Faith & Democracy #3: Jimmie and James
How Deacon Jimmie Lee Jackson's murder by Officer James Fowler triggered the Selma march and led to the 1965 Voting Rights Act.
On February 18, 1965, Marion, Alabama civil rights activist and deacon, Jimmie Lee Jackson, was murdered by an in-uniform member of the justice system. While participating in a peaceful voter registration march, Jimmie, who tried to shield his elderly mother from a blow with his own body, was severely beaten by a group of Alabama State Troopers, then Trooper James Fowler shot him, execution style.
Jimmie died eight days later in the hospital and it would take 45 years for Trooper Fowler to be convicted of the crime. A grand jury declined to indict him in 1965, and after the shooting, he was reinstated in his job, transferred to Birmingham, where I, as a newborn, lived with my family, and he, upon arrival, was even promoted. This guy, who proudly stated that he never got “so much as a letter of reprimand,” was given free rein to help “put Birmingham’s niggers back in their place”.
But as loose cannons do, he’d go off in all kinds of directions, including assaulting his supervisor on the force, which led to his dismissal. Back when Fowler was still on the force, my grandmother made it a habit of staying up until my uncle Robert got home. The house quiet, she’d settle into some solitary chore; patching jeans or hemming dresses or darning socks, and keep vigil; even if it took all night.
Robert was head chef at one of Birmingham’s only four-star restaurants, and as such, worked 2pm to midnight or later, before making the long walk home alone. But no matter when he got there, Mary was still up. She needed to see that he was safe with her own eyes.
This longstanding fear that so many Negro mothers felt was part of why Jimmie’s death was such a watershed moment. But there were other elements; the fact that it happened in broad daylight, that it happened because they were registering voters, because he was trying to shield his mom, and because it was not at the hands of the Klan, but law enforcement itself.
Any and all of these galvanized people. As a result, hundreds of marchers, especially mothers, descended on Selma in a confrontation with state troopers, including Fowler, which would lead to Bloody Sunday. Once again, the torch people like Fowler sought to extinguish had turned into the exact opposite of what they wanted — in this case, a voting rights inferno.
Though the 1964 Civil Rights Law had been passed the year prior, partly in sympathy over the loss of President Kennedy, segregationists were drawing their line in the sand at the Edmund Pettus Bridge. Negro equality would go no further. Thinking about what those marchers went through reminded me of that sidewalk incident with my grandfather I shared about in Pastor Olden. But that was only part of the story.
Because instead of pulling me off the sidewalk with him, I remember him gathering me to him, his head bowed, hat in one hand and the other cradling my head against his chest, almost as if to shield me from the bigotry. I’d never seen such behavior before because I’d never been with him in such a situation before.
Even today, I remember all kinds of things from that encounter; the deference forced upon him, the couple who ignored him, his callused hand protectively on my neck and the mud on his meticulously shined shoes. But above all, I remember that he made sure my feet stayed on that sidewalk. I, at the time, had no idea that a refusal to yield the sidewalk to his “betters” was illegal, and could get him charged with Bumptious Contact. But he did what he needed to so that I would never have to.
This is what segregation looks like. It’s a fulcrum that turns a toxic taxonomy — whether class, caste or, in our case, the ARC — American Race Construct — into a pyramid. It’s how we end up with an “us or them” society. The process bolsters the self-esteem of the in-group’s lower tiers, while constantly reminding them to be grateful that they’re not in the out-group, and that if they want to retain their status, they must, in all ways, faithfully adhere to the rules. Not doing so risks expulsion, or worse, being labeled a traitor.
And in segregated America, those rules were extensive. For instance, most of us are aware that coloreds were not allowed to eat at the same restaurants, sit at the front of the bus or use the same public facilities as social whites. But that’s only the start of it. A Negro male couldn’t initiate a handshake with an Anglo male, as it implied that the Negro male viewed them as equals.
Likewise, introductions between Euro Americans and African Americans were never to be reciprocal, but only addressed to the white-identifying person. For example, “Mr. (Anglo) Jones, this is (Negro) Joe, the ditch digger I told you about.” Never were (Anglo) Mr. Jones and (Negro) Joe introduced to each other. It boggles my mind that all this was in play with every encounter my grandparents had with a white-presenting person.
For their part, those same social whites were instructed not to use Mr., Mrs., Rev., Dr., etc., when speaking of or to coloreds, even senior citizens, and were expected to forego titles; instead, using only their first name. They were never to use phrases like “sir”, “ma’am” or any other sign of respect when addressing a colored person.
This, by the way, was one of the many conventions that Judge George Wallace, back before he’d traded his lifelong commitment to equality and an endorsement by the NAACP for the political support of a segregationist majority, made a habit of breaking. He routinely addressed colored lawyers as, say, Mr. Jones, rather than as Billy.
Mary Hamilton, in 1964’s Hamilton v. Alabama, would take her case all the way to the US Supreme Court, which would rule that African American women were entitled to the same courteous forms of address customarily reserved for white-identifying women. Negros, on the other hand, were required to address even Anglo children as Mr. “Bobby” or “Miss Suzie.” They were prohibited from riding in the front seat of a vehicle being driven by a Caucasian person, and white-identifying motorists always had the right-of-way at any intersection; regardless of who arrived first.
They were required to never insinuate that Anglos might, in any way, be less than truthful or have less than the most honorable of intentions, never infer that a colored person knew something they didn’t, never curse in their company or laugh derisively at them, and never, ever challenge their authority — even by presenting yourself to be beaten instead of your mom.
This litany of rules that one had to keep in mind in every encounter with a person who held elevated status did more than create stress; they served as constant reinforcement of the supremacy of one and the inferiority of the other. But what makes toxic taxonomies worth going “to the mattresses” for is the structure they provide. Without them, maintaining division between people who live in the same place, eat the same food, shop the same stores, serve in the same military, and who love the same country, quickly becomes impossible.
We get how it impacted big things like voting rights. But its real value was in the small things. That’s how bus seats and water fountains, sidewalks and lunch counters, became so important; they eliminated all avenues where people like Jimmie and James might have had a chance to interact as people, and perhaps, even as friends.
We get the tragic ending of Jimmie’s life, but miss how James paid in his own way. His actions would forever dog him, his loyalty to the ARC would leave him increasingly marooned and alone, and at 77, he’d end up both sick and serving time for murder. And that, for me, might be the saddest part of this story. Because it didn’t have to be this way.
Friendships like that of civil rights activist Ann Atwater and former Klan leader CP Ellis (whose story was told in Best of Enemies), or that of Elwin Wilson, who, 50 years after assaulting then-Freedom Rider Congressman John Lewis, traveled to Washington DC to beg his forgiveness, and John Lewis who forgave him show us another path; one that emancipates our souls and makes us a better people.
But getting there, arriving at this place where the dreams that birthed us are made real, is a double challenge: it’s a commitment we make on our own, but a road we walk together.
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Faith and Democracy is an open series of articles that explore this pivotal point in our nation’s history, the longstanding role that faith and spirituality, both for better and worse, have played in shaping the society we’ve become and are becoming. Jimmie and James, adapted from This Land Is Your Land, is the third article in this series.
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RD Moore is an artist, minister, lifelong social activist, emancipationist and founder of the Mary Moore Institute for Diversity, Humanity & Social Justice (MMI). He credits the people who crossed his path starting in his formative years in post-Civil Rights-era Birmingham for the person he’d become and for his unyielding faith in who we can be together. Known for his intimate storytelling and insightful understanding, his work continues to explore that fertile space where diversity, spirituality and humanity all intersect. His blog, Letters from a Birmingham Boy, can be found here.