Many have gone on before me who have fought for equality and justice for people. Many have been killed. Many have died. Many have suffered. And many just died natural deaths. And I’m so blessed to be here. In many cases when folk approach me and I’m introduced and they say, “This fellow was one of the plaintiffs in Brown,” individuals say to me, “Oh, you work for UPS?” You’ve got the joke. [laughter] And I’m embarrassed. I’m embarrassed especially when it is a person of color. Each person in this room, whether you want to believe it or not, is connected to Brown in one way or the other. In order to talk about Brown vs. Board, one could go on for three or four hours. It has so many, so many avenues. It has so many venues. It has so many streets. It has so many boulevards. Brown is endless. And all I want us to do is go to Prince Edward county and talk to one of those persons who was shut out of school between ’59 and ’64, and each one has a story to tell. Ladies and gentlemen, I am wearing—other than from God above who has given me the strength to stand here—one of the most prestigious awards that I could receive. It was given to me by the Legal Defense Fund, NAACP, and Harvard University. It’s the Dr. Charles Hamilton Houston Award. A lot of people don’t know who Dr. Charles Hamilton Houston is. Ladies and gentlemen, if you don’t know who he is, I guarantee you, you will never understand fully Brown. Why? He was the father of the modern-day Brown. He taught all of the lawyers in all of the cases except one of the cases that went to the Supreme Court of the five cases.

There are some pieces that I would like to introduce you to that I feel will assist you further in understanding Prince Edward county’s role in Brown, and also the state of Virginia. The Voices of Freedom is put out by VCU. I see a few people writing. I love that. “Brown vs. the Board of Education: Virginia’s Roles and Response.” You can call Ms. Brenda Edwards at 804-786-3591 and get that booklet. You see, what bothered me more than anything else is the fact that—and I’ll give you some more references and hand out some more literature when I’m finished—is the fact that very little, very little, is known about the role of Prince Edward county and how those folk in Prince Edward county suffered. Someone in here is thinking, “My Lord, where is Prince Edward county, Virginia, located?” Farmville, Virginia, is located around 65 miles south of Richmond, Virginia, between 60 and 65 miles west of Petersburg, Virginia, around 82 miles north of a place called Danville, Virginia, 45 miles from Lynchburg, Virginia—that’s east of Lynchburg. And in between there you’ll find a place called Appomattox, Virginia, where Lee surrendered to Grant. Some people down there in Farmville and Prince Edward county think Lee is still alive. Why? That’s how they live. That’s how they look at other races. They think Lee is still alive. He is still fighting for the South.

With that in mind, I’m going to take you to a concept that Dr. Charles Hamilton Houston instilled in his people. He told them to be social engineers. Social—he said, “I don’t want you to be lawyers. I want you to be social engineers.” And then he gave them a cliché. He said, “Recognize your powers, and apply those powers intelligently.” With that in mind, ladies and gentlemen, let’s talk about what Brown has done for our nation. It ignited a civil rights revolution, Disabilities Act, Title IX, Voting Rights Act, civil rights law, immigration laws. Brown has opened the doors for a multiplicity of people. Brown has also worked in the inverse, called other races what? Rats. Let’s go to Prince Edward county. Why did these students, high school students, do what they did? Who in the world gave them permission? These little colored children—who gave them permission to have the audacity to go against the oligarchy and the white power structure and walk out of that school? How dare them! Ever since Plessy vs. Ferguson, the concept has been separate but what? Equal. Everything is equal, so why are they so angry? Who gave them permission to do this? What created this problem? After all, they didn’t ask us if they could do this.

I’m going to ask you to go back in history with—ladies and gentlemen. Let’s drift back. It didn’t start in 1951. It did not start in 1951. I need seven people, please—seven volunteers. Why did they do this? Let’s go back. Separate, but equal. In 1912 they decided they were going to build high schools in Prince Edward county, Virginia. There are six magisterial districts in Prince Edward county: Farmville, Lockett, Leigh, Hampden—that’s where Hampden-Sydney College is located—Buffalo, Prospect. In 1912, they built the high school in a place called Farmville, Virginia. In 1915 they built a high school in a place called Green Bay, which is the Leigh district. In 1923 they built a high school in a place called Prospect, which is the Prospect district. Then in 1927 they built a high school in Rice. Hampden, the college professors at Hampden-Sydney, got upset. They said, “We need a school here,” so they put one in Worsham. They put one in Dothan Heights in the Buffalo district. But there’s something missing here, ladies and gentlemen. There’s something missing here. In 1927 they finally decided to put a high school in a place called Farmville for colored children. So from 1912 through 1927 there was no school for colored people or black people. No high school. Yet they said it was what, now? Separate, but what? I can’t hear you? [Audience responds, “Equal.”] Was it equal, ladies and gentlemen? I used to be an old teacher, you know—principal [tendency?]. It’s coming out, I know. You know, they say, you know, “Why is he doing this stuff?” I want it to sink in so you can go out and tell other people exactly what happened. And I see people writing. Believe you me, my data is accurate. This is what we saw in ’51. We knew this. I haven’t gotten to the worst part about it.

