One way to get there is on the No. 6 Lexington Avenue train. You take it to 177th Street in the Bronx and then it's only a short walk. You find an apartment building. You press a buzzer marked "C. Colvin 11-H." Upstairs lives a 58-year-old woman who works nights at a nursing home. Upstairs, pondering how destinies work out, lives one of the women before Rosa.

As in Rosa Parks.

A long time ago, in a Deep South apartheid place called Montgomery, Rosa Parks refused to surrender her seat on the bus to a white rider and the civil rights movement in America was born. But before that, before Rosa, on another racist Montgomery municipal bus, this woman, too, summoned something large insider her and said no, she would not move. Only, when she said it, the world wasn't ready to hear. Not quite.

History is always up to its own turns and ironies and devices. Her name is Claudette Colvin. Her no was on March 2, 1955. They took her off the Highland Gardens bus late that afternoon kicking and screaming. They charged her with assault and battery as well as transgressing city and state segregation laws. It was nine months -- almost to the day, nearly to the spot -- before Rosa Parks's no and subsequent arrest, which had a much different quality and tone about it, although the humiliation was the same.

You see, while one was a highly emotional 15-year-old 11th-grader about whom there were unsavory stories and who lived in a house that didn't have an indoor toilet, the other, "Mrs. Parks" -- as so much of black Montgomery respectfully thought of her -- was a small, modest, ascetic-looking, wholly untainted 42-year-old seamstress and civic activist and youth leader: a perfect and righteous symbol for igniting not just a year-long boycott but an entire movement. Not that anybody in Alabama or anywhere else understood it so clairvoyantly at the time. That understanding would come later.

"Why do you push us around?" Mrs. Parks asked them quietly that evening. "I do not know," said one of the arresting officers, "but the law is the law, and you are under arrest."

Eldridge Cleaver later wrote that when a woman, who earned $23 a week, summoned no, in the gathering dark of a homebound suppertime bus, on Dec. 1, 1955, a gear in the machinery shifted. Martin Luther King Jr. once said it was the instant in eternity when she got "anchored to her seat by the accumulated indignities of days gone by, and by the boundless aspirations of generations yet unborn."

And yet, what about other noes, earlier noes, prior anchorings, some of which go back into previous decades? Don't they, too, represent a swimming against unfathomable tides?

"I haven't talked about it very much," Claudette Colvin says. "It's pulling out of me now." By "it," she must be referring not only to what happened to her in downtown Montgomery on a day when the world didn't heed, but to the rest of her life as well, which has been hard.

A visitor isn't five minutes inside her door when she'll say, with traces of soft Southern cadences: " What do we have to do to make God love us?' I always grew up with that. I always used to go around thinking that. God loved the white people better. He must've. That's why he made them white.' "

And toward the end, after she's talked for almost four hours, she'll say, no pity in it: "They didn't want me because I didn't represent the middle class. . . . They didn't want me involved because of where I lived and what my parents' background was."

Let us now praise unfamous women. Let us write of those unattended by history. Let us try to honor names in the shadows. Because what may surprise you here is how many stirring and anticipatory and conditioning moments to Rosa Parks there were. Think of them as precursing lives, solitary voices in the bigoted Alabama wilderness of almost half a century ago, and beyond. Before Their Time

You could fall in love with the names themselves. They seem to offer their own hidden lyric beauty. Aurelia Browder. Viola White. Geneva Johnson. Katie Wingfield. Susie McDonald. Epsie Worthy. Mary Louise Smith Ware. Is this all? It can't possibly be all. But these are some of the ones whose names are tucked in the margins, in the back notes, in the fine print. You compile a list, gleaning it from books and doctoral dissertations and old newspaper clippings. But the truth is, it's impossible to say with any accuracy just how many women -- and it was women more than men -- went obscurely and heroically ahead of Rosa Parks's heroism in terms of standing up to racial injustice on Montgomery public bus transportation in the '20s and '30s and '40s and '50s. Even civil rights scholars, some of whom have given much of their scholarship over to studying the altering event mankind knows as the 1955 Montgomery bus boycott, can't begin to tell us the whole cruel number.

In a highly valuable but not well-known 1987 book titled "The Montgomery Bus Boycott and the Women Who Started It," a now-deceased Montgomery political activist and English professor, Jo Ann Gibson Robinson, wrote: "Intermittently, twenty to twenty-five thousand black people in Montgomery rode city buses, and I would estimate that up until the boycott of December 5, 1955, about 3 out of 5 had suffered some unhappy experience on the public transit lines."

