Im Mekhi Phifer. As an actor, I know the power ofthe human voice..docx

I'm Mekhi Phifer. As an actor, I know
the power ofthe human voice. And the program you're aboutto s
ee contains some of the most powerful voicesI've ever heard. In
the summer of 2004, a group ofjournalists traveled for 70 days b
y bus around thecountry, on a mission to record stories frompeo
ple who lived through the civil rights era--
anera marked by intense emotion, turmoil, andchange.
The mission, called "Voices of Civil
Rights," is aproject of the AARP, the Leadership Conference on
Civil Rights, and the Library of
Congress. Today weare proud to let you hear the words and see
thefaces of the people who lived through this difficultperiod in
our history. Some of
them have beenwaiting a lifetime to share their stories.
I remember being born in
the segregated Southfrom Memphis, Tennessee.
We lived back in Arkansas at this time.
In Hattiesburg Mississippi--
Tallahassee, Florida--
Madisonville, Kentucky--
This takes place in 1963 when I was 11 years old.
1959 or 1960-- it's been a long time.
I consider myself a witness, living witness, for thecivil rights m
ovement. A lot of people talk aboutwhat they hear, or what som
eone has told them.But I am talking about what I went through a
s anindividual.
In elementary and
high school, I kind of felt thatthere were two Americas--
black America andwhite America. And
I just belonged to blackAmerica.
I had grown up in a segregated society.
And so you realized very early that you just liveddifferent lives.
It didn't effect me when I was young because Ithought that was
just the way it was supposed to be.

We lived in our black society and there was the white society.
No mingling of the races
When I was
a little girl, I used to walk alongMadison Avenue holding my da
ddy's hand. And he
would always take his baby shopping. Andthere was a restaurant
call Piccadilly's. You
couldalways see white people sitting in the restauranteating. An
d the food looked absolutelyscrumptious. And it smelled good. I
t had theneighborhood almost lit up. I know it had thestreet lit
up.
But I was like, why can they eat in there and
Ican't? And dad would kind of snatch my hand and say, stop
staring in
there. Daddy was a very proudman. And he just didn't want
me staring andwishing. He used
to say those things, don't stareand wish you could do things.
Only thing I
knew was the blacks who lived rightdown the road there, they w
ere worse off than Iwas.
We lived on the top of the
hill. The blacks liveddown at the bottom of the hill.
We had a wonderful black woman who was ourcook and maid.
A lady that my mother hired to come and clean--
And it was a wonderful lady by the name of Rosie--
and Rosie was like my mother. She played withme. She read to
me. She cooked. I loved her. Iloved Rosie. I still love
Rosie. The city bus wouldtake Rosie back home. And as
the bus got Rosie, Iwould kiss her on the cheek and she
would kissme.
And one day, right as the bus was leaving andRosie had kissed
me and I had kissed her, all of asudden, I saw my grandfather p
ounding on thatglass window. And he told me that I was notsup
posed to be kissing-- to use his term--
Negroes. That that's not something that goodwhite boys did, and
that it was wrong. And hegrabbed me hard by the arm and span

ked me.And I cried. And I ran out.
My whole world was turned upside down,because what I though
t was right was now wrong.And I was very, very angry.
We were taught at home that we were just asgood as anybody el
se. But in what we called theReal World, we always knew that it
was different.
Basically, I think I was just protected by myparents.
We were kept in a sort
of controlled environment.When we went to town, we didn't eat
inrestaurants. So therefore, we didn't go through the back door.
Our parents and the community tried
to insulateus from those kinds of things.
We never knew that we were living really in a formof slavery, f
or all the things we were not allowedto do.
We were only allowed to go to places like the zooon Thursday--
Thursdays was colored day--
to thefairgrounds amusement park on Tuesdays,because that wa
s colored day.
I remember asking my dad. I said
dad, let's go andsee this movie at the Strand. Or let's go
and seethis movie at the Malco. He said,
son, we can't godown there. So I said, well why not? And he
said,well that's just for white people.
There was a separate theater and there was onlyone day a
week that you could go.
That's for white people.
I love to read and I couldn't go downtown to the library.
And I said, what about the fairgrounds? Samething.
Why can't I go there?
I felt like, if they are advertising on television, whycan't I go
out?
We were not allowed. It didn't mean us.
Once you grow up and you begin to read, you startseeing the "w
hite only" and "colored only" signs.
Something so simple as a Dairy Queen--
and ithad a white sign and the colored. The colored hadto go in

