Only hours before the event, I decided to go myself. In part the decision was an act of defiance - my personal protest in response to the barrage of negative criticism engendered by the involvement of Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan. Though I disagreed with their conclusions, I was probably more tolerant of critics like John Lewis, Julian Bond, Mary Frances Berry, and even Cynthia Tucker. Their records, either in print or in deeds, were without reproach when it came to a demonstrated interest in the African American condition. Yet I bristled at the increasing attacks launched by the Newt Gingriches, George Wills and other conservative whites and blacks, who wanted to treat African American men as if they were little boys, incapable of making sophisticated distinctions, moving aimlessly in whatever direction the most recent wind blew.
I became excited as scores of African American men began to crowd the highways. There were four or five chartered buses from Atlanta filled with black men. "Brothers" whizzed by from places like Louisiana, Texas, Alabama and Tennessee. New state lines were marked not by signs of "Welcome," but by black men merging into I-85 and later
I-95 with licenses from South Carolina, North Carolina and finally Virginia.
I rolled into Washington around 4:45 a.m. to the home of a friend and former colleague at Morehouse College. Later, we took the bus downtown to the Mall and were astonished as we came into full view of what appeared even then to be over a million African American men.
We watched with love, applause and appreciation when Maya Angelou, fighting back the tears, made us understand that this day was long overdue. She repeated her poetic refrain that "the night has been long, the pit has been deep, and the walls have been steep." A million black hands came together when she told us to "clap hands, and come together to cleanse our spirits, bring respect to our families, our wives and our children"
. . . clap hands to bring "courtesy to our bedrooms, and respect into our conversations."
But even the speeches were unable to capture the majesty of the event. Some went on much too long. The controversial Louis Farrakhan, for example, delivered the keynote speech lasting two-and-a-half hours, as if march participants were seated comfortably in padded seats in an auditorium.
The thousands of African American men had been discussing solutions all day. Some talked about the need for more economic development, businesses to serve the African American community, and the need for jobs that would keep "the black dollar" at home. Others cautioned against too much emphasis on self-reliance, recognizing there were structural problems in the society that in part were responsible for getting us into the fix in the first place, and that "we didn't need to completely let the government off the hook." Still others talked about getting involved in massive voting registration drives. There was no consensus, but many had made up their minds to do "something." Some even discussed their relationship with their families, about asking for forgiveness of children, former wives and girlfriends, for abuses they knew they had committed, but never felt they could admit. Those in attendance recognized that the center of activity was on the Mall grounds. We came there individually, but were united by a common purpose that was defined by us, not by the organizers, speechmakers or other participants on the official platform.
The largest black gathering on the Washington Mall, and the largest political gathering of African Americans ever in American history, finally came to a close around 7:30 p.m. My friend and I began walking with this spirited crowd to catch our bus back to his home. We walked past Howard University, where black male and female students were wild with enthusiasm. We began to discuss just what all this had meant. It had basically been a gathering that transcended class, age and to a lesser extent, gender lines, though the inclusion of African American women had come late. There were white-collar and blue-collar workers, college students, as well as entertainers, professional athletes and coaches. Many spoke of what the march meant to them. It revealed for some, they said, a sense of social responsibility that they had long forgotten, or had never before recognized.
Before we knew it, we had forgotten about the bus and had already walked five or six miles. We eventually moved into a dark, secluded area, where we encountered a totally different vibe. We understood why when we heard the too-familiar male voices referring to their women as "bitches and hoes." These brothers had not been at the march. They represented that group of young African American men who had lost all faith in America's ability to help themselves; these brothers saw no reason to attend a gathering of a million black men . . . If only they could have been there.
I didn't realize, until I got on the road back to Atlanta the next morning, that I, too, had benefited from the march. I needed the positive vibrations, the spiritual rejuvenation that the march had provided. This event was a good thing. It needed to happen, and I was glad to be a part of it. For African American men, if the march did nothing else, it transmitted to a new generation the meaning of the term "brother."
Leroy Davis is assistant professor of history in Emory College.