Rosa Parks said no to a driver named James F. Blake on Thursday the 1st; on the following Monday, the "Walking City" started walking, and didn't stop until Dec. 20, 1956, when U.S. marshals formally served the U.S. Supreme Court desegregation order on Montgomery city commissioners. The next morning, for the first time in more than a year, the black citizenry returned to municipal buses and sat anywhere they damn well pleased, front or back.

Incidentally, why was it women, more than men, who decided to say no? For one thing, they rode the buses more than their husbands. They depended on public transit to get across the city to their work as domestics in the rich white neighborhoods. Often, the men walked to their menial labor, or hitched rides with one another. But another reason is that some of the key organizing figures were middle-class Montgomery women, connected to all-black Alabama State College. They were emboldened by that bond and by their education. Then, too, there was the linkage of the churches, which gave strength.

And maybe there's a more fundamental reason. Let Johnnie R. Carr explain.

She's 87. She's been a Montgomery civil rights worker since the late '30s. She's still president of a legendary black political grass-roots organizing committee called the Montgomery Improvement Association. (The MIA's first leader, elected at the outset of the boycott, was the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. -- or "Mike" King, as people knew him back then, when he was relatively new to town and pastoring Dexter Avenue Baptist Church.)

Carr: "If black men came out, they would have been crucified. The women had more freedom, so to speak. And maybe the women had a little more courage, too. There is something in courage that women are just endowed with."

To know the real depth of what was endured by women on buses, you'd have to start going through every Montgomery phone book or city directory, year by year, then dialing numbers, hoping to luck onto a descendant or other relative. Or, better, start walking door to door through the old black neighborhoods with piles of census registers. Because a lot of the heroes in this story never could afford phones anyway. Names of Distinction

If there were justice, the world would know a lot about Aurelia Eliscerea Shines Browder. She loved to put up fruits and vegetables. She lived at 1012 Highland Ave. She used to pluck ripe switches from the back yard to give the dickens to her kids when they needed it. She was a buxom woman who not only birthed 21 children of her own (including five sets of twins, two sets of triplets), but who somehow found the will and the means to finish high school in her thirties and then earn a degree with honors from Alabama State. Her children still have that degree, with their mom's name in gold lettering on the blue leather-bound cover. The yellow tassel is pressed flat, like a tea rose in a Bible.

And yet who knows the name? It graces a seminal legal and historic document: the federal lawsuit, filed in early 1956, after the boycott was in full and successful swing, charging discriminatory treatment by bus drivers and challenging the constitutionality of city and state bus segregation. Aurelia Browder -- seamstress, midwife, teacher, widow, mother -- was the lead plaintiff in the suit. Originally there were five Montgomery women willing to lend their names to the document; hers was at the top. The case is called Browder v. Gayle. (W.A. "Tacky" Gayle was the mayor of Montgomery; even his friends called him Tacky.) The filing became the legal basis upon which the boycott was ultimately victorious in the courts.

Browder's recorded humiliation on a city bus -- there must have been more than one -- was borne on April 29, 1955. That was seven months before Rosa Parks. It was on the Day Street bus, after she'd gotten a transfer from the Oak Park bus in front of Price's drugstore. There are court transcripts still around in which she tells her story and in which the fancy white lawyers for the city are seen trying to pick her apart on the stand and to trick her into saying things she doesn't believe. But she is having none of it. She is backing them right off, with sentences that may not parse so well but are goose-bumping to read.

She tells the court: "I had stopped riding because I wanted better treatment. I knew if I would cooperate with my color I would finally get it."

A cross-examiner tries to get her to say it is all Martin Luther King Jr.'s fault -- he is the one stirring it up, rousing the local rabble.

Browder: "It is the segregation laws of Alabama that caused all of it."

Cross-examiner: "Just answer the question, isn't it a fact that your mouthpiece took into . . . "

Browder: "No! He did not put it into us!"

And yet it's been written that one of the reasons why the movement decided not to get behind Aurelia Browder as the launching symbol for what turned into a world-watched event was because it was thought -- by some in the NAACP and by other local black powers that be -- that she "would not be able to withstand courtroom cross-examination."

A lot of what has been said or written of those who've gone before seems flatly wrong, in the long view.

