Journal entries from the road . . .

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So, we're off. Not a bad start. Rainy morning, but fairly warm, and the sporadic rain wasn't too unpleasant. The bus, thankfully, was on time, even early - it was waiting when we drove up at 9:45. It's a great thing - it says "tiger" on the back with a tacky 70's graffiti-like drawing of a tiger on the back and side. At least we'll always be able to find it in a crowded lot. It's actually a huge relief to see that the bus is everything that's been promised - it's been a bit stressful to have invested in something like this sight-unseen. I immediately like Morgan, the driver. He's ultra-polite, soft-spoken, and laid back. I think he'll be perfect for our group. So, the rain slows down while we're loading on, and things are pleasant - Nicole's parents are very helpful following us to Pearlman to load the food and miscellaneous items in my office. Unfortunately we only have one storage bay (rather than the promised two) to work with, so with all of our bags taking up 3/4 of the space, we only have room for about a third of the food we're hoping to bring.

We say our goodbyes, and we're off just a bit after noon. It's a very strange feeling actually being on the bus - I think all of us have feeling of 'what exactly are we doing here?' But this feeling is mixed with excitement, and I really get excited when i go through the itinerary with Barb and Cheryl. We repeat the itinerary summary a bit later for the rest of the students, and I think we have a positive tone about the trip as a whole.

We stop to eat on the way to the Pequot Museum and make the museum before 3. My parents have already arrived and are waiting at the entrance for us. While I deal with the group reservation, Adam gives them a tour of the bus and tries to dig up dirt on my past - lord knows what my father tells him.

A couple of hours in the Museum - interesting in that it does an excellent job presenting the evolution of the pequot tribe, though it understandably takes great pains to present itself in a desirable light (Aaron notes this in our discussion later as well). Especially interesting to me is the contemporary struggle to gain federal recognition and the later effect of the economic boom created by the casino. Gaining membership in the tribe seems like an especially nebulous process, as the 1/16 blood requirement has been recently eliminated - it seems like more of a political process than an ancestral one - maybe this is to be expected with so much money now at stake.

After the museum, we take the shuttle over to the casino itself, where we all split and agree to meet by the lobby entrance at 10:00. The casino itself is 21+, but there's something for everyone to do there.

Back to the bus for our first nighttime drive to NYC. We decide to head to Jasmine's house in the South Bronx - she's right across the street from Yankee Stadium, so we're hoping to find somewhere there to park the bus for the night. Much talk about logistics and student projects before bed. Looking forward to the day in the big city tomorrow.

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May 28-29, 2001
New York, NY:
Montefiore's Children's Health Program & Carolyn Goodman

Allison Schechter
May 29, 2001 - Day 3

Talk about a hectic day...starting at about 11:00 am everything was non-stop. First, we traveled to the Hunts Point area of the South Bronx in New York City. Dr. A. Shapiro of Montefiore's Children's Health Program gave us a thought-provoking speech on the origins of the program and on his role as an activist. The clinic that we visited serves both children and adults in one of the most under-served areas in the United States. Not only does it provide health care services, but it also provides a mentor program, chess program, mental health program, and youth development program for children in the community.

After visiting the clinic, we traveled to "The Point," a center for teen arts in another part of the South Bronx. First we were able to see inside of the Children's Health Program's Mobile Medical Unit which also provides free medical care for those in need. We then went into The Point, a facility that affords children the opportunity to get off the streets by participating in the arts.

Our experience today in the South Bronx was one that was really important to me. Growing up in a suburb of New York City, I consider myself a "New Yorker." However, I realized that my view of the city was a jaded one. When I think of New York, I see visions of Times Square, Broadway, and 5th Avenue. However, today I found myself in an area that I have never before visited for any significant period of time. I can say that I have truly become a better informed individual as a result of my experiences today.

Immediately after leaving a graffiti art exhibit in the Bronx, the group took the subway to Dr. Carolyn Goodman's apartment on the upper west side of Manhattan. Dr. Goodman is the mother of Andrew Goodman who was murdered in Mississippi during Freedom Summer and is an extremely prominent activist in her own right. Just like the first time we met her (2/2001), she was truly fascinating. She shared her experiences as an activist and gave us advice o how we can become successful activists as well. Thank you so much to Dr. Goodman for letting us visit her apartment and for sharing with us her fascinating stories and some great donuts.

To cap off this eventful day, a few of us went to the Mets game at Shea Stadium in Queens. Unfortunately, the Mets lost to the Phillies, however my all-time favorite hockey team won their Stanley Cup finals game. So I conclude with this thought...Let's Go Devils!

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May 30, 2001
Levittown, PA:
Levittown Neighborhoods & Community Meal

Cheryl Kingma-Kiekhofer
Day 4

Today we went to Levittown. As a student who studies suburbia, this has been a long awaited trip for me. And although I didn't find anything along the lines of the "Stepford Wives" or "Crack in the Picture Window", I believe that Levittown does show itself to be an interesting, extreme example of what a homogeneous suburb can look like. The first thing that I noticed about Levittown was how similar street names in Levittown are to street names in other suburbs. Magnolia, Birch, and Mulberry streets. They looked so familiar to me. Being in Levittown, in general, felt very familiar to me. Being there reminded me of the love/hate relationship that I have with suburbia. Having grown up there, I love suburbia, the omnipresent swingsets, the greenness, the quiet. It is so much of how I grew up and who I am. At the same time, though, I grew up feeling alienated and stifled by the regulation and the homogeneity of suburbia. And I do believe that suburbia can continue to do this to other kids. I think Levittown shows the potential for this. Even after 50 years, after additions and garages, George and I explored our area of Levittown and were struck by how similar the houses still looked. The people in Levittown that we saw were not, at first, terribly receptive to us. In fact, people seemed down right rude. George and I would wave and say hi, but people would turn around and walk away. In fact, someone called the police on Adam and Allison because they were asking residents to see a Levittown house on the inside. It seemed that the residents of Levittown were very disturbed by our outsider presence.

However, once the police officer showed up and I explained to him what we were doing, that we were researching Levittown for a sociology class, he said, "Yeah, I studied Levittown, too. I have a degree in sociology," and actually became very helpful. After leaving the police encounter, George and I found a woman who, although at first suspicious, after we explained our situation, opened up and gave us some good information about Levittown.

She is a 26 year old mother of two young children. She was born and raised in the same house that she lives in today. She told us that in her neighborhood, a lot of the houses are passed down from generation to generation. She said that most of the people in her neighborhood were very similar to her. They were in the "same boat". Most people were now parents of young children. She also revealed that the neighborhood had not changed a lot in the past 50 years. Levittown is still very homogeneous in terms of race and class. When we talked about what it was like to live in Levittown as a teenager, she echoed the suburban teenage mantra that there was nothing to do and that it is very boring. Suburban teenage angst, yeah boy.

Although there were definitely students who noticed some variation to these patterns, a lot of these themes seemed to be echoed in what other groups from the bus found. Although they are certainly not mindless drones, the residents of Levittown did seem to conform to some standards of homogeneity.

After Levittown, we hosted a cookout in Lee's home town. It was nice to see the family and friends of one of the students on the bus trip. I felt like part of an extended community. I also feel like this sense of extended community strengthens the community felt by us on the bus. I feel like as we continue to work together, eat together, and play together (tonight, a rousing game of team tag), we become more like a family.

So, besides missing Neil a whole lot, today was a good day.
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Columbia, MD:
Due to scheduling difficulties, our stop in Columbia was cancelled.

May 31, 2001
College Park, MD:

College Park, MD: The University of Maryland's Center for International Development and Conflict Management will host us for a talk by its Director, Professor Christian Davenport. Christian is a contributing author in "The Black Panthers Reconsidered," the first scholarly reflection on the Black Panther Party, and will speak to us about the Panthers'community mobilization work in various inner cities between 1966 and 1973.

