The 1963 March on Washington: ‘I Was There’

The March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom — which took place 60 years ago on August 28 — is remembered, conveniently, as the forum for Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech. Dominant narratives in subsequent decades have focused on King’s dream. But the gathering of 250,000 people in front of the Lincoln Memorial did not happen because of a dream. It happened because, whether Up South or Down North, we were being forced to live an American nightmare — racism.

I know. I was there. I experienced that monumental event firsthand as a teen, and it changed my life.

Organized by a coalition of civil rights and labor leaders, the march grew out of a growing tide of activism and righteous anger over egregious daily violations of fundamental human rights. We marched for long-overdue civil rights legislation, the right to a quality K–12 education, equal opportunity to decent jobs, fair housing, and voting rights.

My mother and I rode to D.C. in a coach bus from New York City. As a Northern school-desegregation pioneer at 8 years old, I was no stranger to racism. But that bus ride south was the first time I was violently denied a rest room or food we could afford to buy.

As we approached the Delaware-Maryland border, that infamous Mason-Dixon line, a mob of angry white people surrounded the bus, as if to underscore the need for the march, shouting and rocking the bus side to side to flip it over. As I gazed at the vicious crowd, I saw law enforcement officers right behind them, looking on in complicity. We, on the bus, were “outside agitators” disrupting their “way of life.” The screamers were “Americans,” “citizens” “defending their rights.” WE, said THEY, were trouble-makers. It was 1963. The Freedom Rides were current events, not history.

Lumbering into Washington just before 11 a.m., our bus emerged from the raging flames of hatred to be swarmed by a cheering throng. As we exited the bus, the people who were already gathered for the march could tell that we had been through something; they began to embrace us, one by one. So embraced, we, in turn, welcomed the next bus. They cheered the group after them, and, on and on.

Getting off the bus in Washington, I came to a mighty awakening. I was not alone. WE were not alone. By bus, by train, by plane, people of every hue kept coming — some walking hundreds of miles to get to that day.

For hours, speakers and singers, drum majors all, kept a steady beat. We heard, among others, A. Philip Randolph, head of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters; Bayard Rustin, the principal organizer of the march; Roy Wilkins, the president of the NAACP; John Lewis, chair of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee; and Whitney Young of the National Urban League. There was a “Tribute to Negro Women Fighters for Freedom,” but there was only one principal woman speaker, the expatriate superstar Josephine Baker.

Finally, Dr. King ascended the podium. His familiar baritone tuned like none other, he soothed us, rallied us, commended us on to heights untold. When he raised his hand over the crowd, invoking his Dream, I felt myself levitate. Soar. One among 250,000 united, I understood the Movement and this country as never before. I’d begun the day an innocent in braids and a brand-new sundress of pink and white. I would never wear that dress again―or my hair in those braids.

It’s no wonder that FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover called soon-to-be Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Dr. King “the most dangerous man in America.” We were all “dangerous” that day.

It was dangerous to threaten enforced doctrines of white supremacy; dangerous to meet the demon face-to-face, yet keep on keepin’ on our charted route; maintaining our sense of direction. That was the promise and the premise of the Civil Rights Movement.

Participating in that historic event changed my life and left me with formative life lessons:

1. See yourself as you want to be seen. Black people, poor and privileged, came armed with a vision of themselves. This was no “picnic.” Marchers arrived wearing “sensible shoes” and their “Sunday best.”
2. Know what you’re about. It was called the “Civil Rights Movement” to avoid offending those who’d been so offensive to us. But know the struggle for what it is: the fight for human rights.
3. You’re told you’re powerless because those who would oppress you know you’re powerful. Government officials were so alarmed by the massive number of Black people predicted to march, that Congress closed for the day.
4. You are not who/what your enemies say you are. Said James Baldwin, who marched: “If I am not who you say I am, you are not who you think you are.”
5. Women must speak as leaders. Despite the extensive work of women activists in the Movement, women were spoken of but did not speak for the Movement. Josephine Baker, the only woman speaker, honored activists Daisy Bates, Rosa Parks, and others.
6. Build relationships with people you admire and respect; then love each other forward. As Dr. King delivered his prepared remarks, his favorite singer and friend, Mahalia Jackson, urged him higher: “Tell them about the dream, Martin.”
7. Build relationships with people you trust; then listen when they speak. Had Dr. King not listened to Jackson, departing from his text, we would not have one of the world’s greatest moments of oratory, I Have a Dream.
8. Sing for your soul and your life. We sang “We Shall Overcome,” to rally us, but we sang “Ain’ Gon’ Let Nobody Turn Me Round” to keep us alive.
9. Develop love as a skill and the courage to use it. The antidote to hate isn’t love; it’s self-respect. Love is a tactic, a strategy, and a practice — especially self-love.
10. Stay dangerous. Whatever you had to give with dignity and purpose, the Civil Rights Movement had a place for you. That’s why we were dangerous: because we did not waste people’s lives.