Aurelia Browder died in 1971. It was a big funeral at Hutchinson Street Baptist Church, on the old east side. All the children who had lived to adulthood were there. One of the hymns the congregation sang atop the crashing and boiling organ was "When I Have Gone the Last Mile of the Way." In the printed obituary notes, there is this: "Her highest aspiration was to be treated as an equal in all respects of life."

Most of her surviving children still work in and around Montgomery -- at the post office, at the landfill. One of them is Butler Browder Jr. He is a broad-shouldered 49-year-old man who goes to his postal job in the middle of the night, and does 12 or so hours there, then drives down to his small cattle farm to put in more hours.

He is sitting in his living room. He has gotten out photographs. Shortly a younger half brother, Curtis, will show up with his mom's transcript from Alabama State and with her voter registration certificate, in its original envelope. A sister, Manervia, will shortly call to say she has other documents she wants to bring over.

"I don't think it was ever a concern that what she did would be noticed someday," Butler Browder says. "I think she just did what she felt was right. I never saw her in a bitter mode. I don't think she was worried about her place in the history books, or whether she had enough notoriety. Because she did get some. She did. Maybe not enough."

Butler Browder once sent away to Nashville for a set of books published by the folks who put out Ebony and other black popular magazines. The thick, illustrated volumes began coming in the mail. One was titled "1,000 Successful Blacks." Another was titled "Pictorial History of Black America." Another was titled "The Civil Rights Movement to the Black Revolution."

His mother's name is in none of them. "Here, take a look for yourself," he says. Fear Becomes Anger

When Jo Ann Gibson Robinson, a careful scholar, estimated that three out of five black Montgomerians had borne indignities in semi-anonymity in the years before Rosa Parks, she was really talking about her own life. She was a middle-class woman who came to Montgomery from Georgia in the late '40s to teach on the college level. In the '50s she ended up leading another critically important local organizing group called the Women's Political Council, which had been founded in 1946, when the League of Women Voters had refused to integrate.

In 1949, the lit professor at Alabama State College was trying to get away to visit relatives in Cleveland for the Christmas holidays. She was on a bus out to Dannelly Field, the municipal air terminal. Distracted by her holiday excitement, she took a seat too far forward. There were only two other passengers aboard. A violent man was suddenly before her.

David J. Garrow, biographer of Martin Luther King Jr., described that incident in Southern Changes magazine: " He was standing over me, saying, "Get up from there! Get up from there," with his hand drawn back,' " wrote Garrow, quoting Robinson. Terrified and shaken, she ran from the bus. Afterward Robinson began to discover how common her terror was. The fear turned to anger.

It would be another six years before a boycott was launched, before the moment was right, a symbol was right.

"The idea {for the boycott} had been entertained for years," Robinson wrote in her own book. "Almost daily some black man, woman, or child had had an unpleasant experience on the bus and told other members of the family about it at the supper table or around the open fireplace or stove. These stories were repeated to neighbors, who retold them in club meetings or to the ministers of large church congregations."

In 1953 alone, there were something like 30 documented cases. Other Journeys Stories.

Geneva Johnson's people are apparently all gone from Montgomery. Didn't they go up north to Michigan? You hear that. What you hear is what a refined person Johnson was. She worshiped at Hall Street Baptist and loved big hats and big laughter and ran a floral shop at the back of her home at 1501 Mount Meigs Rd., just over a bridge, on the historic east side. The spot is a weedy vacant lot now. Folks say she could do such wondrous and sensitive funeral arrangements for the black undertakers.

In 1945 -- a decade before Rosa Parks -- they hauled Geneva Johnson off a municipal bus and arrested her for not having the correct change. She was accused of "talking back" to the driver.

"No, Geneva never really brought that out and discussed her incident, so far as I recall," MIA President Johnnie Carr says. "To tell you the truth, we were all so involved with the movement, we didn't really have time to sit and talk about our personal incident."

What became of Viola White? It isn't clear. She used to depend on the buses to get out to Maxwell Air Force Base. They took her off the bus (this also was in 1945) and beat her. Then they arrested her. Maybe she hadn't gotten up from her seat and moved fast enough when the driver ordered her to. Her conviction and fine: $10. Black civic groups filed a series of appeals, but that was laughable in the eyes of the city's power structure. And yet, as historians have written, it was another "conditioner" for what would eventually come.

