1963 was a year of racial turmoil in the Deep South. Something occurred that year that has a familiar beginning but a somewhat
surprising ending. It is a story of rejection, threats of violence, a federal
court order, and silent treatment that ends with tears and a surprising
ovation.
On June 11, Governor George Wallace stood
in the doorway at the University of Alabama to block the admission of two black
students. On June 12, civil rights activist Medgar Evers was shot to death in nearby
Mississippi. A month later, a Birmingham church was bombed, killing four young black
girls.
On July 11, a young man walked into the registrar's
office at Florence State University (FSU), now University of North Alabama, and
requested an application for admission. Ten minutes later, he found himself
sitting in the office of University President Dr. Norton, along with the
Registrar and the Dean of the College. He was told that the university did not
have “the authority to admit a Negro.”
I was that young man.
I had spent my first two college years at Tennessee State
University, 125 miles from home, working during summers to help pay my tuition
and expenses. My 1963 summer job did not last long enough for me to afford
going back to Tennessee for my junior year. FSU was seven miles from my home.
Vivian Malone and James Hood had successfully entered the
University of Alabama a few weeks earlier over the governor’s objection.
So I assumed that all state universities in Alabama were required to consider
all applicants. I was mistaken.
President Norton informed me that under Alabama law, the
university could not admit me unless it was pursuant to a court order issued by
a federal court. He gave me the application forms and suggested that I talk the
matter over with my parents. Then if we wanted to proceed, I could submit the
application. He also advised me to keep quiet about our visit in the meantime
for security reasons.
Initially I had no intention of filing the application. But
I did tell my parents about my visit. To my surprise, my parents asked whether
or not I really wanted to attend this college. After some thought, I said
“yes.” To my further surprise, my mother picked up the phone and called
Attorney Fred Gray, the lawyer who had represented Vivian Malone and James Hood
in the University of Alabama case. Attorney Gray agreed to represent me in a
federal court suit if I was rejected.
A few days later, I submitted my application. The
University’s rejection notice came quickly and appeared in the local newspaper
and the national press before the letter reached my mailbox.
Immediately, the threatening phone calls began, some
threatening to bomb my house, others promising to have rifles pointed at me if
I appeared on campus. There were several calls from one man who, while not
threatening, complained “white folks just don’t have any rights anymore.” I
tried to explain that my attendance would cause no loss to him or anyone.
He was not placated. Each time he called, he complained for several minutes,
after which he hung up the phone.
My lawsuit was filed and in August, I appeared in federal
court in Birmingham for the hearing, which lasted about 20 minutes. Judge H. H. Grooms ordered the university to
admit me.
The telephone threats continued unabated right up until
September 11, the day I registered for classes. Oddly, they stopped completely
that day.
My first eight months on campus were rather quiet. Almost no one spoke to me except my
instructors. I had zero social life on campus. But since my home was only seven
miles away, I lived at home and had the support of my community. I studied
chemistry and mathematics, so my course load was heavy. I attended no sports
events and attended convocations only when the choir, of which I was a member,
had to perform.
The silent treatment continued until Honors Day, a day in
May when academic achievement was recognized. I was unaware that there was a
physics achievement award and that I would be its recipient. When my name was called, I was shocked. Then
as I stood up to accept the award, the audience began to applaud. The applause
started low and grew quickly. Until that moment, I had no idea how much eight months of silence and isolation had affected me. My emotions exploded, with tears to match. The more I cried, the louder the audience applauded. Ten seconds later, the entire
audience was on its feet, cheering. Fifty-two years later, I can still feel it whenever I tell the story.
I thought to myself, “Apparently, not all white people are
out to get me.”
After the convocation, students and faculty members gathered
around to congratulate me personally. Even more important, my life on campus
took a dramatic 180-degree turn that day and continued through my graduation
day a year later. Finally, I was just another student. That is all I
wanted in the first place.
Twenty-five years after my graduation, the University named me
Outstanding Alumnus of the Year. In September 2013, I accepted an
invitation to give the opening convocation speech to celebrate the 50th
anniversary of the beginning of this story.
But this is not a story about me. Rather it is a story about
a community in Alabama, just three hours drive from Selma, where change came and life moved on. And it happened
over 50 years ago. There are more stories with similar endings, waiting to be told. I intend to tell some of them in this blog.
Wendell Wilkie Gunn
March 7, 2015
Wonderful and inspiring story!
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