Before I go any farther I want to say this:
Without exception you all treated me kindly, with dignity and respect. Thank you for your humanity. There were a few of you with whom I had conversation, sometimes light-hearted and with smiles on both sides. Your friendliness helped pass the times of waiting and were a bit of a distraction from the mild discomfort of having my wrists cuffed together behind my back. Thank you for that.
Because of our Moral Monday protests some of you have had your work schedules changed, and this has resulted in a change in your family routine, additional child care expenses, etc. For that I am truly sorry and look forward to the day it will no longer be necessary for us to engage in acts of civil disobedience as a result of the actions of our General Assembly. But I also hope that the part of you that led you to treat me with such kindness and humanity feels compassion for those who are being hurt permanently (losing their jobs, their homes, food for their children, access to medical care, etc.) because of the things happening in our legislature. I choose to allow myself the luxury of believing that some of you do indeed understand and have compassion for them. Bless you.
To the officer who cuffed me: Thank you for applying them so loosely I could have wriggled one hand free. I chose not to do so, but knowing I could was a big help.
An additional note to one particular officer: A couple of us saw you tapping time with your hand to your thigh as we sang "This Little Light of Mine." I'm glad you enjoyed our singing.
To continue…The evening began for us at 3:00 p.m. We gathered with a hundred or so supporters at the Christian Faith Baptist Church in Raleigh. There we cheered, sang, heard speakers, were briefed on what to expect, and participated in a press conference. At one point the organizers passed out strips of green cloth for us to use as armbands to identify ourselves to the organizers and supporters as being ones who had chosen to participate in the civil disobedience.
My friend from Wilson, Asa Gregory, was arrested a few weeks earlier. Asa had told me that when he was arrested his armband was cut off and thrown away. I wanted to keep at least a scrap of mine so had taken a small pair of children’s scissors with me intending to throw them away or hand them to someone in the crowd before entering the Legislative Building. I asked the woman who tied the armband on me to leave a strip long enough to cut off outside the knot. She left about six inches. I cut it off, then cut that into a few pieces, hiding one in a compartment of my wallet, another in my change purse and two of them in my shoe. I also helped a few others cut away part of their bands.
My green armband.
(Laurelyn has now written a song entitled “My Beloved Enemy” for the Moral Monday movement.)
One of the last things I saw before getting off the bus was a woman in a motorized wheelchair with a bright pink poster on her lap, headed down the sidewalk toward the rally. I would see another woman in a similar wheelchair later.
When I arrived at the Mall the rally was in full swing. Luckily I quickly found my wife, Carroll, and several members of our St. Mark’s family.
It was good to be able to spend time with family and friends
before “going in.”
We had some time together then I worked my way through the crowd to find Laurelyn. She was there, in front of the stage, and we had a few moments together before I returned to Carroll and my St. Mark’s friends. Shortly after 6:00 p.m. Rev. Barber called for all who were going into the Legislative Building to gather behind the stage. I drank the last of my water and handed Carroll the empty bottle and those scissors. I said my farewells, got hugs and kisses, received a blessing from my priests, Lorraine Ljunggren and Jim Melnyk, then made my way to join the others.
Behind the stage we were instructed to line up in pairs as the marshals cleared a pathway for us through the middle of the crowd up to the doors of the Legislative Building. My partner, Anya, and I chatted while we waited, and I asked if she was scared. She smiled and said that she was not. I had to admit to her that I was somewhat afraid. “If I were not a bit afraid, I probably shouldn’t be here,” I told her. Later I would comment to a friend that it was the fear of the unknown and knowing that soon I would allow myself to be out of control, in the hands of complete strangers.
While we waited to begin our walk into the building, two more friends, Tracy McKimmon and Carrie Shuping, suddenly appeared, and gave me more hugs and well wishes. Then we began to walk around the stage to the front and through the crowd. I heard a woman’s voice calling, “Larry! Larry!” I turned and there was Laurelyn, waving, wishing us well and taking pictures with her cell phone. A few more steps, and there was my friend, Mike Newton-Ward. He stepped from the crowd, hugged me, kissed me on the cheek and said, “God bless you.” Seconds later I heard a man’s voice. “Larry! Larry!” About three rows deep in the crowd stood my friends David and Alice Both, also waving, cheering, flashing the peace sign and wishing us well. Now my spirits were soaring.
We walked the roughly 100 yards into the building through the crowd to chants of “We love you! We love you!” and “Thank you! Thank you!” Inside the building at least three members of the General Assembly were on hand to greet and thank us. We made our way up the stairs to the second floor and gathered around the fountain there. A large crowd of supporters were on hand there as well.