Susie McDonald, or "Miss Sue," as most everyone in the black community seemed to call her in the '40s and '50s: She was an older woman by then, a widow, whose husband, Tom, had worked on the railroad. She had his pension and some other financial means. She walked with a cane and wore soft, flowered dresses and had very fair skin and blue eyes and very straight light tan hair -- which often misled the city's bus operators to believe she was one of them, which is to say white. So they weren't so apt to say, "Move back, nigger." Not apt, that is, until she'd straightened them out as to who and what she really was. She loved telling them to their teeth she was a "member of the darker race."

"I know she played a lot of -- what was it, bridge? Yes, I think so," says her granddaughter Kim McDonald Jackson. Like her forebear, she has very light skin. She's a Montgomery seamstress, in business for herself. "I don't know exactly when the incident was that my grandmother went through. But I'll tell you this about my family. Once they get something in their head, look out."

In the '50s the McDonald family owned a pavilion out at the end of Fleming Road by Cleveland Avenue. The black community called it McDonald's Farm. There was a swimming pool and picnic area. It was just a place to go and relax on summer Sundays without fear of violence. Part of the family myth is that McDonalds were able to acquire land in the 19th century because of their fair skin. They had fooled the bigots.

On and on these unlimned stories go. Let It Out'

And the truth is, the heroes themselves, at least in many cases, wanted to hide from historians and history books, remain obscure. Why? Many reasons, though some of it would have to do with the wrong and hurtful things that were said about their families -- at the time, and later.

"We're working people," Mary Ware says to you one day on the phone. "All we are are working people. Not sure I have time to talk."

Back then her name was Mary Louise Smith. On the day she swam against the segregationist tides of Alabama, she was an 18-year-old who worked as a maid for $2 a day. Her no was 40 mornings before Rosa Parks: Oct 21, 1955. So she's that close to history, and she's that far away from it, too.

You've been in town three days. You've located an older sister, known to be more open to strangers. The sister, whose name is Janie James, has agreed to intercede. "She's just naturally a shy person," explains James. "She just doesn't like it, the publicity. It's taken me 40 years to bring her out. You come to my house tonight. I think she'll show up."

The outline of the story is this: A white woman had stiffed Mary Louise Smith on her measly pay. Smith had cleaned for the woman all week in the afternoons and a little on Saturday and was now owed $11. She was forced to go home without it. The following week she rode the bus in anger back to the woman's house in Oak Park. No one answered. She stood there a while. Back on the bus, smoldering, fighting the tears, she refused to move when ordered to. She thought she was sitting in a legal spot. From court transcripts in Browder v. Gayle:

"I was sitting behind the sign that said for colored. A white lady got on the bus and she asked the bus driver to tell me to move out of my seat for her to sit there. He asked me to move three times, and I refused. So he got up and said he would call the cops. . . . I told him, I am not going to move out of my seat. I am not going to move anywhere. I got the privilege to sit here like anybody else.' "

Frank Smith, a widower, who lived with his family on the far edge of town, got a lift to the jail to spring his daughter. The incident seemed to go little noticed among the leaders of the black community. Not long afterward, a story passed that Frank Smith was a drunkard. How did it get passed? Apparently it was first said by a hard-working black activist named E.D. Nixon, now deceased.

In a 1981 dissertation by historian Steven M. Millner, there is this: "{Smith} was rejected when Nixon found her father sitting in a drunken stupor on the front porch of their tarpaper shack. He convinced the others, quite correctly, that such a symbol might not withstand the attendant glare of publicity."

E.D. Nixon was a stalwart of the Montgomery bus boycott and of civil rights in Alabama. His activism dated to the '20s. He was a Pullman porter, in A. Philip Randolph's Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. He was also a leader of the local NAACP. But he had character flaws, and one of them was an enlarged ego. It is now known that some of what he said was just wrong. In his old age, Nixon's memory was not completely to be trusted. When he died, in 1987, he was embittered, feeling he'd not received enough credit for his pioneering efforts.

Was he wrong about Mary Louise Smith's father? It isn't clear. For its part, the Smith family insists he wasn't a drunkard. And there are others still around from that time, who still live in the old neighborhood, who back them up.

Mary Louise Smith Ware and her sister, Janie James, are sitting tonight in a small pumpkin-yellow house in a section on the edge of town called Greater Washington Park. This is the old neighborhood. The house across the street is where the family lived when Mary Louise got pulled off the bus for talking back to the segregationists.

It's not a tarpaper shack. "I can tell you it looks pretty much now what it looked like then," says James.

