Today, June 5, 2026 is DR. JOHN CARLOS’ BIRTHDAY

Note: This video is the copyright of Robert Glasper.

This article was originally published October 25, 2024. When I realized today was Dr. John Carlos’ birthday—though late in the evening—I didn't want to miss the opportunity to wish one of my favorite Black male intellectuals and athletes a Blessed and Happy Birthday. As you’ll read in the article below, I met him at an event celebrating Muhammad Ali and have wonderful memories of that time. I can still see him on stage and standing beside me as we had our picture taken. I wish him all the best as he continues to educate and inspire others.

October 16, 1968, is memorable to me for three reasons: first it was the second month of my senior year in college; second, it was the day Peter Norman, Tommie Smith, and John Carlos won gold, silver, and bronze medals, respectively in that order, at the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico, and later received Death Threats and Expulsion for Protesting Racial Inequality; and third, I later met and took a photo with Dr. John Carlos.

On October 16, 1968, Black Olympic sprinters Tommie Smith and John Carlos, now Dr. John Carlos, who engaged in a silent protest on the medal stand to bring light to the racial discrimination and violence against Black people in the U.S., were met with hostility by white supporters and the media and were eventually suspended for their protest.

There was much controversy surrounding Tommie Smith’s and John Carlos’ participation, subsequent win, and dismissal. Some argue that their actions diminished the honor bestowed upon them and America when they raised their black-gloved fist as they were also representing their country.

And in Australia, Peter Norman was isolated, ostracized, and publicly persecuted for wearing the Olympic Project For Human Rights button due to their relationship with South Africa and Rhodesia.

All three men received harsh treatment and threats from citizens of their respective countries. Smith and Carlos supported one another during this period. Norman had no one to support him, except indigenous people; and Australia didn’t recognized them as citizens or human. Peter supported them and their human rights cause.

John Carlos became the focus of the Olympic Committee before the summer races due to his protest about racism and being denied top honors for races he clearly won. He always wanted to be the “first Black athlete/sprinter to represent America.”

The goal of being “first” was one he discussed with his father when he wanted to be America’s first Black Olympian swimmer to receive a medal. His hopes were squashed when his father told him that would never happen because of the color of his skin.

The goal didn’t change when he switched from swimming to sprinting, a move he made because he was not accepted as the fast runner he was.

He thought sprinting would afford him an opportunity swimming did not. He learned it didn’t make a difference. As Carlos said: “We [Blacks] believe in America and want America to believe in us.” He was Black and the white world of swimming and track did not want a Black man as top swimmer or sprinter.

Adults in New York City urged him to not go the way of some of the neighborhood kids. With their help, he received a scholarship to a college in East Texas but immediately realized that area of the country wasn’t for him.

Signs saying, “White’s Only” and “Colored Only” were clear evidence of racial disparities he knew were wrong and that he couldn’t accept.

Fortunately, another offer to attend college in California provided him an opportunity to continue his education and train to become an even better athlete.

He surpassed previous sprinter scores at both schools before deciding to try out for the Olympics. By then, he already had a reputation for being difficult, brash, thinking he was better than everyone else. The fact was that he was better than almost everyone.

Additionally, he reached an inner conclusion; namely, proving Blacks were capable of winning top honors and becoming great athletes was more important than medaling.  

He defined racism as ignorance tied up in fear. He believed he had to “send a message to America that something was wrong” with the sport; that the athletic staff and others in power knew he won races, but were trimming his scores and simply not awarding him first prize or any prize because of his color and their racist attitudes.

He considered quitting because he wanted to boycott the Olympics due the state of discrimination in America, the involvement of South Africa and Rhodesia, and constant harassment.

According to John Carlos,

God spoke to him saying, “If you don’t perform, someone else will win but won’t represent what you think and feel.

The training was difficult and strenuous. Nevertheless this led him to try out for and make the Olympic team. He later explained to an interviewer that

-The Olympics was just another track meet to him. Nobody is giving me a dime.

-What the American flag says is a myth. It doesn’t represent all Americans.

-We want an equal chance to be human beings.

Despite their medal-winning performances, the two athletes faced intense criticism in the media and received death threats upon returning home. At the time, their protest was wrongly perceived as a show of disrespect directed toward the American flag and national anthem. Their protest was against racial disparities, prejudice, and ignorance.

Dr. Carlos and Tommie Smith were later inducted into the U.S. Olympic & Paralympic Committee’s Hall of Fame for “their contributions to an important moment in our nation’s history.”

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I watched Peters, Smith, and Carlos’ amazing achievement at the 1968 Summer Olympics on television in my dormitory recreation room. That I might one day meet any of them was a unimaginable thought. Nevertheless, the unimaginable came true in 2013 when I met Dr. John Carlos at the premiere of “The Trials of Muhammad Ali” at The Ford Foundation screening and panel discussion

Meeting Dr. John Carlos was as magical as when I met Muhammad Ali. Both meetings were by happenstance. Both men were welcoming and open to questions. Both proved that “judging” others on hearsay or even “TV-say” is counterproductive.  

While I wasn't an athlete, I know the feelings Dr. Carlos had when experiencing the “white only and colored only” signs. I grew up in the south where such signs were everywhere. They weren't visible in the north, too. Their essence was strong and smelly. Northern businesses let it be known in other not so subtle ways that Blacks weren’t welcome, couldn't use the restroom, or shop in their stores.

The not so subtle ways included being offered a table near the back door and/or bathroom, waiting longer periods to be seated when whites walked in after you and were seated before you, and constantly being asked “May I help you” in department stores before one was firmly inside the store. The same pressure tasting “to help” wasn’t applied to white patrons.

Having never lived in the south when Dr. John Carlos traveled to East Texas College, he wasn’t prepared emotionally to handle the affront. What he did know, whether from his father, newspapers, media, or other means, was that he would not accept such demeaning, racist treatment.

Until another day of “On this day….”

Sources

The Mary Marshall Collection—https://findingaids.library.emory.edu/documents/marshall1462/

At The Poll

I arrived at the polling location, excited to cast my first official vote as a resident of New York State.

Excitement quickly turned to confusion and horror seconds after I gave the poll worker my name.

Poll Worker: You’ve voted already. What are you trying to do?

Me: No, I haven't. This is my first time ever voting.

Poll Worker: You signed the book. See, here’s your signature.

I looked at the signature and immediately realized that it was my mother’s signature. We had the same name. She voted hours before me and continued on to work. Neither of us ever imagined there would be a problem for me when I went to vote.

I explained the situation to the poll worker. I told her my mother and I had the same name.

I was informed that the only way I could vote was to go to City Hall, appear before a magistrate there with documentation, and obtain clearance. I was also informed that I might not be able to vote in that election because it could take all day to get clearance.

Going To Court

Thankfully times were not as complicated then as they are now. If that happened today, I would most likely have to wait until the next election to vote.