Adam Brooks
Day 5

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, shower. Today I got woken up a little before 10:00 am. Bubba the Teddy Bear had found his way into my sleeping bag over the course of the night, so I was kind of cramped. For a minute I had forgotten that we get to shower today, but I quickly remembered and got out of bed. I watched our bus while others showered, and then I showered myself. I love showers; showers are great.After showering we headed over to our meeting with Chris Davenport, an expert on the Black Panthers and other African American movements. Professor Davenport had hooked us up with the showering facilities at the University of Maryland, so he instantly had my respect and admiration. I learned more from Professor Davenport's talk than I had from any one single experience on the trip so far. He started off his talk with art examples from Michael Ray Charles. Charles pieces take stereotypes of African Americans from the past and expose them in some very interesting art. Davenport made this interesting point referring to Milan Kundera's idea that the act of remembering, of prioritizing and compressing ideas, is an act of forgetting. He relates that point to the way in which people document the history of the Black Panthers - most people studying the Panthers don't even read the Panthers' own newspaper. Davenport also distinction between the Civil Rights movement and the Black Nationalist movement, which many people offensively lump together, as if Black Nationalism is the bad, militant wing of the Civil Rights movement, which is offensive. Nobody learns about the Panthers' free breakfast program, or their clinics to help people with sickle-cell anemia, which affected the African American population unlike other populations.

We then went to lunch at Chipotle's. I stuffed myself with a burrito, then Cheryl made a $5.00 bet with me that she will get me to do something for her on this trip solely because of her girlyness. Unfortunately for Cheryl, I will now do nothing for her in order to ensure that I will win the bet. After lunch Professor Davenport allowed us to use the computers on campus, so I was able to check my Yahoo! Fantasy League Baseball Team, the Sheep Shearers. My team is composed of mostly Oakland A's, who were beating the Tampa Bay Devil Rays ten to zero. The A's will surpass the Minnesota Twins and the Cleveland Indians in the Wild Card race before the end of the season, I assure you. After our Internet business Andrew, Aaron, Lee, and I wandered around the University of Maryland. We wanted to sneak up on Barb, Cheryl, and Suzy, so we sent Lee out as a decoy. However, we realized we still wouldn't be able accomplish our mission, so we abandoned Lee and calmly walked up to the girls. Then I played with a dog named Moe. Moe the dog was fun but lazy. Oh well. At night, I watched the Devils vs. the Avalanche in game three of the Stanley Cup Finals. It was a great game, but the Avalanche took a 2-1 lead in the series with their 3-1 victory over the Devils. Allison was pissed because she's a huge Devils fan, but I feel like the Devils will win on Saturday.

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June 1, 2001
Princeville, NC:

Lee Tusman
Day 6

Bojangles, Waffle House, Jimbo's, and servers trying to give me grits "on the side" every time I order anything no matter where we are-It hits me-I'm in the south now! Today we visited Princeville, North Carolina where the infamous flood destroyed the town in 1998. We spoke to Sam Knight, a member of the town government. I forget his exact title, but he headed many projects, as did his coworkers. Knight, "from Princeville, born and raised" talked to us about the history of Princeville and the efforts to rebuild it after the flood. After the talk, we headed out to see where Knight spends his night; he owns a truck stop/restaurant/convenience store. As we drove up, a large sign with the simple words "GOOD FOOD" stood waiting for us and called out, "This is home cookin'. Better come eat it up." Workers hoisted a neon "Open" sign and hastened to clean up the dining room for us. Junk was piled up in the corners. Little kids chattered. Rain started to pour down on us and we piled inside. I immediately knew, this was the perfect place for me.

We waited in a long line and ordered things like fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, fried fish, rice, candied yams, cornsticks and french fries. Since I was last in the line, it took about 20 minutes for me to get my grub. But it was worth it! Not only did I get a double dose of mac and cheese, but the fried chicken was delicious. Not yummy-delicious, but greasy-crunchy-flavorful-crispy delicious!

After dinner, we shmoozed away a few hours, reflecting on the day and our trip so far. Eventually, our meal ended and I think it settled into us that that was the best meal we've had on the trip so far. We were in for another pleasant surprise: Mr. Knight didn't charge us for dinner, but insisted we come back to visit him at Princeville in the future and challenged us to come back and see how much the town grows in 5 years. We filed back into the bus and cruised toward mecca, a motel. Living on a bus is fun, but living not-on-a-bus-so-one-can-stand-up-and-not-be-within-a-foot-of-another-human-at-all-times is even more fun. In groups of four, we rented motel rooms. It was about midnight by the time we got settled in. Too early! We're college kids, we've got at least two and half hours before sleep. Barb, Suzy, Adam, Cheryl, Aaron and I trekked over to Waffle House, the only thing open in the area at that time of night. When we got there, at about one in the morning, the place was packed.

Granted, it wasn't the biggest restaurant, but it was full, and we had to wait 5 minutes to get a table! We sat down, ordered, and enjoyed eggs, waffles (what else!), and the now all-too-familiar grits. We chewed the rag for a while, played a tune or two on the ole' jukebox, paid, and decided to head to our hotel home to hit the hay. Out the door, and there stood a man with a knife. We carefully avoided him and went back to our hotel. Boy were we tired! Like the playful cubs at the zoo who have just finished their noontime meal, we yawned and stretched and lay down for calming, gentle sleep.

It was not to be. Aaron and Adam insisted on singing in their bed (they both chose the bed without me because I snore) and I started cackling with mad glee because of their inane antics. Andrew, who had declined to go out to Waffle House with us, woke up and threatened to attack if the volume wasn't lowered. After a brief comparison of the sleeping space in the bus versus the motel room (you have about two fists of space above you in the bus, and eighteen fists of space above you in the motel-we know cuz we counted!) We complied with Andrew's request, and drifted off to peaceful sleep. Good night!

-Lee "Are We There Yet?" Tusman
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June 2, 2001
Greensboro, NC:

Nicole Karlebach
Day 7

Today we woke up rested and clean after a motel stay in Burlington, North Carolina. The first order of business was a trip to the Waffle House resturant for breakfast. Tameka, Jasmine, George, Allison, and I braved crossing a highway and took a short walk to get to our morning meal. The next stop on our route was Greenboro, N.C. to check out a grass roots movement to stop police brutality in that area. When we arrived at the small shopping center where the event was set to take place, nothing was set up yet so we were afforded some time for lunch and to just relax. Once things started to get into motion we were able to talk to a local organizer of the movement who explained some of the issues and incidents surrounding the rally against police abuse. It seems in the Greenboro area that much mistreatment by police is a result of racial tension. The organizer told stories of policemen ignoring 911 calls placed by black residents and also prematurely shooting at black people who presented no threat to the officers.

Following this talk, the music started and a group of people began to gather. The supporters were primarily white student-age people with alternative fashion styles. This was interesting to note considering most of the violence is directed at African Americans.

I was able to interview a photographer from the Peacemaker, a black-run newspaper based in the Greensboro area started in 1967. The photographer was white and noted his unique position on the forefront of the changing racial dynamic in today's society. He also told me that few white people in the area are aware of the paper which tries to cover issues important to blacks. He also noted that Greensboro is a very segregated area both by class and racially. All of this was helpful to me both for my project and also in trying to get an idea of the type of place we were visiting.

After this I was able to talk to some locals who had lived in Greensboro all their lives. They shared their feelings on activism and their opportunities to affect change in the community which they felt were very slim. The underlying theme of the conversation seemed to be optimism for the future but at the same time little regard for a personal position in making things better and working for improvement. I found this interview particularly interesting, however, we had to get going so it was cut short. Hopefully there will be more opportunities like this one.

>From Greensboro we headed to a grocery store near the Chapel Hill area and then onto Barb's friend James' house where we cooked a big meal and relaxed while watching movies.

Tomorrow we will engaged in work in the Chapel Hill area around the University of North Carolina.
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Chapel Hill, NC:
Home of the University of North Carolina, this college town is also a center for a variety of grassroots community projects. During our stay, we will work with Food Not Bombs, a peace group that serves free food to community residents to illustrate how resources can be used in productive, positive ways to enrich communities.