Thank you, Sara Stohler, for capturing this shot of us
on our way into the building.
We sang, chanted, and heard speeches. And we were loud! I said we were peaceful; I never said we were quiet. One of the speakers we heard was a woman in a motorized wheelchair. She was there on behalf of all those who could not be. I think in many ways that was true for all of us. We all have friends and family who for whatever reasons simply cannot risk being arrested. A number of them have told me they were there on behalf of those folks as well. The woman in the wheelchair was the first to be arrested a few minutes later.
After a while the chief of security announced over his bullhorn that this was an illegal assembly and that we had five minutes to disburse or be arrested. Many in the crowd began to boo, but Rev. Barber silenced the crowd, saying, “No! No! We’ll have none of that!” He reminded us the law enforcement officials were only doing their job, and that some of them would rather not be doing it. He then asked for applause for them, and the crowd erupted with cheers and applause.
Soon the chief of security announced we had two minutes to disperse. Those who were not staying began to file out of the building, and shortly, at around 7:15 I’d guess, the arrests began. We sang as one by one we were informed that we were under arrest, asked to place our hands behind us and were cuffed. Just before I was cuffed, I said to my partner, Anya, that I would see her downstairs. I did not her again.
Anya and me inside the Legislative building. Thank you to our fellow “arrestee” for taking this shot of us.
Screen shot of a one of the many videos that were made that day.
We were taken by elevator to the basement cafeteria, segregated males and females and waited for what seemed like a long time, but certainly wasn’t. Eventually our possessions were taken from us and placed in manila envelopes with our full names written on the outside. The officer who took mine, removed all the paper money from my wallet, placed it in my pocket and said to another officer, “Left front pocket.” She untied my armband and tossed it onto the table. Then we were photographed and had a long plastic sleeve containing our ID and a piece of paper clipped to our shirts.
More waiting. Eventually those of us who had not yet been taken to detention were loaded onto an inmate transport bus. Ours was the third and last bus of the night. As we were loaded onto the bus and driven away a crowd across the street cheered and waved at us. We were taken to the Wake County Detention Center. Before we were escorted off the bus a female officer came aboard and asked if there was a man there by a certain name, which I don’t remember. From near the back of the bus a voice said, “That’s me.” The officer said to him, “Your wife called. You forgot to leave the car keys with her, and you have the only set.” We all had a laugh over that, and a couple of folks suggested he might want to stay there in jail for a few days until the dust settled.
Inside the detention center the cuffs were cut off our wrists, and we were moved through a series of holding cells, once ten of us chain-gang style, all cuffed together by our wrists and connected by a long chain running down the middle of our group. A gentleman named Sam and dressed as Uncle Sam led our “chain gang,“ and yes we did sing “Working on the Chain Gang” as we walked. We sounded horrible! Eventually we were brought eight at a time before the magistrate who informed us of the charges against us, had us sign a form promising to appear in court at the appointed time and to abide by the terms of our release (not to enter the Legislative Building or Legislative Office Building until our cases are finally resolved), then told us we were free to go. We were escorted upstairs to the front entrance, the envelopes containing our personal items were handed to us, and we were escorted to the front door.
I stepped out into the night air at about 9:45, just under three hours after having entered the Legislative Building. There were more cheers and applause and a volunteer handed each of us a button saying, “I went to jail with Rev. Barber, 2013.” When I opened the manila envelope I found not only my cell phone, wallet, keys and handkerchief, but there was my green armband as well.
Looking back at the Detention Center just seconds after I came out.
After I signed forms authorizing a volunteer attorney to represent me another wonderful volunteer, there were so very many of them, drove me back to the church where there was still more cheering and applause…and food! I ate, chatted with a few folks then drove home. I got home about midnight very tired, but also very elated.
When I stepped out of the detention center that night, one of the first thoughts to come to me were memories of the Civil Rights workers in my native Alabama who were arrested during the 1960s. I thought of one in particular, Jonathan Daniels, an Episcopal Seminarian who was murdered shortly after being released from an Alabama jail. Jonathan had come to Alabama to help with voter registration. I remember the day of his murder, and years later would meet and become friends with a classmate of Jonathan’s who had also been a pallbearer at Jonathan’s funeral.
The following afternoon those brave Civil Rights workers were still on my mind. I wrote this for them:
The lyrics to one of your songs has been in my head all day today.
I woke up this mornin' with my mind
My mind, it was stayed on freedom.
I woke up this mornin' with my mind
My mind, it was stayed on freedom.