I called my mother at work. She met me at the court. We presented our credentials, and I received clearance to vote. It did not require changing my name; but I did have to present the letter from the court acknowledging that I was also Mary M. Marshall.

While I didn’t change my name, my mother made changes to her registration. She added her maiden name to her voter registration so that we/I wouldn’t experience rejection at the ballot box again. This also convinced me to vote early in the future just in case my mother and I continued to share the same voting precinct.

It was traumatizing to have almost missed my first adult act.

I know that this was daunting enough to cause some to say forget it. After all, Blacks had been denied voting rights for reasons much simpler than having the same name.

I was not discouraged. If anything, it created an awareness about voting and who can vote that I might otherwise not have known. It was this experience that added to my desire to teach literacy so that everyone, Blacks in particular, would be equipped to vote.

Family Voting History

This experience stands strong in my memory by itself. However, it’s significance deepens when I examine my family history and realize that I was among the first in my family to vote.

My mother and older sister voted before me. I think my grandmother, grand aunts, and other ancestors, especially female, voted for the first time when I did or at the earliest in 1960.

Males in my family voted as early as 1867, just before the 15th Amendment was passed in 1870. Research indicates they were free men of color and registered to vote between July and August 1867.

The photo above depicts my 2nd great grandfather’s voter registration. See the essays below for an in-depth discussion about his voting history. These essays shed more light on that period of family history.

Though I’ve known this history for some time now, I still need to further research voting records in Georgia to see when my grandmother and her siblings first voted.

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Voting in America

Voting in America has not been easy for Black Americans and other under represented citizens. In fact, voting was prioritized for white males, then white females. Though Black men gained the right to vote before white women, Black men did not have an easy time. Neither did Black women. They weren’t welcomed into the voting world by either white men or white women.

The recent ruling by the U. S. Supreme Court has moved the goal post back such that it will seem like the same old fight for many in Black and other under represented communities.

A 6-3 U.S. Supreme Court decision in Louisiana v. Callais has eviscerated Section 2 of the Voting Rights Act (VRA) and opened the door for states to enact discriminatory voting maps and laws.

This decision — which contradicts the text of the Voting Rights Act, the will of Congress and the Constitution — is one of the most consequential setbacks for our multiracial democracy in a generation.

For six decades, the VRA has served as the backbone of federal protections against racial discrimination in our elections — an essential guardrail ensuring that every American, regardless of race, has a meaningful opportunity to participate in the political process.

With this ruling, the Court has struck down a congressional map that finally allowed Black voters in Louisiana to have the opportunity to elect candidates of their choice. More broadly, the justices have upended decades of precedent, ignored the will of Congress and left voters with little recourse to challenge racially discriminatory maps or voting laws.

What I experienced at the polling site doesn’t begin to register when viewed through the lens of this recent decision. It makes me think about my ancestors—male and female. I’m fortunate to have found records of early voting in my family.

These records tell me much about my ancestors civic and political participation during the early period of government in America. They are especially significant given my ancestors lived mostly in Georgia and Alabama between 1800 and 1925. Both states had some of the most horrific voting incidents in history.

How do we move forward? Will the recent Supreme Court decision cause people, Black people, to stay away? To not register to vote? To not vote even if they are registered? Is the danger in exercising one’ right to vote greater now?

Some would say that voting is no more dangerous today than it was in the 1960s. Others would argue that it is as dangerous now as it was in the past, perhaps even more so.

I can’t say its more or less. What I believe is that Black Americans and others from under represented communities must continue to register to vote. They/we must vote. We must encourage others to not be discouraged. We must remember those who came before us; remember those who lost their lives so that we could have the opportunity to vote today.

The Future

Will voting be easier? Again, access will be scrutinized, revoked, denied, legislated even further in some parts of the nation. We, Black Americans and those who believe every citizen has the right to vote, must not give in to those who are determined to remove our citizenship and our physical presence in this nation.

Voting is critical to governance. Critical to exercising one’s right as a citizen in America.

Make sure you’re registered. Encourage family, friends, and neighbors to check their registration. Remind them of the importance of casting their ballot for the individual(s) they believe will uphold democracy.

Sources

https://archives.libraries.emory.edu/repositories/7/resources/3057 https://campaignlegal.org/update/us-supreme-court-has-eviscerated-voting-rights-act-whats-ne

Dear Subscriber,

Thank you for subscribing to my newsletter. It is an honor to have you and share memories/family history. I welcome your comments and suggestions.

In an earlier email I indicated that I would be on break until June 19th. I changed my mind and am ending my break with this post.

I’m still regrouping and deciding how I will move forward. There is still much to explore in my family archive and much I want to share with you. I have learned so much from my deep dive into family history.

If you have topics you’d like me to explore, please put them in the comments. While I have focused on my ancestors, future posts will also cover other Blacks in the South from 1800 to 2000. My ancestors left material indicating their contact with Lucy C. Laney, W. E. B. DuBois, Booker T. Washington, Langston Hughes, Mary McLeod Bethune, and other notables in Georgia, South Carolina, and Alabama. I will explore some of these in more depth in future posts.

I love history and research. I look forward to hearing from you.

Best,

Dr. MMM

One hundred eleven years ago today, April 2, 1915, my great grandmother celebrated Good Friday. She and her family probably huddled close together in their home rather than venture outside. This was because the city was experiencing severe cold weather.

On April 2, 1915, Augusta, Georgia, experienced exceptionally cold weather, featuring a record-setting minimum temperature of 13F (-10.56C), which is the coldest temperature ever recorded in April for the area. According to historical meteorological data, the morning of April 2, 1915, featured high-pressure conditions in the region. (Google)

In spite of the extreme cold, I imagine my great grandmother was joyful, in a good mood, and looking forward to Easter Sunday. I think she prepared outfits for her husband and their children, planned to attend early church service at Springfield Baptist Church, or Friendship Baptist Church. The former was the family’s worship place of record; however, when weather conditions were severe (as it was on April 2, 1915), they worshiped at Friendship Baptist Church, which was within close walking distance of their home.

Great grandmother’s intent to celebrate Easter is evident in a postcard she wrote to her sister, Clara Wright. Given her joy as expressed on the postcard, her love of family, and skill as a seamstress, I think she designed and sewed lovely outfits for her husband, five daughters, and herself.

My great grandparents enjoyed hosting family gatherings and sharing meals with family and close friends. Great grandfather Willie was a member of The Augusta Union Society.

Great grandmother Mary was a member of Aids Sons And Daughters of Zion.

Both organizations afforded my great grandparents an opportunity to network with other Black professionals and skilled workers in the community. They were able to share their skilled knowledge while also socializing and expanding their network of friends.

By 1915, my great grandparents owned three properties including the home in which they raised their family. They rented the other homes out thus increasing their income and establishing themselves as entrepreneurs in the community.

Family records and research reveal that Willie and Mary Ella were literate, sent their children to the private Haines Normal and Industrial Institute (and one to Catholic School), were active in Springfield Baptist Church—the church where Morehouse College was founded—and participated in social and political activities.