April M. Alario
June 3, 2001
Day 8

So, you take fifteen people and put them on a cramped bus. This spells? Anxiety, communication, discomfort, compromise, fascinating group dynamics, and the need for a little personal time. That's how I started out my day. Not only since my project revolves around religion, but also because I was itching for some personal spiritual time, I decided to attend an area church in the morning. It was sort of random and sort of planned, but I ended up picking a predominately (if not completely) African American Baptist church. Seeing as how the services were kind of early, I had to brave the wee hours of the morning (that's about ten o'clock for college students) without the company of any of my fellow students. I got a ride down Franklin St., hung out at the Caribou Coffee, then got to walking down the street to church. I was really nervous that I'd be rejected, or not allowed to enter for whatever reason, but I steadied my nerves and walked up the stairs to be greeted by an elderly black woman wearing a neatly pressed pink dress. She smiled, "Common', common' in," she said, waving her hand and beconing me. I followed her in, and sat somewhere in the middle of the filling church, examining the mural of Jesus and John the Baptist behind the altar.

The music was spirited, maybe not as "gospelly" as I would have hoped, but then there's always Alabama. The service was a lot longer than I had anticipated; the preacher didn't even start his message until we were an hour in. His sermon was on James 4:7 "To know is to do" (to understand that God has called us to live one way means we must follow that call, and not put it on the shelf). I loved the rhythm of his voice, gurgling and shaking, and how he said the Lord's Prayer (The Our Father) accenting words so differently than I am used to hearing, making me hear them newly. There was song again, and communion. Then I was surprised to find myself already walking out the door.
Just down the street the group had started to cook the vegetables that the "Food Not Bombs" organization had salvaged from grocery stores that were going to throw them all away. Some of us clustered on the porch in "Team Peel," while others washed in "Team Kitchen." Before long the potatoes, broccoli, carrots, and cauliflower were on the stove, and I dozed on the couch under the thick haze of heat and exhaustion. When I woke up we were taking the giant concoction to the Internationalist bookstore where David's former student Dawn works, and where we would distribute the food to people passing by (whether they be hungry college students or unshowered, long-haired, drifters, though, oftentimes these two were one in the same). It was pretty good food, but I got a serious stomach ache from eating it. I think it was only the result of my general bad health that day, that and the heat.
After cleaning up we were freed to investigate the city. First there was a giant used bookstore, then a smaller shop called "Nice Price Books" with vinyl records, CD's, and books. I bought the Janice Joplin greatest Hits CD and a book about the Shroud of Turin (Debated to be the burial cloth of Jesus Christ). We walked about, Lee and I, and I noticed that most of the shops were not only arts and college oriented, but pretty radical. Finally, we got down to the university library and checked our e-mail. Then we walked around looking for a place to eat. Some of the other girls in the group went to see Moulin Rouge, so Lee and I ate alone at a fried chicken place called "Time Out." He got a chicken and cheese sandwich, and I got fried chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, and a biscuit. MmMMmMm, good home style southern cooking. Soon after we met up with the rest of the group at McDonald's, and we found Andrew interviewing a very intoxicated middle aged woman. It's funny, I sat down, and was wondering what he could learn from someone who didn't seem to be able to express herself very well (being so inebriated).

But, the beauty of this trip is that you can learn things even in a McDonald's parking lot, and even from a ranting drunk. Earlier that day Tameka and I had been discussing the issue of segregation in the United States, and the possibilities for integration. I was really interested with what Tameka had to say about her fears of assimilation into a society which would strip her of her culture. I think she really struck me as being strongly linked to her culture and heritage, and true to who she was. (I assume this was the image she was going for, and I really respect her for that.) But standing there in the McDonald's parking lot, Susan - the drunken middle-aged African American woman we were interviewing - took one look at Tameka (well dressed and well spoken) and expressed her opinion that she (Tameka) was "just trying to be white." "Wow!" Is all I have to say. Perception is a powerful factor to consider when talking to anyone, I guess. This experience was really good because it helped me to to think about that in relation to the interviews that I'm doing.
Well, what else about this day? After we drove back to Greensboro to get my lost bag, we had a long discussion about our day in Chapel Hill, and the effectiveness of the activism there versus the methodology and really morality of those peoples' (the food not bombs group) way of life. Were they just rejecting society and wealth? Did they have something to say? Were they patronizing, effective, beneficial? Were they focusing on the right issues? It was certainly a heated, and for many of us personal, discussion. I really respect their attempt at shared community living, though I see how their organizing doesn't reach everyone. So, I guess that's the summation of things anyway. . . on to Athens . . . and the gears on the bus go squeak squeak, squeak, grind grind, grind, bang, bang, bang all night long . . .
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June 4, 2001
Athens, GA:
We will spend time at the University of Georgia, where Professor Deb Martin, a social geographer, will speak to us about how architecture and the regulation of public space can limit or create opportunities for community residents to act collectively.

Andrew Slack
Day 9

Atlanta, Georgia Tonight we¹re sleeping in a mansion that belongs to a friend of someone in our group. Although I love both her home and hospitality (incredible hospitality!), it feels both strange and unnatural to be sitting in a mansion.

Just hours ago, I was in Athens, GA at the University of Georgia (UGA) where a professor told us about the geography of Athens and a situation developing there which seems close to Apartheid. Let me break it down:

Although UGA has 30,000 students, its dorms only fit 4,000.

That means that 26,000 students need to seek housing from the surrounding area.

Many of them rent homes in upper middle class areas where faculty live. The families in these neighborhoods don¹t like living next to college students: they are noisy and don¹t keep up their homes.

These families have taken it upon themselves to find a way to outlaw college students from living in their area. Thus, they are trying to pass a law that states that it is illegal to be living in a home with more than one person that you are not related to. This will create an environment that is impossible for college students to rent homes because they are not related.

There are, however, three main flaws with this law:

1) First of all, there are already laws which make people keep up their lawns and live with reasonable volumes. If the students living here are too messy or too noisy, than these already existing laws should be enforced to make them cleaner and more quiet. However, these laws are not enforced. So why solve a problem like this by simply creating new laws?

2) What does unrelated mean? We already know that there are so many different kinds of families outside of the traditional nuclear family. Not to mention, what do gay couples with room mates do‹at the Gay Pride Parade in Birmingham, Alabama, I met many gay men who talk about the incredible ignorance and discrimination they face in the South. The state of Alabama won¹t even recognize murdering someone for being gay as a hate crime. People in Athens will only perpetuate this ignorance by making blanketed statements about the term Œrelated.¹

Also, what about people who want to live in collective homes---like those of the people we met in Greensboro, North Carolina---who volunteer for Internationalist Books and Food Not Bombs. These people spend so much of their time helping others, and since this volunteerism cuts into their salary they find it easier to share. Such a lifestyle is innovative, creative, and helps us see all sorts of new ways to look at the world. To simply not let these people live together because they are not related on legal paper means cutting out all of the unique possibilities that they manifest daily.

This idea of family is connected to a very xenophobic, racist, and classist attitude that is about perpetuating this false American dream: a dream that places like Levittown and Celebration try to uphold---and yet a dream of a conformity that so much of our great art condemns as sucking the very soul from our lives. This type of xenophobia existed in Penny, the pro-gun guest when we went to see CNN¹s "Talk Back Live." She thinks that guns are not a threat to American people ---only to people living in crack houses. She seems to be concerned about her children but not about children who did not choose to live next to crack houses but are born into these situations. Penny obviously looks at these sorts of people as sub-human---and this need to kick out unrelated families perpetuates this dangerous form of social Darwinism.

3) The final, and most dangerous thing that comes out of this new law is how these College students plant to find housing. There are 26,000 of them and they all need a place to live. If the rich areas of Athens won¹t let them rent there for their bourgeoise/yuppie reasons, then the only place left to go is the poor areas. The University of Georgia will simply buy out government housing (since it¹s so cheap) and house its students there.

