And then I met Marcus.

Plans are made to be broken.

I started off today with a plan.  

My plan was to get up, get some fuel in me, and go and head out to the Civil Rights Museum across from Kelly Ingram Park, a park in Birmingham, Alabama named in 1932 for local firefighter Osmond Kelly Ingram, the first sailor in the United States Navy to be killed in World War I.

I got up, got juice from the weird Jesus Juice bar I mentioned on Facebook earlier (it was bizarre lol), and, since my hotel is reasonably cheap and also not horrifying, I let the guy at the front desk know that I've decided to stay here another night before heading to Atlanta tomorrow.

I loaded myself into my rental car and headed the other side of town, parking across from the museum. The weather was kind enough to take a fucking break from raining, so I decided to hit the park first, as it's filled with monuments that I wanted to see after chatting with one of the folks who came out to see me at my book reading last night.

I was immediately taken with the intensity of these displays, nearly all of them detailing the horrors that Black Americans faced in a still VERY segregated Alabama and beyond. The audio tour that you could dial into wasn't operating correctly (or it was operator error, I always allow for that), so I just took my time at each spot taking in the imagery, sculptures crafted by artists hoping to make sure that this time is not forgotten.

By the time I reached the depictions of the attack dogs . . . I lost it. I found myself quietly bawling in a public park because my god . . .

Walking through this gauntlet of what was only a recreation was horrific.

The dogs felt exaggeratedly large and all I could think of is this is exactly how they appeared to the young Black bodies and souls who were targeted. And I use the word "felt" because I swear to all that I know, I could feel that dog's presence.

As I continued on through the park, I became aware of a tall man who was wandering around trying to get people's attention. Not in an aggressive way, but I couldn't really tell what was up. I generally avoid men I don't know, especially while visiting an area I'm completely unfamiliar with, so I sort of veered off in a different direction.

But when I glanced back over, he was talking at a woman who didn't seem to want to stay and chat but was trying to be polite.

It was hard to hear him with the din of city noise, but I could tell he was doing sort of an impromptu history lesson/tourguide spiel. I noticed that he was holding the hand of the one of the little girls in the monument to the four little girls killed in the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church on September 15, 1963. I don't know what it was about this gesture, but it struck me. I decided I was going to go listen to him.

When I moved closer, he turned his face to me and continued with this talk, the other woman taking that as a cue that she could scoot on out of there. 

I had a hard time understanding him as, along with the background noise that all but hobbles my hearing, his speech wasn't overly clear. But he told me that his mother was a teacher and that he had grown up not far from the park, where he now lived. "I'm hear every day. This is my home, and I'm proud that this is my home. This is my park."  He pointed to this sturdy concrete looking covered area that I had noticed when I first arrived, a spot that looked like it was probably where anyone doing a presentation at the park for any reason might set up. "That's all my shit over there."

His name was Marcus. And Marcus wanted to teach me about his home becuase I wasn't going to learn it from the little placards here and there, so I said sure, why the hell not.

We moved from monument to monument, Marcus taking the time to tell me the meaning behind each one. He said his mother taught him well and he wanted to carry on teaching others to honor her and honor Black folk like him who still suffer because of racist violence.

"White people don't always want to hear about this stuff.  They don't know about a lot of this stuff, and people really need to know."

I said, "Unfortunately, a lot of people don't want to learn shit because it's uncomfortable." He agreed.

He told me that his mother and his aunties lived during this time and told him the real truth of what white men did to people who looked like them. To be kind but never too trusting because white folk will talk out of the sides of their mouths at you.

                                                     "SEGREGATION IS A SIN"

He brought me to the piece that shows two Black youths being pelted by the water cannons that were used by thugs with badges at the behest of a monster named Theophilus Eugene "Bull" Connor, who was adamantly opposed to treating Black people like human beings.

I realized that I felt a pull to reach out and touch this girl's shoulder. All I wanted to do was comfort her.  I can't describe it. 

