . "We'll be watched<br />
over by the same one who has been protecting us all these years--God Almighty :'~ 5<br />
'Times-Picayune, 1 6, 17, August 1967 .<br />
'STimes-Picayune, 18 August 1967 .<br />
=F29
By Friday, August 18, the march had taken oa a surreal quality . With additional<br />
protection, the marchers grew in number from six to ninety <strong>for</strong> the last few miles of the<br />
march . They were accompanied by a <strong>for</strong>midable army ofnearly 1,000 troops : 825<br />
Louisiana National Guardsman and 170 state police . National guard helicopters roared<br />
above the highway as a magnetic sweeper cleared the highway of roofing nails scattered<br />
by the Klan . Wilting is the 97-degree August heat, guardsmen lined the highway with<br />
rifles with fixed bayonets . State police stood by nervously fingering submachine guns<br />
with live ammunition . Law en<strong>for</strong>cement officials discovered sections of wire under the<br />
twin spans crossing the Amite river on highway 190, in what appeared to be an aborted<br />
plan to blow up marchers . "Ifthey hadn't had the Louisiana National Guard, it would<br />
have been a slaughter camp," Young said later .<br />
The marchers arrived in Baton Rouge on Saturday . McKeithen had fifteen-<br />
hundred national guardsmen standing by <strong>for</strong> the rally with "shoot-to-kill" order ifa riot<br />
erupted. McKeithen told state police officials that if any speaker made "treasoness or<br />
seditious statements" they were to "arrest them on the spot ." Several hundred blacks<br />
attended the rally which turned out to be relatively peaceful . At one point about 150<br />
blacks splintered off from the main rally and threatened to sit-in on the Sate Capitol steps .<br />
In a strange role reversal, it was Charlie Sins who intervened and persuaded them to<br />
abandon their plan and rejoin the rally . Later that night spontaneous violence did break<br />
'Times-Picayune, l9 August 1967 .<br />
.~~o
out in Baton Rouge's black neighborhoods, as gangs ofyouths roamed the streets<br />
breaking windows and hurling fire bombs . ;'<br />
The Baton Rouge march marked the last public action <strong>for</strong> the Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> .<br />
The chapter ceased to meet in 1968 . Bogalusa continued to be plagued by white<br />
resistance to school integration, but there was little violence . BCVL and Deacon<br />
members, including Hicks and Young, ran unsuccessfully <strong>for</strong> public office . In the 1970s<br />
blacks finally won office and the BCVL evolved into a traditional political club,<br />
endorsing candidates and striking deals with political power brokers . Of all the BCVL<br />
and <strong>Deacons</strong>' leaders, A . Z . Young was the only one to continue to lead a public life .<br />
Young campaigned vigorously <strong>for</strong> Edwin <strong>Edward</strong>s in his successful 1972 gubernatorial<br />
bid, and <strong>Edward</strong>s later rewarded Young by appointing him to an office in his<br />
administration . Young continued to play a prominent role in Democratic party politics<br />
until his death in 1993 .<br />
Charles Sims, the old lion, retired to a quiet life of odd jobs and bar tending . He<br />
grew bitter with the years, disappointed that young people had failed the struggle--that<br />
they had "let it fall back in the same shape ." He was also convinced that unscrupulous<br />
journalists had exploited his story without financially compensating him . Plagued by<br />
health problems in his final years, Sims died quietly in 1989 in Bogalusa . a8<br />
To this day, many of the Bogalusa <strong>Deacons</strong> insist that the organization never<br />
disbanded . It is still alive, they say, only awaiting the call to arms . Charlie Sims was<br />
'Times-Picayune, 21 August 1967 .<br />
' xLisa Frazier, "Thank you, Mr. Young," Times-Picayune, 6 December 1993 .<br />
-131
once asked how long the <strong>Deacons</strong> would be needed in the civil rights movement . "In<br />