The population in 1951 had grown for that high school alone to 450-plus. That’s quite a few people in that small a space. Remember now, by this time, that school is an elementary school, this school is an elementary school, this school is a high school, elementary school, that school is an elementary school, this is an elementary school. So you have two white high schools in Prince Edward county: Farmville/Worsham combination high school/elementary school. All-brick building. All running water. Indoor toilets. Now how about all those colored kids out there? How about all of them out there? What kind of schools do they have? The schools that are made of wood. Potbelly stove. Outdoor toilets. Pumps or sometimes wells—you had to reel it up. My brother taught in a place called New Hope. He had a running battle with the superintendent all the time about small things—just getting wood to put in that stove—supplying him with the wood that was necessary, supplying him with the necessary ingredients so he could teach his kids with the proper books. He had a running battle. Supplying one of the boys who had a heart condition with the necessary equipment so he could survive at school correctly. My brother, Clem, who was the oldest son, came from World War II back home and taught at New Hope. So, ladies and gentlemen, when we looked around, we saw that we were being programmed for failure. Very simple. You see, it wasn’t just the old top-heavy shack that got us. There were all these other inequities that breeded failure on our parts if we were to follow the oligarchy or the white power structures theme in regards to moving us in a direction of none achievement. You may bring them forward, thank you. Give them a hand, please, ladies and gentlemen. So this is what we saw. We saw deprivation.

But on the other hand, what had we been exposed to? The parents that taught us to make bricks out of straw. Our parents had taught us to live in a dual society. Mr. L. L. Hall, who was my principal in elementary school, had taught us in spite of to move forward. Mr. Hall would take his weekends and take us to Washington, D.C., or take us, believe it or not, even to Appomattox, or to Luray Caverns. So he exposed us to things that the oligarchy did not wish us to see. In addition to that, soldiers had come home from World War II who were now attending Robert Russa Moton High School. Those soldiers made a difference. My brother was one of them. In fact, my sister, who is a retired colonel out of the nurses corps, was also in service at that time. She was mild-mannered, you know, really mild, you know. But my brothers—radical, just like me, you know. And they said, “You have to do better.” Some of those soldiers who came back—Sonny Claw, Jones, Burley Patterson—some of these guys came back and told us, “We can’t do anything because we’re getting the G.I.”—what? Bill. Well, you can. So as we looked around, we knew something had to be done.
So when Barbara Johns came to my twin sister and me and asked if we could join her in a coalition to strike, I evaded her for a long time. Why? Because I didn’t know if she had the metal that was necessary to do it. We knew we had all the ammunition we needed, psychologically, but the question is, “Can you withstand the pressures from the people? Do you mind failing, as far as being put out of school and things of this nature?” We started in October, worked through the whole winter, and by the early spring we had our little coalition group together of 20. 20 people—there was 20 people, who are all something that has become a part of history. Our case is the only case that was student-led. I repeat, Delaware; Washington, D.C.; Claredon, South Carolina; Topeka, Kansas; Davis vs. Prince Edward county—those are the five cases—and Brown, ladies and gentlemen—of the five cases, our case is the only case that was student-led. So when you see these kids out here now marching, they took a page out of our book. It is very simple. They took a page out of our book. We marched because we had a need to march. We believed in being successful. We were tired of the oligarchy programming us for failure.

So what happened? On the 23rd we walked out. On the 24th we met with Mr. McElwayne, and, of course, he was scared to death. So, interestingly enough, when we walked in, the secretary—she turned red as a beet. You know, she couldn’t understand—what are the colored children doing down here? You know. So anyway, she says finally he says he would meet with us. He wouldn’t meet with us on Monday. Finally he decided to meet with us on Tuesday. So what happened on Monday when he did not meet with us? He—now he wished he had met with us because by his not meeting with us, my twin sister, Barbara Johns, and Catherine Coles drafted a letter to the NAACP indicating that we needed help in Farmville, Virginia. That letter was delivered by a courier. So we went to see Mr. McElwayne on the 24th, and, of course, he took us into the courtroom. And he sat up there where the judge sits, you know, as if he were going to intimidate us. That doesn’t frighten us one bit. We stood our ground. And, of course, he said that our parents should whip us and all that, but we knew that was coming. You know, we had gone into training. We knew what was going on. You see, we had people who had taught us, basically, certain concepts. World War II veterans had come back hardened, hardened. I had a cousin who were—Paul Franks had been in, you know, an airborne troupe and all that—World War II. They had come back with concepts that let us know that it was a better life than what we had been exposed to. And we had traveled up North, and we had seen it, you see. Once you get above Delaware, you could ride anywhere you wanted to. But once you, you know, came back to Delaware, you saw a sign that said “Colored Only,” “White Only.” You see what I’m saying? And some of my friends, you see, when they saw that fountain that said, “Colored Only” and “White Only,” some little girl ran over, sneaked over there and tasted the water. They said, “Tastes the same to me,” you know.

