“I was arrested two times when I was 15. I proudly wear the honor of being a jailbird. 

It started when I participated in the student marches in Selma in 1965. My mother didn’t know that her only two children left school on that first day. My younger brother did everything that I did, but he ratted on me, saying that I was the one who decided to leave school. I thought I was going to be in for punishment and had my serious and truthful speech together. We wanted to participate in the student movement because our mom was not a registered voter; to my surprise, she gave us permission to go the rest of the week as long as we stayed together. 

We started out at the freedom school. They told us we couldn’t  participate if we couldn’t  be nonviolent. They taught us to cover our heads when a man with a bully club comes up to us–it’s better to have broken fingers than a concussion. And taught us not to say anything when we were  arrested; don’t look at the man’s face or make eye contact. I was like a sponge, soaking in everything I could to learn about the movement. I was nervous, but ready. 

I was arrested once for disorderly conduct. But we weren’t being disorderly, we were singing freedom songs. We were told to get on a fleet of yellow school buses that were as far as the eyes could see with at least two or three possemen on each bus. About 225 students from various schools were arrested that day.

That was the slowest bus ride I’d ever taken. We didn’t know where we were going until we arrived there. They took us to a real prison camp seven miles west of Selma. Some 25 to 30 girls and boys were placed in a small jail cell. We were released about six o’clock the next morning and dropped off at the courthouse like  sacks of potatoes. My brother and I ran home. The carpool picked up our mother at 6:25 to take her to work; we wanted to show her we were safe. Parents were taught at mass meetings that if your children don’t come home from school, assume that they have been arrested.

My second arrest was in downtown Selma. We went to the courthouse again, but Sheriff Jin Clark escorted us to the National Guard Armory this time. That was a horrible, terrible, scary night. The boys were randomly struck with billy clubs, and there was much yelling and crying. The posseman randomly stuck us girls with the cattle prod, sending an electrical shock to our bodies. It made me yell and cry for my mom.

 I participated in Bloody Sunday, but my brother and I were at the back of the line and never got to the bridge. We heard the marchers screaming and saw them running back. We smelled the tear gas. My brother and I held hands and ran to Browns Chapel Church as fast as we could. We saw a little old lady who appeared to have a limp. She couldn’t run. We got on either side of her, trying to help her along. She was slow because of her knee and begged us to go on. We went on but looked back and saw a posseman stop his horse and beat her with his billy club. We were horrified. The officer chased us up the steps of Browns Chapel Church, swinging the club at us. The horse ran up the steps, too. We barely made it inside. 

I asked my mom if I could go to the big march from Selma to Montgomery. She said yes, but I had to take the bus. A fleet of Greyhound buses transported us to Montgomery free of charge. Once again, I didn’t step foot on the bridge. 

When we got there, we saw music equipment set up for the freedom concert that night. So many actors and movie stars participated. Peter, Paul and Mary, Joan Baez, Sammy Davis, Jr. and Earth Kitt gave us a wonderful concert that was organized by Harry Belafonte. 

I had heard Dr. King speak before, but this one was even more special. We were told after the other marches that we would never make it to Montgomery. On the steps of the Capital, Dr. King said, ‘They said, we wouldn’t get here. We’d only get here over their dead bodies. But we are here and we are here to tell the world, ain’t going to let nobody turn me around, by the way, ain’t going to let the Freedom Song ain’t going to let nobody turn me around.’

President Lyndon Johnson passed the Voting Rights Act on August 6th, 1965. My mother and many other Black citizens of Selma could just sign their names and give their addresses to vote. There was no more literacy test. No more guessing how many jelly beans were in a jar, how many soap bubbles were in a bar of soap, or how many drops of water were in the Alabama River. Mother never missed any election. I haven’t missed an election either and still participate in helping others to vote. 

For many years, I was quiet in telling my story. I’m a former educator but  didn’t talk about what I did. I only started sharing my story ten years ago at the 50th anniversary of Bloody Sunday because The Chamber of Commerce asked me to do some interviews that weekend. Then they asked me to become a tour guide. I started giving tours and kept that going because education is so important. I hope that we never repeat the past.”

Thelma Dianne Harris

(Photos from Ms. Harris)