the back.
The white water fountain was big and tall. Andthen on the
side you
would have this littleattachment that looked like a toilet bowl.
We were getting all of these messages all the time.
Everything was separate. It wasn't really equal, it was
just separate.
Santa would come to town on Christmas Eve. AndI remember m
y parents would always take usdown to see Santa. And he would
come throughdowntown. But downtown was roped off wherewe
had the viewing area--
the viewing area forblack people was different from where the
whitepeople could be. They could be lined up on bothsides
of the sidewalk for blocks down the street.And we were
all herded off in one little area.
Growing up for me, I had rules. We had do's anddon't's. First of
all, you don't look a white man in the
face. You hold your head down. Because thefirst thing he going
to say, are you eye-
balling meboy? You don't say, no, to any requests, even if it'swr
ong. The best thing to do is do what they tellyou to do, and
try to get away from them.
Being disrespectful, or alleged to have
been beingdisrespectful, to a white person could result indeath.
Your elders, your parents, told
you just becareful around white people because this waswhat th
ey would do to you if you got out of line.
I could walk into a room full of white people, andwithin second
s, I could spot the ones that Ineeded to keep my eyes on.
We couldn't look at a white man and say, man I don't want
to hear that. Or man, you lying. Whatyou say to me? I used to
see people just coming from church. The police pull up
behind them andstop. They get out-- yes sir. Yes sir.
A young white kid called my dad "boy." I wouldtell my
big muscle bound-- my uncles and stuff--
I wondered why he didn't call him "sir."

I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry. Yeah you ought to
be sorry.You're a sorry nigger aren't
you. Yes, sir. Stuff likethat.
And I asked my dad, why did he call
you boy? Hesaid, that's the way it is down here, son.
I remember distinctly seeing the little woodenclip-on sign that
said "for colored only," and thosewere always placed toward the
back of the bus.
It was something that you just sort of lived with.You saw
it every day.
Blacks had to pay money in the front, and thenthe walk around t
o the back door.
And the bus may pull off while you
were goingfrom one door to the other.
And a lot of times when there were no more seatsup
front, the white passengers will come to theback and we would
have to still get up and givethem our seats.
I was about 10 years old in 1944. Riding the street car
home every day, we sat in the back and satbehind the
signs. On one particular day, a whitekid took this sign and
he moved
it all the way tothe back row. And there was a door at the back
onthese street cars. And so when I got to my stop, Ipulled the
sign off and stuck it in my mackinawand took off running.
And the kid yelled, that nigger stole the sign. Andthe driver cam
e up, fired a couple of shots, I don'tknow if they were in the
air or at me, but I'm a sort of a pack rat. And I still have the
sign. I've held on
to it. When I got home, my mother said, youshouldn't break the
law. That's not right. Myfather said, the
law's saying that you'resomething less than equal, that's a bad
law. Somelaws need to be broken.
On
time my mom and dad told me said, Frankie,one of these days it'
s going to be better.
You didn't know how, you didn't know when. Butyou knew that

it had to change.
It just wasn't right. So I just longed for the daythat things would
change.
It was about 1957. And my
father took my sisterand my brother and
I down to the Portsmouthpublic library.
We had plenty of books at
the house. But therewas special kinds of books in
the children's areaof the library, I'm sure.
Dad went over and got
a children's book and putthe book up on the desk to be checked
out, andthe librarian said we couldn't check it out.
And when they told us that I wanted
to know why.He said, well colored folks can't use this librarybe
cause we have a little library--
a colored library,they call it. First of all now, I have been to
thatlibrary and they are very limited. I says, as I look in
here, you have books everywhere.
They don't have these kinds of books down there.
I felt strongly.
He stared her down, and then finally said, comeon let's go.
So I took my children home and immediately go intouch with
a law firm.
And we didn't really pay that much moreattention to it until late
r when he told us that hehad filed a suit against the city.
We took it to court. The judge said, you mean totell me
that to some of the taxes that Doc Owenspays go to help your
library and he can't use
it?And his children can't use it? I tell you what. Youhave two ch
oices--
lock the library up lock, stock,and barrel, or open the library to
any tax-payingcitizens, black or white.
It was this feeling of triumph. Like, yes, We can atmake
them do that.
My, my, my.
The school year for blacks when I was a kid in the

