Civil Rights Events

SCOPE Project

Recollections

It was hope that took them south in June 1965. They were idealistic college kids, many still teenagers, clutching hard to an outsized hope and a belief that they could change the world. …

With a characteristically rousing oratory, King welcomed them, some 350 students from universities across the country who had enlisted in the Summer Community Organization and Political Education (SCOPE) project. It was a new effort of King’s Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC) to register and energize black voters as the landmark Voting Rights Act of 1965 wended its way through the legislative process.

Coming on the heels of the historic march in Selma, Alabama, SCOPE was a follow-up to, and extension of, the well-known Freedom Summer a year earlier. The hope for the new initiative was not only to register voters but also to seed and grow lasting social change by galvanizing poor black communities.

“How happy I am to see you here in Atlanta, in such enthusiastic and spirit-filled numbers, to become a part of what I believe will be one of the most significant developments ever to take place in our whole struggle for freedom and human dignity,” King said to kick off a weeklong orientation and training in nonviolent action. “You are here because history is being made here, and this generation of students is found where history is being made.”

Among the crowd of students that day was a contingent from UC Santa Barbara. The seaside campus was a stop on a SCOPE recruiting tour headlined by noted activist, SCLC leader and trusted King confidant Hosea Williams.

“When I heard him speak, I was ready,” recalled Lanny Kaufer, who was a freshman at UCSB in 1965, when Williams spoke on campus. “That feeling that things I’d taken for granted, I suddenly realized, were not the way I thought they were. The feeling that somebody should do something about this, about civil rights, and I realized I am somebody. I can do something.”

Sussex County, Virginia, was a far cry from Santa Barbara. Rural, extremely poor and completely segregated, it was a world away in geography and ideology alike.

The UCSB group arrived in Sussex with hopeful hearts and open minds. They were welcomed into the black community where they were to stay with kindness, enthusiasm and no lack of wonder.

“During dinner on our very first night, the young son of the family that hosted me kept staring and staring,” Kaufer, of Ojai, said recently. “His mother noticed and told him it wasn’t polite to stare, and he said, ‘But Mama, he eats just like we do.’ That moment I will never forget — that realization of what racial segregation does to people. To go out on the street the next day with the kids all around us — them wanting to touch my arm and commenting that my skin felt just like theirs — it was a revelation.”

Just hours into their assignment — the SCOPE volunteers were dispatched in clusters to similar counties across the South — Kaufer and his fellow students were already seeing, on a small scale, how King’s bold prediction could come to pass.

“You will do far more this summer than teach literacy, canvass for voters, educate Negroes in community organization,” King had told them in Atlanta. “You are going to make the entire nation a classroom. You’re going to teach tens of millions that ugly facts of injustice exist — and yet they can be overcome by a passionate zeal for decency and brotherhood.”

…

“From a young age I had a very deep belief, which I hold to this day, that everyone deserves to be treated with dignity and equal opportunity,” said [Peggy Ryan] Poole, who sought out and joined SCOPE on her own as an 18-year-old freshman at Chico State University. She was assigned to travel and work with the UCSB chapter during the orientation week in Atlanta.

“My parents kept all my letters from that summer and in one of them I say, ‘I’ve never been happier,’” Poole recalled recently. “It was because I had a sense of purpose and solidarity. And there was so much courage. There was dignity. These were poor people living in incredibly difficult circumstances, and a lot of them weren’t educated or politically savvy at all. But they believed in what was right. That made a huge impression on me.

“People really put their lives on the line for basic things — for their right to vote — and it’s not exaggerating to say that,” she added. “It was a very happy time for me. I was doing something meaningful, with people who were very inspirational. We were seeing people at their finest. What I learned is that you treat everyone with dignity and you can make a difference, one person at a time” (Leachman 1-10).

Joyce Brians (later known as Maria Gitin), a freshman at San Francisco State College, was assigned to work in Camden, Wilcox County, Alabama. She wrote about her immediate experiences in a July 9 letter she sent to her family.

I had a rather narrow escape today & when I got back to The Academy [an all black Presbyterian private school in Camden that was used as our headquarters after the church was damaged and closed by the police] & got your letters it made me so happy I wanted to cry. I sure think about you all often.

