Tripping to Tougaloo -- Part 3

Part1       Part 2

They had reached their destination alive and intact, but definitely the worse for wear.

Four Ripon College (WI) students – three white males, one*Negro* female – who a day ago had left their serene campus with their Psychology professor, ostensibly to complete an exchange program with some Mississippi students, were in their respective dorm rooms, waking from a much-needed nap. These dorm rooms, however, were on the campus of Tougaloo College, a small *Negro* campus just outside of Mississippi’s capitol of Jackson.

The group, along with Doc (Bill Alexander, Ph.D.) had been invited to a dinner in their honor in the campus dining hall. What a welcome change that was, being honored instead of followed through three states by various and sundry law enforcement vehicles.

There were speeches about how important exchanges such as this were to the furtherance of the Civil Rights Movement; speeches touting the ways both colleges were seeking to accomplish the same things, regardless of which race they were; i.e., excellence; speeches from one of the students who had spent a comparable period of time on Ripon’s campus and wanted to share her observations.

Rayne and her classmates, being the 19 and 20-year-olds that they were, soon became restless. Some of the Tougaloo kids had made plans with the Ripon visitors to hit one of the – well, the ONLY juke joint in the vicinity, which was located just a few yards from the campus entrance gate.

Merigold,Mississippi Juke Joint



Once the formalities in the dining hall finally came to a close, the new group of friends gathered outside for the walk to the juke joint. Doc went along, too. They all needed blow off the head of steam that had built up during their terrifying drive to what turned out to be a very different America.

Rayne and Reid, now overtly involved with each other, walked behind the larger group holding hands. They failed to notice the slack-jawed stares they were causing; it never occurred to them that such a public display of affection between a white person and a black person totally out of the question in these parts. Fortunately, all the people at Tougaloo College had been prepared for something unusual that week.

Rayne, whose dad had been an Airman stationed in Selma, Alabama, for a couple of years, was familiar with the concept of ‘juke joint.’ Her dad was a real music lover who played a lot of blues, honky-tonk and jazz music at their Illinois home. But Reid, Dick and Larry were expecting to hear what they heard when everybody piled into Ripon’s one and only beer bar, The Spot. They thought they were going to throw down a few Old Milwaukee ‘brewskis’ and dance the night away to the Beatles or the Kingsmen's Louie, Louie.

Reid whispered to Rayne, “I’m kind of nervous. I have never been in a situation before where I was the minority. The three of us are going to stick out like sore thumbs.” Rayne assured him it would be fine, but her mind said, “I’m not nervous, I’m scared. Who knows what might happen?”

Rayne and Reid were far too innocent to know this, but had their pairing been reversed – if Rayne had been white and Reid a *Negro* their reception would have been totally different. No Southern black patron in that juke joint would have wanted to be within a mile of a black man escorting a white woman. Black men died for just looking at white women.

What did happen that night was that they all danced and drank and partied far into the night. Yes, when the group first walked through the door, the buzz of multiple conversations came to an abrupt halt, and all heads turned to see what the other person was looking at. That took a few seconds. It was followed by a silent “as you were;” all returned to the way it had been.

Nursing hangovers, nothing new for any of these folks, the group gathered at the breakfast table in the dining hall to plan their day. The first stop? The White Citizens Council in downtown Jackson, MS.

“What am I supposed to do while you guys go over there?” Rayne asked no one in particular.

“You are coming with us,” Doc said, surprised.

“Umm, how’s that going to work, Doc?” This was Reid, the dragon-slayer, determined to protect his woman of 24 hours.

“It’ll be fine. You’ll see. Just let me do all the talking.” Doc seemed smug. He repeated these words as we stepped off the rickety elevator in the lobby of Jackson’s White Citizens Council.

“Good morning, suh. How can I help yew?” The receptionist smiled with all the Southern Hospitality one would expect in the Deep South.

“We’d like to take the tour,” Doc said with puzzling confidence.

“Is your group all white, suh?” She was looking Rayne dead in the eye.

“Of course. Oh, you mean Rayne? She’s from Hawaii. Does that count?”

Rayne almost swallowed her tongue. She had often been mistaken for something other than what she was, but never had she purposely passed.* “Oh, God,” she thought, “we are going to die.”

The receptionist glanced at Rayne a second time, then rose to lead the group on the grand tour. Rayne’s nerves were already frayed from the trip down. This was far worse. There would be no escaping the wrath of the law if someone turned them in.

As usual, her fear triggered an urgent need for a restroom. Finding her inner actress, Rayne asked in her most elegant northern accent for directions to the Ladies Room. It was then that she was convinced that the receptionist had bought their story, because she didn’t hesitate to send her out into the lobby.

Glad to have a chance to be alone and catch her breath one more time, Rayne suddenly stopped walking. She stood in front of two drinking fountains: one with a sign above it that read White. She glanced over at the second fountain marked Colored. Her throat was emery dry, but she was passing.

Never mind, she thought. I’ll just use the restroom.

But when she reached the door to the restroom, she was again faced with a dilemma much too complicated for her young years. There were two doors, side-by-side. The one on the right had a sign that read White Ladies. The one on the right read Colored Women.

Rayne felt the anger rise from the pit of her stomach to the tips of her ear lobes. White females were given the polite term to describe them. “We aren’t ladies, we’re women,” she thought. “They probably thought that was a concession. They probably wanted to call us Colored Females, like animals!”

Rayne knew what she had to do. Her bladder was still screaming at her, so she couldn’t just turn and go back. She took a quick look around, saw no one else in the lobby, and pushed through the door marked White Ladies. She knew she couldn’t put Doc in the position of having lied about her, so she had no other choice.

Just as Rayne opened the door to exit the restroom stall, the entrance door burst open. In walked two elderly women, white of course. One of them looked up, spotted Rayne and screamed at the top of her lungs. Rayne fled without washing her hands – she’d do that when she woke up from this nightmare – and rushed back to her group. For the rest of the tour, she focused her attention over her shoulder.

Rayne was furious with Doc. He seemed to be playing a game of chicken with these people, and Rayne wasn’t thrilled about being the guinea pig. When they finally made it back to the car, she let him have it.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again, Doc! I mean it. Don’t do it again.”

Juke Joint Photo by Bill Steeber

Coming next: The Conclusion

* Passing for white was a common term in those days, describing light-skinned Negroes who could be mistaken as white and who didn’t do anything to change that impression.