county school system was just
four months a yearbecause black kids had to be out chopping co
ttonand picking cotton.
At our school we had outdoor toilets, no cafeteria.
And they were sending us way out-- schools out in
the woods somewhere.
We had to pass by three white schools to get toone black one.
Our books were always outdated. When
we got atextbook it always had "used" in it because theywere br
inging books from the white schools downto our schools.
We had to pay
book fee for those books. And Iremember we didn't have transp
ortation to get usto
school. Everybody walked to school. And wewould have to walk
on the railroad tracks to keep
the kids that were in the white bus-- because theyrode buses--
from throwing spit balls out at us. Weknew it was different.
When we first moved to New
Orleans, I was nineyears old. And my mother wanted to register
mysister and myself for school. We were told that wehad to go t
o a notary to state that we wereCaucasian. Now that was an
odd experience. Mymother actually had to pay a notary and had
toparade us into this office.
I remember standing there wondering, am I reallywhite? I assum
ed I was. I
always felt that I was,but I had never really had to think of mys
elf inthat context before. I was a little bit scared thatperhaps so
mehow I wouldn't make the cut.Maybe I would not be perceived
as a white littlegirl. Evidently I would end up in a different sch
ool,away from my friends.
I
thought it was wrong for us to be relegated toolder books, old sc
ience equipment, and separateschools. But then in
1954, May 17, a naive ninthgrader, I was very excited. [INAUD
IBLE], I was soexcited that I thought in September 1954, it
wouldall be over.

I knew that there was segregation that existed. Iknew that the w
hites did not want to associatewith the blacks. But I had no idea
that whitepeople hated blacks as much as they did until weinteg
rated the schools.
I recall the very first day
of school. A special bushad been designated for us. And we wer
e
petrified, we were like little tin soldiers. I didn'tsay anything to
anyone. None
of us talked. Therewas state troopers and policemen to escort us
and to make certain that we would arrive toschool safely.
I had
been substituting for a year in the NewOrleans public schools.
And so on a Fridayafternoon, in early November, I received a ca
ll tocome to school McDonogh 19 on the followingMonday mor
ning to teach a first grade class.
As we approached
the school, police wereblocking intersections. Three
little black girlscame up the front steps into
the school escortedby three federal marshals. They really didn't
fullyunderstand, I believe first graders, what was goingon.
I was very confused, and actually a
little scared,about what I was seeing. That things wouldescalate
to this degree with students, some ofthem who I knew--
I wrote in my diary, I'm soupset I can barely write. Today when
I go to schoolat 8:30, this is what I saw. Half the school wereac
ross the street wearing Confederate hats,waving Confederate fla
gs and singing. Theprincipal and assistant principal were juststa
nding on the steps, looking across the street atthem.
All during the day, kids came straggling in and Iheard all sorts
of reports that the kids all wentdown to City Hall and beat up N
egroes. Had aregular riot! Exclamation point.
The parents and neighborhood people stoodacross the street and
they jeered and hooted atthese children and the federal marshals
. Thiswent on the entire school year.
I was placed on the very front row in the

class,and none of the students in the class would sitnext to
me. I could hear the students makingcomments about me
and calling me nigger. I satthere and I trembled.
One by one, two by two, and
in groups, motherscame and claimed their children and proudly
marched out the door.
I recall vividly walking the halls of Hall High School. And, to
me, these huge white studentsstanding there at their lockers--
as we walked bythey would
press themselves up against thelocker and holler, here come the
niggers. Herecome the
niggers. And move out the way so thatwe wouldn't touch them
or brush against them.We would go to
our lockers together as a group sowhen you turn your back to lo
ok into your locker,someone else was watching to make sure tha
t no one hit you with a book.
I remember being up late at night crying andpraying and asking
God, why is it that myclassmates hate me so? I know that these
peoplebleed and I bleed. They breathe and I breathe.They walk
and I walk.
I used to wake up in
the morning feeling fine untilI remember I had to go back to Ha
ll High School.And I would literally get sick to my stomach.
I don't wish what I experienced on anyone, evenmy worst enemy
. I was the first black to walkacross the stage and receive my
diploma. I felt joyin knowing that I did not have to return to tha
tschool.
I was never be able to vote in the state where Iwas born, beautif
ul Louisiana. This old gentlemansay, can I help you? He had
a thick accent. I said,yes sir. I want to be registered. Registered
forwhat? I want to register to vote. What is yourname? And I ga
ve it. Where do you work? MadisonParish Junior-
Senior High School. He said, youcan't register here today.
That gentleman turned
my man name over to theschool board. And my superintendent,
Mr. Phillip,was confronted with the idea that he had ateacher na