My great grandparents were teenagers when Frederick Douglass visited Augusta in 1888. They were married when Booker T. Washington and George Washington Carver visited in the early 1900s. Records such as a copy of Harper’s Weekly, a signed copy of Frederick Douglass’s Memorial Proclamation, a poster signed by Booker T. Washington, and first edition books on Black life during this period strongly suggest that they were involved in civic, political, and social events in Augusta, especially within the Black Community.

In 1915 Easter Sunday fell on April 4th. I have no definitive records to say which church the family attended. My knowledge of our family, both churches, and the town, lead me to conclude they went to Friendship Baptist if the extreme cold weather continued. Family lore and some photos indicate great grandmother suffered from arthritis. Given the weather in April 1915, I think the family enjoyed Easter at the closest church then enjoyed their Sunday meal with one another in the family home. I imagine the home was festive and smelled of delicious foods; that they gathered in the parlor and dining room to break bread and share stories with one another.

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After a wonderful Easter Sunday, I think my great grandparents sat in the living room reliving the day and planning for the days and weeks to come. The children thought of returning to school, parents to their respective jobs, and the Augusta Black Community would begin preparing for holidays yet to come.

What began as a Chilly Easter for my most likely ended sitting before the fireplace reading and thinking of the wonderful day experienced by all.

I will celebrate Easter this Sunday, April 5, 2026. If you celebrate, I wish you a Happy Easter. If not, Happy Spring.

Sources

https://www.augustachronicle.com/story/news/2021/03/10/augusta-ga-frederick-douglass-ware-high-school/4599003001/

https://archives.libraries.emory.edu/repositories/7/resources/3057

https://www.nps.gov/articles/000/tabernacle-baptist-church-augusta-georgia

The path I had prepared for did not continue in the way I had expected.

But my life did.

What followed was not defined by a single decision or a clear transition. There was no moment in which one life ended and another began. Instead, there was a gradual reconfiguration—of how I worked, how I moved through the day, and how I understood what could be sustained over time.

The conditions remained.

The variability in vision, the interruptions in speech, the limits on concentration and duration—these did not resolve. They became part of the structure within which everything else had to be organized. What changed was not their presence, but my relationship to them.

I no longer asked whether they could be eliminated. I asked how they could be accounted for.

This required a different use of time.

Time was no longer a neutral measure. It became something to be managed with attention and intention. Work was structured in intervals. Rest was not separate from effort, but part of it. Continuity was no longer assumed; it had to be created, and then recreated, each day.

The intellectual life I had been trained for did not disappear.

It remained, but in a different form. Reading continued, though not always at the same pace or with the same endurance. Writing continued, though often in shorter segments, with more revision and return. Thinking itself—structured, reflective, sustained—remained possible, but required conditions that had to be maintained deliberately.

I did not move away from that life. I moved within it differently.

There were choices that shaped this.

Some were practical—how to organize work, when to stop, when to begin again. Others were less visible—what to pursue, what to set aside, what to allow to remain incomplete. These were not decisions made once. They were ongoing, responsive to the conditions of a given day, a given task, a given limit.

Independence became an important measure.

Not in the sense of doing everything without assistance, but in the ability to sustain a life that was self-directed within the constraints that were present. To determine how to proceed. To adjust when necessary. To continue without requiring the conditions to resemble what they had been before.

This was not the life I had anticipated.

It did not follow the trajectory I had prepared for, and it did not produce the outcomes that trajectory had assumed. But it was not defined by absence. It was defined by what could be maintained—by the continuity of thought, of effort, and of engagement over time.

The question that had emerged earlier—what can be maintained, and how—did not disappear. It remained, but it became less uncertain.

The answer was not fixed. It changed with circumstance, with capacity, with the demands of the moment. But the orientation remained the same: attention, structure, and adjustment.

These were not temporary strategies. They became the basis of how I lived.

The life that followed was not a return.

It was not a replacement.

It was a continuation—shaped by different conditions, sustained by different methods, and understood on different terms.

It continues.

Completing the work did not resolve the question of what would follow.

The path I had been preparing for was structured and clear. It assumed continuity—of thought, of speech, of presence in spaces where those qualities were required and expected. Teaching required a certain steadiness. Scholarship required sustained engagement with text, argument, and revision over time. These were not abstract expectations. They were embedded in the daily practices of the academic life I had been moving toward.

I had been trained within that structure. I understood its demands.

The completion of the dissertation placed me within it, but it did not alter the conditions under which I was now working. The same disruptions that had required adjustment during the writing process did not recede with the granting of the degree. They remained, and in some contexts, became more visible.

There were environments in which these differences could not be easily accommodated. The pace of teaching, the immediacy of response required in a classroom, the expectation of sustained verbal clarity—these were not conditions that could always be adjusted to meet variability. They required consistency of performance across time.

I became aware, gradually, that the question was not whether I could participate, but under what conditions that participation could be sustained.

This was not a single realization. It did not arrive at a fixed point. It emerged through experience—through moments when the alignment between expectation and capacity did not hold, and could not be made to hold through effort alone.

The academic path had not disappeared. It remained visible, defined, and accessible in form. What had changed was my ability to move within it in the way it required.

I did not experience this as a loss in the immediate sense. It was not something that could be named and set aside. It was a gradual recognition of limit—not imposed externally, but encountered in pracice.

There were decisions that followed from that recognition.

Not all at once, and not always explicitly. Some were adjustments in how I engaged. Others were choices about what I would no longer attempt to sustain in the same way. These were not departures from the work itself, but reconfigurations of how that work could exist within the conditions that were now present.

The measure of progress shifted.

It was no longer defined by advancement along a predetermined path, but by the ability to maintain continuity within altered circumstances. The question was not how closely I could approximate what had been expected, but what could be carried forward with integrity.

This required a different orientation toward time, toward effort, and toward outcome.

There were aspects of the academic life I had anticipated that did not continue. Not because they had been taken away, but because they depended on forms of consistency that were no longer fully available to me. Recognizing this did not resolve the question of what would come next, but it clarified the conditions under which that question would be answered.

The path had changed.

Not in its existence, but in its relation to me.

What remained was the work of determining, within that change, what could still be done—and how.

There were tasks that remained in front of me, unchanged in their expectation, but altered in their execution. Among them was my dissertation. It had already been written in part, shaped by a way of thinking and working that no longer functioned as it once had. What had been continuous became interrupted. What had been fluid became deliberate.

Reading was no longer passive. It required effort to hold a line, to track an argument from beginning to end without losing its structure. I would return to passages more than once, not for interpretation, but for orientation. The difficulty was not in understanding the material. It was in maintaining contact with it long enough to complete the thought.

Writing followed a similar pattern. Sentences did not always arrive intact. There were moments when I knew what I intended to say, but could not move from intention to expression without interruption. I learned to work in smaller segments, to complete what I could before attention shifted or fatigue intervened. What had once been revision became reconstruction—returning to the same paragraph not to refine it, but to reassemble it.