I woke up this mornin' with my mind
My mind, it was stayed on freedom.
Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelujah
I sang your song yesterday along with 63 other people as we participated in an act of civil disobedience and as a result were arrested. Today as I look back on my experiences I cannot help but think of you.
Early during our time together I mentioned having lived in Birmingham during the 1960s. Someone asked me to share some of my memories. I told a couple of stories, your stories, not mine. I was simply an onlooker, but somehow, I believe, the telling of your stories was an invitation for your presence there with us. And I do believe you were there.
Our evening began at 3:00 p.m. in a southern church. We heard speakers, sang songs and were briefed on what to do and what to expect. The church was spacious, the pews were padded therefore comfortable, and it was air conditioned. I remember seeing photographs and movies of training sessions you had. You heard speakers, sang songs and received briefings, often crammed, standing room only, into tiny churches with hard pews in the sweltering heat of Alabama, Mississippi and other southern states.
Our very short walk into the North Carolina General Assembly took us through a crowd of hundreds if not thousands of well wishers, shaking our hands, hugging and kissing us and chanting, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” and “We love you! We love you! We love you!” I know you were often greeted by crowds of hundreds, but their chants were so very different from the ones we heard, and frequently you were attacked by those crowds.
We walked across a short, level bridge at the entrance to the Legislative Building. Many of you crossed a bridge once also. But the bridge you crossed was steep and long, and on your first attempt to cross that bridge you were brutalized and forced to turn back.
Inside the building more supporters in the gallery above us cheered and applauded for us as we entered and began our rally. You were there in that gallery, weren’t you? We could neither see nor hear you, except with the eyes and ears of our hearts, but you were there. I know you were, and you were cheering and applauding with the rest of the crowd.
Eventually, one by one, we were arrested. The arresting officers were courteous and humane. Those who arrested you were more often than not cruel and brutal.
After having our possessions taken from us and being photographed we were transported to the Wake County Detention Center. Well wishers cheered as the buses pulled out and drove off. We spent the next hour or so in a series of air conditioned holding cells and waiting rooms. Some of you never even made it to the jails, and when you did you were often locked in tiny, filthy, brutally hot cells sometimes for days with no contact with the outside world.
After we were processed, heard the charges against us and were given the date for our first court appearance, our belongings were returned to us and we were escorted to the front door and released. Outside we were greeted by more cheers from well-wishers. There was transportation to return us to the church where we began, and there we found still more welcoming faces, more cheers, and food! As I stepped out into the night air at about 9:45 I remembered stories of how some of you were released from jail, often unexpectedly into a hostile environment in the middle of the night. You were alone and some of you did not live to get back to the friends you had left behind.
The path we walked yesterday, from beginning to end, was easy, so very easy it simply cannot be compared to your path. But of this I am absolutely certain, you were there with us every step of the way, and you know that our minds are now, as yours were then…stayed on freedom.
This is my response to her question:
You asked why we got arrested.
I am an educated, financially secure, slightly-beyond-middle-aged, healthy, white, heterosexual, southern male. In other words I am a person of privilege. As a teen-ager in the 1960s I lived in Birmingham, Alabama and was an almost-eye witness to the events that occurred there during that era’s civil rights struggle.
I am also a person of faith, and my faith tradition tells me that my privileged status is a gift that carries with it certain responsibilities. Primary among those responsibilities is to care for those whom we refer to as the least of these…those on the margins, the ostracized, the powerless, the voiceless.
I watched the Moral Monday events, attended a couple, saw two friends get arrested. All the while, memories of the events, the brave people, the martyrs in Alabama during the 1960s were flooding back. Soon I realized that attending the Moral Monday rallies, posting links to Facebook, commenting on others’ posts, etc. was not enough.
I am not a skilled writer. I am not a strong leader. I lack the power of persuasion. But I am passionate, and from time to time that passion simply must be channeled into action. I came to realize that getting arrested was the way I was to channel my passion. I could not not do it.
On July 8 I attended the civil disobedience training, had a green armband tied to my left arm and with 63 other people entered the General Assembly Building. When ordered to disburse and leave the building we did not do so, and were arrested.
Do I believe my arrest will make a difference? Not for a minute! But so far roughly 700 [the total is now 924] of us have been arrested, and the numbers will grow. I do believe, I must believe, that cumulatively our efforts will eventually make a difference.
That’s why I got arrested.
Thank you to everyone, family and friends (including the new friends I have made as a result of this journey) for your love and support.
Elm City, North Carolina
July 28, 2013