1965 there will be a great change made," Sims said, alluding to the newly enacted Voting<br />
Rights Act . `'But after this change is made, the biggest fight is to keep it,'' continued<br />
Sims . "My son, his son might have to fight this fight aad that's one reason why we won't<br />
disband the <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> a long time . How long, Heaven only knows . But it will be a<br />
long time ."' 9<br />
}9Sims, Price interview .<br />
-~32
Papers and Archival Collections :<br />
WORKS CITED<br />
Congress of Racial Equality (CORE} Papers . Microfilm at Amistad Research Center,<br />
Tulane University, New Orleans .<br />
Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) Papers, Bogalusa Voters League files, State<br />
Historical Society of Wisconsin, Madison.<br />
Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) Papers, Homer files, State Historical Society of<br />
Wisconsin, Madison.<br />
Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) Papers, Ferriday <strong>Freedom</strong> Movement files, State<br />
Historical Society ofWisconsin, Madison .<br />
Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) Papers, Jackson Parish files, State Historical<br />
Society of Wisconsin, Madison .<br />
Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) Papers, Monroe Project files, State Historical<br />
Society of Wisconsin, Madison .<br />
Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) Papers, Meldon Acheson Papers, State Historical<br />
Society of Wisconsin, Madison .<br />
Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) Papers, Southern Regional Office files, State<br />
Historical Society of Wisconsin, Madison .<br />
Labadie Collection, University of Michigan Library, Ann Arbor, Michigan .<br />
Miriam Feingold Papers, State Historical Society of Wisconsin, Madison .<br />
Gwendolyn Midlo Hall Papers, Amistad Research Center, Tulane University, New<br />
Orleans.<br />
Lawyers Constitutional Defense Committee files . Microfilm at Amistad Research Center,<br />
Tulane University, New Orleans .<br />
43 3
E1 Ahmed Saud Ibriahim Kahafei Abboud Najah Papers, State Historical Society of<br />
Wisconsin, Madison .<br />
National Association <strong>for</strong> the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), Papers of the<br />
NAACP Field Director <strong>for</strong> Louisiana, Amistad Research Center, Tulane<br />
University, New Orleans .<br />
Political Ephemera Collection, Special Collections, Tulane University Library, Tulane<br />
University, New Orleans, Louisiana .<br />
Kim Lacy Rogers-Glenda Stephens Oral History Collection, Amistad Research Center,<br />
Tulane University, New Orleans .<br />
Southern Civil Rights Litigation Records, Microfilm Edition, Yale University<br />
Interviews :<br />
Austin, Henry . Interview by Gwendolyn Midlo Hall, 8 October 1978, New Orleans,<br />
Louisiana, tape recording . Gwendolyn Midlo Hall Papers, Amistad Research<br />
Center, New Orleans, Louisiana .<br />
Austin, Henry . Interview by author, 26 September 1994, New Orleans, Louisiana . Tape<br />
recording;<br />
Brad<strong>for</strong>d, Johnuue (Mrs . Percy Lee Brad<strong>for</strong>d) . Interview by author, 30 August 1994,<br />
Jonesboro, Lo~usiana .<br />
Brooks, Frederick. Interview by author, 10 August 1993, East Orange, New Jersey.<br />
Bryant, Patrick . Interview by author, 30 June 1993, New Orleans, Louisiana .<br />
Burkes, Herman. Interview by author, 11 September 1994, Centerville, Mississippi . Tape<br />
recording .<br />
Bums, Royan . Interview by author, 7 March 1989, Bogalusa, Louisiana . Tape recording .<br />
Collins, Virginia . Interview by author, 15 March, 1993, New Orleans, Louisiana .<br />
Cox, Louisa. Interview by author, 6 August, 1994, Charleston, South Carolina.<br />
Delee, Victoria. Interview by author, 6 August 1994, Reidsville, South Carolina.<br />
Dodd, George . Interview by author, 14 November 1993, Homer, Louisiana. Tape<br />
recording.
