By Msgr. Noel C. Burtenshaw

Selma will be remembered as, perhaps the very last stand of segregation in the South. It place exactly twenty years ago this month. It was one of the most exciting dramas of this century. It involved humble black and white citizens, nuns, priests, bishops, business leaders, union leaders, the world press, the rich, the mighty -- even the President of the United States. And I was there, smack in the middle of it all.

I will always treasure the memory.

Selma began very simply. A few black citizens wanted to register to vote in that rural Alabama City. The authorities, on some pretext, said no. The Selma black community invited Martin Luther King, Jr., then famous for his Gandhi-style opposition to segregation, to come to their city.

On Sunday, March 7, he organized the first infamous march to Montgomery to protest the injustice. Enter Sheriff Jim Clarke and his notorious posse. As the marchers reached the bridge, leading out of the city, the full charge of the Clarke forces cut the marchers down. It was a horror fest of brutality but it was seen all over the world on television.

Clarke and his forces thought the demonstration was over. King and his lieutenants maintained it was just the beginning.

Selma is a little town just 20 miles west of Montgomery, the Alabama capital. Dr. King called for volunteers to come and peacefully protest. The usual type of supporters like students, blacks and old faithful, began to arrive. But one incident changed the Selma scene. A Unitarian minister, Rev. James Reeb, was mobbed by a group of white people as he left a Selma restaurant and died as a result of the beating they gave him.

Dr. King took that moment to “challenge” Christian ministers to come to Selma in the name of James Reeb and stand up to the tyranny. It was irresistible. Priests, ministers, nuns left their assignments and went to Selma. Six priests of the Archdiocese of Atlanta with the blessing of Archbishop Paul J. Hallinan, answered the challenge of Dr. King. Almost 2,000 ministers arrived in Selma to demonstrate for freedom, justice, the right to register to vote.

The scene was unforgettable. The only Catholic Church in Selma was St. Elizabeth’s, run by the Edmundite Fathers. The local bishop, Archbishop Thomas Toolin, had forbidden the priests to join the demonstration so they did not walk. However, they spent their time offering hospitality to those who did come to walk. They offered not only their rectory and church; they offered their hospital also. Good Samaritan Hospital was thrown open for meals, meetings and sleep. I know, because I spent two nights in a bed in one of the wards.

The organization was faultless. In charge of the Selma demonstration was Dr. C. T. Vivian, a black lieutenant of Dr. King. He had been in the campaigns all over the South and to jail a dozen times. He was an expert and insisted we follow his plans exactly. “We want no more deaths,” he would say, “and neither do they. But they are nervous. Let’s not increase that nervousness.”

Hearing words like that brought home the danger of that moment in history. Here was the scene. Dr. King was determined that the citizens would register, so each day, sometimes twice a day, demonstrators, black and white, would march from the little black church in the ghetto area along the unpaved street for about 200 yards to the “line” where the ghetto ended. There Selma city police and county deputies stood firm and stopped the march. The police would announce that the march could not proceed since no permit had been issued by the city. “Return to your church and your homes,” they would say.

On that line police and demonstrator would meet -- face to face, one touching the other. “March until you are physically stopped,” said Dr. Vivian. “But stop when they touch you.” That was routine each day. After being halted, most demonstrators returned to the church for a service. About 100 would remain on the line, facing troopers, praying, singing, waiting.

The songs were always memorable. The anthem was “We Shall Overcome.” The lines are never to be forgotten, “.... deep in my heart, I do believe, we shall overcome someday.” Other songs “Ain’t nobody gonna turn me around, keep on walken to the promised land.”

On the line you sang or you prayed. Standing there in my Roman collar, they would yell after a song, “Come on Reverend, leas us in prayer.”

Catholics were not as proficient as our Protestant brothers at spontaneous prayer, so often our prayers were short. One time one of the black ushers scolded me saying, “You’ll have to do better than that, Reverend. We need them longer and put more of yourself into it.” We learned to do long and put ourselves into it.

There was real danger on the line. The police were nervous. Many had gone without sleep for days. The world press was there. TV cameras were a new phenomena. The police stood watching, rifles in hand, fingers on the trigger. But there was an even bigger danger. The ghetto was surrounded by buildings two and three stories high. There was fear on all sides that snipers would get a shot off, especially as night fell.

The line was always manned, night and day. Your day was spent marching, praying or listening in one of the black churches (there were two), eating, exchanging views or manning the line. There was always action.

(Next week: Selma personalities on both sides of the issue.)