I was with a Negro boy, girl & one other white boy today walking down the highway when a man in a pickup truck tried to run over us; we jumped across a ditch but he kept coming back to try for more. He had a shotgun pointed at us, too. We finally decided to try to get to a phone. We went into a Negro cafe & tried to call the Academy (now SCOPE headquarters) but the line was busy. Our white Klan friend kept cruising up & down in front of the place while we two white folk hid in the outhouse. The woman who owned the place got scared & made us leave. We hid in the woods & tried to plan what to do. Finally the Negro boy went to try to find another phone. It took him over an hour. At last someone from the Academy came to pick us up & we made it safely back to town. I wasn't scared — just mad. Now our chances are blown in that community — Arlington, 'cuz the folks are scared of us.

I'm so tired of living in constant danger that I can't be afraid anymore. Every nite when I go to bed I just say "Thank God no one got killed today." We are getting people registered, tho' the Klan is trying its damndest to see that we don't.

To answer your questions:

It is very hot. It rains & thunders & lightenings for about an hour every day — usually while we are out canvassing. We seldom get cars. I have walked as much as 25 miles in one day.

I move from house to house, nite to nite. Everyone is afraid to keep us longer than that. They won't let me stay at The Academy anymore except in emergencies like tonite (there are Klansmen at the gate to the Academy but they can't come up here) cuz we didn't get that letter yet [from Rev Hosea Williams approving me for this housing]. I usually share a double or single bed with another girl. I've never had a room or bed to myself. Few of the homes have running water or electricity. I've never stayed in a place with indoor toilets.

We eat on the run — ice cream bars, milk — whatever we can find. Few people can feed us because they are so poor. When they do — it is usually fried chicken, grits, corn, beans, etc. I seldom get vegetables or meat and never get any kind of fruit. I guess I miss that the most. I'm losing weight slowly but we have to eat when we can, as much as we can cuz we never know where our next meal is coming from.

I seem to survive on the sleep I get. Considering I had pneumonia 2 wks ago I'm in great shape. I do get tired quicker than the others but the doctor said he's never seen anyone shake it so quickly.

I haven't been to church at all since I've been here cuz we aren't allowed in the white one and the Negro one has been closed by the sheriff. But I pray constantly & read my Bible every nite. Whenever a few of us gather for meals I ask grace. I feel in God's hands more than I ever have before.

My work right now is mainly going from shack to shack trying to convince people to get off their behinds & get down to register. We usually split up and get local kids to show us around. We never work in white pairs cuz the people are still scared of us. [Note: these comments pain me today; the local people were courageous beyond belief — just living there was a constant struggle. I was echoing the talk from leaders who were frustrated with the pace of registration.] We get all sorts of reactions and excuses, but we also get the rewards of seeing people stand in line at the courthouse all day & finally walk home with a new kind of pride that says "I'm a registered voter." We have what we call Mass Meetings where we give pep talks. They are rather like football rallies. I've never gotten to really 'preach' but I've given a couple of short talks.

… I am getting pretty tan. I wish I could get really black & blend in more-- I feel so conspicuous — I'm so white. I've almost caused more near accidents. White folks just about drive off the road when they see me walking down the street carrying a Negro child. But I'd say they are just going to have to get used to it.

…

… By late July it felt more like the locals were protecting us in emergency impromptu freedom houses on a night-by-night basis than that we were being helpful to them. We felt bad, guilty that we weren't giving the locals more and instead, were taking from them: food and bed space mostly. But worst of all, that we were bringing them into even greater danger (Gitin Letter 1-5).

Maria Gitin (Joyce Brians then) wrote separately about two local black activists that assisted her.

One of the local young men who canvassed with me was 16 year-old Robert Powell, a well-spoken good looking student who had a smile that charmed doors open for us. I'd stand back and he'd knock. Then he'd introduce me or sometimes we'd both stand at the door. Robert had good ideas about what would work best with which residents. If they only saw me, sometimes the door wouldn't open or we'd be quickly asked to leave. Often women were working at home farming, doing laundry and ironing, cooking. Sometime we got lucky. A woman would open the door with a wide smile and look of near disbelief. "My, my, my, Lawd have mercy — look at them!" A heavy set lady with her housework rag wrapped around her head waved me in, "You is the first one of them to ever to set foot in this house by invitation. We had the sheriff come out once and break everything up after my son was in the march but that were no invite. You are most welcome here young lady, most welcome."