Fen:on, Charles . Interview by author, I9 February 1965, Memphis, Tennessee . Tape<br />
recording .<br />
Ferguson, William . Interview by author, 12 November 1993, Percy Creek Community,<br />
Mississippi . Tape recording .<br />
Frazier, Lee . Interview by author, 5 August 1994, Jacksonboro, South Carolina .<br />
Harper, James . Interview by author, 11 November, 1993, Minden, Louisiana . Tape<br />
recording.<br />
Harris, John . Interview by author, 23 January 1994, Chicago, Illinois . Tape recording .<br />
Hicks, Robert . Interview by author, 25 February 1989, Bogalusa, Louisiana . Tape<br />
recording.<br />
Hicks, Robert. Interview by Miriam Feingold, ca. July 1966, Bogalusa, Louisiana, tape<br />
recording. Miriam Feingold Papers, SHSW .<br />
Jacobs, Elmo. Interview by Miriam Feingold, ca. July 1966, Jonesboro, Louisiana, tape<br />
recording . Miriam Feingold Papers, SHSW .<br />
Johnson, Annie Pumell . Interview by Miriam Feingold, ca. July 1966, Jonesboro,<br />
Louisiana, tape recording . Miriam Feingold Papers, SHSW .<br />
Johnson, Annie Purnell . Interview by author, 15 November 1993, Jonesboro, Louisiana.<br />
Tape recording.<br />
Johnson, Harvey . Interview by author, 14 November 1993, Jonesboro, Louisiana . Tape<br />
recording .<br />
Kirkpatrick, Frederick Douglas . Interview by Gwendolyn Midlo Hall, 31 October 1977,<br />
New York City, New York, notes . Gwendolyn Midlo Hall Papers, Amistad<br />
Research Center, Tulane University, New Orleans .<br />
Landry, Lawrence . Interview by author, 14 Juae 1993, Washington, D.C .<br />
Lewis, Frederick Douglas . Interview by Miriam Feingold, ca. July 1966, Homer,<br />
Louisiana, tape recording. Miriam Feingold Papers, SHSW .<br />
Malray, Harvey . Interview by author, 14 November, 1993, Homer, Louisiana. Tape<br />
recording.<br />
Miller, Steven . Interview by author, 28 August 1994, Oakland, Cali<strong>for</strong>nia . Tape<br />
recording .<br />
435
Mitchell, Catherine Patterson . Interview by author, 6 June 1993, Asheville, North<br />
Carolina . Tape recording .<br />
Moore, Ronnie M . Interview by author, 26 February 1993, New Orleans, Louisiana : Tape<br />
recording .<br />
Montgomery, Lucille, Interview by author, 29 May 1993, Chicago, Illinois . Tape<br />
recording .<br />
Noflin, Reverend George. Interview by author, 4 September, 1993, St . Francisville,<br />
Louisiana .<br />
Pittman, William J. Interview by author, 15 September 1993, New York, New York .<br />
Riley, Reverend James D . Interview by author, 5 August 1994, Jacksonboro, South<br />
Carolina.<br />
Rogers, Nahaz . Interview by author, 13 June 1993, Chicago, Illinois . Tape recording .<br />
Sims, Charles R . Interview by William A . Price, 20 August 1965, Bogalusa, Louisiana,<br />
transcript . Author's possession.<br />
Stokes, James . Interview by author, 12 November 1993, Natchez, Mississippi . Tape<br />
recording<br />
Taylor, Alcie . Interview by author, 8 March 1989, Bogalusa, Louisiana . Tape recording .<br />
Thomas, Earnest . Interview by author, 6, 20 February 1993, San Mateo, Cali<strong>for</strong>nia . Tape<br />
recording and transcript.<br />
Walker, George . Interview by author, 19 April 1994, Warren County, Mississippi . Tape<br />
recording .<br />
Whatley, David Lee . Interview by author, 5 May 1993, Baton Rouge, Louisiana . Tape<br />
recording .<br />
White, Charles . Interview by author, 11 November, 1993, Jonesboro, Louisiana . Tape<br />
recording .<br />
Williams, Robert F . Interview by author, 11 November 1995, Baldwin, Michigan. Tape<br />
recording .<br />
Wood, Aubry . Interview by author, 21 February, 1989, New Orleans, Louisiana . Tape<br />
recording .<br />
436
Woods, Moses, Sr. Interview by author, 8 June 1992, Natchez, Mississippi .<br />