Two things happen from this:

a) the people already living there will be forced from their homes so college students can live there

and

b) with college students as residents the property value of the surrounding homes will go up, and everyone nearby will have their rent increased---though their income is not increased. Thus, before long, these people will most likely be driven from their homes as well.

So we have these two very different groups of people without housing:

1) working class citizens of Athens (mostly Hispanic and black)

and

2) wealthy college students of University of Georgia

My guess is that with University of Georgia will probably win the battle and that the student population will fill what used to be homes of thousands of people.

Where do these people go? I don¹t know.

Should we care what happens to these people? I think the normal answer to that question would be an unflinching Œyes.¹

However, the next question I have is, ŒDo we really care about these people?¹

That question is where things get complicated‹and it¹s also the reason for why I am so uncomfortable sitting in a mansion in the suburbs. Why does this mansion exist? Doesn¹t it create an environment where people forget that there are real people out there who don¹t live like this? Suddenly Œreal¹ people are defined as people who live in big houses-who go on vacations, keep up their yards, buy art, watch television programs, etc.---these are real people. Put on the 11 o¹clock news and you¹ll see a story about a house in a ghetto that was burnt down and a child who was killed. But these people are not real, no matter how tragic the situation is. These people are human, yes, but they are really sub-human. Why can¹t they just get out of their ghetto and live in nice homes? Don¹t they know how to work? Why are they so lazy?

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June 5, 2001
Atlanta, GA:

Aaron Kagan
Day 10

Drifted off in an affluent basement outside of Atlanta and came to riding the trains into town. MARTA. At the station we watched a white butterfly pass over the rails and under the panes of colorated plastic, assuming the plumage of each respective pastel, now yellow now blue now green, and soon enough we were eating in Gladys Knight's "Chicken and Waffles." Me: How is it? Allison: Like chicken and waffles. After meeting up with those who ate instead at the Varsity, David propositioned us to appear on CNN. With uniform consent we made for our cell phones and let those we love know. More trains until at CNN hq. The following comes directly from there: Sitting in CNN in Atlanta on "Talkback Live," surprise, surprise, airing at three, and me, my body's so tired from recent experience but now to talk of guns, the subject of the day. Andrew just whispered that the intern host was cute and I said of course, look at her and all the others - that's why they're here. Part of finding someone attractive is the process of discovery, because odds are, they are not so special. So when they're paid to be there, the surprise is gone, and only the plastic is left. We're seated on more plastic, and even more buzzes around us in this nerve center of communication and entertainment. We're seated in a ring in the bowels of the lobby, for all to see or join, awaiting on-air status. At the rear a food court drones, overhead piped music is supposed to something us, I smell cough drops and moisturizer and the other accouterments of living in close quarters with other Gen Y'ers and a stomach full of fried from Gladys. Once I sat in a movie theater and marveled at the neutrality of the environment which was home to such great emotion. A home to emotion with rust colored carpet on the walls and soda stick underfoot. And here we are now in a plastic dish about to duke it out over guns. We're just talking here, talking policy, politics, sloth and such, but for those whose lives have been affected, this is the stuff of the death of their sons, daughters, and someone's ideals or capital has killed them.

Right now they're warming up the crowd, firing away with small talk: clap if you own a gun, clap if you don't, clap if you know what one is... We want interaction, we are the first interactive talk show ever, clap if you like it, boo if you don't. It's not "Sit Back and Watch Live." Remind myself not to act from what I expect to oppose, simply think and speak. As the show starts I watch the host and co-host work it, picking speakers they uncovered in the warm up, hovering behind the token gun owner, ignoring Andrew after his radical response during the commercial break.

My thoughts on the discussion at hand are that when discussing law, we need to go past your individual condition and try to decide what is best for all of us. The fact of the matter is that we can't all handle guns. That has become painfully obvious. You need to ask yourself whether the pleasure you get from bringing down a duck or a deer is worth the lives of the children which were lost because you favored the wrong side. And it isn't a problem of education or age: we have seen adults well educated enough to massacre their coworkers. Teach gun danger, not gun safety. It runs so deep in us that just across the lobby, before the show we're now on began, Turner's people were airing a looped advertisement for something called "Witchblade," which prominently featured exactly what we should be fighting. They showed it because they are smart enough to know that that will bring people into their store and make them spend enough money to finance the next one. This whole experience is good for showing us how the public face functions. Andrew's experience taught us to come in quiet.

Now at the Martin Luther King Jr. museum, and seeing the films and photos makes me disbelieve that this was real, let alone as recent as the adolescence of our parents. The people that wanted segregation are still alive, voting and influencing others. And the "this" behind it all did not disappear with them because it is older and uglier even than that. What so terrifies a pretty little white school girl to sit next to a "nigger?" Is she that afraid to learn that the truths she constructs about the world are not as she made them in her bow-tied brain? How to fight that - obviously don't do it as hard as you can and live as an example of the alternative, and besides that, organize. Seems to be the answer.
You eat "their" food in gentrified BBQ joints and you buy "their" CD's when one is polished enough, but do you recognize how undead segregation is? Go to the Bronx and breath the air that gives the children their asthma from environmental racism, as it is called. More planes fly over there and more trucks congregate there and not elsewhere for a reason. "Not in My Back Yard" contains the secret subtext of "And In Someone Else's." Don't worry. We won't blame you. Just change. Someone was beating blacks after they tried to show you they could sit at a lunch counter in Greensboro, NC, just as well as you - would it have been you? Do you do the same somehow now? Or worse, do you do nothing at all? These are not new ideas, but do not forget them either. Tomorrow, Celebration, FL. The trip continues to expose and open us in ways everyone ought to experience.

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Celebration, FL:

Suzy Stone

June 6-7, 2001
Day 11 & 12

In the midst of palm-treed lined streets and pastel facades, we met Andrea, who was our tour guide for Celebration. The feeling was somewhat surreal and eerie and it seemed as if we could have been on Main Street, U.S.A. in the Magic Kingdom rather than in a real town in a real state. Our first stop on our tour was the "downtown" area. The downtown is composed of a waterfront, a short street of commercial stores and apartments, a few civic buildings, and a central garden. As Andrea noted, the downtown area, as well as the Celebration as a whole, was built to foster a sense of "community." Rather than being dominated by car traffic like most urban and suburban areas, the "imagineers" of Celebration wanted to create a throwback to the pre-WWII era where people could walk the streets in a leisurely way, in other words, Celebration was meant to be a pedestrian-friendly town. But other than a half dozen people who were milling the streets at all times, and a few customers at the five or six restaurants in downtown, the streets were relatively bare. While walking through the residential area, I basically asked the guide, "where is everyone?" Since school was already out for summer, she said that most parents were at work and the children were probably at camp, and that many families were quite "mobile," which meant that many of them were on vacations. The small residential streets felt less like a utopian community where people frequently visited their neighbors, and more like an abandoned ghost town. In many ways these ironic idiosyncrasies seems to plague the development of Celebration. Take for instance the famous post office in the downtown area. Designed by Michael Graves, a leading postmodernist architect, the post office was built with P.O. boxes outside so people in the town could just casually run into one another and strike up a friendly conversation. But perhaps unwilling to give up the efficiency of having a mailbox right outside of their house, I think almost every Celebrationite also had a mailbox on their property, which really made the ritual walk to the post office pretty much non-existent for most townees. On the other hand, the fact that the postmaster knew almost everyone in the post office by name is evidence of some sort of heightened sense of community that would probably would not exist in the facelessness of urban, and to some extent, suburban life. But once again there is hesitation in my proclamation of this example as a depiction of the sense of "community" that has been created in Celebration because it also gives the aurora of a tourist attraction where everyone smiles and looks friendly. While these examples may seem like small details, I think they vividly illustrate the type of contradictions that create a strange sense of reality in Celebration.