med Hazel LeBlanc-- because I wasn'tmarried then--
and that she was a Communist.And then, getting married, we m
oved toMississippi. And when my husband went down to vote--
Reverend S. Leon Whitney-- they said, OK.You're a preacher
. We'll let you vote. Once theyfound that out I was Reverend
Whitney's wife, wellwe'll let you vote.
But then when I started talking with my teacherfriends and I sai
d to them, why don't we all get inthe car and let's go down and r
egister to vote. Theman looked at us and said, I tell you what. I'
mgoing to test you. Right up he said, you
failed. Thenext person, you failed. You failed.
And we later found out that the guy had finishedonly the eighth
grade. So it meant that there wasno intent of registering anyone.
And so Medgarcame on the scene with the idea that we've got
toregister to vote.
Medgar
Evers was murdered in June of '63. Andafter his murder there w
ere a lot of memorialservices throughout the country. And my fa
therwas a minister, so he was doing what ministersdo. He was p
residing at a memorial for someonewho had died. And then after
that was when theharassment started at our home.
Now living next door to us, a fellow named Mr. Brugy. And Mr.
Brugy was a really rough sort ofcharacter. He
was big and bluff and he had whitehair and a Burr haircut and a
loud voice. Heworked for the railroad and he was us staunchsup
porter of George Wallace.
And
I say segregation now, segregation tomorrow,and segregation fo
rever.
And this led to many heated backyard discussionsbetween Mr.
Brugy and my mother. But he wasalso our neighbor. And this be
came significantone night when they burned a cross in our yard.
I remember I was
seated on the sofa, which wasarranged across the wall that had
the big frontwindow in it looking out onto the porch
andacross the road. And

I glanced over my shoulder.And as I did, I could see that front
window justablaze with the fire, the reflection. Now at the endo
f the sidewalk there was this huge cross and itwas burning. And
they had laid that cross on ourgrass. And they had swathed it wi
th rags and thenpoured gasoline on it, and then erected it there a
tthe end of the sidewalk where we caught theschool bus every m
orning.
And Mr. Brugy grabbed his shot gun and he leapedin his car and
he took off trying to chase thesepeople. And
he chased them out into the countrybefore he lost them. But for
him, that night Ibelieve the civil rights movement acquired a fac
e.And the face of that movement was the face of hisneighbor.
We knew that the Ku Klux
Klans were watchingour neighbors and
our neighborhood. We all werejust fighting. They would tell
you right up, don'tbe out after dark, nigger.
And one day I
was seated at the table with myfamily. My husband had just ask
ed the blessing. Aperson came by in a car and they shot. Da da
da da da--
that kind of shooting. So then it meantthat we had to take the c
hildren away from thehouse. But we couldn't leave. Because if t
hey evershoot in your house, and you leave, they've justwon.
We just believed that black people was a low lifepeople, and the
y had no right to vote. There hadno right to go to
our schools. You didn't ask to join
the Klan. You was picked out in a meeting. What I
was doing, I actually thought that I was doing
theright thing, at that time. I really believed in my
heart that I was really doing the right thing.
It was [INAUDIBLE] for any black person whoventured out aga
inst what the society inMississippi, and in the
other Southern states,decided that a black person should do. My
husband, Vernon was self-
employed He grewcotton as a commercial crop. He owned
a smallsaw mill and a grocery store. And we had a gaspump

at the grocery store. They run a store by
their home. And they was registering blacks to vote out of their
store.
He'd pick them up in our car, take them down tothe
courthouse to register, stay in the office wherethey to took the
test, and then he would bringthem
back home. We were getting threats all thetime as we were
going about our activity.
If you went against the
Klan, they would get youback. These were people who got the j
ob done.This was a militant Klan. They
had four things.They had a warning. They would burn a cross in
their front yard. That was the warning. And the next time the
would take somebody out andwhoop them. That would be
a number two. They went
by numbers. Number three would be to burn
their house down. And number four would beannihilation, or
to kill someone. So when theImperial
Wizard made the order on the Dahmerfamily, he called for a nu
mber three and a numberfour.
There were two car loads of
white men that cameout of Jones county.
I was in the number one lead car. And I knew what
was supposed to take place. I knew what was going
to come down. If anybody come out of
thathouse, in my view, it was my job to shoot them.
Four of them hit the store. Four hit the house atthe
same time. There was a fire burning in thehouse and outside
the house. There was a fireburning in the vehicles. We shot
open the gastank.
The shots were coming in the house. They wereshooting
in. I yelled to him to get up. He got up and got
the gun and started returning fire.
It was continuously nonstop shooting the wholetime. Vernon wa
s yelling to me, try to get to the children out while I hold them
off.

