Detroit: Sunday, June 23, 1963
Dress rehearsal for “I Have a Dream”
Sixty-one years ago, on Sunday, June 23, 1963, the dress rehearsal for the March on Washington took place in Detroit, Michigan. Historians rarely mention it. It’s one of the little-known and rarely reported facts about the events that occurred during the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s. But for those of us who were there, although half a century has flown by, images burn bright in our memories of a time and place in our youth when we were galvanized as “foot soldiers” — actively engaged on the battlefield, demanding racial equality. Participating along with a multitude of thousands on that great historic day is a treasured memory I am pleased to share. This is the way I remember The Great March On Detroit.
To say that these were very turbulent times would be overstating the obvious. But in 1963, in the United States of America, Negroes in Southern states were living under what was tantamount to law-enforced terrorism. Where else in this country could a group of vicious white racists come to the door of a black homeowner and order him to turn over his 14-year-old nephew, Emmett Till, for punishment for “gazing at” or “whistling at” a white woman? Where else could a crouching coward Ku Klux Klan member hover in wait with a rifle in the bushes to ambush a decent and honorable man, Medgar Evers, whose young family was waiting inside their house to welcome him home? Accompanying these brutal, racially-motivated murders, disturbing images of vile, ignorant, snarling white supremacists, police attack dogs and fire hoses being used against Civil Rights demonstrators permeated the airwaves and print media on an all too regular basis.
Reports emanating from the White House that President Kennedy was “sickened” by what he was seeing were born out by his hastily arranged speech on Civil Rights on radio and television. For the first time in history, a sitting president grabbed the nation by the collar and said in essence: “This is wrong.” Categorizing segregation and racial inequality as “a moral issue” he immediately increased enforcement of existing laws, federalized troops and marshals, and sent a special message to Congress outlining a definitive plan dealing with racial discrimination. Sadly, and in a cruel irony, only four hours after the president’s speech, in Jackson Mississippi, NAACP field secretary Medgar Evers was assassinated in the driveway of his home. The shock of this heinous crime was a national tragedy that sent waves of anger and despair from coast to coast. Initially, there was talk of postponing the Detroit march, but when word of the possibility of cancellation reached Mrs. Myrlie Evers, her rousing statement: “Don’t let this stop you…” was just what the march organizers and leaders needed to hear. The temporarily stalled plans kicked up again, and all systems were “go”.
Sunday, June 23, 1963 dawned as a bright, warm summer day in Detroit. At the height of what is now regarded as one of the most pivotal years of social change in our nation’s history, there was a feeling of excitement all around the city and in our neighborhood. For weeks leading up to this day, our home on the West side had been teeming with excitement and activity in anticipation of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s Great March on Detroit. Because of our family’s roots in Montgomery Alabama, my parents were practically ecstatic with anticipation at being able to participate in the event. For weeks, the long-distance phone calls to and from our relatives and friends in our native Montgomery, were constant. Although my family had joined in the Great Migration and settled in Detroit in 1954, most of our relatives had remained in the South. Many of the phone calls were from my cousin, Elnora, providing contact information for her husband, Bernard Lee, Dr. King’s personal assistant and road manager, so as was typical in those days, it was common knowledge that Mother would soon be hostessing another one of her fabulous dinner parties for assorted groups of hungry, exhausted Civil Rights Workers and activists. These dinners, which also usually included my mother’s childhood friend and classmate, Mrs. Rosa Parks, were eagerly anticipated and well attended.
Very early, on the morning of the march, my parents, my two sisters, and my 6 year-old nephew and I all piled eagerly into our blue Pontiac, en route to join the rest of the crowd, and “to make history”, as my mother often insisted on saying. Having grown up with and having become accustomed to these expressions of unbridled pride in her heritage and her people, my mother’s enthusiasm on this day was not surprising. But even though her keen sense of history had been demonstrated to be dead-on correct in so many instances, I was still under the mistaken impression that this event was going to be a minor trek of a few hundred people with a sprinkling of local dignitaries through downtown Detroit, with a bunch of boring speeches and resulting in tired, aching feet. I could not have been more wrong.
When we arrived at the specific Woodward Avenue intersection starting point as everyone had been instructed to do, we were absolutely stunned. Frozen in disbelief. The crowd was massive. I had never seen that many human beings gathered in one place in my entire life. But what was even more impressive was the joyous and festive atmosphere, and the fact that everyone present exhibited such tremendous solidarity and fellowship.
Following my parents’ lead, our family clasped hands and fell into rhythmic step with the rest of the foot soldiers, with various sections of the huge crowd bursting into song. “Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around!”; and “America The Beautiful” and “We Shall Overcome” wafted joyfully through the crowd as the powerful surge of humanity moved closer to the Cobo Hall destination. I was convinced that the momentum would push the crowd right into the Detroit River where it was clearly headed. The excitement was electric and palpable, and by now I had begun to realize that my mother was right once again, and that we were active participants in a history-making event. I was unprepared for such feelings of racial pride and love for all of humanity. I felt love for every smiling face that I encountered. Black or white. For every warm and sweaty embrace that I welcomed and returned. And the spirit of unity, pride, and hope and purpose that permeated the crowd was overwhelming and made an indelible impression on me. By the time the march reached Cobo Hall, we were not among the fortunate ones who made it inside the arena for Dr. King’s speech, but by then we were completely satisfied to be off our weary feet, sitting outside the arena on the sidewalk. After loudspeakers broadcast several rousing and entertaining musical performances by notable Detroit music stars, the familiar, deep, resonant voice of Martin Luther King, Jr. captured and held our attention with his soaring “I Have A Dream” vision for America and our people.
And so it came to pass…that the dress rehearsal was a tremendous success. At the time, it was the largest and most significant Civil Rights demonstration in the history of this country. But the rallying cry for racial equality would continue two months later on an even larger scale when on August 28, 1963, more than 250,000 Americans gathered in Washington, D.C., for the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom.
