The more things change, the more they stay the same
Editor’s note: This is Part 1 of a five-part personal account of the voting rights struggle. Don’t forget to cast your ballot in the Nov. 3 election.
The Davis family originally came from one of the poorest, most racist states in the country, South Carolina. The family is now scattered, like windblown chaff. In the 1960s, Ella Kelly Davis and her children were a family engaged in the heart of the Voters’ Rights Movement. They were fortunate to live on property owned by people their Aunt Tee called “De Yankee,” a Northern family with a different kind of racism — subtle — yet kind and supportive of a mother with six children and many extended family members leaning and depending on her. In contrast, though legal slavery had ended, many Blacks in the Martin-Millett area were still bought and owned by White plantation owners. The Davises lived within a three-mile radius of five such plantations: The Creek Plantation, George Able Plantation, H.E. Johnson Plantation, George Kirkland Plantation and the George Able Belfast Plantation.
The divine hands of God and Ella made sure that her children were never in the position of being bought and bossed. They were free to go to school every day, and return home instead of getting off the school bus at the cotton fields, corn fields or whatever the harvesting crop was for that season.
The ’ 60s were heated all across the South, and in Martin-Millett the summer of 1965 was most explosive. Freedom Riders were moving across the deepest South, and thank God they did not exclude South Carolina. They lived with the families of the community in which they facilitated the Voters’ Rights Movement.
Every day during that summer, Rose, 16; Geneva, 18; and I, 22 — along with Mother Pinky Johnson in her early 60s, her husband, Rev. Richard Johnson, Leon Ingram, Mother Roberta Edwards and many more — joined forces with the Freedom Riders to visit various homes of Black families to convince them the time to register to vote was at hand. There comes a time in every life when one must choose. That time had come for the Davis Family.
Each Freedom Rider was assigned an area and family group to live with and encourage. Bill and Nash were our supporters. I remember they were around my age because I had just finished college, and they were finishing college that year or the next. Two Caucasians, Bill and Nash, joined forces with us as we all risked our lives for the simple but necessary right to VOTE.
Not only were we endangering ourselves, but we were endangering the lives of the families who lived on the plantations. Many days we were chased and threatened by white plantation owners.
One particular day we came incredibly close to getting killed. We called upon a house on H.E. Johnson’s plantation. The family we visited became nervous as we heard the roaring sound of the plantation owner’s truck pass the house and begin to slow down. The Big House was not very far from this family’s house. I was alert, on guard, and warned Bill and Nash that it was time to go when I saw the driver go into the house and call others for back up to help him.
For intimidation purposes, most of the white plantation owners rode with guns in their trucks. As we saw the men get into the truck, we made a run for our car. We all got in at the same time. It was my mom’s 1957 Ford and as Bill pulled off, all four doors were still swinging open. He sped out of the family’s yard; very seldom did we go inside the houses because that would have been too dangerous for all involved. The family encouraged us to move quickly, and move we did.
The big question on our minds was, “Where can we run to?” We had nothing with which to protect ourselves and no connection with anyone who had enough influence or interest to protect us.
Someone said, “Let’s go to Cousin Josh’s house.” He was a railroad worker, and he was also a Mason with power. I probably was the one who yelled that. I told Bill to drive as fast as he could and go to Mr. Josh Smith’s house. For Bill to have been from New York, where individuals do not necessarily need cars, he was an excellent driver.
The road on which we had to travel was filled with sharp curves and hills, and Bill held all of them better than a race track driver. We had gotten a good distance in front of the truck and were able to remain ahead. I thought that any minute gunshots would ring out. I was praying, “Lord help us to get to the railroad tracks.”
When we reached the tracks, we soared over them in Mom’s little 1957 Ford; the road became dirt at that point and we spun around in the opposite direction. Bill straightened the car up and we headed to Josh’s house. However, the driver of the truck did the same, having realized where we were headed. In the small town of Millett, everybody knew everybody and where they lived.
Josh Smith was a Black man who weighed 300 pounds and stood 6 feet tall. He did not bother anybody, but he would stand his ground with any man. He was a railroad worker, and when he spoke, he spoke with a deep voice of authority.
Although we knew that Josh was not in agreement with what we were doing, our followers did not know this, and I thank God for that.
The driver of the truck turned around, kicking up dirt as they yelled to us, waving their guns and saying that it would be best for us to never be caught on their land again. I expected to hear gunshots any minute as I remembered the time my brother and cousins were filled with buckshot by George Kirkland, another plantation owner.