Moment in Memphis

Fowlkes Oliver

Description

This is the story of a Southern White boy growing up in segregated Mobile and his struggle to escape. In Part One the boy, a newly minted ACLU lawyer in Memphis, encounters racism while seeking to obtain justice for a Black youth beaten by police after Dr. Kings assassination in 1968. When threats against his family become oppressive, he flees to the North hoping to carry on his quest for justice. Part Two chronicles his attempts in Massachusetts to address issues of the disenfranchised, poor, people of color, gays, and the mentally challenged. In doing so, he confronts a North that when stripped of liberal patina is as steeped in racism as the South. This memoir is about that boys journey away from the society in which he grew up and his attempt to atone for guilt by leaving Memphis before his young Black client obtains justice.

Sujets

• Droit et juridique
• USA
• Memoir
• History of the Americas
• États-Unis

Informations

• Publié par: University of Georgia Press
• Date de parution: 30 août 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781588384737
• Langue: English

Extrait

NewSouth Books
105 S. Court Street
Montgomery, AL 36104
Copyright 2021 by Oliver Fowlkes.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Published in the United States by NewSouth Books.
Publisher s Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Fowlkes, Oliver, author.
Title: A moment in Memphis / by Oliver Fowlkes.
Description: Montgomery : NewSouth Books [2021]
Identifiers: ISBN 9781588384652 (paperback)
Subjects: Civil rights-Lawyer-Biography Autobiography. | Civil rights movement-History-20th century. | South-United States-History. | New England-United States-History. | Social activists-Biography Autobiography.
Design by Randall Williams
Printed in the United States of America

The Black Belt, defined by its dark, rich soil, stretches across central Alabama. It was the heart of the cotton belt. It was and is a place of great beauty, of extreme wealth and grinding poverty, of pain and joy. Here we take our stand, listening to the past, looking to the future.
To Alice Reese and Martelle Scott .
One Black, the other White. Both melding me into the person
I am. Each in her unique and loving way.
Contents
Author s Note
Prologue
Part One-Mobile to Memphis
1. Mobile
Child
Teenager
2. Memphis
European Awakening
Southern Reckoning
Part Two-Memphis to Massachusetts
3. North to the Same Problems
Forgotten People
4. Teaching Change, Fomenting Backlash
Boston, Divorce Mediation, De Facto Parents
Epilogue
Author s Note
W HILE THIS MEMOIR ATTEMPTS to give fair and accurate portrayals of all people written about, I ve used pseudonyms in some cases. This is true for most clients because of confidentiality constraints, while other clients are mentioned by name if their names are on public documents. I have used initials when that is how clients appeared in published court opinions. For family members, and servants whom I consider part of my family, I ve used actual names. That is also true of civil rights advocates, historical characters, and other notable people appearing in the memoir. Some lawyers involved in cases I had with, or against them, are also named. For the rest of characters I have used pseudonyms in respect for their privacy.