Young, James . Interview by author, 19 April, 1994, Natchez, Mississippi . Tape recording .<br />
Books<br />
Ahmad, Akbar Muhammad . History ofRAM- Revolutionary Action Movement, n.p ., n .d,<br />
in author's possession .<br />
Dittmer, John. Local People : The Struggle ofCivil Rights in Mississippi. Urbana :<br />
University ofIllinois Press, 1994 .<br />
Evers, Charles . Evers . New York : The World Publishing Company, 1971 .<br />
Evers, Mrs . Medgar and William Peters . For Us, The Living. New York : Ace Books,<br />
1970 .<br />
Fahey, David M. The Black Lodge in White America: "True Re<strong>for</strong>mer" Browne and His<br />
Economic Strategy. Dayton : Wright State University, 1994 .<br />
Fairclough, Adam. Race and Democracy : The Civil Rights Struggle in Louisiana, 191~-<br />
19~2. Athens, Georgia : The University of Georgia Press, 1995 .<br />
Farmer, James . Lay Bare the Heart: An Autobiography ofthe Civil Rights Movement.<br />
New York : Arbor House, 1985 .<br />
Foreman, James . The Making ofBlack Revolutionaries . Washington, D.C . : Open Hand<br />
Publishing Inc ., 1985 .<br />
Fredrickson, George M . Black Liberation : A Comparative History ofBlack Ideologies in<br />
the United States and South Africa . New York : Ox<strong>for</strong>d University Press, 1995 .<br />
Garrow, David J . Bearing the Cross : Martin Luther King, Jr. and the Southern Christian<br />
Leadership Conference . New York : William Morrow and Co., 1986<br />
Kelly, Robin G . Hammer and Hoe : Alabama Communists During the Great Depression.<br />
Chapel <strong>Hill</strong>: University ofNorth Carolina Press, 1990 .<br />
Lentz, Richard . Symbols, the News Magazines, and Martin Luther King. Baton Rouge :<br />
Louisiana State University Press, 1990 .<br />
May, Henry Farnham. Protestant Churches and Industrial America . New York: Harper<br />
and Brothers Publishers, 1949 .<br />
-137
Myrdal, Gunnar . An American Dilemma : The Negro Problem and Modern Democracy.<br />
New York : Harper and Brothers, 1944 .<br />
Meier, August and Elliott Rudwick. CORE: A Study in the Civil Rights Movement 19,12-<br />
1968 . New York : Ox<strong>for</strong>d University Press, 1973 .<br />
Miller, Keith D . voice ofDeliverance : The Language ofMartin Luther King, Jr. and its<br />
Sources . New York : The Free Press, 1992 .<br />
Nelson, Jack . Terror in the Night. New York : Simon and Schuster, 1993 .<br />
Northrop, Herbert R . The Negro In the Paper Industry: The Racial Politics ofAmerican<br />
Industry. Report no . 8, Industrial Research Unit, Department of Industry, Wharton<br />
School of Finance and Commerce, University of Pennsylvania. Philadelphia :<br />
University of Pennsylvania Press, 1969 .<br />
Oates, Stephen . Let the Trumpet Sound.' The Life ofMartin Luther King, Jr . New York :<br />
Harper and Row, 1982 .<br />
Payne, Charles M. I've Got the Light of<strong>Freedom</strong> : The Organising Tradition and the<br />
Mississippi <strong>Freedom</strong> Struggle. Berkeley : University of Cali<strong>for</strong>nia Press, 1995 .<br />
Pearson, Hugh . The Shadow ofthe Panther: Huey Newton and the Price ofBlack Potiver<br />
in America . Reading, Massachusetts : Addison-Wesley Publishing Company,<br />
1994 .<br />
Raines, Howell . My Soul is Rested.- Movement Days in the Deep South Remembered.<br />
New York : G. P . Putnam's Sons, 1977 .<br />
Sellers, Cleveland . The River ofNo Return : The Autobiography ofa Black Militant and<br />
the Life and Death ofSNCC. New York : William Morrow and Co.,1973 .<br />
Shugg, Roger W . Origins ofClass Struggle in Louisiana: A social History ofWhite<br />
Farmers and Laborers during Slavery andAfter, 1840-1875 . Baton Rouge :<br />
