Letter to the editor

A local reflects on MLK memories.

Home » Opinion
Posted January 20, 2025 | By Brooke Hamlin

In 1965, eight college women ranging in age from 18 to 20 arrived at the Chicago train station to join a group of “freedom riders” about to mount a train bound for Montgomery, Alabama. We were joining other groups, all from local colleges, who felt strongly about equal rights. We eight were committed to women’s rights as well as Black rights.

We were to join up with two seminary students who were designated as our “protectors.” They were very sweet, but we ladies immediately realized we were the strong ones.

The train left the station in the afternoon before the beginning of Martin Luther King Jr.’s march from Selma to Montgomery.  We were off on an adventure with a limited idea of what we were heading into.

We settled in and began meeting our traveling companions. The nervous energy became more relaxed as we moved further into the South. When we pulled into Memphis, most of us were napping. We sat in the station longer than expected and then a conductor came through to explain they needed to change the engineer and crew but were having trouble finding anyone who was willing to take this train any further. It dawned on us that it would be a southern crew, and they wouldn’t want to be part of taking “us” to a march against “them.”

We were now in limbo. It was an hour or two later that they were able to assemble a crew to continue the trip. I don’t know but wonder if it wasn’t the same crew who started in Chicago.

It was pre-dawn when we arrived in Montgomery. As we disembarked, we were met by groups of typically young Black men who spirited us out the back doors, where a line of cars were waiting. They helped us in and asked us to sit on the back seat floor as we drove out of town toward Selma and the march. We drove past police and militia to and through the “Black” neighborhoods to the highway. We couldn’t see much until we got on the road.

Finally, we sensed a change, then saw the sea of marchers. All colors, all ages, all types, marching across the highway. It trailed on for what seemed miles. Because of our delays, we didn’t have to go all the way to Selma. We were able to stop, gather our group and join the line. Marchers were singing “We Shall Over Come” and other meaningful songs.

We talked among ourselves as well. We became acquainted with our “neighbors.” I was next to a Black teen boy who seemed to be alone and frightened. As we walked along, I focused on the state police, police and militia along the way, with guns drawn and pointed at the crowds of marchers. This just got real. I also realized we were holding hands across each line of 8 to10 people. Gripping was more like it.

The young boy next to me was even more terrified, so we surrounded him and by the time we reached the edge of Montgomery he was calmer. He told me he was from a town nearby and just hoped he’d be okay after the march. I absorbed what he meant, and it all became even more real to me.

As the march moved on, we realized the sheer numbers of us. The crowd was huge, and we began to realize that these numbers were very intimidating to those who were threatening us.

When we reached the capital center where MLK was prepared to make his speech, our number swelled and filled every square inch in front of the capitol building.

Even with these numbers, the quiet during his speech (I have a dream) was palpable. It was like hearing one collective heartbeat.

At the end and as we were walking back to the train station, we still felt such a closeness. Once the train was underway, returning to Chicago, we knew we were changed and were filled with hope for the future of equal rights.

Though exhausted, we found it hard to sleep. We did arrive home safely and tried to relate our experiences to our peers. Suffice to say, life moved on.

Fast forward to April 4, 1968, and the assassination of MLK. By this time I was working and living in Chicago. That weekend I was heading home for a family event. I boarded the local commuter train after work. The first stop was on the west side of the city before heading into the suburbs. As we came to a stop, we could see the light of the fires that were burning everywhere.  The doors opened and we could smell smoke. It was eye opening, saddening and much more emotionally.

These experiences, though life changing, became a 60-year frustration for me. I am more hopeful now but am sure it will still take months and years to make meaningful change.

 

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