The following Saturday, I left my dorm early, signing out for College Park. For whatever reason, I didn’t tell anyone where I was going or what I was doing.

As instructed, I wore my Sunday dress, little black heels and all-purpose trench coat. My hair was done up in a neat French twist (remember that style?). 

CORE sent us out two to three in a car, plus driver. One car contained only CORE reps, so they could bail us out if necessary, I suppose, or act as witnesses to whatever happened.

The first time out, I was sent to the Little Tavern, in College Park. Frankly, I never wanted to eat there in the first place, but it was important to integrate any business that was part of a national chain. Three of us ordered hamburgers and sodas. No problem.

The next weekend, on my second time out, things got a bit dicey.
 
First of all, there was a young guy at the church who was itching to spend the night in jail. He had a guitar with him, and said he wanted to sing in jail. I just hoped I didn’t get stuck going out with this jerk, but I did.

To continue reading, click on Read More, below right.
We drove out in two cars to a diner a little north of town, went in and ordered. Again, no problem. They weren't friendly, but they served us.

Mr. Jailtime complained about how easy that run was.

Our next stop was a totally different story. It was much farther north on Route 1, at a diner with front and side parking lots. Since it was early afternoon, both lots were quite full.

When six or eight of us started in the front door, the owner figured out the game plan immediately, and almost blew a gasket. He yelled that the place was closed, so we left, no questions asked. 

In what seemed like only a few minutes, the diner emptied out and the owner hung a “Closed” sign on the front door.

The guy also called the police. At first, I was glad, but then I remembered that this WAS Prince Georges County, probably the northern-most county of the south.

Meanwhile, we set up a marching path in the parking lot. Always careful to keep moving, stay 6 feet from the entrance to the building and out of the way of customers, we quietly walked back and forth, carrying signs, in hopes customers and passersby would support our effort.

By this time, my feet really started to hurt. It was all I could do to walk at all, let alone in a straight line. I didn’t dare get too close to the building or I could be arrested. If we stopped marching, we could be charged with loitering or trespassing, since the business was officially closed. So, I trudged on, reminding myself that this was a good thing to do. Keep your eyes on the prize, and all that.

The PG cop arrived, parked, got out and leaned back against his cruiser. He stood there for the remainder of our saty, his arms crossed, waiting for one of us to trip. 

It got chilly and started to rain. Soon, the owner flew out of the front door, all red in the face. For whatever reason, he singled me out, glaring at me as he hurried around the building to a shiny red Corvette parked in the side lot. 

Suddenly, he backed out of the parking space, stopped, leaned out of the driver-side window and shouted “You four-eyed, nigger-loving bitch!” while he gunned his engine, aiming his car right at me.

I froze. Should I move to the right and risk getting within 6 feet of the building?  Or move to the left and get in the path of his car? I chose the right. Hell with it. If I get arrested, I get arrested. At least I'd be alive. 

I didn’t trust the cop to save me, and it was a good thing. He never lifted a finger.  

When I was within a foot of the Corvette, the owner swerved and peeled out of the parking lot, racing north toward Baltimore in a blue cloud.  

It was clearly time to leave, but Mr. Jailbird refused. He grabbed his guitar from the car, and shouted an obscenity at the cop. Sure enough, he got his free night in the PG County jail. Good riddance!

The last mile and a half back to my dorm was equally unnerving. As I crossed Route 1 alone, a southbound sedan full of young white men – maybe in their 20s – started tailing me. Once I turned onto campus, they drove alongside, hooting and hollering, calling me names all the way back to my dorm. My feet were killing me, but I never gave them reason to think I heard anything they said. 
 


Comments




Leave a Reply