Louisiana State University Press, 1939 .<br />
Sobel, Lester . ed . Civil Rights 1960-66. New York: Facts on File, 1976 .<br />
Sorel, Georges . Reflections on Violence. Translated by T . E . Hulme and Jay Roth. New<br />
York : Free Press, 1950 .<br />
Wharton, Vemon Lane. The Negro in Mississippi 1865-1890. The James Sprunt Studies<br />
in History and Political Science, vol . 28 . Chapel <strong>Hill</strong> : The University ofNorth<br />
Carolina Press, 1947 .<br />
=13 3
Williams, Robert F . Negroes With Guns . Edited by Marc Schleifer. New York : Marzani<br />
and Munsell, Inc ., 1962 .<br />
U.S . Commission on Civil Rights. Justice in Jackson, Mississippi: Hearing Held in<br />
Jackson, Miss. February 16-20, 1965, vols. 1 and II. New York : Arno Press and<br />
The New York Times, 1971 .<br />
Zieger, Robert H. Rebuilding the Pulp and Paper Makers Union, 1933-1941 . Knoxville :<br />
University of Tennessee Press, 1984 .<br />
Articles :<br />
Quick, Amy, "The History of Bogalusa, the `Magic City' of Louisiana," Louisiana<br />
Historical Quarterly, Vol . 29, No . 1 (January 1946) pp . 74-178 .<br />
Dissertations and Masters Thesis :<br />
<strong>Hill</strong>, Rickey. "The Character of Black Politics in a Small Southern Town Dominated by a<br />
Multinational Corporation : Bogalusa, Louisiana, 1965-1975 ." Masters thesis,<br />
Atlanta University, 1977 .<br />
Joyce, Thomas. "The `Double V' was <strong>for</strong> Victory : Black Soldiers, The Black Protest, and<br />
World War II ." Ph. D . diss ., The Ohio State University, 1993 .<br />
Government and Judicial Documents :<br />
"Activities ofKu Klux Klan Organizations in the United States," Hearing be<strong>for</strong>e the<br />
Committee on Un-American Activities, House of Representatives, Ninetieth<br />
Congress, First Session, October 19, 20, 21, 22 and 25, 1965 . Washington : U .S .<br />
Government Printing Office, 1966 .<br />
"The Per<strong>for</strong>mance ofthe FBI in Investigating Violations of Federal Laws Protecting the<br />
Right to Vote--1960-1967," John Doar and Dorothy Landsberg, in Hearings<br />
be<strong>for</strong>e the Select Committee to Study Governmental Operations with respect to<br />
Intelligence Activities, Ututed States Senate, Ninety-fourth Congress, first session,<br />
volume 6 . Washington : U.S . Government Printing Office, 1976 .<br />
The Present-Day Ku Klux Klan Movement . Report by the Committee on Un-American<br />
Activities, House ofRepresentatives,l\Tinetieth Congress, First Session, 11<br />
December 1967 . Washington : U.S . Government Printing Office, 1967 .<br />
United States of America, by Nicholas deB . Katzenbach, Attorney General ofthe United<br />
States vs . Original Knights ofthe Ku Klux Klan, an incorporated Association ; et .<br />
=13 9
al ., 1965, U.S . District Court, Eastern District of Louisiana . Civil Action 15793,<br />
case records, Federal Records Center, Fort Worth. Texas .<br />
Federal Bureau of Investigation Files :<br />
17-117 Bogalusa Civic and Voters League files .<br />
166-32<br />
44-0-5411<br />
157-9-33 Counterintelligence Program, Internal Security, Disruption of Hate Groups<br />
files .<br />
100-225-892 Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) files .<br />
157-2466 <strong>Deacons</strong> <strong>for</strong> Defense and Justice files .<br />
100-442684 Revolutionary Action Movement (RA1Vi) files .<br />
-~-~o
Biography<br />
<strong>Lance</strong> E. <strong>Hill</strong> was born December 31, 1950 in Belleville, Kansas . He received a<br />
Bachelor of Arts degree in Political Science from the University ofthe State ofNew York<br />
in 1986 and entered the doctoral program in History at Tulane University in the Fall of<br />
1987 .