songs to know that Parchman was the most reviled prison in the country, but when they finally pulled into the Greyhound station in Jackson singing “We Shall Overcome,” she felt no fear. She marched out with the other riders and headed straight for the Whites Only waiting room.
“We are not afraid, we are not afraid, we are not afraid, toda-aa-ay!” She pushed the words out into the cloudless spring sky, her voice dwarfing all the others, even as the police officers stepped in front of them. Through the dirt-specked glass, Sofie could see men milling about in the waiting room, the same ugly look on their faces that she’d seen in the Special K diner.
The officers wore riot helmets, and their blue uniform shirts had stains where they’d been sweat through and then dried again. Sofie kept singing, and her voice didn’t falter, but a little seed of fear sprouted in her when one of the officers pulled out his billy club and took a step forward. His eyes locked on Sofie—perhaps drawn by her voice—and he was on her in two steps.
He grabbed her roughly by the collar of the jacket she wore over her simple dress. She heard the stitching she had worked so hard on rip and then she was flying this way and that. “You think you can just come marching in here singing a happy little tune and change things?” The visor of his helmet was up and his sweaty pink face was much too close to hers. He pushed her back and then gave her an extra shove with the edge of his baton, sending her against the glass door of the waiting room. “We treat our niggers good here. You ain’t doing nothing but causing trouble.”
Sofie didn’t have time to process the madness of the man’s words. The door began to shake behind her. She could hear the taunts and leers of the men who had been waiting to greet the riders with violence, but she didn’t hear the singing of her friends any longer. A shove from the door pushed her to her knees, and the burning scrape of jagged concrete surprised her into the truth. The other students had been wrong; these men were going to hurt her, Bobby Kennedy be damned.
Sofie looked up at the officer, at the hatred in his eyes that she would never comprehend. “I’m not your nigger or anyone else’s,” she said. “And if you think I’m causing trouble now, I’ll have you know I’m just getting started.”
The officer lifted his baton, but Sofie didn’t look away. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could barely hear the men egging the officer on.
“Bill, what the hell are you doing? Get that girl in the goddamned wagon before a reporter shows up!” The officer lowered his baton at the command and grabbed Sofie roughly by the arm.
“Have fun at Parchman, Sweetie,” he growled as he pushed her into the wagon. “Ain’t no cameras there to keep you safe.”
“Sofie!” Michael pulled her inside, and she felt like a lost lamb returning to the fold. “You’re shaking. We turned around and you were gone. What happened?”
A woman next to her held her hand for a moment, and Sofie took a deep breath.
“I’m fine.”
The wagon was hot, and they sat baking for what seemed like an eternity compared to the long bus ride. They sang We Shall Overcome again, and that song changed to a church hymn, and then the national anthem, and then someone quickly taught them a call-and-respond song made especially for the protests. The singing fortified something in Sofie and her newfound compatriots. Their voices together became something more than just sound, but a physical force beating back the negativity around them. Sofie stank, and she needed a shower and coffee and for her First Amendment rights to be respected, but she closed her eyes and sang like it was the only thing that mattered.
“Can we take ‘em over, Bill?” Sofie heard one of the officers ask.
“Get these assholes out of here,” the officer who had attacked her replied. “I’m gonna have that shit music stuck in my head all
“We are not afraid, we are not afraid, we are not afraid, toda-aa-ay!” She pushed the words out into the cloudless spring sky, her voice dwarfing all the others, even as the police officers stepped in front of them. Through the dirt-specked glass, Sofie could see men milling about in the waiting room, the same ugly look on their faces that she’d seen in the Special K diner.
The officers wore riot helmets, and their blue uniform shirts had stains where they’d been sweat through and then dried again. Sofie kept singing, and her voice didn’t falter, but a little seed of fear sprouted in her when one of the officers pulled out his billy club and took a step forward. His eyes locked on Sofie—perhaps drawn by her voice—and he was on her in two steps.
He grabbed her roughly by the collar of the jacket she wore over her simple dress. She heard the stitching she had worked so hard on rip and then she was flying this way and that. “You think you can just come marching in here singing a happy little tune and change things?” The visor of his helmet was up and his sweaty pink face was much too close to hers. He pushed her back and then gave her an extra shove with the edge of his baton, sending her against the glass door of the waiting room. “We treat our niggers good here. You ain’t doing nothing but causing trouble.”
Sofie didn’t have time to process the madness of the man’s words. The door began to shake behind her. She could hear the taunts and leers of the men who had been waiting to greet the riders with violence, but she didn’t hear the singing of her friends any longer. A shove from the door pushed her to her knees, and the burning scrape of jagged concrete surprised her into the truth. The other students had been wrong; these men were going to hurt her, Bobby Kennedy be damned.
Sofie looked up at the officer, at the hatred in his eyes that she would never comprehend. “I’m not your nigger or anyone else’s,” she said. “And if you think I’m causing trouble now, I’ll have you know I’m just getting started.”
The officer lifted his baton, but Sofie didn’t look away. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could barely hear the men egging the officer on.
“Bill, what the hell are you doing? Get that girl in the goddamned wagon before a reporter shows up!” The officer lowered his baton at the command and grabbed Sofie roughly by the arm.
“Have fun at Parchman, Sweetie,” he growled as he pushed her into the wagon. “Ain’t no cameras there to keep you safe.”
“Sofie!” Michael pulled her inside, and she felt like a lost lamb returning to the fold. “You’re shaking. We turned around and you were gone. What happened?”
A woman next to her held her hand for a moment, and Sofie took a deep breath.
“I’m fine.”
The wagon was hot, and they sat baking for what seemed like an eternity compared to the long bus ride. They sang We Shall Overcome again, and that song changed to a church hymn, and then the national anthem, and then someone quickly taught them a call-and-respond song made especially for the protests. The singing fortified something in Sofie and her newfound compatriots. Their voices together became something more than just sound, but a physical force beating back the negativity around them. Sofie stank, and she needed a shower and coffee and for her First Amendment rights to be respected, but she closed her eyes and sang like it was the only thing that mattered.
“Can we take ‘em over, Bill?” Sofie heard one of the officers ask.
“Get these assholes out of here,” the officer who had attacked her replied. “I’m gonna have that shit music stuck in my head all
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