As soon as I began working in my assigned areas, Coy, Boiling Springs and Gees Bend, locals told us why they had not yet registered. They repeated stories of lynching in the too near past, recent beatings and being fired from scarce decent-paying jobs at the okra canning or box making factory.

One afternoon Robert wanted to stop at one of the little country stores for a soda. We weren't supposed to go into any place where whites might see us together but I didn't want to show Robert my fear. There was a white man in there. He threw one glance at me before he started for Robert who took off running. I ran the opposite direction. I wasn't quite sure how to get back to where I was staying but growing up in the country did me some good. I walked along the red dirt road until I saw trucks where the highway might be, then I got oriented back to my host's house. A few weeks later, in nearby Haneyville on August 21st, Rev. Jonathan Daniels, a white minister, was walking out of a small store after buying sodas with Ruby Sales and Jimmy Rogers of SNCC. He was shot and killed by a racist incensed at the integrated trio of civil rights field workers.

Coy quickly became one of my favorite places to work because it was where Ethel Brooks lived. Ethel was only five years older than me but I looked up to her as one of the most active, progressive and exciting adults.

Ethel was an attractive, high-energy twenty-four year old with medium brown skin, dimples, a huge grin and thick unruly hair. She had a seven-year old son that her mother watched while she and her Dad were out doing community organizing. Ethel had encouraged and "carried" (the local term for drove) students to participate in the Selma marches. She had already been in the Camden jail several times and kept a pair of old paisley pedal pushers that she called her "jail pants" in the back of her car.

I wasn't the only person attracted to Ethel's fiery brand of leadership. She had convinced dozens of high school students to join her on the infamous "Bloody Sunday" march in Selma — a march many of you were in — and the folks we just were with three weeks ago of back there still recall surviving with pride.

Once we were driving back from her place in the bend area of Coy to Camden. A Lane Butane (local Klan leaders) pickup truck started chasing us. Ethel tried to outrun them, driving faster and faster over the bumpy one lane road. At the crossroads where Harvey's store is, she pulled onto a sidetrack in back and hid until the pickup passed us. Whew!

Then, to my horror, she pulled out behind them and started tailgating them with her window rolled down, yelling and laughing wildly. Another worker and I were screaming at her "Ethel stop! Stop!" We were laughing, but at the same time we were scared half to death. Finally, she backed off. The white men glared back at her with faces that said "Crazy lady. We'll get you next time." before they roared on. She wasn't always nonviolent, but her reckless courage sure made us feel braver (Gitin Story 1-5).

The passage of the Voting Right Act August 6 did not stop hard-line segregationist intimidation and violence. Sherlie Labedis’s excerpt from her book, You Came Here to Die, Didn't You? provides context and emotional consequence.

During the summer of 1965, I was a 125-pound natural blonde, eighteen years old, and I was absolutely committed to equality. I was a voter registration worker for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. My project was SCOPE, or Summer Community Organization and Political Education project. …

Friday, August 20, Pineville, South Carolina. I need to pee, but I can't walk down the outside stairs to the toilet. I'm scared! In the loft of the Freedom House past midnight, soaked in sweat, our sheets thrown aside, Nellie, Carol and I pray for relief. Relief from fatigue, heat and constant nagging fear that drains our energy. Our bodies crave sleep. Can't. I'm frightened to death listening for the sinister crunch of gravel in front of the Freedom House and the crash of a Molotov cocktail smashing the storefront window setting the building on fire with us in it. The past two months here have taken their toll on me, on all of us. For Herb and Henry, who live here, that toll has been life-long.

I need to pee, but night frightens me most. Secrets happen in the dark. We can't escape in deep slumber, but occasionally there might be a tattered dream of home, the fleeting face of a boyfriend or the memory of sleeping in. Not tonight. A legion of mosquitoes plagues us, whining in the oppressive darkness. And when they land, a smack follows.

I feel the world is about to explode. Something waits in the night. I know it as I drift off.

"Fire!" a male voice yells below.

I jump up to look out the window expecting the male workers' rooms to be engulfed in flame, but a dull red glow highlights the horizon across the street accentuating silhouettes of loblolly and yellow pine.

"It's not here," I cry. "Looks like it's over near Redeemer."

Scrambling for our clothes in the dark, we fly barefoot down the stairs. Mrs. Simmons waits next to her car her black face fierce in Herb's headlights as he, Carol and Henry peel out of the parking lot spitting gravel against us. Nellie and I jump in Mrs. Simmons' car and she races after Herb toward that ominous glow. John stays behind next to the phone.

