I can’t say I enjoyed growing up in a small Kansas town but I knew I was getting a good education, surrounded by family that loved me, and I learned to love clouds. My most enjoyable challenge was marching with the Argonne Rebels Drum and Bugle Corps., our local competitive drum corps was beginning to gain national attention and I was pleased to be considered a good enough bugler to march with the first soprano line.
By the summer of 1963, I had just graduated from Great Bend High School and I had been accepted to go to college. My parent’s families had only two college graduates at that time and I would be the second family member currently enrolled. I was quite proud of myself.
Besides family, the Argonne Rebels had consumed both Thurston (my brother), Dink Garner, and me. We practiced not only with the Rebels and in our ensembles, but we also practiced our parts together at home. The highlight of the summer of 1963 was our opportunity to go to the American Legion National in Miami.
I was quite proud to be an Argonne Rebel and the idea of going to nationals in Miami was the adventure of a lifetime. Our mother never liked the idea: we were going to the South by bus; for a while, I thought that we would not make the trip. Our schools had always been integrated but I knew that Blacks sat in the balcony at the Crest Theater, blacks didn’t swim in the public pool, go to the Barton Lake, or to the Petroleum Club. My world was segregated, I knew Blacks were treated as second-class citizens, but that was not how I thought. I assumed that I had enough segregated experiences to protect me, I thought I understood the rules.
In 1963, my mother feared for our lives. I imagine that there were some interesting conversations between my parents, the Garners, Dink’s parents, and the corps administrative team of Glen Opie, Joe Boley, etc. At some point, my mother gave her consent.
In spite of my excitement about competing in nationals; I would be less than honest if I didn’t say I was not excited about going through the South by bus. I wasn’t scared but I was concerned.
As we crossed a river in Arkansas I saw a row of shotgun shacks lined along the river bank and I was saddened by the poverty and the lives of those Black people must be living. I knew the restrooms would be segregated (Coloreds Only) but the filth (not to mention some of the facilities were locked) was intolerable. Several times I improvised and other times I waited until the next stop.
By the time we got to Montgomery I didn’t know where we were, I was tired, and I didn’t care. My understanding was that we, as a group, would not be separated from the bus clientele and arrangements had been made so we would all eat as a group. For some reason, at this stop, that arrangement broke down and several of us were seated at two booths in the bus station instead of the restaurant. I didn’t like eating at the outside booths from the beginning but it was out of the general flow of traffic and I thought if we were quick Dink and I would be able to eat and get out.
At some point, several large white guys started shouting asking me did I know where I was. Given our traveling, I didn’t have any idea where we were besides I had been called a “Nigger” before. I sat in the booth, realizing they didn’t want an answer, they blocked my way and began to beat on me. As I tried to get away from them I fell. At this point, I realized that I was a part of a show as I covered from the kicks. There is no more helpless feeling than being brutalized.
I was rescued by several people but I only remember Glen Opie and Joe Boley getting between me and my assailants. There was a lot of shouting as the two stood on the benches, yelling, and playing to the crowd; finally, the police arrived. First police question: “Why did I start the fight”?
Glen and Joe convinced the police that I didn’t start the fight.
Now, we had to find a hospital that would take at me, since many area hospitals did not accept Blacks. If my memory serves me right we had a long delay while that was being worked out. After at least one failed trip, we finally ended up at Methodist Hospital. For a bugler, face or mouth damage would have been disastrous but fortunately (?) my injuries were chest and rib bruises not to mention my loss of self-esteem.
In Miami, I replaced my shredded shirt, continued to practice, stayed close to our hotel, met my first Jews, and made my first visit to an ocean beach. I was awed by the spectacle of the American Legion Nationals and was proud to be part of one of America’s finest drum and bugle corps.
Epilogue, sort of…
I rarely think of that event. After the contest, my thoughts were on returning home and starting my first week in college. I was going to be a week late. I missed college orientation week.
My 15 minutes of fame brought a letter from Congressman Bob Dole, promising an investigation, and a couple of fireside chats at St Pius X Newman Center. I never heard from Bob again and the chats only elicited concerns about how Negroes moving into white neighborhoods would decrease property values.
When I finally caught my breath I realized that I was alone. That summer was the last time I marched with the Argonne Rebels or played an instrument.
I only think of this event now because the digital era has brought me in contact with other former Argonne Rebels. Others remembered it. I never thought about how the white kids were affected. None of us had ever talked about or discussed that day. I guess we missed a learning opportunity, maybe, but it was 1963.
50 + years later violence against Black men is still a paramount issue for Race relations…