Before he enters a crosswalk outside his downtown law office, Johnnie Bond scans the cars stopped before him. Is there a white woman alone? Will he hear it this time?
Click.
Such a tiny sound.
Click.
Like a pistol cocking.
Click.
The sound of a car door locking when a black man approaches.
Just as it was with Rosa Parks and the bus seat she refused to yield to a white man, those who struggle with racism or even the perception of it today describe a soul-weariness. Theirs is a battle fatigue from a more subtle psychological warfare, a covert campaign unfolding in crosswalks and fine restaurants, in wedding boutiques, in supermarkets.
They cite the everyday indignities of a hand unshaken, a customer unacknowledged, a child uninvited. They analyze the ambiguous moments that come and go as quickly as an elevator door closing in their faces. They patrol the unexplored border zone between oversight and insult, between misunderstanding and message.
Half a century after desegregation, subtle racism nags "like a chronic pain, like a backache. After awhile, you get used to it, but still," says Pat Spearman, a 50-year-old Methodist minister. In town from Las Vegas on a business trip, she spends Sunday night in line outside the Capitol Rotunda, waiting to pay respects to the woman whose defiance against the legally enforced racism that day in Alabama made her the mother of the civil rights movement.
Throughout the day, the mourners reflect on what has changed and what hasn't.
"A lot of people still think the way they did back then. It's a long struggle, a long struggle," says Jonathan Cooper, a 43-year-old General Dynamics program manager from Centreville.
For Rosa Parks, an Overflowing Tribute