My voice quivers when I blurt out, "Could it be Redeemer?"

Mrs. Simmons worships there. We consider it our "home" church.

"Do you think it's the Klan?" I exclaim.

"You jus' hush now, you hear?" Mrs. Simmons hisses, both anger and resignation in her voice.

It's our fault. If we weren't here, there wouldn't be a fire. Then I look at Mrs. Simmons, her jaw set, her lips tight. Is she thinking the same thing? Or does she feel responsible? I don't have the guts to ask her so I never find out.

We round the bend and a blazing Redeemer fills our view.

"Lord, have mercy," Mrs. Simmons whispers. She steers the car onto the grassy shoulder and stops behind Herb.

"We are so sorry," Nellie breathes. And we are.

Redeemer has been a base for our voter registration drive. Rev. Gadsden and many of the congregation support white civil rights workers in their midst. On registration day folks meet here at Redeemer to catch the bus to the county seat. The church, surrounded by cotton fields on a rural road, obviously offered too tempting a target to those who would rid the community of outside agitators: Us.

We leave the cars only to shrink back from the blast of heat.

"Is that a fire truck?" Carol asks in disbelief as a truck passes us and pulls up to two houses on the right of the church.

"It belongs to Robert Bobbitt," Herb says. "He owns the cotton gin near Day Dawn Church. He's white, but he's wanted a local fire department as long as I can remember. The St. Stephen Fire Department is at least ten minutes away so he has his own truck."

Bobbitt runs out the hose. Henry and other neighbors hurry to help him. Even though there's no hope for the church, the houses might be saved.

"How'd it start?" Nellie asks.

"Fire bomb," Herb angrily picks up a hand full of sand and hurls it against the air.

"White guys in a pickup truck."

A pine tree explodes in a spray of sparks as flames reach its branches, fence posts char and suddenly the second story of Redeemer collapses with a horrifying whoosh and thud. Mrs. Simmons shudders.

"Why did it burn so fast?" I demand. "It's brick."

"It's veneer," she says simply. "We jus' finished it last year. We passed that collection plate lots of Sundays to pay for this rubble. It was built in 1911, jus' an old frame church."

Oh, my God, we're not playing I realize as we stare, hypnotized while flames die down and the fire is reduced to hot coals.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform," Mrs. Simmons says as she turns away from the fire and strides back to the car as we hurry to follow. "Some folks is gon' be mad with me, but most gon' be mad about our church. We need to plan a mass meetin'. The Lord's will be done."

She seems resigned, but I am far beyond the outrage I felt watching televised burning churches in Mississippi or Alabama. The Civil Rights Movement means Martin Luther King Jr., sit-ins, marches and Negroes voting for the first time. Outrage would be a relief from the guilt I now feel.

This is no longer an adventure or an opportunity to help others. Someone destroyed this House of God because we are here. Pineville is just a rural area, literally a wide spot on the road. Martin Luther King didn't come here. It isn't part of a Supreme Court case changing the way people interact in the world. No news cameraman captures this devastation. We four came and the most obvious proof of our arrival lies blackened before us. And tomorrow, we canvass for voters again (Labedis 1-5).

Works cited:

Gitin, Maria. “Letter From Wilcox County, Alabama.” Remembrances of the SCOPE Project. Civil Rights Movement Articles & Speeches by Movement Veterans
Summer Community Organization and Political Education (SCOPE) Project, 1965-66. Web. https://www.crmvet.org/nars/gitin2.htm

Gitin, Maria. “Story From Wilcox County, AL.” Remembrances of the SCOPE Project. Civil Rights Movement Articles & Speeches by Movement Veterans
Summer Community Organization and Political Education (SCOPE) Project, 1965-66. Web. https://www.crmvet.org/nars/gitin2.htm

Labedis, Sherie. “Fireball in the Night.” Remembrances of the SCOPE Project. Civil Rights Movement Articles & Speeches by Movement Veterans
Summer Community Organization and Political Education (SCOPE) Project, 1965-66. Web. https://www.crmvet.org/nars/gitin2.htm

Leachman, Shelly. “For Freedom and Human Dignity.” The Current. April 14, 2015. Web. https://www.news.ucsb.edu/2015/015316/freedom-and-human-dignity