Our house was
on fire. Then I saw my fathershooting out of their bedroom wind
ow. I had noidea there were people that were mean enoughand c
ruel enough that would want to kill me, a 10-year-old child.
Betty was screaming all the time. And saying,Lord, have
mercy. We're not going to make it outof this burning house.
I could hear children screaming and the voice of aman screamin
g out. I'll never stop hearing thosevoices.
The house was pretty much engulfed in
flames. Icould still hear gunshots. My father eventually gotout o
f the house. The other men that
wasshooting, he made a remark, don't let him die.That's what
we come here for.
I remember my father sitting beside me. And theskin was literall
y hanging off of his arms. I wascrying because I was in excrucia
ting pain from theburns that I had received to my
arms and to myface. After a while, my aunt came. And she took
my father, myself, and my mother to the hospital.We were
in the same room, my father and
I were.And he never complained with the whole time.But his co
ndition began to deteriorate.
If you don't vote, you don't count in this world.Those
were some of the last words he said. Andlater on that day, he
died.
All he wanted to do was to be like other folks andbe able to vot
e. He just wanted an equal chanceat life. And I
took that away from him.
We
were just at a time when blacks were sick andtired of being disc
riminated against, rebuffed,denied, over charged, and you name
it.
And when you get angry, fear seems to leave.
You get to the point where your life is not at thetop of your list.
They wanted to kill me. They can go ahead and do it.
Before I'll be a
slave I'll be buried in my grave.That becomes real.

Let the trumpets blare. There's a new
negro now.And he's moving. And he says to you, come on and
join me. But if you won't, get out
of my waybecause I'm coming through.
The word got out, we're going to let
the kidsmarch. We're asking you parents to let your
kidsmarch. They want us to march. What are you going to
do? What are you going to do? You going?You going? My
mother said, don't get involved.Don't go to jail. I can't get you
out of jail. I hadalready made up my mind.
They gave us signs. I don't know what the
signsaid. I didn't care what they said. We had adesignated line.
We could only march one footaway from the building. I was tire
d of walking in isinvisible line. So I stepped out of
line. I said, we don't have to walk like this. I said we're going to
march all over this sidewalk. And I threw my signup.
Next thing I know, police started coming up to mewith the
dog. And I begin to try to get back in line.Police would grab
me in the collar. And the dogwas coming after me. He acted
like he couldn'thold his dog back enough. And his dog was
pinching my hands. So I grabbed his hands. Take
your hand off me, nigger. Take your hand off
me,nigger. And I just said, I ain't going to let that dogbite
me. He said, take your hand off-- I said, I ain't going
too let that dog bite me. I was like, Lord,why you letting
this happen to me?
Each night you do
to watch TV and there on thetelevision screen was young people
, about myage, being bitten
by vicious police doges andknocked over by high powered fire h
oses. Andthey were all singing about this thing calledfreedom.
And I didn't
have a clue as to what thisthing about freedom was all about.
I was baptized that day when I walked out ofLanier High
School. My brothers had told me thatthere
was going to walk out. I

didn't have a clue asto what a walk out was going to be. But
they toldme 12 o'clock the next day I better walk out of
school. You have no fear as at 12 years old. You just have a
sense that this is
the most right thingto be doing. But white law enforcement offi
cialsresented the fact that young blacks had the audacity to
come and challenge the system in theway that we did.
And as
a seventh grade student, for participatingin the walk out, I was a
rrested and taken to theMississippi State fairgrounds, and incarc
erated inthe livestock compound. And I spent several daysin
jail there. When I was released, we want to amass meeting at th
e Masonic Temple and theauditorium was filled capacity. And t
hey askedme-- because I was one of the younger ones
to getarrested-- to get up and try to encourage others tocome out
and join the demonstrations. I was so short I had to stand up on
a chair to reach themicrophone. I don't know what I
said thatevening, but the audience was on their feetapplauding a
nd cheering.
Things got very, very tense in the city. There had
been beatings. There
had been all kinds of thingsgoing on. And so my mom was reall
y afraid for mysafety. My mom said, now don't you
all go to themarch. It's going to be too dangerous. But
mybest friend
in college at the time said, well, I wantto march. And I
said, I do too. So I said, we wouldbe right back mom. I said,
I'm going to the store.So we turned the corner and, hey, there w
erepeople there getting ready to march. So Carol and
I said, all right. We're going to march. Well, about30 minutes la
ter, who would turn the corner but,my momma. She had a finger
that looked like itwas six
feet long. And she crooked that finger andsaid, come
here. It's not so much that she wasanti-march. She was anti-her-
baby-getting-hurt.
It

