Whenever I start to get overwhelmed with the thought of moving yet again when Matt gets a new assignment, I think about some of the most amazing opportunities that military life has afforded me. There are so many. High on the list: a five year stay in Montana where I put down roots so wide and deep that I still hold them close daily. The chance to be part of Cheyenne Frontier Days in a way that causes us to shake our heads in amazement. Two treasured years just five minutes from Washington, D.C. and the opportunity to witness centuries of American history and culture—and the 2009 Inauguration of President Obama, which I can remember in such perfect detail it feels as if it happened yesterday. Breathtaking access to hot air balloons. Mountains, zoos, and zoos on mountains. A year in Alabama, the most civil rights history-rich place I've ever experienced. Today seems like a good day to share one of the most emotional adventures I had there (or anywhere).
Because of the Great Alabama History Portfolio Project, in November 2014 Gracie, a classmate of hers, his mom, and I made the 50 mile journey to check out the Selma To Montgomery National Historic Trail and walk the Edmund Pettus Bridge so we could retrace the footsteps of so many brave Americans in 1965. It's a beautiful stretch of road that has seen courage and devastation alike.
Selma is small, with a population hovering around 20,000. It sits on the banks of the Alabama River; one of the first things you see when you drive into town is the now-closed Craig Air Force Base, its old housing crumbling and deteriorated yet still partially inhabited with rents under $200 a month. It's a town that has seen hard days and even harder days, yet stands proudly to welcome visitors coming to learn about its role in the Civil Rights Movement.
We visited both museums/interpretive centers as well as the outdoor memorials. As much as I loved seeing the traditional photographs, documents, and ephemera in the buildings, these rocks and walls were perfect.
And then we walked the bridge. If you've seen the movie Selma you have a wildly accurate idea of what those marchers saw and felt on their multiple attempts to cross the bridge and move on toward Montgomery. You cannot see the base of the bridge from the middle: the hill is too steep. It was physically upsetting to walk across it in real life and to watch that scene in the movie, knowing what was waiting for them on the other side. Walking the bridge is not like standing in front of a well-thought out collection of twelve rocks or a painted brick wall or a set of black and white photographs. It is retracing footsteps, and it is an unforgettable and eerie feeling that I highly recommend to everyone.
We stood on the steps of the Dallas County Courthouse and tried to imagine the scene that unfolded on the small street out front when black residents tried and failed and tried and failed to register to vote. It's hard to imagine. And yet.
On the way back to Montgomery we stopped to pay our respects to Viola Liuzzo, the white woman who traveled from Detroit to assist in any way she could with the March—and was shot to death by the Ku Klux Klan at this spot on the highway while shuttling black marchers in her car. We tried to imagine leaving our families hundreds of miles behind to act on a belief too strong to be ignored. It's hard to imagine. And yet.
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Fast forward to March 2015 and the 50th Anniversary of the third (and only successful) attempt to march those 50 miles from Selma to Montgomery. Matt wasn't able to come with us, but the girls and I headed over early to catch the shuttle over to City of St. Jude where the last leg of the original 1965 march began. We were there early enough to chat a little with friendly strangers, people watch some more, spot a couple of people we knew, and consider the significance of putting one foot in front of the other to retrace even more sets of footsteps.
The streets are narrow in this part of Montgomery, and we were right in the middle of a wall of people. Some were singing, some were listening to headphones, many were taking pictures and recording video. Everyone was taking it in with wide eyes.
This group of kids was serenading all the passers-by and it was hard not to be weepy.
If ever there was an occasion to take a selfie to prove you were there, this was it.
There was just so much to see. We bumped into some friends mid-route, making our party of four into a party of 19 or so.
Into downtown and down the last stretch—three miles passed in a blink of an eye. Maddie talked with a woman who told her all about how she had been around the same age in 1965 when she marched the first time, and urged her to remember everything she could so she could tell her kids and grandkids one day all about the time she marched to the Capitol building, too. I hope she will remember it, though I don't know how you could forget. We stayed for some speeches and performances before calling it a morning well-spent and heading back to the car, knowing how lucky we were to have experienced something so meaningful. Right place, right time.
Alabama is a difficult, complex place. It isn't a perfect place. It's hard to imagine the Alabama of 1965 in contrast to the Alabama of 2015. And yet.
Never underestimate the sacred right to vote. Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.