Time changed.

Work that would have taken hours extended into days. Tasks that once required concentration now required both concentration and recovery. I began to understand that effort alone was not a sufficient measure. The question was no longer how much could be done, but how it could be done within the limits that were now present.

There were external interactions as well. Conversations required adjustment. I became more aware of pauses—where I would have spoken without hesitation before, I now had to wait, to locate the words, to ensure that what I intended could be carried through to completion. There were moments when this was visible to others, and moments when it was misinterpreted. I learned to continue without correcting every perception.

The work required structure.

I began to rely less on continuity and more on segmentation. Short intervals. Defined tasks. Clear stopping points. Attention, which I had once taken for granted, became something I had to manage deliberately. Not in abstraction, but in practice—how long to read, when to stop, when to begin again.

Over time, these adjustments accumulated into a method.

It was not a return to how I had worked before. It was a different way of working entirely—one that accounted for interruption, variability, and limits that did not always announce themselves in advance. There was no single moment when this method was established. It developed gradually, in response to what was required and what was possible.

It took two years to complete what had already been underway.

Not because the work itself had changed, but because I had. The pace was different. The process was different. The expectations had to be aligned with a set of conditions that could not be ignored.

I graduated in 1998.

The work continued.

The degree marked completion, but not restoration. It did not return me to the life I had anticipated. It did, however, confirm that continuation was possible—under different terms, with different methods, and with a different understanding of what sustained work required.

By that time, I no longer measured progress against who I had been before the accident. That comparison had become less useful than another question: what can be maintained, and how?

The answer was not fixed. It changed with circumstance, with fatigue, with the demands of the work itself. But the approach remained consistent. Attention, structure, and adjustment.

This was the work of continuing.

It did not resolve the effects of the injury. It did not eliminate uncertainty. But it made it possible to move within a life that had been altered, without requiring it to resemble what it had been before.

That work, like the learning that preceded it, did not end.

It remains.

It was not the accident itself that revealed the full extent of my injury.

It was what came after—slowly, and then all at once.

At first, I believed I had survived and was returning. I had been in the hospital. I had been diagnosed. I had endured what could be named. That seemed, at the time, sufficient. Survival suggested a direction: forward, back into the life I had been living.

But there were interruptions I could not account for.

I began to lose my place in spaces I knew. I would reach for objects and miss them. I would start a sentence and feel it dissolve before it arrived. My eyes would not hold steady. My speech would not follow intention. There were moments when I could not tell if the problem was with my body or with my mind, only that something was no longer reliable.

At first, I thought this was temporary.

Then I understood: it was not.

It took time—years, in fact—to recognize that what I was experiencing was not a series of unrelated difficulties, but the unfolding reality of a brain injury. Not an event that had passed, but a condition that remained.

There is a particular kind of disorientation that comes with that realization. It is not panic. It is not even fear. It is a quiet recalibration of expectation.

The life I had been preparing for—structured, intellectual, dependent on clarity of thought and precision of speech—was no longer available to me in the same way. I could not will my way back to it. Effort alone did not restore what had been altered.

I had to learn differently.

There were moments of embarrassment—small, public exposures of what I could no longer conceal. Missteps. Missed cues. The subtle shift in how others responded when they sensed something was not quite aligned. I became aware, not only of my own limitations, but of how quickly they could be misread.

But there were also moments of decision.

At some point, I stopped measuring my progress against who I had been and began asking a different question: what is required now?

That question led me, eventually, to seek help for what had become one of the most persistent disruptions—my vision.

By then, I understood that what appeared to be separate issues were not separate at all. The difficulty reading. The loss of focus. The sense that my balance and my thinking were somehow connected. These were not isolated problems. They were expressions of a system that had been altered.

When I began vision therapy, I did not think of it as recovery. I thought of it as an experiment—an attempt to understand whether anything could be improved.

What I found was not a return, but an adjustment.

As my vision began, gradually, to stabilize, other things followed. Not immediately, and not completely. But there was a shift. A sense that certain functions—balance, concentration, orientation—were no longer working against one another.

It was not that I had regained what I had lost.

It was that I was beginning to understand how to live with what remained.

This required a different kind of discipline. Not the discipline of mastery, which I had known before, but the discipline of attention. Of noticing. Of working within limits that did not always announce themselves in advance.

I had survived the accident.

That was clear.

What was less clear, and took much longer to learn, was how to live in the life that followed—how to think, to speak, to move, and to continue, not as I had been, but as I was.

That learning did not happen all at once.

It is, in many ways, still ongoing.

Note: This is Part III of a series reflecting on February 24, 1995 and its aftermath. Additional reflections are forthcoming. Parts I and II are available in the archive.

On February 24, 1995, I was on my way to an engagement where I was scheduled to speak.

I was the passenger. A friend was driving.

We never arrived.

A head-on collision ended the ordinary rhythm of that day without warning. In a single instant, plans dissolved. Metal collapsed. The future narrowed to survival.

I was hospitalized for a week. What first appeared to be recovery revealed a deeper reality: a traumatic brain injury. The injury produced a movement disorder affecting my eyes and my speech — the very instruments of my academic life.

At the time, I was completing my PhD.

The diagnosis did more than describe a condition. It altered the trajectory of my career as a college professor. Teaching, lecturing, sustained engagement — all would be reshaped by neurological consequence.

There was no certainty about what would fully return.

But there was one certainty.

I was alive.

I completed my doctorate while being diagnosed and treated. Not because nothing had changed, but because everything had. Survival required continuation — under different terms.

Independence became its own measure of grace. To think clearly. To speak, even if altered. To see, even if adjusted. To live without surrendering autonomy.

February 24, 1995 did not simply threaten my life.

It marked the day I learned that time is not assumed. It is given.

And when life is returned, it must be lived — differently.

Some dates do not pass with time. They remain.

February 24, 1995 is one of them.

On that day, I was scheduled to speak.

Instead, I nearly lost my life.

It is easy to say that I survived. But survival is not the full meaning of it. There are moments that interrupt your life, and there are moments that return you to it under different terms.

Before that day, my life was shaped by responsibility—what needed to be done, what needed to be carried, what needed to continue.

After that day, I understood something I had not fully considered before.

Time is not assumed. It is given.

Nothing around me changed immediately. But something within me did. I began, slowly, to see that not everything I had been carrying belonged to me.

February 24, 1995 did not just mark a moment I lived through.

It marked the moment my life was returned to me—differently.

……

I will be writing more in the coming days about the life that came before—and what followed after.

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Reading “JOHN LEWIS: A LIFE” by David Greenberg stirs memories of my own time riding Greyhound and Trailway busses from Georgia to New York.1

My siblings and I did this many times during the 1950s and early 1960s, the same time period that Congressman John Lewis made similar trips across and through several southern states. We didn’t have any negative experiences, nor did we ever fear for our lives or fear white mobs would attack the bus. At least, if we had such thoughts, we buried them and didn’t allow ourselves to wonder if we’d arrive safely at New York’s Port Authority Bus Station.

