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A New York Escorts Confessions

And the gold Elsa Peretti bracelet S offered me on my arrival wasn’t too bad either…

And so it was that on Martin Luther King Day—the very day my web master launched this fabulous new site—that I found myself in the birth place of the Civil Rights Movement. Dr. Martin Luther King’s church is actually in Montgomery on Dexter Street. Rosa Parks wouldn’t give up her seat on a bus stopped downtown at Montgomery and Lee. And in 1965 Dr. King lead a march from Selma to Montgomery, 54 miles over 4 days to protest the lack of voting rights for blacks in Selma.

Now if that last bit of info sounds rather esoteric, think of it this way. In 1964 only 1% of all blacks in Selma were registered to vote. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. The white city and county officials conspired to make it virtually impossible for anyone of color to sign up. Registration centers were only open two days a month, and those running the show made a habit of arriving late and taking long lunches. Blacks who actually managed to overcome these hurdles had to then pass literacy tests and even interpret sections of the state constitution—something illiterate whites were never asked to do.

S and I decided to pay tribute to the day by taking a little trip to Selma. I had read there was a museum there commemorating the march and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 that was passed because of it. Just as we got to the door though, a man came out. And locked it.

“Oh no. You’re closing?”

“Yeah. ‘Fraid so.”

“But it’s Martin Luther King Day!”

“Alexa. Come on. We’ll get something to eat,” said S.

“But-why are you closing so early? It’s only 2:00. Can’t we just sneak a peak—”

“Got to get things together for the march. Y’all are welcome to come.”

“There’s a march?”

“Alexa? Can we just—”

“There’s a real good soul food place past the stoplight.”

“That sounds great. See S? So what time is the march?”

So after a short trip to Hardy’s (was everything in Selma closed that day?) S and I met at the starting point of the march, a Baptist church at the corner of Jeff Davis Street and Martin Luther King Boulevard. We were one of the few white people there.

It was awkward at first. Almost everyone in the parking lot appeared to be local and to know each other. The few who did approach us had such heavy southern accents that it was difficult to hold up our end of the conversation. But little by little, the experience unfolded.

The march this year was in honor of Dr. King’s vision of non-violence. And in Selma that’s not just a historic concept. In the front row marching between two local ministers, was a woman whose nineteen-year-old son had been shot and killed by a gang member only two weeks before. He hadn’t been in a gang himself. Wrong place, wrong time.

The chief of police marched. So did the mayor. So did the pastors, and store owners, and congregants. And so did we. We stopped at the Edwin Pettis bridge, where during the first attempted march in 1965 state and local lawmen attacked demonstrators with billy clubs and tear gas and drove them back into Selma proper.

But the most moving moment came after the march, over a simple meal of beans and cornbread in the basement of that church. The mayor, who was probably in his mid-sixties, told us that when he was a boy there was an ice cream shop in town that made the best pineapple sundaes. He and his friends would have to go to the shop’s window for service since they weren’t actually allowed inside. And when they got those precious sundaes, they’d have to eat them lightening fast before they melted in the Alabama heat. All the while they watched the white kids on the other side of the glass spinning on those old-fashioned parlor stools, leisurely eating their sundaes. The mayor said when the march with Dr. King happened, he didn’t care about voting rights. He just wanted to be able to eat a pineapple sundae inside the ice cream parlor on one of those chairs.

On the drive back, S and I couldn’t even talk, we were that overwhelmed. There’s reading history in books, and then there’s living history, history that you find yourself physically in step with. It was a new feeling, one that was as powerful as a drug.

About half way back to Montgomery, on the very route that Dr. King and the demonstrators marched upon forty-six years ago S suddenly stopped the car, pulled over, and turned off the engine. “What’s going on, what’s wrong?” I said. Were we being pulled over?

“Look,” said S. “Just look over there.”

And I did.

It was the Alabama National Guard base. The place where there is still no existing record of our President showing up for service.

What a day!