So after meeting with Cathy, I have decided to make a compilation of different pieces of fiction told from different points of view but all relating to Freedom Summer. This portion is from the point of view of a black SNCC volunteer during his training in Oxford. I wanted to show that not everything was as friendly and productive as it may seem in records or retrospective looks at the noble feat of these volunteers. So here goes...

I remember they told us to be prepared for something very different from what we were used to. Yeah, very different. Awfully vague for what it actually was. I had been a volunteer for SNCC (Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee) for about six months when I caught wind of the Freedom Summer project taking place in a little Midwestern town in Ohio: Oxford. Up until then, I had honestly had very little interaction in general with white folks. I joined SNCC in my hometown of Detroit. Actually as far as hometowns go, that is a rather large place to claim, so I guess I missed out on some of the homey aspects of a safe and quaint hometown like Oxford, OH. Regardless, Before I left for the training, I remember our committee leader explaining to us that everyone was there to volunteer for a common cause. It would be different but also a learning experience. They tried to sugar coat everything, I know in retrospect. What I experienced during that time in Ohio could not have been foreseen fully for what it was.

            I don’t mean to make the experience sound like a nightmare. I assure you, it wasn’t. It was noble especially thinking on it now. But that doesn’t mean that it was all rainbows and unicorns. The SNCC volunteers seemed to naturally group together and the white volunteers seemed constantly segregated. It was as if they didn’t understand us nor we them. I remember one conversation I had during a training session on how to handle a violent situation if we were to be jumped or attacked. I was being attacked and this white volunteer was the attacker. To preface, we were told to act as if the situation were real so as not to create shock if the issue was really to play out while in Mississippi. I had no idea he would go this far.

            “Down you coon! No good [kicks to the ribs] son-of-a-bitch!”

            I curled into a ball as I was told by our instructors.

            “What the hell you think you are doin’ in these parts, nigger?”

            He went for my face, so I buried it in my hands. I could hear gasps from my friends and other volunteers forming around us in a circle. I continued to cover my face and felt his blows on my ribs, penetrating deeper and deeper. Finally the demonstration was over. I rose to see his face.

            He was red and panting, panting from his rage or from the drill. The seemingly kind man who had shaken my hand before was replaced with the hatred they taught us not to fear but to expect. It wasn’t all violent and terrifying, the training. But it was also clear that this was the bringing together of different groups. It was a lesson that could only be lived perhaps.