Congressman John Lewis, on the other hand, more often than not, stepped onto a Greyhound bus fully aware that he, whether alone or with friends, might be harassed, beaten, and forced off the bus. These same situations were possible with my sibling and I. We escaped them because our grandmother decided travel close to midnight meant safety since most, if not all, passengers boarding looked like us.

Grandmother also made sure we sat closer to the back of the bus so that the likelihood of our being asked to move was almost zero percent. White passengers generally did not come on board until the bus was in North Carolina. Although the Interstate Commerce Act of 1887 was used in 1961 to ban discrimination on interstate bus travel. There was no guarantee bus drivers would obey the law. Most did not.

True integration or seat choice on the bus did not occur before Washington, DC. Thus, my siblings and I could change our seats and move closer to the front when we arrived in Washington, DC, if we boarded the bus in GA. If our trip was from New York to GA, we sat in the back because we knew the likelihood of being asked to move back was greater traveling south. 2

In 1946 Irene Morgan experienced what my mother and grandmother were concerned might happen to my siblings and I as we travelled. 3

Irene Amos Morgan (April 9, 1917 – August 10, 2007), later known as Irene Morgan Kirkaldy, was an African-American woman from Baltimore, Maryland, who was arrested in Middlesex County, Virginia, in 1944 under a state law imposing racial segregation in public facilities and transportation. She was traveling on an interstate bus that operated under federal law and regulations. She refused to give up her seat in what the driver said was the "white section"

Morgan consulted with attorneys to appeal her conviction and the NAACP Legal Defense Fund took up her case. She was represented by William H. Hastie, the former governor of the U.S. Virgin Islands and later a judge on the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Third Circuit, and Thurgood Marshall, legal counsel of the NAACP. Her case, Irene Morgan v. Commonwealth of Virginia, 328 U.S. 373 (1946), was appealed to the United States Supreme Court. In 1946 in a landmark decision, the Court ruled that the Virginia law was unconstitutional, as the Commerce clause protected interstate traffic. But neither Virginia nor other states observed the ruling and it was not enforced for decades.4

Because this was a concern, and I was aware of civil rights demonstrations by the time I reached high school, I vowed never to ride Greyhound/Trailway busses after 1961. June 1961 was the last time I rode either of these anywhere. I still have difficulty riding local buses because of behavior I witnessed during my youth.

I remember African-American passengers being forced to give up their seats when a Caucasian person boarded the bus.

An African-American could not sit next to or across from a Caucasian passenger, but there were no designated “black” or “white” seats on the bus.”5

It was not uncommon to see African-American passengers standing for miles and miles. They stood rather than get off and wait for another bus. Why get off when the same thing might happen again? So, they stood.

Occasionally other African-American passengers would allow those standing to sit, to rest from standing. My siblings and I, sitting as far in the back as possible, were guaranteed that we wouldn’t be asked to stand. Still, it was emotionally jarring to watch others being forced to give up their seats just because a “Caucasian” person got on the bus.

At that time, the forcing of others to stand so that no African-American sat next to, across from, or behind a “Caucasian” person was not uncommon. It definitely wasn’t an experience any African-American wanted.

Today’s racial climate makes me wonder if such conditions might still occur in some parts of the South.

There is much in JOHN LEWIS: A LIFE that I understand and relate to as a result of personal experience, stories related to me by others, or from reading about the time period in which he was born and lived. I’m currently rereading certain chapters I marked because they stirred memories/conversations that I want to further reflect upon before writing about them.

One look at the book might deter many. Its nearly 700 pages might cause some individuals to thumb through it and place the book back on the shelf. I strongly encourage them/you (if this describes your reaction) to buy the book and take your time reading while also marking passages/pages that interest, infuriate, and inspire you.

My interest grew stronger as I read. So, too, did my anger and inspiration. I was and am inspired to continue telling the stories of my ancestors/others whom I knew and whose records are part of my archive.

I’m inspired to begin sharing some of my lived experiences.

Having lived in the south and north, attended segregated and integrated schools, lived and worked in predominantly white environments, and now seeing how African-American history—my history—is under attack and being ordered removed=erased, I must tell my story, too. I must leave evidence.

David Greenberg did an excellent job in telling the story of Congressman John Lewis’ life. It’s a story I won’t forget. The time spent researching and gathering information about a remarkable human being is evident from beginning to end.

Thank you for reading. More reflections from this wonderful book coming soon..

Sources

Historic Springfield Baptist Church (SBC), Augusta, GA, founded in 1787, is the church my ancestors selected as the family church beginning in the mid 1870s. My great grandmother, great grandaunts, and grandmother, including my siblings and I were active members there.

Springfield’s origin is from Silver Bluff Baptist Church, Jackson, SC, founded between 1774-1778 by Jesse Peters Galphin during America’s pre-revolutionary war period.

Peters, who took the name Galphin, was likely a free black in 1788 when he joined white Abraham Marshall in ordaining Andrew Bryan in Savannah. Partly on the basis of that event, today’s Springfield Church uses the year 1787 as the date of its location in the village of Springfield, which was annexed by the city of Augusta in 1798. After studying the origins of the various churches, historian Walter Brooks concludes, “the oldest Negro Baptist church in this country today is that at Augusta, Georgia, having existed at Silver Bluff, South Carolina, from the period 1774-1775 to the year 1793, before becoming a Georgia institution.” (italics mine)1

Springfield leaders and congregants displayed the same level of confidence and determination to remain independent during the period of the Civil War. By 1865, the church was an integral part of Springfield Village and put their lives on the line to protect it.

Springfield was the only church in Augusta that was not used as a hospital during the Civil War. At the corner of Broad and Jackson Streets, five Deacons formed a human barricade. They told the soldiers of what peril would befall them if they attempted to make Springfield a hospital. The soldiers heeded their warning and left the church alone.2

Leaders and members were equally serious about education. In 1865, SBC also provided an opportunity for anyone in the African American community interested in literacy. They started Springfield Free School.

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Springfield also founded The Augusta Baptist Institute in 1867. It moved to another church in Augusta then to Atlanta, GA, becoming Morehouse College. John Hope (1868-1936) served as its First Black President taking office in 1906.3

SBC, served by African American pastors during the antebellum years, had the largest membership—1187 members— of any church in the Georgia Baptist Association in 1881.