After touring downtown, the school system and a small residential area with Andrea, most of the group split up to find a place for lunch. The group that I was with nestled into a quintessentially 1940s to 1950s ice cream parlor. While many towns have an old-time diner or two, what was strange to me about Celebration was that almost every store was a theme that added to the idea of that the pre-war era was really the "good 'ole days." In this way, Celebration was much like my prior experiences at Disney theme parks where people can take a day or a week to escape from the hardships and challenges of their everyday life. For this reason, Walt has purposely master-minded the "the happiest place on earth." In a similar fashion, it seems as if the creators of Celebration have tried to create a facade to in which to hide reality behind as well. In the class discussion, we asked why the pre-war era was such a great place in time? Well, for a small, almost mythical class of white, middle-class Americans the 1940s represented a simpler time when schools were still segregated, versus today where people are encouraged to embrace diversity, which makes living in today much more complicated in some ways. Therefore, perhaps the simplicity of Celebrationites really means a town in which homogeneity of race and class can be re-established under the guise of a creating a close-knit "community." With its mix of apartments, multi, and single-family homes Celebration prides itself on being unique. Unlike the average cookie-cutter suburb, like Levittown, Celebration is boasted to be different. But while looking at pictures of town gatherings and publication materials at town hall, and while wondering the streets of Celebration, it is clear that not many minorities live here and that the people living in the multi-family homes and apartments are not necessarily of a different socio-economic class when they drive away in their SUVs and luxury sedans.

As noted, my first impression of Celebration was somewhat surreal. But what came more apparent to me as I wandered the residential areas and found my way into the school, was that Celebration was not that much different than any other suburb in the United States today, and that is what scared me the most. Other than getting rid of the predominance of the automobile, the 1950s of the version of the commuter suburb that was geared around leisure rather than work, as well as, class and racial homogeneity still exists today in most places. The question is not, what are these communities providing for their people, but rather, who does it benefit and who will be barred (either in reality or ideologically) from such a homogeneous community? Walking away from Celebration I no longer thought of it as a uniquely disturbing place because in truth, more people today live in suburbs created around this same mentality than the combined population of people today living in urban and rural areas. So basically, the majority of people in America are raised in these types of communities instead of asking "why is Celebration so 'weird,' I now want to know how is Celebration so "normal"? The values espoused by the tour guide included community, children, education, health, and technology. What is so amazing to me about this list is that it is practically the same values that were stated at the Pequot Museum, a community that looks much different from that of Celebration. So what does this mean? Is there a mythical, middle-class value system that people aspire to regardless of the community in which we live? And again, one must ask, who does this value system work for, and who will never be able to fully attain its goals without "losing" themselves in the process?
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June 8, 2001
Selma, AL:

Tameka Pringle
Day 13

My experience in Selma really taught me a lot about my history and culture as a black person living in America. I had no idea the wealth of history that people of color had in Selma. The beginning of our day consisted of meeting the mayor followed by us walking over the Edmund Pettus Bridge. During the 60¹s this bridge was the landmark of the famous "Bloody Sunday." And when we walked over the bridge together as a group, I felt that we were the marchers, the people who devoting their lives to achieve social change and social justice. Walking over the bridge also reminds me of the marchers¹ strength, courage, compassion, and promise to make blacks in America first class citizens.

On another note, as a part of a group project in the attempt to gather information on segregation and its existence in the South, Lee and I came across a home with a black lady sweeping out front. We figured we needed a more objective opinion on the issue, so we pursued an interview with the lady whom we saw. To our surprise, when we got to the front porch she had already retreated inside. We then called her through the door because the bell was not working. After gaining her attention, she accepted our invitation for an interview. Paradoxically, a young white woman about eighteen or so came to the door with an authoritative voice saying, "How may I help you?" After we explained our project and what we were trying to find out, the young white woman dismissed us by saying, "No, she is not interested." After saying no, she stood by the door waiting for the helper to stop talking to us. As a result, the willing black helper abided by her employer¹s belief in not helping us on the subject matter and decided not to interview with us after all. At that moment, my heart was crushed in many pieces. To think that a grown woman with the right to speak, to express how she feels, and to be accountable for her own actions, was influenced by the higher power authority who dictated when she spoke or who she spoke to. Dealing with issues such as racism and classism on a daily basis and especially knowing the history of Selma, Alabama and the Civil Rights Movement, I would hope that issues of injustices and discrimination of people who are poor, or less educated or by race would be something of the past. I have maintained by belief that racial and class discrimination will always be among us in this country. However, I am delighted that THE BUS and every one in it believes in achieving social change and social justice for all.
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Birmingham, AL:
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June 9, 2001
Montgomery, AL:

George Okrah
Day 14

It wasn't as hot as I anticipated today. Waking up was an adventure as always. Lee attempted to accomplish the almost impossible task and then I think Adam tried next. He sounded very distant which leads me to believe I was just catching my second wind. Then April tried her luck and finally, Tameka drumming on my ass did the trick. After a nice shower and breakfast at the Waffle House, (an ad hoc replication of I.H.O.P) we were ready to head to the Southern Poverty Law Center. John Tye, a writer for the intelligence report agreed to talk to us today even though it was Saturday and it had begun raining by then. The intelligence report is an annual report the S.P.L.C distributes. It tracks the activities of hate groups. He talked a little bit about right wing group dynamics, common characteristics and motivations behind the different groups. After discovering that the restaurant we planned on eating from was closed, we walked the _ of a mile back to the bus. No biggieJ At this point I took my power nap. Our regular group meeting took place after my power nap and then I had some fun throwing Tameka and Nicole in the pool. Morgan (our ever so friendly bus driver) myself, Tameka, Nicole and jasmine then spent some quality time sifting through grease on the chicken we bought from Church's. Their chicken was horrible I ended up just eating the sides. I'm really looking forward to tomorrow though. We'll be praising the lord!!! We're going to Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, the same church that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. pastored. Till then, peace.`` Oh! Andrew bought a harmonica today. I¹m curious to know how that goes.
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June 12, 2001
Tuscaloosa, AL
Meridian, MS
Nashoba County, MS:

Nicole Karlbach
Day 17

We woke up in Tuscaloosa, Alabama this morning to a nice, warm day. Tameka
and I went to Huddle House for breakfast and then shopped at TJ Maxx for a
few minutes before it was time to be on the bus. After a fairly long stint
(for this trip anyway) in Alabama, we left midday and headed to Meridian,
Mississippi, a town on the east side of that state and a central place for
much civil rights activism in the day. We only got lunch quickly at a truck
stop, Country Pride, in Meridian (it was not very good), and then got on the
road once again to go to Neshoba County, MS which is farther north in the
state. On the way we watched part of the documentary, "Eyes on the Prize,"
about the activist mobilization in MS and violence that ensued in the area.
It was a unique situation to be riding through rural Mississippi while
watching the video and strange since I almost expected to find the same
situations taking place, however, some things have changed.

One of the first things I saw from the bus as we traveled through MS was
a flagpole with both an American flag and the MS state flag which is composed
of a small confederate flag. It was at this moment that I felt that I was
really somewhere different than what I am used to. The landscape was very
rural and there was a contrast between neatly kept homes and run-down living
establishments. While driving today I really got a pang that we were doing
something very unique and meaningful. The other places had seemed special
but for some reason I felt that MS was really striking for its peaceful
setting contrasted by its violent history.

Luckily for the group we were able to secure a meeting with civil rights
activist Stanley Dearman. Dearman was a prominent figure in the movement in
MS in Neshoba County and was the founder and editor of the Neshoba Democrat
(a local paper). He put his life on the line to advocate his commitment to
equality and to inform the public. Dearman is a truly inspiring person and
we were very grateful to have the opportunity to meet with him.
Dearman tookus to the local library in the town of Philadelphia. We also
met a graduate student doing research in MS named Jenny. Our discussion
started with Dearman's explanation of the events of that county and the way
it has all played out to the present. The most intriguing part of our
meeting with Dearman was the way in which he told his story. He was
incredibly sincere, bothered, and realistic, making history come alive in a
way I have never before experienced. Dearman spoke of the murders of Andrew
Goodman, James Chaney, and Michael Schwerner - the three boys killed prior to
Freedom Summer. The three were investigating a burnt-down black church in
the area when they were arrested and later released only to be chased down
and killed. Dearman told us the boys were on their way out of town on the
same road we had traveled on to get to Philadelphia. It was incredible to be
so close (geographically anyway) to the tragedy and hard to imagine at the
same time.

