Selma & Reflection: Creating Bridges Over Troubled Waters
Why "Bloody Sunday" should be remembered during Women's History Month
Typing away on page 7 of a constantly evolving study my team has been working on centering Black-led disability justice spaces, I got a memory on my iphone of this weekend four years ago. It was the beginning of the understanding of the health crisis now referred to as COVID-19, but not enough information to stop us all from heading down to Selma to commemorate the 55th anniversary of “Bloody Sunday,” the tragic name assigned to the even more harrowing realities of pain and even death when civil rights marchers were assaulted with bricks, dogs, hands and batons in their effort to gain voting rights for Black people.
For context, my mom was 10 years old when this happened. This is not a “oh, this was so long ago, why can’t y’all move on” event. And maybe moving on would be a remote option—if physical and psychological violence were only a thing of a remote past. Yet, on a daily basis, reminders of storms are compounded with ongoing aggressions, including the normalized gaslighting aimed to force us to suppress pain so others can be comfortable with myths and lack of accountability.
I was honored to be on that bridge with so many legends, which I define as regular people who choose to do extraordinary things so we all can live quality, ordinary lives. I was moved to be on the famous Edmund Pettus Bridge with civil rights legend and congressman and beloved frat brother, John Lewis, who was a familiar face on Capitol Hill when I was a bright-eyed, naive, determined staffer. “I thought I was going to die in Selma” is one of his memories, including the severe skull fracture he endured at the hands of an all white police force. It would be his last physical time on the bridge.
2020 was my first time in Selma. Driving up to there from Montgomery, I remembered the long stretches of backroads lined with cotton fields. Our guide and driver whose name I cannot remember shared his early memories of picking cotton with his mother; he would help her before he went to school in the morning. “My hands were so bloody. But so were the other kids so it was ok.” We sat in silence most of the way there and back. Sitting with someone who picked cotton will do that to you…
The town had many chills and spirits—some bad, but most of the ones that hovered that day mostly tickled and floated, once in a while giving us a breeze on what I remember to be a pretty muggy day. Not all the spirits were ancestors, some were living among us. While our team was capturing narratives as part of a larger voting rights campaign, “And Still I Vote,” the casual stories from the women setting up everything from the rice and church punch was what stood out to me most. i was raised that when you see elders setting up for the Lord and good work, you offer assistance. So needless to say, I was in charge of setting up tablecloths. But time moved smoothly like clouds rushing to get somewhere (I believe the day was forecasted initially for rain. We were fortunate). Some shared how their moms did the same exact thing during the 1965 march: setting up food and drinks in area churches before and after the protests. Others were honoring elders who made the voyage to the march, pulling up chairs so their legs and cane can take a quick pause. And in between the live music and the church fans, I began to hear names of the women who also marched during the 1965 march. Like Mrs. Amelia Boynton Robinson.
Many probably aren’t able to recall her name—a byproduct of white supremacism is determining who and what is worthy of remembrance. But you may have at some point in time seen an her image of her. The assault Mrs. Amelia Boynton Robinson experienced while marching across that bridge was one of the most widely circulated photos of the Civil Rights Movement—one that rocked even apathetic America. What I did not know was that she was a playwright, using her storytelling skills to convey the importance of civic engagement. Nor did I know that in 1964, a year prior to Bloody Sunday, she registered in Jim Crow South as Democratic candidate for the United States House of Representatives, securing 10% of the overall votes. What it must have meant to move through the South not only as an activist, but as a Black femme candidate. It’s hard to imagine the daily obstacles Black women encountered back then; while I’d like to think so, if I’m honest I’m not 100 percent sure I would’ve been able to overcome the fears of those times. As the title of one book declares, “But Some of Us Were Brave.”
And Mrs. Robinson wasn’t the only hero of this moment. In fact, the idea of the Selma marches were actually conceived by Ms. Diane Nash, the co-founder of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, better known as “SNCC” (pronounced “SNICK”)—the same group John Lewis belonged to. Marches in Selma were actually part of a larger voting rights strategy designed by Ms. Nash. Her ideas were ignored initially, yet she persisted eventually catching the attention or Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. The acts of Ms. Nash, the visibility of Mrs. Robinson, and the countless others working mostly behind the camera are quite literally part of the foundation of the liberties so many of us participate in today.
And Ms. Diane Nash is a spirit still with us. How are we honoring those intersectional, multimarginalized heroes still with us? Whether in our communities, workplaces, places of worship, in our families?
I guess it’s time to get back to this report on Black-led disability justice movements. Writing this helped me reflect a bit on the intersections on narratives and movements, known and unknown: “Bloody Sunday” is not only a civil rights story, but also a disability justice chapter that resulted in the physical and mental trauma of legends—ordinary people doing extraordinary things so we can live quality, ordinary lives. Our nation was built by traumatized people suffering PTSD. We just never got to the “post” part.
Memory means so much to me now, especially with long COVID. Reflection moments have to be intentional and at times, I avoid them for fear that I just won’t be able to recall everything. But I’m glad I took this moment—between February and March—to bridge memories and movements between Black History Month and Women’s History Month. Collectively, they remind us what we’re still fighting for, and challenge each of us to keep the good spirits with us—both alive and transitioned—as we disrupt what needs to be disrupted. It is up to us to use memory, reflection and dialogue as tools to understand the complexities of a system that continues to erase Black people, Black women, Black Southern women—and other beautiful variations and intersectionalities. It is literally because of their bodies that we are able to move a bit freer today. Even with more bridges to cross.
On to more good trouble…
This Essence article highlights other women leaders of the 1965 march in Selma. Check it out. Oh, and if you want to get to know a little more about me, head to my site at ifeomasinachi.com.