was 1960 or 61 in the winter time. My daughterJessica was in h
er late teens, borrowed her
father's car, and she was planning to go betweenNew York
City where we lived and Washington, todesegregate the restaura
nts along route 40. Andshe invited me to go and I thought it was
a goodthing to do. So I said, yes.
There were about 500 cars. We had to meet justnorth of the Mar
yland border. And from all over the big parking
lot, you heard voices, we need ablack in our
car. We need a black in our car. Wehad to have a black in every
car, otherwise therewas no point to the ride. And I was so
innocentand naive that I didn't realize I was putting myselfin da
nger. But what bothered me the most, Ithink, was the fact that I
was the oldest personthere. I
was 40 years old and these were all kids,like
my daughter. And I was ashamed for mygeneration that they wer
e not taking part in this.
We were told we could go into any restaurant weliked along rou
te 40 in Maryland, and order coffee.The first thing we went
to, a young white womansaid, I'm
sorry. We don't serve black people here.And we, said well we'll
stay until you do. Well the
I'll have to call the sheriff. Only one person in eachcar was
a spokesperson. Nobody else was to say a
word. And when she said, we don't blacks here, Igot furious. An
d I started to say something and our spokesman said, no, no. I
had forgotten.
Coming from New York, I wasn't used to that. And she called
the
sheriff. And he handed her a pieceof paper that was Maryland T
respass Act, and hestood there while she read it. But she wastre
mbling. She was afraid. All of the people alongthat road were al
l terrified that we were going tobe violent. It was a non-
violent ride. And whenshe finished, we got up and
left. So that was onewe failed on. But we must
have hit, I guess about20 restaurants that day. And at least four

of themwe did manage to desegregate because theyserved us our
coffee. That's we knew they had
desegregated. Now I'm 85 years old. I look back atthese memori
es and I'm very grateful that I
hadthe opportunity. I think it's one of the best thingsI've ever do
ne in my life.
As I sat at the lunch counter, people would comein with bats, wi
th
a gun, people to harass you. Thepolice came and instead of arres
ting them, theyarrested us. This is arrest led to five of
usspending forty-nine days in jail. And this becamethe first jail-
in in the nation. Of course I wasconcerned about what could hap
pen, becauseyou could get lost in a Florida jail. But I was alsoth
e determined. I wanted to make a difference. Iwanted to be free.
And I would not pay forsegregation.
We could've paid the fine and we could havegotten out of jail. I
nstead we went to jail for
49days. We were suspended from college, Florida A&M
University. People all around the countrywrote to us. People jus
t could not believe that wecould be sitting in jail because we we
nt to get asandwich. If I can't be a first-
class citizen, I'malready dead. How can you kill me when I'malr
eady dead?
I got out
of nursing school is '63. And I went toAtlanta, Georgia, and got
a job at Grady Memorial
Hospital If you split the hospital in half, everythingon A
and B was white. Everything on C and
D wascolored, from the ground up. The day that GradyHospital
was integrated, everybody was afraidbecause we didn't know wh
at was going tohappen.
I received one of the white patients. She was apost-
op patient, had just been operated on thatday. I put
her in her room. Obviously her husbandwas not happy. I don't w
ant you taking care of mywife. I don't want your G-
D black hands on mywife. You leave my wife alone. I didn't pay

him anyattention. I was
young, I knew I had a job to do. Iwas going to do it, regardless
of what. So I startedto take care of her. It was at that moment th
at hepicked me up, carried me to the door, and threwme down th
e hallway. I just rolled like a little balldown the hall.
I was humiliated and I was angry. But I really knewthat I proba
bly couldn't do anything because Iwould lose my job. So I just p
icked myself up offthe floor, went back in the room. He had pul
ledher IV out, disconnected her from everything,picked her up,
put her in a wheelchair, and tookher out
of the hospital. I think it was about threeweeks later. I was sitti
ng at the desk. I saw
himcoming through the doors and I said to myself, ohmy god. W
hat does he want now? I thought he
was coming back to beat me up.
Little lady-- I didn't say anything at
first. Littlelady I'm talking to you. And I said, did you needsom
ething? And he said, I just wanted to let youknow that I'm sorry
for putting my hands on you. Ishould never have touched you. B
ecause of what Idid, I don't have a wife. My wife died, and my k
idsdon't have a mother. And then he started crying. I
saw these tears dropping on top of the desk. Inmy mind I
was saying, it's what you deserve.Because it didn't have to be li
ke this. You could'velet her stay here. She would have still be
alive,because I would
have taken care of her. But Iknew I couldn't say that. So I didn't
say anything. Ijust got up from the desk and
left. That had stayedwith me all of these years. It hasn't gone aw
ay.
My father never reconciled with the fact that hisfather was murd
ered by white men. He nevertrusted the white man. And he alwa
ys told us tobe on our guard. He would tell us, never trust
them, never trust them. And he always said, youhave to start wit
h the color of their skin.Sometimes my father was so bitter that,
if webrought African Americans home that were lightskin, he w
ould say they were tainted. I'mappreciative of my mom for tellin

