Uncle Bobby sat on my grandmother's couch with a hangdog look and a brown paper sack. I wasn't used to seeing him this way. Tall, lanky, bearded, and gruff, Uncle Bobby dispensed orders and opinions. On Monday, November 14, 1977, he delivered tampons.
His wife, my Aunt Nell, was sequestered for a jury. A bailiff called with her request: clothes, her Bible, and a large bag of feminine hygiene products.
Searching through the Birmingham Public Library archives 40 years later, I find a photograph of Aunt Nell, Juror 149, leaving the courtroom of the biggest case in the city's civil rights history. I note first that Uncle Bobby brought her white slacks. Next, in her right hand, I see a crumpled tissue. She's crying.
Jury members leave the courtroom. Aunt Nell wears white slacks, and in her right hand is a crumpled tissue. | (Birmingham Public Library Department of Archives and Manuscripts/Courtesy Narratively)
At 16, I thought only of myself. Nell was the cool aunt, the party aunt who packed a large green Impala full of giggling teenage girls each Friday night and drove to football games, past cute boys' houses, or to rock concerts. How long was this sequester? Would we miss KISS?
My cousin Tracy, 14, and I pestered her dad with questions. Could we ride downtown with him? Could he drive by Penny Pet Food billboard, so we could watch the dog's tongue loll and its tail wag?
Maybe we could get on television!
Uncle Bobby dashed our hopes with a bark. He wasn't taking girls to any courthouse where Dynamite Bob was on trial.
On the morning of September 15, 1963, Addie Mae Collins, Carole Robertson, and Cynthia Wesley, each 14, and Denise McNair, 11, were busily primping in the basement ladies' room of Birmingham's Sixteenth Street Baptist Church for a special Youth Day program when a dynamite blast tore out the church's east side. The explosion's force blew off their frilly Sunday dresses and sent concrete fragments flying through their skulls. Relatives identified them by their ash-covered patent-leather shoes.
A local Ku Klux Klan faction targeted the church for its visible presence in the civil rights movement. Protestors had gathered at Sixteenth Street multiple times earlier that year for mass meetings of the Birmingham Campaign to confront one of segregation's most violently defended bastions. In April, Martin Luther King, Jr. penned "Letter from a Birmingham Jail" after his arrest in a downtown march. In May, a protest called the "Children's Crusade" left from the church to face Jim Crow. Birmingham's Commissioner of Public Safety, Theophilus Eugene "Bull" Connor ordered police to attack the young demonstrators with dogs and firemen to hit them with water cannons. Photographs and video footage shocked the world. Embarrassed civic leaders agreed to hire black workers and desegregate downtown stores and businesses.
But the chaos was not yet over. In early September, not long after the March on Washington and King's "I Have Dream" speech, a few city schools admitted the first black students. A violent backlash ensued. White students at three high schools rioted. Local civil rights activists' homes were firebombed. Governor George Wallace did nothing to help. Earlier that summer, he famously blocked the way of two black students trying to integrate the University of Alabama, making good on words from his inaugural address, "segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever."
On Tuesday, September 10th, President John F. Kennedy bypassed Wallace, federalizing the Alabama National Guard and sending the troops to schools to keep order.
On Friday the 13th, the city remained awash in hot-rods flying Confederate flags on their radio antennas and hanging signs from their windows that said "Keep Birmingham Schools White."
On Sunday the church exploded.
The blast resonated across the nation. The "four little girls," as the victims were collectively known, inspired poetry, fiction, visual art, and music. Their deaths galvanized support for the movement, leading to passage of the 1964 Civil Rights Act and the 1965 Voting Rights Act.
Back in Birmingham, the FBI and local police chased each other's tails around a slipshod investigation that went nowhere. Fourteen years passed before Robert "Dynamite Bob" Chambliss, the Sixteenth Street bombing's ringleader, was brought to trial.
My grandmother, a recent widow and a newly employed nurse, brought her children to Birmingham in the late 1940s from Alabama's Appalachian foothills. Granny was excited to find a place to live near her job at Hillman Hospital downtown, in the city's first housing project for whites. Elyton Village sat on Center Street, 10 blocks south of an emerging civil rights showdown.
In 1947, a federal judge ruled Birmingham's 1926 race-based zoning laws unconstitutional. Middle class black families began purchasing bungalows from white owners along north Center Street. Then their bungalows blew up. Between 1947 and 1965, more than 50 racially motivated bomb attacks occurred.
Neither Aunt Nell nor my mother remembered the explosions that gave Birmingham its nickname, "Bombingham," although many took place close to where they lived. Perhaps to shield her girls, my grandmother said the rumbling came from "danny-mite," as she pronounced it, in local coal and iron ore mines.
Down the road from what later became known as "Dynamite Hill," my mother fought her own battle. One morning, a neighbor girl called her "poor." After school, Mom waited for her behind a bush. When the girl roller-skated past, Mom jumped out and pummeled her face into the concrete. Not long afterward, my grandmother got a better job and moved her daughters from Elyton Village to East Lake, a working class community five miles east of downtown. Even though Mom got a spanking for her violence, she told the story proudly.
"We fought our way out of nothing," she said. "Don't let anyone try to drag you down to their level."
Read the rest of this story at Narratively.