In April of 1964 Governor George Wallace spoke at the formal opening of the new Tuscaloosa County Courthouse. All-white bands from several schools played and cheerleaders from all-white Holt, Northside and Brookwood served as ushers. The 33-page brochure showed photos of only white employees. Wallace warned his listeners, if the Civil Rights bill passed, there would be no need for a new courthouse: “The people here will have no power or authority.”
A few days later at the University he told listeners, the Civil Rights bill “will destroy the individual freedom of every person in this country.” The rhetoric surrounding change was then, and still is, apocalyptic, the end of life as we know it.
As people toured the new courthouse it became clear that there were separate facilities, bathrooms, waiting rooms, teller windows and water fountains, for Black and white. The Black community felt betrayed. There had been an agreement that this new building would have no such segregated facilities and no segregation signage. Promises had been made and broken. The city committee, led by banker George LeMaistre and Jack Warner, had asked, however, that this agreement not be made public. Thus the shock and surprise.
Race relations in Tuscaloosa had never been as good as the Chamber of Commerce would like people to believe. Segregation had been nearly universal and the police force violent toward Blacks, Giggie asserts. Even though Probate Judge Cochrane explained “we are not discriminating against anybody. All of our restroom facilities are the same. We do have them marked, however,” segregated facilities constituted a slap in the face.
The Black organization Tuscaloosa City for Action, TCAC, moved to action. There were mass meetings, to organize, then a march, Sunday, April 26, which was met with extreme violence including clubs and electrified cattle prods. The “Tuscaloosa News,” Giggie tells us “lauded” the police for their “sensible” and “correct” action. The University, Giggie tells us, basically ignored any negative news from downtown and announced ongoing plans to pursue excellence.
On Tuesday, June 9, as the biggest demonstration was set to begin, hundreds gathered in and around Rev. T. Y. Rogers’ First African Baptist. The police, along with several hundred persons, “mostly Klansmen” Chief Marable had deputized, attacked the peacefully assembled, beat women and children, with high pressure fire hoses blew out the beloved stained glass windows and threw tear gas into the church. Police chased and beat those trying to flee, arrested 98 innocent people, sent dozens to the emergency room.
This day, June 9, which should have been branded forever “a day of infamy,” was instead rarely spoken of and nearly lost to history, along with the story of Joe Mallisham and his Black Defenders. But, thanks to John Giggie’s admirable research, extensive interviewing and highly readable, elegant prose, not any more.