g us andembedding in us that it's not the color of yourskin. It's t
he content of your character, and not tojudge a person unless yo
u want to be judged thesame way.
And I think that that could be one of
our savinggraces for my siblings, that we did not have thatharde
ned heart. A lot of lives have been lost andsacrificed to get us w
here we are. And not to saythat you should dwell on the past but
we arelearning from the past, and
we cannot take it forgranted. Because if we do, it
will surely come backto haunt
us. My father passed away three yearsago and he never came to
that reconciliationpoint with the racists.
I wish that I could live that part of my life over.
My brother convinced me to go to the FBI. And Idid. I told
them it was over. I pleaded guilty infederal court
for conspiracy. I was sentenced tofive years in prison. I
prayed on me knees on manynights that God
would forgive me for the awfulthings that I'd done to
the Dahmer family and toother people. It wasn't just
them. I oftenwondered what would I do today if I ever met
upwith the Dahmer family.
[INAUDIBLE] Dahmer, Jr., walked into my cell atHattiesburg. I
didn't know what to say or what to think when he walked in. He
told me, he said, Billy Roy. He said, just take
it easy. Don't get upset. He said, I want to tell you
something. He said, I'mspeaking for my mother and I, and for
the entirefamily. He said, we forgive you for what you'vedone.
It was like God had more than answered my
prayers. The Dahmer family approached thegovernor and asked t
he governor for a pardon forme. And he did. He gave me
a full pardon. Ifsomebody had done that to me and killed myfath
er, I wonder if I would-- if I could to do thesame thing.
The stories you just heard are
only a fraction ofthe more than 1,000 already collected by theV
oices of Civil Rights
Project. If it weren't for thisambitious effort, and the generality

of the storytellers, these powerful oral histories might wellhave
been lost forever. As it is, all of them nowhave a permanent ho
me at the Library of
Congress. You can find them now, or tell you ownstory, by goin
g through voicesofcivilrights.org.
1
“I Can’t Explain” by The Who—When Love’s Strange
Confusion Takes Over
What is a man supposed to do when he simply cannot
explain his feelings of love? This is explored in a mid-1960s hit
tune called “I Can’t Explain” by the famed British rock quartet
known as The Who. Lead singer Roger Daltrey, assisted by the
song’s writer and guitarist, Pete Townsend, bassist John
Entwistle, and drummer Keith Moon, puts his very best effort
forward in relating the sense of strange confusion that takes
hold of someone deeply in love. In a sense, the noted rock
group is offering this in support of others who may have felt the
same love-based confusion, and have felt alone in that struggle.
This song lets them know they are not alone. The song’s lyrics
offer many memorable examples of the out-of-step feeling the
performers wish to convey. Love is a very powerful feeling,
capable of unexpectedly instilling that confusion, and The Who
wishes us to take note of that reality, especially since we have
all felt love’s effects before.
It seems fitting to offer some background before
continuing. This song came from the time of the British
Invasion musical period of the 1960s, when British rock
dominated the American music scene. It seems to specifically

reflect the new, counterculture, time of rock’n’roll, showing the
confusion that teenagers experienced as they were torn between
the ways of old and new. They knew that they enjoyed what
they saw going on around them, with all of the changes in
clothing, hairstyles, and even speaking. However, the direction
was unclear, as yet. That unassured state of mind represented a
special kind of stress for young people nearly everywhere.
(www.songfcts.com)
The song begins in confusion by stating “Got a feeling
inside (can’t explain), it’s a certain kind (can’t explain), I feel
hot and cold (can’t explain), yeah, down my soul, yeah (can’t
explain).” Here, we see that there is only an unclear
understanding of what is occurring. It cannot be clearly
described; it is only “a certain kind” of feeling. There is the
“hot and cold,” but in unspecified amounts. We do not even
know how they balance with each other. There is no explanation
as to whether hot is stronger than cold, nor the reverse. The
only point we are able to understand from this is that none of it
can possibly be explained. However, at the very least, this does
help listeners to realize that this confused state falls within the
world of love sentiments. It is not abnormal, and not to be
feared. In fact, those first lines of the song are followed
positively with this: “I said (can’t explain) I’m feeling good
now, yeah, but (can’t explain).” The confusion that engulfs this
love song is relayed in greater detail in the next stanza.
Here, we learn that singer Daltrey now claims he is “Dizzy
in the head and I’m feeling blue, the things you’ve said, well
maybe they’re true, I’m getting’ funny dreams, again and again,
I know what it means but…Can’t explain.” The disturbing
dizziness, and now “blue” feelings of sadness seem to have
taken the lead. There are inexplicable, recurring, odd, or
“funny,” dreams being experienced. As well, the lyrics express
a reluctance to fully accept what the man in love is being told
by his loved one; he is only able to say that “maybe” his lover’s
statements are valid. He does comprehend what he has been
told, saying that he “knows what it means,” but he is still

