Decades ago, as a young reporter on the Mason-Dixon line, I was assigned to cover an address by Julian Bond, an iconic leader of the Civil Rights movement who was fighting in the Supreme Court to take his duly elected seat in the Georgia State Legislator. While still too young to run for the presidency, he was widely recognized as potentially the first Black candidate for that office.
I can still see him, eyes sharp as they searched the crowd, skin taut and veins throbbing as he worked to keep his expression under control. It was 1970 and Bond had come to red-neck country to speak to a crowd that mostly did not want to hear his message.
What they mostly wanted to do was stand against him. Given the rumors, some were probably there in the hope that they might see him die that night.
The wind was rife with threats. A phalanx of lawmen had been called out to surround and protect him. The venue was beyond steamy — a combination of the sweat of hundreds of bodies and the hot rain that had pelted everyone who had entered.
Despite the warnings of my editor and my own common sense which also told me to keep my distance and my wits about me, I found myself elbow to elbow with him as his circle of guards pushed us through the masses and propelled him toward the podium.
I wasn’t surprised by the grim expressions on their faces. This was, by all reports, a dangerous evening. But I was astounded to see that behind the watchful, officially protective eyes of some, a deep and angry hatred lurked. Faces projected the message loud and clear: tonight they might need to die for this guy — and they despised him, and they despised his message.
One of them stared straight at us and spit on the ground where the speaker was to walk.
There was a horrendous odor arising from our little circle. I’d never smelled it before nor since, but clearly it was the scent of fear — sharp, acrid, all encompassing.
As we were nudged even closer together, our eyes locked. His were dark, wide, watchful — filled, it seemed, with a combination of dread and determination -— with perhaps just a touch of resignation.
I don’t remember the specifics of what was said that night, but I will never forget the courage of the man as he squared his shoulders, gave a little shrug and went forward to speak his mind.
I do wonder what that young man would have said about our nation today.
Dick Hermans in the Oblong Bookstore on Millerton’s Main Street in 1985.Provided
Fall storage crop harvests amid soil building cover crops at Adamah Farm in Falls Village. Janna Siller 