Prologue
Q UEASINESS GRIPPED ME AS my wife and I stepped off the plane in Mobile, Alabama, where I had grown up. The city did that to me, evoking memories best left alone. But my friend Martelle s words rang in my ears: How many times have you promised me you d return and then didn t? Oliver, you ve got to come home, see how it s changed.
Martelle had said over the phone, I m giving a party next month and y all better be here. It was March 1988 when Martelle told me she d no longer accept excuses. I was forty-eight years old; Martelle had been my friend for more than forty of those years. I knew not to cross her. But I was uncomfortable, didn t want to be there. Besides, I d told off some of my closest friends before leaving Mobile in 1962. I feared running into them again.
As we drove down Government Street, the canopy of live oaks telescoped me back in time, looking the same as when I was a kid riding my bicycle under their gnarled branches. It was twilight when the car stopped outside Martelle s home around the corner from where I had lived. An asparagus fern on the veranda fluttered in the light spring breeze. Leaves on the banana tree in her garden hung motionless. The white two-story frame house looked the same as when I was a child and would visit Martelle. Maybe I could conjure up an excuse to take me back to Boston, but I knew it wouldn t work. My wife Mary had anticipated the trip too long since she and Martelle began conspiring to get me there.
Oh, Oliver, Martelle exclaimed as we walked through her front door for the party in April 1988. Blue silk dress and gold earrings, she was ready to celebrate. You re finally here. Praise the Lord. Her salt-and-pepper hair was swept stylishly back, the twinkle in her eyes still bright as she hugged us. We were in the front hall, smells of the old house reassured me as did the old horsehair chair I could see in the living room. Worn Oriental rugs in the hallway calmed my nerves. Martelle had introduced me to classical music here when I was ten. She had the first hi-fi I had ever heard.
At twenty-two, I d been brash at another party in her house, castigating members of my family and friends for being racist. By then I d decided that my values were superior to theirs--I had become enlightened; they had not; I told them so. Some of those friends might show up that evening. I shook at the thought of running into those people, having to answer for excoriating them years earlier.
Strangers sipping wine and turning toward us looked friendly as we entered the living room. Women clad in flower print dresses and hose clutched handbags. Men in sedate suits and ties, one elderly gentleman in houndstooth jacket. Formal Victorian furniture, rose camelback sofa, upright secretary with glass front, books inside. Acadian scenes on the wall paper were still discernible. A square mahogany piano in the hallway looked the same as when, at ten, I d practiced a recital piece on it.
Then, my heart plummeted; Terry, a high school classmate, stood across the room. I remembered clearly what I d said to him years earlier. You re a bigot if you can t understand why black people demonstrating at Ole Miss are angry. It was 1962, the year James Meredith attempted to integrate the University of Mississippi. Police had beaten and killed African Americans in the crowd. Federal troops were ordered in to restore order. Back then I could sniff out prejudice even where it might not have existed. But with Terry I had been on firm ground.
My instinct to flee intensified when I saw his wife, Harriet. Once I had dated her and then lost her to Terry. I glanced toward the front door, blocked as more guests arrived, I searched for someone safe to talk with. Too late-Martelle had my elbow, steering Mary and me toward my high school buddy. Harriet s face had a bemused look as Martelle introduced us, Terry hesitated. I wondered what he was thinking. Then he rushed forward, throwing his arms around me, and I returned his embrace. Harriet greeted Mary warmly, I couldn t understand how Terry could be so forgiving after what I d said to him.
I know y all have lots of folks to see while you re in town, Oliver, but we d be very pleased if you could come over for a drink. His arm was still around my shoulder. How about tomorrow afternoon? A real invitation. Around five o clock OK? Mary and I nodded. As we turned away, I whispered to her what I d said to Terry twenty-six years earlier.
How could he act as if nothing had happened? she asked. Mary had grown up in California, never been to the South.
He s just being polite.
Why?
Because the rule is not to offend the other person, or make him feel uncomfortable, I said as we headed toward the bar. Always be courteous, it s easier if you forget an unpleasant experience. Before that trip, Mary and I had discussed the possibility that I d run into folks I d offended. Now it was happening. Yet Mary s look told me she wasn t convinced they d forgotten.
I want you to meet my neighbor who just moved here. Martelle said as she led us toward a tall black man standing in the corner. Growing up in Mobile, I d never seen a black person in a white home unless she or he was a cook, maid, handyman or waiter. Josh, this is my friend, Oliver, who I told you about, and his wife, Mary. He smiled, we shook hands, immediately feeling at ease. He didn t know my history.
Martelle tells me you ve recently come to live in Mobile, I said, sipping the drink Martelle had brought.
Oh yes, and I understand you once lived in this neighborhood too, he replied.
On Georgia Avenue, My family lived at 162, I replied.
Well, if you still lived there, we d be exchanging stories across the front walk. His chuckle was deep as his eyes lit up. See, I live at 163.
That s the Ford house, at least that s who lived there when I was a boy.
Yes, the Fords, they re who we bought the house from. Later Martelle told me Josh was a retired general in the U.S. Marine Corps.
We strode up to the bar where a heavy-set white man introduced himself. Hi, I m Bart. Glad to meet you. The bar had been set up in the sun room off the kitchen. Through the sliding glass doors I could see a few camellias still blooming in the back yard, lawn under them strewn with pink petals. Bart poured bourbon in a glass, took ice cubes from a bowl, dropping them in one by one. You re a lawyer, aren t you? he said. I nodded. Me too, hard business, not much justice in it these days, he answered.
Yes, it seems in short supply, I said, wary about where the conversation might lead.
Martelle says you did civil rights work in Memphis.
Yes, I handled some brutality cases against the police after Dr. King s murder.
Met him once a long time ago, Bart replied.
You met Dr. King?
Just got introduced to him, offered to help that lady in their protest against havin to sit at the back of the bus in Montgomery, 55. He shifted weight to his other foot. But, I didn t really know what the hell I was doin . See, I d just graduated from law school. Then the NAACP brought in experienced lawyers. Bart had a wistful look. I wondered if he regretted not having been part of the Montgomery bus boycott. I d never gotten to meet Dr. King. But as we talked, I realized that Bart and I had come at civil rights from different directions. He hadn t worked on the boycott, but had met Dr. King. I d worked on police brutality cases, but never got to meet him. That meeting was to occur on the day after he was killed.
Wasn t that a pretty brave thing to do, I asked, I mean for a white lawyer in Montgomery back then?
Bart shrugged. Don t know, see I come from a long line of renegade lawyers, they believed everyone s entitled to a fair shake.