In an earlier newsletter about SBC, “Marriage and Springfield Baptist Church, Augusta, GA” I revealed that Springfield Baptist Church adopted many of the white patriarchal rules that shaped governance, membership, behavior, and status as illustrated in the document below. See the following years: 1882, 1889, 1901.4

During the Revolutionary and Civil War eras, Springfield and its congregation existed in the midst of major military assaults on Augusta, including General Sherman’s attack on the city. Before and during the Civil War, Rev. Henry McNeal Turner, a Georgia pastor and one of the Black senators in the Georgia Legislature, spoke at Springfield on January 1, 1866. His sermon, Celebration of The First Anniversary,” called out the treatment of Black women and urged Black Augustans to migrate back to Africa. The speech appeared in THE COLORED AMERICAN.5

The following announcement of Chaplain Turner’s speech as well as the full speech can be found in The Henry McNeal Turner Project.6

The War battles impacted all Augustans, but did not stop SBC from functioning. The church continued its independent role in Springfield Village during and after the Civil War.

Over time, people who lived in Springfield Village moved to other neighborhoods as that area became more commercialized. The church did not move nor did it stop growing.

My great grandaunt, Charlotte Wright, was married by Rev. G. H. Dwelle in 1886.

My grandmother served in the Missionary Society as secretary in 1944.7

Springfield has the distinction of starting the first Sunday School in Georgia. My sister and I also participated in the Sunday School and Youth Choir. 8

In 1995 a coalition of city and community leaders began construction of Springfield Village Park [in commemoration of the community that once inhabited the area and lived] adjacent to the church. The park features abstract metal sculptures by nationally known African American artist Richard Hunt of Chicago. Plaques along an ascending ramp tell the history of American blacks as well as the history of Springfield Church.9

Members of Springfield Baptist Church love the church and its history as much as I do. Listen to Walter Wright, long-time member and others share the history and their feelings about the church.

Springfield Baptist Church will celebrate 239 years of continuous service to its members and the community on August 9, 2026. That’s the second Sunday in August—the day SBC aways celebrates its anniversary. I hope to be present on this momentous occasion.

Thank you for reading.

~~Dr. MMM

Sources

My family lived in Harlem in the 1950s. We were within walking distance of Sugar Ray Robinson’s Bar, The Theresa Hotel, The Apollo Theatre, The RKO Theatre, Morningside and Mount Morris Parks, as well as many well known churches including Mt. Olivet Baptist, Abyssinian Baptist, and The United House of Prayer.

The adults in my family visited all of the above places. My siblings and I visited all but Sugar Ray Robinson’s Bar. We passed The Bar whenever we went to The Theresa Hotel’s drugstore, the nearest one to our home; or when we went to the theatre. As often as I passed there, I don’t recall ever seeing him. However, I did see Mr. Robinson up close once in a spectacular incident across from our apartment .

One summer afternoon during the mid-1950’s, a large crowd gathered on 123rd Street, between 7th and 8th Avenues, after following the police to Precinct #28. They were loud and chanting: “Let her go! Let her go! She didn’t do anything wrong! Let her go!

Our second floor apartment was diagonally across from #28th Precinct. In fact, we could see into one of the 2nd floor interview/interrogation rooms. Most of the time, all we saw were police talking to people. Occasionally a handcuffed person could be seen, but that was rare.

The crowd gathering appeared to be the result of police arresting a woman whom the crowd thought was Hispanic. The chant, “Let her go!,” could be heard in Spanish and English. The ethnically mixed crowd had traveled from 116th Street and 7th Avenue to 123rd Street, the location of the nearest Precinct.

Police tried to disperse the crowd, but were unsuccessful. Someone in the 28th Precinct decided to call Sugar Ray Robinson and request his assistance in calming the crowd and getting them to leave. Sugar Ray Robinson’s Bar was around the corner on 7th Avenue between 123rd and 124th Streets. He was often seen outside the establishment getting into or out of his pink cadillac.

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The police managed to get Mr. Robinson past the crowd and into the precinct. They convinced him to climb atop a police van, with a bullhorn, to address the crowd.

Mr. Robinson tried to convince the crowd to break up, to go home/back to their communities. He assured them that the woman in custody would be treated fairly.

Crowd Reaction

The crowd didn’t believe him. They refused to leave. They got louder. At one point they began to push against the police van causing it to rock back and forth. At this point the police hurriedly removed Mr. Robinson. Neither his celebrity status or ethnicity quelled the crowd.

As the crowd continued to grow and get louder, word spread that the woman in custody was not Hispanic. Some thought she was Dominican. It turned out she was African American. When the crowd learned she was not Hispanic, many began to leave. Soon, there was a smaller crowd of African Americans and a few Hispanics.

This was mid 1950s Harlem when the Hispanic community was just beginning to grow. Most lived in the 116th Street/Park Avenue/East side area. They and African Americans who lived in the same area were still getting to know one another, learn how the other thought and moved in the community.

I don’t know what the final disposition of the woman the police arrested. I just remember the crowd eventually left, normal activity on the block resumed, and excitement outside my window was gone. I went back to reading my book and enjoying another summer afternoon.

This Sugar Ray Robinson “incident” has remain in my memory for all these years. I’ve shared the story orally, but this is the first time I’ve written about it. I was delighted to find a picture of him with his cadillac. That really deepened the memory. This is also the first time I used “AI” to create an image. That was fun and so surprising. It really ended up being so much like the actual picture my mind remembers.

—xoxo Dr. MMM

Sources

Facebook: Harry Shaffer’s Boxing Archives

The Mary Marshall Collection/Oral History

Join me for my next live video on Substack, February 15, 2026, when I discuss the #historic Springfield Baptist Church, Augusta Georgia.

See you then,

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The first and only time I saw Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in person was in front of Baldwin Hall Complex, Howard University, Fall 1966. He was standing with a group of people deep in conversation. He did not ignore students passing by who wanted to say “Hello” and shake his hand. I was one of those students. I wanted to stay and listen to the conversation, but was already a bit late for class. Later that morning, he spoke in Rankin Chapel. I missed that, too.

As the official holiday of his birth is coming up tomorrow, Monday, January 19, 2025, I did a little research to see if he’d spent time in my hometown. Surprise for me! He visited Augusta, GA, on three occasions as an adult and several times as a child.

His parents visited Augusta in the 1950s and stayed with the Bohler family. I knew Mrs. Margie Bohler and her daughter, Fredericka well. We were members of the same church—Springfield Baptist Church. Fredericka directed the children’s choir at one point while also singing with the youth choir. My siblings and I were also members of the Junior and Young people’s choirs. We often had choir practice in the Bohler home.

It seems that I just missed meeting Rev. Dr. King, Jr. and his parents. My grandmother and grandaunt were friends with the Bohlers. I have pictures of Mrs. Bohler with my grandaunt, Mrs. Marion McCain, my siblings and me. It is indeed a small world!

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Rev. Dr. King, Jr. returned to Augusta in 1962 to speak at Tabernacle Baptist Church. One of my childhood friends, Walter Wright, was present. Walter told me:

Yes, I did attend Dr. King’s address at Tabernacle when I was a young teen, sitting on the floor in a packed church listening to a preacher that I had met several years prior at Royal Ambassador Retreat in Atlanta.

