I know that we have a long road ahead of us–the latest front being the Scalito nomination. But for a moment, I want to share with you something powerful. Something that can perhaps give us inspiration for the unwelcome, but unavoidable, journey ahead.
It’s the honor that Mrs. Rosa Parks brought to the Capitol.
Standing outside at night, for seven hours, in the cold, along with thousands of my best friends?
Mrs. Parks was worth it.
Paying a cab to take us home (out of the city) because the Capitol police told us that Metro wouldn’t stay open past 1:00 AM (when, in fact, it was open until 2 AM, a fact that we didn’t learn until much later in the day)?
Mrs. Parks was worth it.
As soon as I heard that Mrs. Parks would lie in honor at the Capitol, I knew I’d be there. No ifs, and, or buts about it.
The experience was amazing. It took a day just to process what I witnessed.
The first thing that struck me Sunday evening was this: I don’t think the Capitol planners were quite ready for this. Unlike the Reagan spectacle (there’s a difference between a state funeral and the stage-managed, revisionist “cry for our fallen god” show they put on), this was a more genuine display of honor. Thousands of people came to pay their respects–a spokesman for the Capitol police said that there were as many people assembled to pay their respects to Mrs. Parks as there were for Reagan–maybe more.
We arrived at the Capitol before 6:30, which according to the schedule of events, was the time that the processional was to arrive. Instead of being able to walk directly to the west front of the Capitol building from where we were (Independence Ave and 1st), we were instructed by a police officer to walk around the east front (and around the construction for the “visitors” center) and then back down toward the west front. (Click here to get a sense of that walk. No one ever walks around the Capitol–you walk through, using the tunnels–unless you have to.)
That was our first clue that they were a bit overwhelmed with the numbers. As we walked along, we noticed there weren’t many officers to guide us until we arrived on Constitution Ave–the Senate-side of the Capitol. There weren’t any officers to tell us where to go. We ultimately walked to about 2nd St. NW to get in line.
At about 7:20 p.m., the processional finally arrived. Led by the hum of the motorcycle police escort, the hearse carrying her drove slowly by, followed a vintage Metro bus draped in black bunting, 3 Metro buses filled with her family and closet friends (one who said “We love you DC” — well, we love you right back) and more police vehicles. Everyone clapped and waved at the family. It was a very powerful and moving moment.
After the procession, we continued to walk and wait. We walked around one side of the pool, crossed the street, walked around one of the fields (down by about 3rd St. NW), to cross the street again, zig-zagged our way back onto the Capitol grounds, snaked our way back up to another roller-coaster waiting area-like zig-zag, up the hill (where, at six and a half hours, there was a sign that read helpfully: “Line Starts Here”) and finally, into the south “visitors entrance” facility to go through security. We didn’t even get close to the port-a-potties until after 4 hours–another clue that we were much more in number than expected.
Oh, but the people kept coming. At the 9:00 p.m. hour. At the 10:00 hour. At the 11:00 hour. When we finally descended the steps of the west front at 12:55 a.m., people were still coming.
They never closed the Capitol. Originally, they planned to close the Capitol at midnight.
The crowd of people was just amazing. Yes, we were predominantly African-American, but not singularly so. That alone was a source of comfort, something that I’m sure made Mrs. Parks smile looking down from heaven. (Bet she’s unsurprised at who ISN’T there, but I digress.) What I’m sure would have made her even prouder was the number of young people in attendance–from tots to teens. The Seniors represented well, too, and they were noways tired; in fact, most of them outlasted the kids in the line. And there were plenty of 20, 30, 40, and 50-somethings there, too.
Some people brought flowers. Some people brought songs. There was a stirring and apropos rendition of the hymn, “We’ve Come This Far by Faith”–and even if you don’t practice religion or are of another faith, after being in line for hours, wondering if you’ll EVER be able to get in, you could really appreciate the song. Lots of us laughed before we quietly sang along.
Someone even, inexplicably, brought fresh collard greens. We saw them sticking up in one of the trash cans at about hour five. Well, I can only say this–don’t bring ’em unless you cook ’em. :<)
Seriously though–the entire evening both captured her essence–regal without pretension; a dignified spirit that still in death, commands respect–and reminded me of the road ahead.
You know damn well that the insincere Shrub didn’t want to be there…but he had to be. Of course, this will give him something to talk about during Black History Month.
Same thing goes for Cat Killer and Scalito:
It’s almost as if they want to make sure she’s really dead. Civil rights icon dead? Check. Actual civil, human and privacy rights dead? Not yet–but just leave that to me–Scalito.
This is what lies ahead: The segregationist spawn that is the Radical Right. Rev. Jesse Jackson brings perspective his latest op-ed:
She was not an innocent seamstress when she refused to give up that seat on the bus in Montgomery, Ala. She was a freedom fighter, an officer of the NAACP at a time when the organization was banned from most parts of the South.
Byron Williams, a pastor and columnist writing in the The Oakland Tribune was even more succinct (a must-read):
Her act of defiance was anything but simple. She put her life in jeopardy. Beyond the Jim Crow laws, Southern whites were not duty-bound to affirm the humanity of any Negro. The unsolved murders that remain from the 1950s and 60s in the deep South bear witness to this dark chapter of American history.
She may have been “quiet” but she was resolute. And she was–horror of horrors–an activist. I can’t tell you how the “meek little lady” thing just infuriates me. Freedom fighters aren’t required to be loud–just smart, committed, and courageous. That describes Mrs. Parks. And she faced times just as difficult and dangerous as the present.
Williams is also on point with how we as Democrats have failed her legacy:
Since her death, this former recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom has received perhaps every commemoration from this country except the one that matters most — replication of her actions. Imagine if the Democratic Party had followed Parks lead these past four-plus years. It would have spent more time asking tough questions, providing the country with a clear choice, rather than trying to appear like Bush Lite. They have focused more on demonstrating their patriotism than pontificating about it by matching slogans with the opposition party.
No doubt they would have spent more time before the 2004 election on strategy about the best direction for the country rather than on which candidate represented the best chance to win.
At least fighting for an end to this war of choice and women’s self-determination (to name just a couple of things) is not illegal…for now.
So for now, I will take the inspiration and lessons from her life and try to apply them in mine. I will be honest–I am not always that brave. I am reminded, however, that we face the mutant strains of the same sick system that Mrs. Parks fought. We are dangerously outnumbered, yet have at least a few tools at our disposal that she did not. And we remain indignant at those who seek to impose unjust laws and unjust wars in our names.
As impossible as it seems as our rights are assaulted, facts are twisted and as the lying, dictatorial actors are yet unpunished, times and circumstances have been worse. We are in a decades-long wingnut backlash of epic proportions. Such cold comfort, I know, but if you had been outside the Capitol to bid Mrs. Parks farewell, then at least, for a fleeting moment, the road ahead was not as daunting. For a fleeting moment, one could dream and see possibility.
This was my bittersweet but proud farewell to our freedom fighter, Mrs. Rosa Parks.
To be able to do so, in person–one half of the hope of two Alabamans?
She was, and forever will be, worth it.
Cross-posted at Liberal Street Fighter