We asked Dearman about his potentially dangerous role in reporting at the
time to which he modestly acknowledged that the had taken risks--in my
opinion he was and is very brave. Addressing the sentiment in Neshoba today
he said, "it's like a stain that won't go away." Segregation he said is
still a practical problem although no longer legal. He acknowledged the need
to get to people's hearts and minds. Dearman's advice to us was, "don't make
excuses-do it!" I think that says it all especially for this group and I
know we plan to do just that. Dearman was very real--he spoke with emotion
and thoughtfulness recalling dates, people, and emotions-I can't reiterate
enough how amazing it is to talk with someone in this way.

Dearman then took us to a small church where preachers such as Martin
Luther King, Jr. had made appearances and a memorial to the three boys
stands. We drove through a small residential area which was a little run
down but people were outside playing-a real community place. I just wanted
to talk to these people about living in this area today-unfortunately we had
no time but something really fascinated me about the area. We also passed a
building with David's stars with G's in them which are apparently black
Israelites-I was surprised to find them there.

From this small area we visited the Choctaw reservation and casino
nearby. Dearman generously treated us to a very nice buffet-style dinner
which was relaxing and a very kind gesture on his part. Following dinner we
got on the bus for Jackson, MS. During this ride we had one of our most
philosophical, interesting conversations yet, ranging from capitalism to
civil rights. It is amazing to make connections between what we have seen
and to discuss activism with motivated people as well as civil rights while
driving through rural Mississippi. We ended with a "whoa bus!!"

Once at the hotel some people played kick ball and refreshed themselves
by showering with a hose. Tomorrow we will explore Jackson, Mississippi.
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June 13, 2001
Jackson, MS:
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June 14-16, 2001
New Orleans, LA:

June 14, 2001
George Okrah
Day 19

New Orleans is everything rumored about and more. I awoke this
morning and in doing so also accomplished a feat never done before. I was
actually the first person up today for the first time ever. The palm trees
lining the convention center all the way down to the Hampton Inn Suites where
we lodged for the night really set it in context for me that I was in a
different place. New Orleans is a city rich in culture, music and history,
which permeate through every aspect of everyday life. A five-minute trolley
ride, a three-block walk down Decatur Street or a night in the French Quarter
is all it takes to make you begin to wonder why every city in America isn't
like this. Our activity for the day centered on the moratorium campaign. The
campaign has become better known to most of the American public mainly due to
actress Susan Sarandon's role in Dead Man Walking. It focuses on halting the
death penalty and calls for are formation of the criminal justice system to
prevent innocent people from ending up on death row. Since capital punishment
was reinstated, 96 people have walked off death row. The moratorium sees this
as a testimony of how many others might have died innocent. Sister Helen
Prejean, whose character is played by Sarandon in the movie, helps in
the organization of the campaign. Unfortunately she wasn't available to speak
to us since she was finishing her new book in Montana (Sorry, Judy. I know you
were really looking forward to this one.) but Robert Jones, operations manager
of the campaign was available to outline the objective of the group and
their strategies. In terms of organizing strategies, the campaign seems to
be cognizant of the broad implications associated with prison reform and as
such has chosen the death penalty as a small part that they feel they can
tackle and make substantial progress while managing not to get burnt out as
an organization from trying to do too much. We also spent part of the day
helping them to set up mailing packages.

New Orleans
June 16, 2001
Lee Tusman
Day 21

*Oh New Orleans! When you wish upon a star…you're on a bus, flying on the
ground and you're happy-tired; it's 3 AM in the morning, beddy-bye time. Soon
you'll crawl into your cold-warm bed coffin of limbo and finally, finally
rest.

*What if our national motto was "Take all you want; eat all you take" as can
be found on the table of that restaurant we ate in. Actually, it's not far
off. America, what happened to you? When did you become the land of ubiquitous
strip malls and varying cities all selling the same touristy t-shirt tripe to
twenty-something year olds looking for love and happiness? You can't buy it
though. Well, if you had enough dough, maybe then could you go to a strip club
and keep buying tit after tit of happiness. Rather, I prefer jambalaya monkey
business fun in the form of food and sex. And a little bit of jazz.

*I've seen a lot of schlock and roll on this trip. But I've also seen some
good shit. Last night was music of the latter kind. We went to the House of
Blues and saw the North Mississippi All-Stars, a tight, groovy blues band
with a rock bloodline.

*Well, I loved New Orleans. I want to move there and live in the area for a
while. I guess the French quarter gets old and tired quickly, but if I lived
there for just a summer, I'd really enjoy myself. Music rocks the soul of the
city. Sin lurks around the corner. Trolleys crawl around on all fours,
spitting out tourists and locals who flock to the bars-restaurants N'Awlins is
so famous for.

*Gumbo this and po'boy that-Rock On! Bar after bar of young and old blues
hounds flock to the noise. Street musicians gathering informally with dirty,
taped-together, old, broken instruments. Rock on! Play that horn and
wail-wail-wail-wail! Rock on New Orleans! Them cats sure can blow.
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June 16, 2001
Baton Rouge, LA:

Aaron Kagan
Day 21

The night before, in New Orleans, we had cut our losses after the
ridiculous Romanian poet and pizza provided by father figure Brinkley and
did not go out. This is hard to do in New Orleans, even with the assurance
that you will be going out the next night and that you had gone out the
night before too. But thinking of stirring at eight the next morning
changed our minds, and we boarded the bus to bed down.
At seven thirty I wake and put on my most dispensable attire for the day of
work ahead. We're doing our share at a local site for Habitat for
Humanity, trimming, primping, painting and sodding the house of a woman
named Eulah, a funny, small little lady who hates snakes but loved the idea
that I'd make a gumbo from an earthworm I found. We downed some pop tarts
and poured out the side of the Tiger to the eager eyes and lenses of CNN,
who were there to tape our sweat for the purpose of journalism. We met
with the organizers of the site while Morgan worked his magic maneuvering
the machine into a residential spot, and while maybe we had thought about
the program before - intellectually and sociologically - once there I know
I for one did nothing but get jobs and work at them. My first was a date
with destiny: Roland the organizer handed me a yard long pole, sleek blonde
wood, with a double, blue blade affixed to the end in a T, and he said
"This is a weed scythe." I understood.

Set to work in a fluid swinging pendulation, leveling all shapes and sizes
of leafy green undesirables with the balm of mindless effort. I pretended
to ignore CNN filming me, the nice Jewish boy from a school up North
cutting the weeds of a nice, black woman from down South, and when they
were done, the mic man turned to me, knee deep in green, and said hey guy,
watch out, there's a lot of poison ivy and oak in there. So much for not
interfering with the story. I can see it now - Brandeis Boy Branded by
Baton Rouge Bushes! So I went back on the bus and shocked by the cold air,
changed into pants. Impermeable to the poison, I returned to the lot to
level with extreme prejudice. I put away my love of scrub and fauna for
the greater good of making a nice lady a nice yard. Soon an old timer
installing door handles inside made me feel foolish for not using a weed
wacker, so I abandoned my beloved tool for the gas fumes and tingling palms
and herbicidal genocide of the machine I had seen so many gardeners use
before. It was one of those experiences where you realize not much stands
between you and a previously off-limits "it" or "them" except for trying.
I made short work of the lot and looked for the next task.