Walter also belonged to Springfield Baptist Church and knew the Bowlers, too. If I were still living in Augusta at that time, I’m sure I would have been at the church. Tabernacle Baptist Church was within walking distance of my home. It was one of the three largest Black Churches in the city and a perfect location for Rev. Dr. King, Jr. to speak.

Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. fell out of favor with some of Augusta’s Black elites as he voiced more support for America getting out of Viet Nam and seeking support for the Poor Peoples Campaign including Tabernacle, Thankful, and Springfield Baptist Churches (https://www.wjbf.com/news/hometown-history-dr-kings-final-visit-to-augusta/).

His final speech in Augusta occurred at Beulah Baptist Church, Augusta, GA.

I was a student at Howard University when Rev. Dr. King, Jr. was assassinated. I only learned of his appearance in Augusta when researching whether or not he spoke in Augusta. His speech there occurred two weeks before his assassination. Here is a portion of the speech he gave at Beulah Baptist Church:

I feel emotional just thinking about the fact that Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was in my life long before I knew he existed. That he visited Augusta; that his parents were good friends with friends of my grandmother and grandaunt; that I visited the Bohler’s many times during the 1950s and didn't know he had spent time in the same home is mind blowing to me. I missed his appearance at Tabernacle because my siblings and I moved to New York City the year before.

Researching whether Rev. Dr. King, Jr. spent time in Augusta triggered emotions that have been buried since April 4, 1968. Emotions I didn’t know I had.

Writing this essay is giving me more than information. It’s allowing me to address a trauma that my spirit has been holding on to in a way I didn’t know about.

Lastly, I want to thank and for helping me discuss a trauma so deep within my spirit I didn’t know it was there until their invitation to joing them on The Daily Whatever Show tomorrow January 19th at 10 AM EST.

Sources

https://archives.libraries.emory.edu

https://www.visitaugusta.com/blog/post/explore-martin-luther-king-jrs-legacy-in-augusta-georgia/

https://www.wjbf.com/news/hometown-history-dr-kings-final-visit-to-augusta/

Clifford and Mattie Bell announced the wedding of her sister Marion Williams to Charles McCain on December 27, 1936 in the morning issue of “The Augusta Chronicle Newspaper.”

The wedding took place in the bride’s home with just family members, neighbors, and close friends of the couple present.

Clifford and Mattie Bell were my grandparents. Grandmother described the day as being “hectic, busy.” They, together with her sisters Mary Francile and Jimmie Lee; Aunts Rosa and Janie Williams, the Bell children, and neighbors gathered in the living room for the ceremony.

The photo above, minus the color, is very similar to the actual fireplace* in 1243 Augusta Avenue in which Marion and Charles stood for their wedding vows. The actual one was mahogany and had a mirror situated above the mantle, too.

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The wedding, according to my grandmother, took place in the evening. I imagine it was around six o’clock, no later than seven. A wedding reception was held in the parlor and dining rooms of the home. They used her mother’s crystal punch bowl set and the blue-bird china to serve guests. All foods were prepared by the family.

Marion and Charles had their first child, Charles, Jr. in September 1937. Four years later, they had their second child, Theodore. In 1944, the family moved to New York City where they lived until 1946 when they returned to Augusta. They lived the majority of their married life at 1243 Augusta Avenue. Both were still residents of Marion’s ancestral home at the time of their deaths, Charles in 1978 and Marion in 1985.

Today I celebrate what would have been their eighty-ninth wedding anniversary.

They were more than grand aunt and uncle to me. They served as surrogate parents, too. Uncle Charlie loved to cook and and always used HOT PEPPERS as seasoning. Thankfully, he also remembered to place a portion of whatever he cooked in a separate container so that we children could enjoy it.

I loved his tomato, beans, and rice combination. Sometimes I tried it with the peppers but not often. It was really spicy!

A dish of his delicious tomato, beans, and rice with just a few small peppers would be nice today. It would be the perfect dish to have before braving the cold weather.

Almost time for the wedding! I need to get ready!

Grateful to share these memories with you.

Happy Holidays! Happy New Year!

Addendum

The photo below is of the fireplace that was in the living room of 1243 Augusta Avenue. I imagine that Charles and Marion stood before it or adjacent to it for their wedding.

Marion, my grandaunt, always kept artificial flowers in the home so that she’d have them to take and place of the graves of her loved ones. On the mantle piece are photos of family member, including my siblings and I. Reflected in the mirror are the white curtains hanging at the picture window in the living room. A gas heater has been added to the closed fireplace.

Celebrating Christmas in 1920s Augusta, Georgia brought sadness and joy for my great grandmother, Mary E. Williams. Her oldest daughter, Armenia Rebecca Williams Grant married in 1920, gave birth in 1921, and died in 1924. Her daughter Mattie gave birth in 1925.

Armenia had a son and Mattie had a girl.

Great grandmother mourned her daughter while wrapping her arms around her grandchildren. She also enjoyed the love of family during the Christmas season as revealed in postcards she saved. In 1917 Mary’s sister Clara sent this one to daughter Mattie.

In 1922 great-grandmother received one from her sister-in-law, Eva Williams.

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Great-grandmother was also the person who saved correspondence her children received. While cherishing the postcard below sent to daughter Armenia, she probably experienced sadness, too, because Armenia died August 23, 1924.

Her daughter’s friend, James Elliott, apparently didn’t know of Armenia’s death. His card is dated Dec 22 1926!

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My research indicates Armenia died of tuberculosis almost two years after giving birth in 1921 to William Paul. I didn’t find a funeral notice, and think her burial might have occurred quickly given the cause of death.

Armenia’s death devastated her mother and siblings. The love and devotion is evident in the fact that her postcards, letters, and oral memories were passed on more than any of my great-grandmother’s other children.

I am thankful everyday, especially during this Christmas season to have evidence of what my ancestors thought during this time. These postcards confirm they were in communication with family members and friends.

Memories of stories shared with me by my mother and grandmother tell me that 1243 Augusta Avenue was a happy place during the Christmas🎄season.

Happy Holidays 🪅🎄 🎉 to you and your family!

Thank you for joining me on my journey in looking at my ancestors lives over the last few years. I’ve enjoyed sharing their lives and travels with you as I delved deeper into what life was like for them in Augusta, GA, and other cities as they migrated north. I am grateful.

While my subscribers have increased, paid subscriptions have lagged. Won’t you consider a PAID subscription—the cost is now $5.00/month; or support with a donation to my Venmo account: @Mary-Marshall-162. Have a blessed and Happy Holiday! XOX Dr. M.

June 23, 1927 through December 8, 1927, my grandfather, Clifford Bell, wrote five letters to my grandmother, Mattie Williams Bell. I shared one of his letters last week—https://drmarymarshall.substack.com/p/clifford-bells-letter-to-mattie

In each letter, Clifford shared how much he missed her and the children. He talked about looking for work or shared information about the work he found. He asked about her health, my mother, and both their mothers. His last letter to her was in the spring of 1944.