Marcus was all, "Yeah, I do that, too. I'm here every day you know. I talk to them."

I felt like a voyeur. An intruder.  

(Pictures taken with Marcus in them were at his request.)

Marcus led me over to this circle and told me to stand in the middle.

"This is not meant to be a space of guilt or shame. This is a place to take an honest accounting of ourselves and our history, to learn, and to evolve."

I stood in the middle as instructed.

He said, "Say my name."
I said "Marcus."
He said "Louder."
I said "Marcus" a little louder.
He said, "No, yell it," and I wondered what the fuck, but I yelled it.

"MARCUS!"

I have no how shit works, but when you stand in the center of that circle, it's like you're standing in a metal bin or something because GODDAMN IT ECHOES!

I laughed, "Ok that was fucking cool."

"Yeah it was, haha, let's go."

We were walking, and he asked what I was doing in town. I told him that I'm a writer, and when he asked what I wrote about, I told him. He immediately grabbed my hand and led me to another part of the park.

He showed me the monument to Pauline Bray Fletcher, the first Black registered nurse in Alabama. He told me his sister's a nurse and she looked up to Fletcher.

He led me to the marker for abolitionist and women's rights advocate, Carrie A. Tuggle. He said he calls her auntie because she used to take care of homeless kids, so she looks after him, too.

We made our way back to where I first saw Marcus, the Four Spirits monument, a tribute to the little girls  - Addie Mae Collins, Denise McNair, Carolyn Robertson and Cynthia Wesley - who were murdered by the cowards in white hoods back in 1963.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

                        - A passage from "The Stolen Child" by W.B. Yeats

The six doves were included to symbolize each of the four little girls and two boys killed the same day, Virgil Ware and Johnny Robinson.  

He touched the little girl's hand again before we walked across the street to the church where the bombing occurred. I did, too.

The only window that survived was the stained glass window above.

Our tour of the park and the outside of the church was complete. I decided not to go to the museum. Not today anyway, maybe another visit.

We had a few errands to run before we parted. I started down one main street, but he steered me down another road and said, "Nah, this way, this is where Black folks do, I don't go that other way, follow me."

It was at this point that Marcus informed me that he just got out of the hospital and had a 200 degree temperature, had the flu. I asked how he was feeling now, he said, "Bah..."  I said, "Marcus, goddammit, are you going to get me sick?"  He said, "Nah, you're fine."

. . . lol we'll see.

We decided we were ready for lunch, and he walked us to a place called Green Acres. The place had a line out the door, and once in, you ordered your food to go at the counter. It smelled fucking incredible.

I asked Marcus what he was having, and he laughed and said chicken, and made a joke about how he was Black, so uh, duh. I pointed out that everyone in there was Black and that they have fish on the menu.  He shook his head and said he doesn't mess with fish. That's fine.

Apparently Marcus also does NOT mess with gizzards because, my god, the look I got when I suggested I might order that.

I ordered a whiting fish sandwich, much to Marcus's disdain. I also grabbed a piece of yellow cake with chocolate frosting, my fucking FAVORITE, and Marcus informed me that I eat Black people cake. Sure, why not.

When our food was ready, we headed off back toward the park, walking through the rain that had started.  I thanked him for a great fucking afternoon and told him I learned a lot more talking to him than had I done the self-guided tour, and he totally agreed. lol

We hugged and I told him to get his ass out of the rain, and that I'd see him next time I pass through. Because who knows.

As I walked away, I stood in the center of the magic circle from earlier and yelled "MARCUS!" one more time. When I asked him if he remembered my name, he said "Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam!"

Hell yeah.   

You know, while I had a plan for earlier today, I really didn't have anything concrete planned for my night. I thought I might get cleaned up and/or dried off at least and head out for the BBQ joint someone had told me about yesterday. I still might.

But for now, I've got this cake and a helluva good day to look back on.

I feel very fucking lucky.