Writers style and literary techniques

Blessed Are the Peacemakers in Tennessee

The burdensome July heat dominated everyone and every thing in the Woolworth's store. Ceiling fans churned but all they did was move the hot air around. It was late afternoon. Sonny got in the checkout line with the box of Kotex his mom sent him to fetch.

"Get the Hell out of my way black boy!" The fat man with a cigar barked.

"Why? I am in line," Sonny replied.

"Don't you dare sass back to me. I'll kick your black ass when we get outside."

Sonny turned and faced the man for a brief second. The tension in the air was thick.

"I'll beat your hide so hard you won't sit down for a week, nigger."

Sonny said nothing more but obediently stepped out of line and got behind the fat man.

"You didn't have to let him in," said the tall and friendly checker after the fat man was out the door.

"He's a bully. Hates black people," she explained in a soft voice.

"I know," Sonny replied. "But he beat up my cousin last week, whipped him with a belt. Doused him with warm beer. When my cousin got home his mom punished him because he smelled like a brewery."

"I ain't fightin' with him. No way."

"Did your cousin report that to the police?"

"Maam, the fat man's brother is on the police force."

"Well I'll be," she replied. "We're living in dangerous, evil times for sure."

Sonny waited for the two quarters to slide out of the little silver machine. He jammed the change into his jeans and walked carefully out the door. He looked both ways. No fat man in sight. He jumped on his old, beat-up bike and rode home.

The sun was brutal. The tar between the cracks in the sidewalks had melted soft as butter.

Sonny cut through the park and rode along the railroad tracks. Most white folks didn't go that way. Sonny was only 13 but he was street savvy.

In the 1950s Tennessee was still full of racist Jim Crowe laws and attitudes.

There was no Civil Rights movement yet. There needed to be, but there was none happening yet. In Tennessee there were Baptist preachers who cared about racial justice. They didn't march in the streets, and didn't write letters to the editor.

But some ministers did include messages about racial fairness in their sermons. They brought up the U.S. Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, the Ten Commandants, and select passages from the Holy Bible in their sermons.

And old yellowing newspaper clipping is taped to the refrigerator in Sonny's house. It quotes the Declaration of Independence. It reads: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…"

Meanwhile, up north in Wisconsin, the cheese state, ministers were talking on the phone about social change. Several Black Baptist preachers from Tennessee had visited Wisconsin recently.

They were asking for financial and spiritual help from the convention of Baptists in northern states. More than that, they were just reaching out. In the name of Jesus Christ, they were trying to establish closer ties to white Baptist churches.

Johnny's dad, Elmo, was one of the organizers of this "help" for black churches in the south.

"If we don't act in Christian ways with our brothers and sisters in the South," his dad said from the pulpit in early July, "then we're not good Christians."

"Jesus said, 'Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied,' and I want our church to bring some righteousness to our brethren in Tennessee."

The congregation listened intently. Some shook their heads. The Baptist church in Janesville, Wisconsin, was struggling to pay the mortgage for the property.

Some members fumbled with their church bulletins, nervously; others put dollar bills and quarters into the collection plate, an offering for black churches in the south.

A week later, Johnny and his pastor dad flew from Wisconsin to Cleveland Tennessee in a small plane owned by a member of his dad's congregation. The plane was tossed and shaken through the rough air. Before they could fly over Illinois Johnny vomited.

His embarrassment was mitigated because there was a "barf bag" in the back seat. The plane was a Cessna 150. It was blue with white stripes on the side.

"It's okay Johnny, let 'er rip," said Walter, the pilot when sickness overcame the boy.

"Are you all right son?" his dad asked.

Dad looked back and saw a red-faced boy. The rest of the flight was smooth.

After landing, the three from Wisconsin were picked up in an old church van. The seats were tattered and the paint was peeling off the outside. But the driver, a black minister, was very happy to receive his visitors.

His smile was wide and believable. His eyes were very large. The flies in the bus buzzed around his baldhead but he paid them no attention.

"Hey y'all, glad to have you here! Let's go have some dinner then we'll go to the church meeting."

"Sounds good," said Elmo. "We're pleased to have been invited."

"What exactly have you come down here for?"

"We want to share the faith with your congregation," Elmo replied.

Johnny sat quietly in the back of the bus. He was fascinated with the sights he saw in the street. Big signs next to public drinking fountains read, "White" and "Colored."

On Elmo's suggestion, the rickety old bus pulled into a Denny's parking lot.

"I don't think they'll serve me in there," said the driver.

"Why wouldn't they?"

"This is Tennessee," he answered.

"Well we'll see about that," said the preacher from up north.

The three men and a 14-year-old boy found a booth towards the back of the dining room and sat down. A waiter came over with three menus, and handed them to the pilot, Elmo, and Johnny.

"There are four of us here," Elmo said.

"Sir, we can't serve this man in here," the waiter replied, pointing to the bald bus driver.

"I think you should just go ahead and serve all of us," said the pilot, speaking for the first time. "He's with us and we want to be served, all of us."

"Well, he can eat in the back, out back, there is a place where we serve the colored," the waiter replied.

"But he just can't eat in this dining room. I'd lose my job if I did."

"Okay then," said Elmo, getting up abruptly and tossing the menu down onto the checkered oilcloth covering the table. "If this place is not good enough for our friend, it's not good enough for us."

The bus pulled out of the Denny's parking lot leaving behind a cloud of blue smoke due to the old, tired engine's habit of burning too much oil.

"We got problems here in Cleveland," said the bus driver.

"That's why we came," said the pastor from Wisconsin. "To see if there is a way we can help you. We're all Christians. This is what Christ wants us to do."

"Well we sure need a better place of worship, for starters," the bus driver said.

The battered bus pulled into the gravel and dirt parking lot of a small building on Thomas Street, just a block from the Woolworth's store. A humble sign hanging slightly skewed from a rusted chain said, "African Baptist Unity Church."

At about the same time, Sonny's mom had sent her son back to Woolworth's to get a package of bobby pins for Sonny's little sister.

As Sonny rode by the church, the fat man -- who lived next door to the church -- walked abruptly onto the sidewalk blocking Sonny's path. He put his arms out so Sonny's bike could not pass around his large body.

"You ain't supposed to be ridin' that bike on my sidewalk," he yelled.

His gruff, gravely voice caught the attention of the four people getting out of the beat up church bus.

First to step towards the tense scene was the airplane pilot, Walter. He was a football player in college and kept his body in good shape. He had powerful shoulders, very strong hands and stood 6 feet 3 inches.