The shy, younger sister has indeed shown up. She slipped in through the back door a few minutes ago. The sisters hugged. They are a pair of skinny sticks. Ware worked all day cleaning houses. She's got on a red T-shirt, tan chinos, white sneaks. Big veins ride up the backs of her hands. She's studying those hands. Her legs are crossed. She wiggles one of them nervously.

"My father did not drink. Now that really got down on the family. He was a good man, a family man," James says. "I don't know how that got started."

"He could not have been a drunkard with six children and him the sole provider," says Ware.

"He did two jobs. Worked at Paragon Press -- they did yearbooks. He'd do odd jobs on Saturday: yard tending and serving parties," says James. "Even after he got disabled he tried to work."

"We never had that stuff in our house, liquor," says Ware. "We had grape wine. Daddy would make that."

That day, Oct. 21, 1955: "I went early that morning," Ware says. "I went early to catch her. I couldn't get anybody to the door. I got back on the bus. The lady passenger got on. She just told me, Get up out of that seat.' "

Softly: "I might have done some cursing. . . . And then they came and arrested me."

Did she resist? "Well, they said I resisted. I don't think I did. He took me by the arm. Took me to city jail."

Two years ago, Johnnie Carr and members of the MIA, along with officials of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, marked the 40th anniversary of the ending of the boycott. There was a big public ceremony at a Baptist church downtown. At the last, Mary Ware agreed to come. Her older sister had coaxed her. It was one of Ware's first public appearances in four decades.

"Yes," she says, smiling, "I did get up there and accept the applause of the audience."

"Yes, you can let it out now," her sister says. "Let it out, Mary." The Search It's been written in histories that the leaders of the black community had been looking throughout the latter part of 1954 and for all of 1955 for a "near-perfect symbol around which to organize." True enough. It almost seems as if God dropped Rosa Parks into the middle of the moment. But anyone who's ever studied the boycott closely knows that's too easy. The tailor's assistant at the Montgomery Fair department store, who just wanted to catch the Cleveland Avenue bus home that night, had long been devoted to social justice and black causes, along with so many of the other working women of that city. It's a city that can accurately be called both the cradle of the old Confederacy and the birthplace of civil rights in America.

All the right elements -- the personal dedication, the timing, the clear injustice, the known goodness -- somehow came together on Dec. 1, 1955, in front of the Empire Theater.

David Garrow, on Rosa Parks: "It's both that she is known to be a committed civic activist and that she's known to be a lady.' You can actually see it in the '55 photos. There's a gravitas. She has a gravitas that encompasses a clear sense of quiet, spiritual strength."

Finally, there is the mystery of it. It happened. Rosa Parks was there. She was "right." For various and complicated reasons, her spiritual predecessors were not right, or too early, including the teenager from the poorest section of town who now works graveyard shifts at a nursing home up North. A long time ago Claudette Colvin left Alabama and went north toward home. Coming Full Circle

She doesn't sleep like the rest of us. She sleeps in swatches -- for half an hour on the No. 6 Lexington as it rackets her home in first light from the job; for 45 minutes on a couch while an afternoon soap is throwing shadow and noise at the wall; for the space of maybe 20 seconds as she waits her turn in the grocery line. "I sleep when the sleep comes down on me," she says. She's been sleeping like this, living like this, for the past 13 years.

It's midday. She has worked all night. She's toying with an omelet and bacon and home fries in a diner across the street from her place. Hasn't slept yet. Probably won't sleep until maybe 5:30 this afternoon, and then just in a swatch.

One of her sons, Raymond, who was born in 1956, died some years ago in her apartment of a drug overdose. That was when she lived in the South Bronx. She moved up here after thieves wiped her out.

Her other boy, Randy, is an accountant in Atlanta. Colvin's a grandmom. "The only fruit of my labor is Randy and his children," she says.

She's been in New York since 1958. One of her first jobs was as a sleep-in domestic. The people were kind, tolerant. They had a summer home in Connecticut, an old renovated schoolhouse with big land and a small lake in the rear. Colvin, with baby Raymond, used to get to go along to do the housekeeping and sleep in the attic. "That was the most rewarding thing that ever happened to me," she says, of being invited along to such beauty. One day she came into the laundry room at the Connecticut lake house and found her own clothes right on top of the clothes of the lady of the house. She just stood and stared.

She's sort of lurching now through all the pieces of her life. Her memory is hurtling back to her native ground. Over the past decades, she has ridden Greyhounds for 18 hours to get back to Alabama.