Tiny teams or us were forming and working all over to combat the onset of
the South on the house. Some of the girls were raking up the leaves and
bottles in the yard and bagging them, Barb and George were battling an
unwanted patch of pavement with a big sledge, people were painting, Andrew
was rapping for the camera crew, and with the tiny teams came the playful
rivalries and prejudices of Team Dirt versus Team Rock for instance. Once
my own work slowed down some the intellect returned and as I ate my CNN
sandwich, I wondered whether we were just bandaging some hemophiliac wound
or doing some good. The problem isn't that houses need repair, but of
course something bigger. Would it not be better to fix than to merely
repair? But of course Eulah had to sleep somewhere. And what of the
neighbors? Would they in their peeling paint homes resent that I had let
my machine stray into their untrimmed gardens to help them too? Once
Eulah's place was bright and shiny, how would everyone else feel? It was
at least good to know that she too had to work on the site and on others
before receiving any fruit of it. In the end, how is it bad to all get
together and get a little dirty in the name of helping someone help
themselves? Still I had a bit of the feeling there that I got in Chapel
Hill with Food Not Bombs. It feels something like someone letting you do a
little good for your own sake. Isn't it fun for all us college kids to get
dirty one day and think we're healing the world? Well, it is. It's real
fun. We had a real good time making a lawn from scratch and leveling the
boards between which concrete will flow and harden and make a walk on which
a woman without much other help can step her human feet with pride.
On the ride back to New Orleans a lot of us fell asleep and my fingers
still buzzed a little from the weed machine. It's bliss to sit in front of
the big window at the front of the Bus and talk with Morgan about the words
and ways of the people of the road. We passed a lot of land that was
either flooded or just wet, and I loved seeing the bald Cyprus reaching up
from the black water in stands or alone, their knees their only company.
And Lake Pontchartrain and Lake Pontchartrain with its spine of phone line.
Back in the city we made up for the night before, and after some Creole
catfish (unfortunately the Kosher Creole Kitchen, my number one destination
in New Orleans for food and words of warm spirituality, was closed for
Shabbat), all of us met in the smoke of the House of Blues. I know, I
know, they stamp them out all over the country, but that didn't change the
fact that the North Mississippi All Stars were playing there and that David
highly recommended it for all. I was able to lose myself in the music and
real base beat of the opening act in a way that I have only acquired
lately, partly thanks to Whit, and between them and the mainliners some of
us split out into town to find a bottle for what a sip and a lot of ice
would go for at the club. It ended up as a long excursion, which was fine
because it was our last there, though I did leave my Father's Day gift on
the counter of the A&P in the French Quarter. It was a chef hat that said
"Don't **** With the Cook… New Orleans." Too ridiculous to pass up, and
even better than the "New ****ing York" T-shirts I'd seen a few weeks ago
in Manhattan. God bless filthy kitsch. Back on the bus I watched the road
go by under my feet up on the dash until my eyes protested, at which point
I climbed into bed to dream sweet, bumpy dreams.

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June 17-18, 2001
Memphis, TN:

Cheryl Kingma-Kiekhofer
Day 22 & 23

I had been looking forward to going to Memphis for a number of reasons. The most important was that I knew that Neil and I were finally going to be able to meet up in Memphis. He would be flying in on Sunday morning, and we would be together until Monday night. To make this union even more exciting, Memphis happened to be the place where we were going to be able to meet civil rights photographer Ernest Withers. What could be better for Neil, a photographer, than to meet a this man who had taken such amazing pictures of the civil rights movement and the early music scene in Memphis. And not only were we going to be able to meet Mr. Withers, but he had also volunteered to host our entire stay in Memphis. Hello Memphis!

When we actually arrived in Memphis, things got off to a rocky start. I woke to find that Neil's plane had been delayed. I spent the next few hours worrying about Neil, when he was going to arrive, and where we were going to be able to meet.

Mr. Withers arrived early. At 79, Mr. Withers is still down right feisty, even ornery at times. He took us to his studio so we could make use of the bathroom and see where he worked. His studio was a very interesting place. Interspersed with famous photos of Martin Luther King Jr. And B.B. King was a Big Mouth Billy Bass singing fish. The fish seemed to be especially enamored with George and started singing any time that he walked by (In fact, Mr. Withers seemed to sense our perverse enjoyment of the singing fish and actually gave one to the bus which is now in George's possession.). After touring the studio, Mr Withers took us to breakfast on Beale St. I can honestly say that it was the greasiest breakfast that I had ever had. I took a break from breakfast to call my papa and wish him a Happy Father's Day (Father's Day? I am lucky if I can remember what day of the week it is, but luckily I did.) . After breakfast, we all piled into the bus and headed toward the Reverend Al Green's church.

While on the freeway on the way to the church, Neil met up with the bus. In his flashy red convertible, he buzzed us, filling me with crazy happiness. Everyone on the bus could tell how giddy I was to see my love. George teased me profusely. When we arrived at the church, I pushed everyone aside, jumped out of the bus, and ran to hug Neil. I was with my husband at last.

We entered the church and found the congregation on their feet singing and moving to the beat. Al Green was funkily singing the praises of the Lord along with a full band accompaniment including an electric bass and a full drum set. The church was rocking. Watching the energy in this church, it was clear how the civil rights movement could have been so energized by the network of churches in the South. Outside the church, Mr. Withers took a portrait of all of us in front of the bus. It was pretty cool to be photographed by the same man who had photographed Martin Luther King Jr. in his hotel room and had photographed the sanitation workers' riot on Beale St.

After being photographed by Mr. Withers, we journeyed to the art exhibit of Mr. Withers' photographs. It was a really powerful experience. We followed Mr. Withers around as he explained to us the meaning of the photographs, where he had taken them, how they had happened, etc. There were three main topics for the photos: the civil rights movement, the Negro baseball league, and the music scene in Memphis in the 1950s and 1960s. I enjoyed the photos from the civil rights movement the most. I was reminded of how important images, and more specifically, photography can be to a social movement. While standing next to my husband, (who has been teaching me photography and had just showed me the pictures I had taken of the trip so far-they're pretty good I think), and listening to this incredible photographer, I realized how much I would like to become a photographer for future social movements. Two photos from the exhibit, one of soldiers getting ready to escort the first African-American student to be integrated into the University of Mississippi and the other of Martin Luther King Jr. being confronted by police, really struck me.

We returned back to the bus after the exhibit and Neil and I were finally left with some time to be alone.

Eventually we joined everyone for some karaoke and saw Morgan and April sing a duet and Andrew sing a moving rendition of American Pie.

The next morning, we met early to watch a segment of "Eyes on the Prize". This segment focused on Martin Luther King's death, the poor people's movement and Resurrection city, and the death of Bobby Kennedy. Every time that I watch documentaries on the assassinations of these men, I can't help hoping that the ending is going to turn out different, that they are not going to die. Because even more than a death of these leaders, the assassinations created a death of hope for so many people about social change. I was also intrigued by the coverage of Resurrection city, a city that had been built on the mall near the nation's capital to create awareness of the plight of the poor in the south and elsewhere. Before watching this video, I had never seen coverage of this event. I wonder if we never hear about Resurrection city because it occurred after King's death, because it was about class and not race, because it was considered a "failure" or what.

After watching the video, a group of us went to the home of the king of rock himself, Elvis Presley. That's right, we went to Graceland...Graceland...Memphis, Tennessee. It was an incredible contrast to what we had just seen in the video and what we would later see at the Civil Rights Museum. Although I enjoyed the crazy kitschiness of the tiki jungle room, I felt kind of funny being there. I was also reminded of something Neil had said about Elvis earlier. We always think of Elvis as being this pioneer of rock and roll but we rarely recognize that he "borrowed" a whole lot of his musical style from pioneering African Americans in music.

After Graceland, we went to the Civil Rights Museum, which is located in the hotel in which Martin Luther King Jr. was shot. It was pretty powerful to look at the bed that he slept in and look onto the porch where he was shot. At the museum there were many exhibits that explained how multifaceted the movement really was. Yet, we always seem to learn only about King and how he affected the civil rights movement. We rarely learn about the amount of strategy and effort that went into the planning of the civil rights movement. We rarely learn about people like Ella Baker, Andrew Young, or Reverend Abernathy. We also don't really learn much about the Black Panthers or Malcolm X and the types of programs that they supported. In fact, we don't even hear about the direction of activism that King took toward the end of his life, more toward issues of economic justice. There is so much more to learn about social movements and how they work.

