That evening hundreds of people joined the day’s marchers for a rally at Lawson’s church. They sang freedom songs and listened to a parade of speakers. Representatives from each of the Big Five civil rights organizations shared their outrage over the shooting, their intention to complete the walk to Jackson, and their impatience with the pace of change. Wilkins, of the NAACP, spoke at the rally about how the residents of Meredith’s home state seemed to be living in “another country” that followed a different set of laws and standards. He promised the crowd, “We are going to show the people of Mississippi that they are part of the 50 states,” and therefore they must follow its laws. Speakers outlined the motivation for the effort, including their determination to answer a violent act with nonviolent solidarity.
But there were other reasons to act, as well. Like Meredith, they wanted to encourage blacks to become registered voters. And they hoped that their walk toward Jackson, when combined with shock over Meredith’s shooting, would prompt members of Congress to pass the civil rights bill of 1966, the latest proposal in a series of such legislation. If approved, the bill would make it illegal to discriminate in housing and jury selection; extend federal protection to civil rights workers; and expand the integration of public schools. The march from Selma to Montgomery had influenced the passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1965; perhaps another great march—the Meredith march—would inspire lawmakers to act again.
Even as they fired up the local base and sent appeals for support to allies around the country, movement leaders still needed to determine how to pull off their plans. That night, after the public meeting at Lawson’s church, representatives from the Big Five crammed into one of the guest rooms at the Lorraine Motel to establish the fundamentals. Slowly, over the course of a long and contentious discussion, civil rights leaders and their associates debated what to do.
Would voter registration be the focus of the march? Or passage of the civil rights bill? Both, if possible. They considered what roles whites should play in the protest. Some asked if whites should even be included at all: Wasn’t it time for blacks to stand up on their own? Organizers compromised. Whites would be welcome to participate, but the effort would depend on African-American leadership and support.
Leaders debated the role of nonviolence versus the need for security. Could the Mississippi police be trusted to keep the marchers safe? Or should armed guards help protect participants? They finally agreed that the power of nonviolence would guide the effort; therefore, marchers would be unarmed. But, adopting a strategy already employed for other SNCC and CORE projects in the Deep South, members of a southern organization called the Deacons for Defense and Justice would accompany them as bodyguards, ready to defend the marchers from attacks by Klan members and other white supremacists.
Three of the Big Five groups had already expressed their support for a renewed march, and each brought its own strengths to the effort. McKissick’s CORE could recruit plenty of volunteers but had little money. Carmichael’s SNCC had the best sense of the territory they would cross, having done fieldwork in rural Mississippi since 1962. The SCLC, led by King, had access to donors. Furthermore, King’s presence automatically guaranteed increased media coverage, funding, and participation. By joining forces, they might truly make a difference to the local people through voter registration drives while continuing the momentum of the national fight for civil rights. Maybe, as Carmichael hoped, their successes could “really make this the last march” for the movement.
The other Big Five leaders—Whitney Young of the National Urban League and Roy Wilkins of the NAACP—thought the goals for the revived walk were too fragmented. They wanted to focus only on passing the civil rights bill, not voter registration, too. And they regarded the militant tone of SNCC leaders as both counterproductive and offensive. Hearing the youthful Carmichael refer to Lyndon B. Johnson, the president of the United States, with street slang as “that cat Johnson,” helped to send them packing. Their departure deprived the march of extra financial support and the appearance of Big Five unity, but it strengthened the ability of the participating trio of organizations to focus on their shared goals for the undertaking.
The remaining leaders crafted a document to summarize their motivations for the march, which they called their manifesto. This statement called on President Johnson to increase the nation’s investment in the country’s African-American citizens in four ways: enforcement of legal rights, increased economic opportunity, improved voting access, and greater representation by blacks on juries and police forces. Some of these concerns would be addressed by the proposed civil rights bill, but not all of them. Leaders of the revived march asked for broader action.
It was one o’clock in the morning by the conclusion of the meeting. Movement leaders settled down for a few hours of rest, knowing they’d be back on the road after daylight, traveling to the spot where they’d left off walking the day before. Until they could make more permanent arrangements, they planned to sleep in Memphis by night and walk in Mississippi by day, with each new hike extending their commute between the two locations.
Meredith remained in Memphis, too. Doctors had recommended he stay under observation at the hospital until he flew home to New York on Thursday. Those plans changed unexpectedly, though, on Wednesday, June 8. That morning, King and McKissick had stopped by Meredith’s room to secure his support of their newly created manifesto. A hospital administrator interrupted their meeting to inform Meredith that he was to be discharged a day early. Regardless of his condition, hospital personnel had grown tired of the security concerns, news media attention, and high-profile visitors that accompanied his stay.
Meredith, King, and McKissick protested this unexpected eviction, but the hospital staff held firm. He had to leave that day. When Meredith tried to speak to reporters as he departed, he fainted from the sudden exertion and stress. Medical personnel revived him then ferried him to the curb in a wheelchair. Meredith flew home later that day. June Meredith had remained in New York with their six-year-old son, John, during her husband’s walk and hospitalization. That evening she met his flight, joined by a throng of reporters. “I shall return to my divine responsibility,” a weakened Meredith told the journalists, “and we shall reach our destination.”
Despite his injuries—or, really, because of them—Meredith felt angry. He had entrusted his safety to local law enforcement officers, and they had failed him. Meredith, the military veteran who liked to plan with precision, wondered if he’d made a mistake when he’d brought a Bible to Mississippi instead of a gun. The day after his attack he had conveyed his frustration with dramatic language in a written statement for the press: “I could have knocked this intended killer off with one shot had I been prepared.” Journalists knew the idea of anyone taking the law into his own hands, even in self-defense, could be seen as inflammatory and controversial. Thus, when reporters had the chance to question Meredith in New York, they pressed him on his comment and asked if he would arm himself should he be able to rejoin the campaign.
Meredith noted that he had turned to state officials for protection originally, and it hadn’t worked; deputies had been present, but they had just stood by while Norvell took shots at him. Could he be confident they’d behave any differently the next time? Meredith told the reporters that if he could not count on receiving protection from local law enforcement personnel, then he had the right to consider arming himself in self-defense when he rejoined the march. When someone asked how he squared such a thought with the doctrine of nonviolence, Meredith replied, “Who the hell ever said I was nonviolent? I spent eight years in the military and the rest of my life in Mississippi.”
Nonviolent protest or not, James Meredith didn’t plan to get shot again.
“The shooting of James Meredith is further savage proof that brutality is still the white American way of life in Mississippi.”
Floyd McKissick, national director for the Congress of Racial Equality