The Million Man March
BY JEROME SMALLS
Every one of us attending the Million Man March last month proved
something to ourselves that was more important than what we were proving
to the world and that was that we are our own man! Nobody owns us! And
nobody was going to tell us who to support, follow or listen to, in
reference to Minister Farrakhan.
We left Charleston around 8 a.m. Sunday, moving out in buses full of
courageous men. Being an old hippie from the '60s, after I asked the
Muslims if there would be special buses for those of us who smoke or
drink, or might eat something different from them. They said no, and that
since it was a day of atonement we should abstain. I sought a ride on the
Rastas' bus, or Greyhound, knowing I couldn't make it all the way to
Washington, D.C., without lighting up or taking a sip.
Along the way we watched videos Brother Calvin Malone brought along.
He's a very serious-minded community organizer, so he practically kept us
in a classroom mind-expanding environment with all this intellectual
stuff, almost spoiling the trip for those of us who just wanted to kick
back, enjoy the ride and have some fun along the way. Man, this new
generation doesn't know how to party on a bus! I miss those good old days
when we could eat, drink and be merry.
The first sign that the march would be huge and close to the million
mark was finding out there were no available hotel rooms in the D.C. area,
so we spent the night in Alexandria, Va.
We got there around 9:30 at night, and Calvin scheduled checkout at
4:30 a.m. so we didn't have much time to fool around (but I tried). In the
hotel lounge many of us settled in with a good drink and something to eat,
and we met and chatted with brothers from all over America. Everyone was
eager yet meditative. We were ready to prove America wrong about us.
A friend and co-worker, Willie Waring, was my roommate. Just as old as
I, but swearing he was up to hanging out with the young folks, stayed in
the lounge as I prepared to crash.
We got up at 3:30 a.m., when it was still dark outside, and heard
Calvin's military orders. Some who didn't have hangovers were covering
their ears, still sleepy, groggy and barely moving. I had to go back to
rush Willie along. He was the last to board the bus.
The chilly D.C. wind woke us up fully. And the brisk walk for a
quarter of a mile to the steps of the Capitol resembled an army on the
move, energizing from every direction into one great mass.
By 5:30 a.m. we were standing on the fence, four feet above the
crowds, with a magnificent view of the stage but we were being packed in
like sardines. Although I hated to give up this spot from where Willie and
I could hold up our protest banners to the hundreds of flashing cameras
and lights to show that South Carolina was well represented, I began
walking around with my posters to let the brothers there know South
Carolina was there. I saw several people from Charleston whom I'd known,
and met scores more from across the state. It had happened!
It happened even though the Christian community was asked not to be
involved with Muslims from the Nation of Islam. No one listened when we
said the march wasn't about Minister Farrakhan but about us doing for
ourselves
It happened, even though they tried to discourage the very females we
were to lift up on a deserving pedestal. It happened with love, even
though they tried to inject it with doses of hate. And what was most
enlightening to white folks was that it happened without even one person
getting cut, stabbed or shot.
One million black men assembled in the nation's capital and not one of
them was arrested for a crime. Even Uncle Tom feared his master would
shoot us all down like dogs because he feared the power of this gathering.
Now even Toms know there's a certain dignity in facing death instead of
remaining slaves.
It's ironic the way whites pretend not to understand the differences
between black separatists who don't want to continue living with people
who've treated them so brutally and the white supremacists who feel all
other races should be slaves or annihilated.
And some of these white critics were the first to blame black men for
not doing enough to help solve our people's problems. Yet now, seeing us
come together determined to deal with our problems, they still try to find
fault because Minister Farrakhan called us together rather than one of
their government-approved Negro leaders.
When Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., led the March on Washington, and
although he was a Christian minister, we had Muslims, Buddhists, Jews,
etc., but no one criticized that. People were urged to better themselves
and their communities. People were taught to love themselves and each
other as God wished. Who but our enemies could be disapproving?
So, long live the spirit of the Million Man March!
Jerome Smalls is director of People United to Live and Let Live, a
Charleston-based community activist organization.