I was also really struck by how young some of the activists were. Andrew Goodman was 21 years old when he died during Freedom Summer, the same age as some of our students. So many of the people who participated were so young. I find this both shocking and inspiring. It makes me realize what we could be doing. It makes me realize that we can really make change happen.

Neil and I said a tearful goodbye at the museum. I miss my husband.
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June 19, 2001
The Highlander Institute
New Market, TN:

Allison Schechter
Day 24

Today was a pretty laid back day filled mostly with traveling. We left
Memphis last night at 11:00 pm and 12 hours later we were still driving.
Today's destination was The Highlander Institute in New Market, Tennessee
(across the state from Memphis). The final portion of the trip gave Morgan
some trouble as Highlander was located in a rural area with steep hills that
the bus could not handle. Morgan was a pro though, and eventually we
arrived at the Insitute after a short hike up the problematic hill.

Once we arrived at the Highlander Institute, two of its staff members spoke
with us. The role of the Highlander Institute is to support social
movements and organize community organizers. It played an integral part in
the Civil Rights Movement as prominent figures such as Rosa Parks and Martin
Luther King Jr attended workshops there. Contrary to what I have always
believed, Rosa Parks was not merely an old lady who was tired and sat down
in the front of the bus. Rather, Parks was a trained activist, which was
partially a result of Highlander.

Today, the Highlander Institute still works to support social movements.
They provide workshops and conduct field research within communities.
According to one of the speakers, the present time very much resembles the
period just prior to the Civil Rights Movement. Workers at the Highlander
Institute believe that this new movement will be for democratic
participation and economic justice.

After our visit to the Highlander Institute, we traveled to Asheville, North
Carolina. During this time, several of us got in a short power nap as the
past week has been a busy one. When we arrived, most of us decided that a
shower was on the top of our to-do lists. With only seven days remaining on
the trip, cash is low...so a hotel is out of the question. Luckily, our bus
was parked near a local YMCA. Everyone at the Asheville YMCA was extremely
kind to let us use their showers and, on top of that, give us all free
t-shirts!

With only one week to go, I'm getting sad that the trip is nearing an end.
I am not the same person that stepped on the bus 3 and a half weeks ago. I
have learned more about community organization, social action, Civil Rights,
interpersonal relationships, and about myself than I could have ever
imagined. However, perhaps the most important lesson that I have learned is
that every person and every place provides a wealth of knowledge that I will
undoubtedly take advantage of in the future.

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June 20, 2001
Asheville, NC:
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June 21-24, 2001
Washington, DC:
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Lancaster, PA:
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Philadelphia, PA:
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Waltham, MA: The Bus returns to Brandeis, June 27, 2001

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Life on The Bus
Barb Browning

I believe that I have had to make more than a few adjustments living on a bus with fourteen others. Being an only child did not prepare me for the experiences I am about to describe. To begin, I never thought that the bus would be decorated with airbrushed tigers--the type of detailed artwork that only can be found at the best of state fairs. Immediately, it came to me; the bus should be called Ethel. This name; however, did not stick. To this day, we affectionately call our mode of transportation "the bus". Until we find a way to pay homage to the tigers, the bus remains unnamed. On a positive note, we do not have any trouble locating our bus. When we are at activities where other buses are, we don't say is that our bus? We are clear at all times. In fact, most people think we are a band on tour. People often try to peer in to see who is inside. Old men sitting on porches salute us with beers and teenagers bang their head at us Beavis and Butthead style. However, the bus is our home and it brings us comfort to see it in the distance after we are tired and need a place to rest.

Once you step into the bus, you realize how small the bus is. To the right of the driver's seat is a passenger seat. This is one of three places where I can "feel" alone. When I canÕt sleep or when I need some space, I sit there. Behind the passenger seat is a couch that is also GeorgeÕs bed. During the day until late at night you can find about four to five people sitting on it. Across the aisle from the couch is the refrigerator. Since there are fifteen of us, we have no leftover policy. All food and beverages must be dated or otherwise they will be thrown out. As you might expect our refrigerator is emptied every few days. There is also a table that seats four. Under each of the seats is space to squirrel things away. We also have a microwave. Not that I have been able to figure out how the microwave works; it regularly burns whatever anyone is trying to heat up.

The bathroom is across the aisle from the microwave. When you walk into the bathroom, you only have a place to stand. There is only room for two feet on the floor. As told to us by our driver, we are only allowed to go number one on the bus. If we have to go number two, we have to tell the driver. Some of us have had quiet moments in the woods. I am amazed at how much we plan our bathroom "breaks". I have often felt bad for the gas stations, restaurants, and grocery stores that we stop at. However, the bathroom on the bus is the second place that I can be alone. When someone accidentally leaves the toilet hole open, the bus can smell up rather quickly. There have been a few times where the smell is so strong that our bed sheets reek. It's problematic that we donÕt have windows that open. But it's not just the smell of the bathroom that we deal with. We have placed a ban on cooking or eating Beefaroni or allowing Lee to schellack food on the bus. In fact, we had to wrestle him down to get the can out of his hands. Last, if you have to fart, please for the love of god, go to your own bunk.

We refer to our sleeping compartments as the catacombs or the coffins. There are twelve sleeping compartments in the middle of the bus. Four are on the floor. For Suzy, Lee, Jasmine and April, they lie on the floor and then roll into bed. When it is time to get up in the morning, they often cannot come out of their beds because of sixteen feet on the floor. They yell a lot that they want to come out - they mumble something every morning about being trapped. The middle coffins house Cheryl, Nicole, Allison, and me. These set of bunks are fairly easy to get into, although no walk in the park in the squeaking department. Aaron, Adam, Tameka and Andrew sleep on the top bunks which requires some previous knowledge of acrobatics. For our family and friends reading this - lie in your bed tonight and measure eight inches above your nose. We believe it to be approximately two fists. This is how close the ceiling is to us when we sleep in bed. We have two choices. You can lie on your back or on your stomach. How you get into bed determines how you will sleep. Once you pull the curtain on the side of your bed closed, you are in complete darkness. You can feel your breath bounce back to you. This is the third place where I am completely alone. I can't hear a thing because the hum of the bus is so loud. Oh I forgotÉsince storage space is scarce we sleep with our daypacks, change of clothes and toiletries.

The bus is in no way a still ride. We bounce constantly, mostly up and down, but often side to side. When we wake in the morning some of our stuff is in the aisle. After sorting that out, we are off and running. Trying to find your stuff in a bunk that's messy is difficult. All of us have had moments where we canÕt take it because we can't find our underwear, left shoe or other sock. I have to note that spatially the aisle can only hold one person at a time. It takes great effort to pass someone in the aisle. Tensions run high. It is easiest to pass someone at the bunk. However, there is a place where there is wood paneling. Andrew and I tried to pass each other and got stuck - he joked that we must have conceived at the wood. Also, at any given time, someone is falling. Walking on a moving bus is difficult. We spend a good amount of time stepping or bumping into each other. I have learned how to have patience. Have I mentioned that we go days without showers?

The last space on the bus is the back lounge. It is smaller than up front. It has a couch that is David's bed. It also has a t.v./vcr/stereo. There is also a small table with two chairs. All in all, in the evenings we listen to the stereo in the back and watch movies up front. Most of the time, I am always a foot away from or leaning on someone else. There is no room. However, I would not change this experience. Even with the lack of space, I would choose to live on a sleeper bus. I cannot tell you how close knit this community is. After we have visited unique places and amazing people we come back to the bus to have class discussion. It is during this time that we really talk with each other - listen to each other. We discuss, we debate, we argue, and we learn to understand each other. We also sing, dance, play instruments, cry, and laugh a lot. It is these moments - moments of life on the bus that has been a life defining experience. The community on the bus has made the trip worthwhile for me.

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