Memories of my life have been lining up with Callendar.eji.org. since the beginning of 2024. I have many earmarked so that I can share the feelings they evoke in me. This Substack deals with two of them.
On July 18, 1946, a white mob shot a 37-year-old Black veteran named Maceo Snipes at his home in Butler, Georgia. A day earlier, Mr. Snipes had exercised his constitutional right to vote in the Georgia Democratic Primary, becoming the only Black man to vote in the election in Taylor County. For this he was targeted and lynched.
Mr. Snipes was killed 3 days after my birth and approximately 3 hours from Augusta, GA, the city where I was born. When I read about his tragic death, anger and deep pain filled my body. He died because he dared exercise his 15th Amendment right to vote, even though it took the Civil Rights Act of 1965 for African American to really exercise that right.
Thinking about the right to vote is very present in my life right now. I just went through an experience where my right to vote was taken from me either by purposeful PURGING of African Americans in New York City or some other act by persons unknown.
I had to go to the Board of Elections to re-register (BOE). It left me feeling lost and empty. I never imagined my right to vote would simply disappear! This was worse than having to go to court the very first time I voted because the poll worker thought I was trying to vote twice and refused to allow me to vote.
The truth was that my mother voted before she went to work. Given we shared the same name, Mary M. Marshall, they saw her signature and thought it was mine. Mom had to meet me at the court so we could get an affidavit from the judge indicating we shared the same name. This affidavit allowed me to vote.
Decades later I thought I might have to repeat that as in the most recent event my name was accurate, but my race and residence was wrong. Thankfully the BOE only needed an official ID, my driver’s license, to allow me to register again.
These memories of voting are painful but didn’t stop me from doing what was necessary to right the wrong so that I could exercise my right to vote.
Memories of high school and the events of 1964 have been strong.
On September 24th, 1964, a decade after Brown v. Board of Education ruled that schools must be racially integrated, a crowd of at least 7,500 demonstrators, almost all of whom were white, marched outside New York City Hall to protest a policy aimed at increasing racial integration in the city’s public school system. The protest was organized by two groups formed by white parents: the Parents and Taxpayers Coordinating Council and the Joint Council for Better Education.
Once again, Callendar.eji.org. triggered memories of the events of 1964 and a special time in my life.
September 1964 was the beginning of my senior year at The High School of Commerce/Lincoln Center.
It was the year I claimed “adulthood.” My fellow classmates elected me General Manager, the equivalent of President of the senior class. I thought it was a joke when I found out someone nominated me. Shocked when I won. It was a surprise and an honor.
As General Manager, I led other class leaders on a weekend retreat. It was fun and one of the few opportunities I enjoyed being outdoors. In general, I like nature as long as I keep moving. Just hanging out has never been in my spirit.
I was aware of the unrest in America about integration--North and South. While I didn’t see any demonstrators or demonstrations at my school, I experienced what I interpreted as racism/racist attitudes at my high school.
As a new student from Georgia, administrators insisted on placing me in the general curriculum even though my mother told them I was an honor student prior to moving to NYC. She refused to give them my report card saying the actual transcript would arrive in a few weeks; that If we were white, they’d trust her word until the records came. After all, I would either do well, mediocre, or fail.
They allowed me to attend college prep and honor classes then moved me into the general curriculum after a week. My mother protested and I was placed back into the academic/college prep curriculum.
By the spring of 1964, my mother insisted I participate in a cotillon. It was fun to learn to waltz, but my shyness kept me from fully enjoying the experience. Nevertheless, it represented my official becoming an adult; and I won the scholarship award. Winning the scholarship gave me hope for possibly going to college fulltime.
At graduation, I learned I’d I won a 4-year scholarship to the college of my choice…presuming I’d have at least one to choose from.
I chose Howard University from the three I was accepted at. Best first adult decision I made. I was on my own for the first time in my life. This was the beginning of my collegiate life.
Callendar.eji.org triggered these memories. I’m grateful my love of photography and family history provided photographs to help share these memories. I will continue to share memories over the next few months using Callendar.eji.org as the foundation for the stories.
You reminded me of my first voting experiences in New York City. Our polling station in Manhattan was managed by several elderly African American ladies. This was the early 1990s, so they would have been born in the 1920s, I guess, and from their accents, not in NY. They ran an extremely efficient process. They did not tolerate fools. I knew they took none of this for granted. I think about them every time I vote.
Thank you for this. I loved every word.