"I wasn't sexually active. I liked to dance. I wasn't very good at it," she says. She means when she was a teenager on King Hill and living with sisters and half-sisters and adoptive parents. One of her closest siblings, Delphine, died young. There were so many heartaches.

"When I got to 10th grade at Booker T. Washington High, I had a teacher, Miss Geraldine Nesbitt. I think she came from New York. She helped me begin to question things. She'd throw these questions into us. She told us to write down on paper what we were going to be. I folded mine up and gave it to her. It said I was going to be president of the United States."

Earlier, another teacher, Miss Lawrence, told her a story that still haunts her. It was about a black child in the South who wrote an essay during World War II titled "How to Stop Hitler." Answer: "Take him, catch him, skin him, put him in a black man's skin, then see how far he gets."

Slowly, things began to get into her. "I was very emotional. I couldn't accept. I said, I'm not going to straighten my hair until I get a sign from God.' They all said, Claudette, you're crazy, girl. You're not going to get a boyfriend.'

"Every morning, this male personality used to come out of me. I wanted to fight."

That day, March 2, 1955: It was after school, on Dexter Avenue. She was with chums. She decided not to go with them into J.J. Newberry or H.L. Green for penny candy. She went into a church. "Something spiritual just came over me. I went in. I said, How is it You don't love Your children?' I said it again: How is it the Lord doesn't love the black children?' "

She got up and went out and got on the bus. From court transcripts: "I said I was just as good as any white person and I wasn't going to get up."

A Montgomery cop, summoned by the driver, stood over her and said: "This is not new, I had trouble out of that thing before." According to the police complaint, they took her off "clawing and scratching." They hauled her to the city hall and then to the city jail. "They said a lot of obscene things. I can't remember a lot of them."

Suddenly: "They said I used profanity. I never used profanity. We were churchgoing people."

E.D. Nixon, in an oral history years later, said that Colvin was pregnant out of wedlock and could not be backed. She was a "brilliant student," though too unstable. Colvin acknowledges that she got pregnant, but she says it didn't happen until later in 1955. By then she'd felt rejected by her community. People were mocking her in school. "There's that crazy girl off the bus."

From Jo Ann Robinson's memoir: "She had remained calm all during the days of her waiting period and during the trial, but when she was found guilty, Claudette's agonized sobs penetrated the atmosphere of the courthouse." After the verdict, blacks were "as near a breaking point as they had ever been."

But a gear in the universe wasn't ready to shift. Colvin lent her name as a secondary plaintiff to the federal lawsuit. She testified. And she went into the shadows. A few years later she left Alabama. She said she was going up North to study how to liberate her people.

"The only thing I am still angry about is that I should have seen a psychiatrist," she says. "I needed help. I didn't get any support. I had to get well on my own."

In the North, "Twice I was tempted to go into prostitution. The only thing that kept me from it was the realization that you had to do other things, too. You had to steal. You had to drug people. I wasn't brought up like that."

And how does she feel about Rosa Parks? "I have nothing against her. I understand why they didn't want me. They had to find a symbol to draw them out. She was the right person. She was soft-spoken. You know Barbara Jordan? I think I would have had to be a cross between Barbara Jordan and Angela Davis."

It's not precisely accurate to say she holds no bitterness. But "how can you hold this in you and be able to survive? I take it out in different ways. I probably eat too much. I try not to trade in hate."

Do those she works with at the nursing home, or those who live across the hall, know who she is? "They know, but it doesn't faze them. They say, Rosa Parks. We know Rosa Parks.' The whole world knows Rosa Parks." CAPTION: "How is it the Lord doesn't love the black children?": Claudette Colvin in her Bronx apartment and, below right, as a teenager who stood up against segregation in Montgomery, Ala., in 1955. Clockwise below her are three who did the same: Aurelia Browder, "Miss Sue" McDonald and Rosa Parks, shown at the front of the bus in 1956. CAPTION: A proud heritage in Montgomery: Michael Forest, 6, displays photographs of his grandparents, Butler Sr. and Aurelia Browder. CAPTION: Janie James holds a family portrait. Her sister Mary Ware is in the far left corner. CAPTION: Activist Johnnie Carr, right, and her husband, Arlam. CAPTION: From left, Curtis, Manervia and Butler Browder Jr. look at family photos. Their mother, Aurelia Browder, was lead plaintiff in federal suit to end segregated busing in Montgomery.