storytimewithjoe | The Power of a Sit-In

Following a very action-packed weekend, my hubby and I found ourselves with a free evening on Sunday. So rather than kicking back at home and watching reruns, we decided to turn it into a little mini date night complete with ice cream sundaes, holding hands in the common area, and a movie. While there really isn’t much on offer in the theaters right now, we were pretty happy to be able to catch “The Butler” while it is still showing. Billed as the story of the 20+ year career of an African-American White House butler, the story really shows the evolution of the civil rights movement – mostly through the changing times in America and significant events in our history. I found the movie pretty brilliant in all of its historic glory. But I think the most significant moment for me was watching the depiction of the Woolworth’s counter sit-in protest.

Glossed over in the history books, the Woolworth’s counter sit-in (aka the Greensboro Sit-In) seemed so simple back when I read about it in American history. A group of black students walked into the local five-and-dime in Greensboro South Carolina and sat down in the whites-only section, asking to be served. They were refused and they sat there all day in protest. OK, fine. It seems simple enough when looking at the history books. But history is rarely that simple. In the movie, they depicted something more akin to the type of thing that probably really happened – and it is something that I really never thought about. On the big screen, the students sat calmly in protest while people around them squirmed. And in a racially-divided country of 1960, I cannot imagine how those students must have felt as the taunts began, and the anger grew into taunts and shouts and threats and tears. How can one person be so incredibly insensitive and cruel to another person – one that they don’t even know?

It was just earlier this year when the significance of the Greensboro sit-in hit home for me. I happened to be in Greensboro for an SCA event. And on that Sunday morning, a group of us walked around the historic downtown – one that I had never visited before – on our way to breakfast. And on our way, we just happened to walk by that Woolworths – now the American Civil Rights museum. For a moment, I was just paralyzed. At first, it was just a really cool looking retro building. But when I was told that this was THE Woolworths, I had to stop for a minute as a chill ran down my back. I looked around and realized that all around me was history – history of a very ugly time in America where the color of one’s skin determined who could sit where, who could drink from what fountain, and who could vote. To me, this is absolutely barbaric – BARBARIC – and medieval in its mentality. But it wasn’t all that long ago. And I have to wonder – how would I have behaved at that time? Would I have done like most of the people around me? Or would I have rebelled? Would I have done the uncomfortable (and dangerous) right thing?

My mother told me a story one time about her mother – and it is one that I have proudly told time and time again. Walking into a little café in New York in 1945, my grandmother sat at a counter enjoying her coffee. The United States had just won the war, and the boys were coming home. In walked an African-American soldier, just back from overseas. He was in his uniform. And he stepped up to the counter to order a coffee – and they refused to serve him. Did they see a fellow American? No. Did they see a soldier who risked his life for his country? No. They saw a black man. No – they saw a Nigger. (Yes, I despise that word, but in this context, I think it appropriate to write it). My grandmother was appalled. So she pulled out her wallet, and ordered another cup of coffee, and handed it to the soldier. For that reason, if no other reason, I love and admire my grandmother and really, really, really wish I could have met her.

Today, we live in our own Civil Rights age. And when I myself have faced angry signs of protest, I have felt something akin to what those students at the Woolworth’s counter may have faced. I remember when my hubby and I made our appointment at the City Hall in San Francisco to get married. I was terrified – TERRIFIED. Our appointment was on a Monday, and I knew there were protests and worries about court action. We made a short trip to the city hall on that Sunday just so we could familiarize ourselves with the transport routes. And when we got to the City Hall, we saw angry protesters with hate-filled signs misquoting That Book. And I realized that they hated me – HATED ME – just for being me.

A few years after our original San Francisco marriage license had been invalidated by the Courts, California allowed same-gender marriages to take place (right before Prop H8). And on June 17, 2008 (Gods was it really over five years ago?); we strolled over to the Old County Courthouse right across from my work to again get our marriage license. And again, we had protesters with signs marching around trying to be disruptive. In fact, our wedding kiss photo has a protester in the background holding up a sign misquoting That Book. Yah… happy wedding day.

Whether it is sexuality, or gender, or race, or religion, or skin-color, civil rights are about human equality. They are about all of us. They are not limited to just one particular group or population. They are the story of all of us. And yes, we are making leaps and bounds in a relatively short amount of time. But it wasn’t all that long ago that we were in our own version of the dark ages. And sometimes our own cruel history is subtle. Sometimes we don’t need to see the shackles used to chain people into slavery to realize man’s inhumanity to man. Sometimes we just need to look at a simple counter-seat at a five and dime to remember the poignant moments in history.