unable to put it in terms that are clear enough for him to process
as valid. If this person is not in a state of absolute confusion,
then confusion has become too confusing to identify. Yet, the
song humanely shows the depth of confusion felt by someone so
deeply in love. It does not poke fun at this, but rather displays it
audiences so that they may see that confusion for what it is:
out-of-control love.
Actually, the singer is so in love that he is not even sure he
really is in love—though everything else he says points to that
feeling. He comments next that he “Can’t explain, I think it’s
love, try to say to you, When I feel blue.” We may conclude this
is probably the first, maybe second, time the man has been in
love. He not only cannot be sure he is truly in love, but he can
only “try” to express his feeling of passion, never really
arriving at the core of those feelings. In fact, as he does
repeatedly try, and fail, in expressing those sentiments, he feels
“blue,” or sadness. In apparent desperation, he can do no better
than to cry out to the woman of his life, following with this,
“Yeah, hear what I’m saying, girl (can’t explain).” We can only
imagine that she hears what he says, but can make no more
sense of it than he can. This inability to communicate a feeling,
particularly held so deeply, as in the song, is very normal. The
song wants us to recall that, even and especially as we may
experience similar difficulty in addressing and assessing our
emotions. However, we also need to be psychologically
prepared to experience a change for the worse in our confused
emotional state. Love’s confusion is capable of producing
anger, as described in the next stanza of the song.
In this instance, the singer seems to snap as he reports that
he is “Dizzy in the head and…feeling bad, the things you’ve
said have got me real mad, I’m getting’ funny dreams, again and
again, I know what it means but…” Yet, as angrily unbalanced
as this seems, he later asks or forgiveness for this irrational
state: “Forgive me one more time, now (can’t explain).” He also
acknowledges the insanity resulting from his passion: “(Ooh)
you drive me out of my mind.” The singer also attempts to

justify this abnormal mental state by stating: “(Ooh) yeah, I’m
the worrying kind, babe…I said I can’t explain.” These lyrics
sincerely convey the insecurity the man experiences with his
encounter with love. It is surprising on the one hand, making
him seem an oddity. Yet, the song wants listeners to this is the
mixture of often-changing feelings that can easily engulf
someone who has fallen hopelessly in love.
The message of love’s confusion is not lost on the world’s
different cultures. This feeling is known well to the hundreds of
millions of people living in the Middle East. For example, in the
Arabic language, there are many sayings that fit the above
scenario. First, there is “such a love that kills.” While the man
featured in the above love song neither kills, nor is killed, the
saying demonstrates the great passion that overcomes people
deeply in love, and the man in the song seems very close to
feeling such passion with his fluctuating rage. Next, and still
better, there is this: “Life is Heaven, and Love is Hell, but Life
without Love is unacceptable.” That seems to represent the
confusion previously generated by love in the song. We cannot
live with the hellish love, yet how can we live in an
“unacceptable” life? Finally, there is this: “Love is the only
game between two people in which both will win or lose.” here,
there is confusion because most “games” ensure that there will
be only one winner. Love essentially rewrites a basic rule of
competitive play.
To conclude, “I Can’t Explain” is an attempt to help
listeners come to terms with pressing, confusing, emotional
troubles they may encounter when very much in love. In that
sense, it has a key societal role to play in timelessly reassuring
audiences everywhere (the song has enjoyed popularity to this
time) that there is nothing unusual in what they are feeling. It
is worth noting that the song ends without resolution to the
singer’s crisis in love, only repeating “I can’t explain.” This is
an important reminder to listeners, too, since it shows that life
is imperfect, and we all must sometimes figure our personal
problems out on our own.

Reference:
Factsongs, “I can’t explain by The Who”,
<http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=68>, print

Im Mekhi Phifer. As an actor, I know the power ofthe human voice..docx

Recommended

Recommended

More Related Content

More from wilcockiris

More from wilcockiris (20)

Recently uploaded

Recently uploaded (20)

Im Mekhi Phifer. As an actor, I know the power ofthe human voice..docx