Well, anyway, what happened on the 25th—it was one of the most memorable experiences I’ve ever had. Mr. Oliver Hill, Dr. Henderson, and Mr. Spottswood Robinson came to the First Baptist Church to meet with us. They were on their way down here to the Valley to work on another case, but they detoured through Farmville to talk with us. We asked them to come, but we weren’t certain they were coming because they said they weren’t coming initially. They didn’t think they had a case until they saw the group, the coalition, sitting there before them. The first person to walk down was Dr. Henderson. Of course, he was suave. All of them was just as clean as the Board of Health, you know. They were looking good, you know. The next person who walked in, of course, was Mr. Spottswood Robinson. According to Dr. Charles Hamilton Houston, he was the most astute student he had ever taught because Mr. Spottswood was good on detail. He was very good on detail. He walked in. He never really talked to us. He looked at us, and moving around, and just stood in a corner. And, of course, the last person who walked in—he’s old. Now he’s gotten old, and we all are getting old. But he was a giant of a man. He stood tall, erect, looked like a lumberjack. In walks Mr. Oliver Hill. It seemed like the whole world just belonged to him when he walked in. I mean, he just carried himself. And everyone got quiet, you know. They were looking up, you know. Then they questioned us. It tested our metal to see if we really were who we said or thought we were. When they left, they told us, “We’re not certain we can take your case because of the fact that we have other cases that are more important than your case. We’re going on down to the Valley, to the Shenandoah Valley, and we’ll let you know within a few days.”

On the next day, which was the 26th, Lester Banks came to us. Lester Banks was the executive secretary of the NAACP, better known as the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. He met with us in the Robert Russa Moton Auditorium with some parents. It was loaded—I mean, wall-to-wall, treetop-tall, you know. A lot of people, a lot of people. And he told us, he said, “If—even if they give you equality, it won’t be the same. Even if they do it brick by brick, mortar by mortar, it will not be the same because in some way or another, they will find a way to snatch it away.” So he says, “The only way we are going to do this thing is through nonsegregation.” They never used the word “integration” during that era, ladies and gentlemen. It was “nonsegregation.” They were nonsegregation. Now some of you are wondering how in the world can he remember that. Well, because my sister and Catherine Coles kept records, and I still have those. During that whole era they kept records, and I do have those records. So that’s who—and I checked that to be certain. Nonsegregation. And since it was nonsegregation, you see, it scared the people. It scared them. So then he told us to stay out. So then on the 3rd of May, we met at the First Baptist Church, and that’s when we signed the petition. One-hundred seventeen students signed that petition. Six or seven parents signed that petition. Mr. Oliver Hill and his cohorts went into operation, and, of course, the legal petition was filed in the court system of Richmond, Virginia. And that’s when hell broke loose in Farmville. So now they want us to remove our name from the petition. And not a person removed his or her name—not a person, not a person. Then they decided to go into operation. The law reform in racial activities—the General Assembly decided to go into operation and to try to circumvent.

These are things that are not publicized, ladies and gentlemen. This will show you how undercover and how dirty the General Assembly members were during that era. They developed the Boatwright Commission. They went by my mom and daddy’s house, knocked on the door, tried to get them to change their minds. And finally, some of the colored parents told them, “Don’t come here anymore.” Now the question is why weren’t the people killed during that era? Let me tell you something, ladies and gentlemen. Number one, a lot of soldiers had just come out of the army. They brought weapons with them. When we went on strike, the week that followed you could not find ammunition within 60 miles of Farmville. Why? Because the people armed themselves for battle. They were that serious. They may have been scared, but they knew that those who had signed that petition have to be landowners. They have to be private owners. So, in other words, you put your foot on my property, I’m going to roll you away. Case closed. That’s the reason the lawyer said it had to be property owners only who signed that petition. And so the oligarchy was really caught in a bind.

Following the filing of the 1954 Supreme Court decision, schools were closed in Farmville between ’59 and ’64. Prince Edward county was the only place that closed the schools for those many years without regard for people. As time passed, especially in the ‘60s and the ‘70s, I was ashamed to go back to Farmville because of the fact that people would see me on the street and say, “You were the cause of the school being closed.” We were not the cause of the school being closed. The oligarchy closed the school. But now that there’s some sentiment of healing, I can now feel proud of the fact that people are coming together, blacks and whites, to salvage something that was destroyed by a small group of people who really tried to set the tone for massive resistance. People from all over the world funneled money into Prince Edward county during that era. People from all over the United States came to Prince Edward to see how massive resistance worked. And as you know, it did not work. It was dismantled.