Ok so time for an update. I know I had originally decided to do the interviews, which I still want to do. Now, however, after receiving my comments back from everyone including Cathy, I have decided to go a little deeper. The poetry may not be the route. In fact, I think I am going to try to construct a story from the material gathered in the interviews. I am still going to start with myself as a guinea pig. I recently visited the art museum on campus, and they have a large painting on display in the black and white exhibit. The painting is in memory of the three gentlemen who lost their lives in the Freedom Summer volunteer work in Mississippi. This then inspired me to try something new. With my interviews, I could take the responses and create a story, playing with different points of view. I actually have a piece I have been working on recently told from the point of view of one of the boys who was murdered, and it is written post-death, recalling the events. Anyway, let me know what you think. I am hoping this will allow people to grasp more concretely some kind of message or feeling involving Freedom Summer as well, if I can create a story of sorts out of it. A portion is posted below:

The bus screeched up to the station, opening its door to the designated white section of the Canton Bus Depot in the heart of Mississippi. My heart raced as I gathered my single suitcase and removed the handkerchief from my back pocket to smear the sweat beads from my oily forehead. The heat of the Deep South smothered me, saturating my lungs with a thick and hot swirl of air. Musty puffs of dust swirled at my feet, and I unbuttoned the cuffs of my shirt to shove the white sleeves up to my elbows.

“Goodman, Andrew,” I heard our group leader call.

“Present. Coming,” I called. I gathered my courage and followed my fellow volunteers inside. Mickey and I were assigned to bunk together, which helped a little since we had done most of our training side-by-side since leaving school in New York. It wasn’t much, but what more did we need than a clean set of sheets and a mattress to do the job?

“So do you think there’s actually going to be any live action like they told us about back in Ohio?” Mickey asked.

“I’m not sure, Mick. I hope not. Doesn’t seem right, does it? Fearin’ so much that you can’t even register to vote. It’s goddamn 1964 for godssake.”

“Well I’ll tell ya, Goody. I sure as hell am gonna do my best to register as many people as possible, really make a name for myself, ya know? No sheets and rebels are going to scare me from doing that.”

I pulled a picture of my family out of my suitcase and propped it next to my still unmade bed. Guess I should get these sheets on some time while it’s still light out, I thought. I paused and looked at the smile on my mother’s face and whispered under my breath, “Time for change.”

The next morning, Mickey and I were assigned to Riverside Baptist Church, a tiny building set right up by the Peal River just between Canton and Philadelphia, Mississippi. The training in Ohio tried to prepare us for the badgering we would get on our walks to our destinations. Mickey and I had about a good hour or so walk to Riverside, and knew we might face some heckles. It was the final goal that kept one foot moving in front of the other.

Thinking on it now, I suppose our skin was our best form of defense. No one thought to mess with a couple white boys walking along side the road. Why would you? White boys owned the South, right? Needless to say, our walk to Riverside went relatively smoothly. Besides the air that felt heavy enough to slice with a knife and the incessant buzz of mosquitoes cupping our ears, we made it to our first post. Inside the building the heat seemed to double. We were greeted with smiles and open arms. Mick and I took our places at the scratched linoleum-covered tables and sticky metal folding chairs, beige with rusted speckles where the paint was chipping from years of clanking in and out of cobwebbed storage closets.

On my left, a black man about my age. He wore a short-sleeved light blue button up shirt, loose-fitting but suctioned to his dewy dark skin, making it appear navy near his neck and underarms. His name was James Earl Chaney, but he insisted we call him Jim. He told us he would be working with us for the week, and we manned our stations eager

for visitors.

“So you boys train up in Oxford?”

“Yeah, how about you?” I asked.

“Sure did. Traveled from down here in Meridian on up to Ohio then back here, trying to make some changes here at home. Finished up about a month ago. Been down here ever since. They move ya around enough. Keep ya busy at different churches and stuff. Been gettin’ a lotta people stoppin’ in. Still a lotta fear, though.”