(on the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963) “Mother dear, may I go
downtown instead of out to
play, and march the streets
of Birmingham in a Freedom March
today?” “No, baby, no, you may
not go, for the dogs are
fierce and wild, and clubs and hoses,
guns and jails ain’t good for a
little child.” “But, mother, I won’t be
alone. Other children will go
with me, and march the streets
of Birmingham to make our country
free.” “No, baby, no, you may
not go, for I fear those guns
will fire. But you may go to
church instead, and sing in the
children’s choir." She has combed and
brushed her nightdark hair, and bathed rose petal
sweet, and drawn white gloves
on her small brown hands, and white shoes on her
feet. The mother smiled to
know her child was in the sacred
place, but that smile was the
last smile to come upon her face. For when she heard the
explosion, her eyes grew wet and
wild. She raced through the
streets of Birmingham calling for her child. She clawed through
bits of glass and brick, then lifted out a
shoe. “O, here’s the shoe my
baby wore, but, baby, where are you?” |
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