As stated in my earlier post, both Clifford and Mattie wrote many letters in 1927. Mattie’s letters to him are missing; however, there are ten letters between her and Mary E. Williams, her mother, during the same period in which she’s writing her husband. Her letters to her mother discuss the various domestic jobs she held in Harwick Port, MA, in Far Rockaway, NY, and in Sea Island, GA.

Pre Depression and Poor Economy

While Mattie worked in various cities/states, Clifford also worked away from Augusta, GA, away from my mother. Why? What was happening in Augusta, GA, in 1927 that forced them to be apart more than together.

In 1927 the demand for unskilled and semi-skilled Black labor had slackened, and unemployment began to rise even before the Great Depression hit.

When Mattie was in Georgia, Clifford was in New York or South Carolina. In an undated postcard, Mattie lets her husband know what’s happening with her and the children. She only mentions my aunt, Albertine (Armenia Albertine born Augusta 19, 1934); however, my mother and a son, Andrew W. Bell, born June 15, 1928 were also present.

The economy was such that writing a letter to her husband was more than she could afford. A postcard replaced the handwritten letter.

In her postcard, she indicates she didn't have a stamp so she’s writing a postcard; and she tells him “Albertine say some home/you can go back.”

A stamp cost 2 cent. A pre stamped postcard was 1 cent.

She also writes “If that is not regular work[,] what are you goin to do.”

The Family Grows

The growth of the family and less available work in Augusta, once again forced Mattie and Clifford to seek employment wherever they could find it. Mattie found work at The Cloister Hotel, Sea Island Beach, GA, leaving Clifford in Augusta with the children.

As in her postcard, Mattie is asking about work and informing him that Albertine, called Tina, misses him. My grandfather was very close to his youngest daughter, Armenia Albertine. They had another child, a girl, in April of 1936, but she died in September of that same year. Her death drew Clifford even closer to Tina.

Clifford and Mattie remained married until the mid 1950s. I think the divorce occurred between 1954 and 1956. I never knew why they divorced but always thought it had something to do with his wanting a home of his own. They lived in Mattie’s ancestral home together with her younger sister, Marion McCain and another sister, Mary Francile.

Clifford married again around 1957 and died in 1961. Mattie never remarried and died in 1972.

My grandparents continued to communicate and share family responsibilities. My grandmother attended his funeral when he died. Though there was a divorce, they were always together in my mind. I still think of them as one.

A rumor in the family says he never stopped loving Mattie; that, he would have remained married to her if she had agreed to move into a home which they purchased together. I think each of them wanted to protect the other, but couldn’t agree on what that protection looked like as a couple. An amicable divorce was the result.

The love that blossomed in 1927 lasted until their deaths.

Black and white citizens of Georgia migrated north in the late 1920s because of the great depression, the boll weevil infestation affecting cotton farmers, and drought. Grandfather, Clifford Arthur Bell, was among those migrating, even though he continued to return to his hometown of Augusta, GA. His letters written between 1927 and 1944 indicate he traveled north anytime employment was unavailable in Georgia. The letter below confirms where he was on this day, December 7, 1927, and why he was there.

Grandfather Clifford and grandmother Mattie wrote many letters to one another during 1927. There were times when he was in New York and she in Georgia and vice versa. There were times when he worked in Orangeburg, South Carolina, and she at The Cloister Hotel on Sea Island, Georgia. They did this because the economy was poor, and they had a growing family to support.

In his December 7, 1927 letter, Clifford tells Mattie to “kiss Mary for me.” Mary was Mary M. Bell, my mother. She was 2 years old.

In his letter, Clifford also tells Mattie ‘to rest.” No doubt his caution was due in large part to the fact that she had been traveling back and forth for work, and there was a possibility she might be pregnant. While there’s no mention of pregnancy in this letter, she was indeed pregnant with her second child. My Uncle Andrew Bell was born June 15, 1928.

Mattie and Clifford eventually had two additional children, Armenia and Armenia Albertine. Armenia died at 4 months of age. When the next child was also a girl, her parents named her Armenia Albertine, honoring the one who died and welcoming a new child whom everyone called Tina.

The name Armenia was passed on to Albertine’s granddaughter. To date, we’ve had three generations of Armenia’s. Will the name continue? The answer is unknown at the moment.

The Bell surname continues with grandchildren and great grandchildren who carry the names Clifford and Armenia. My mother, Mary Bell, became Mary M. Bell Marshall (1925-2001).

Yesteryear

November 28, 1927, the day before Thanksgiving, grandmother wrote a letter to her mother asking about her children and folks at home. Grandmother lived in Harlem, New York and worked in Brooklyn, New York. The letter is full of joy though she most likely felt tremendous sadness. After all, grandmother was still a new bride—two years—and had two children.

Grandmother, Mattie Williams (1900-1972), married Clifford Bell (1895-1961) on September 22, 1927, in New York City. This was on the eve of an economy going from the “Roaring Twenties Boom” to the Great Depression beginning in 1929.

During the roaring twenties and early years of the depression, both Mattie and Clifford lived and worked in New York. They knew one another from Haines Institute, Augusta, GA, where they’d both attended school. Each wrote regularly to their respective parents, and had family in New York which made dating easier. Work was also more readily available in New York than in their hometown of Augusta.

This November 28, 1927, letter from Mattie to her mother provides a look at some of the challenges the couple experienced.

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Mattie shows concern about family members back home, including her children (Mary and Andrew) and sister, Marion whom she references in the letter (minor corrections have been made to facilitate easier reading)

My Dear Mother,

I received your letter[,] indeed glad to hear from you and to know about my bad kids[,] [T]ell them I say to look out I will soon be there to get a hold of them. [T]ell Marion I say to dress Mary up next Friday before she go to school[.]

Mattie continues informing her mother about travel plans to return home to Augusta, and about a neighbor/friend/acquaintance she and her mother know.

Mrs Ida came to see me yesterday and stay a long time.

She also inquires about the “suit and shoes” she purchased for her nephew, “William,” and informs her mother that

I would buy him and over coat but have not got the money[.] [T]hey have nice one up hear and so cheap[.]

She continues,

[T]ell Marion I am going to bring her a pair of oxford to wear[.] I got them at last.

She ends the letter writing,

Clifford send love to all

I remain your devoted daughter,

Mattie.

~~~~~

My Life With Grandmother

Grandmother never mentions Thanksgiving in her letter. I can only imagine how sad both my grandparents were to be away from their children and other family members on this holiday.

Her letter plus conversations with her, my grandfather, grandaunt Marion, and mother during their lifetime tells me that concern for children and family was indeed high; but so, too, was sending money, clothes, and other goods that were needed by family in Augusta.

I did not know my great grandmother, also named Mary, but knew the others (except Mrs. Ida—at least I can’t confirm that I knew “this” Mrs. Ida though I did know someone at our church with that name). While I didn’t know my great grandmother, her letters to my grandmother, pictures, plus oral history give me a strong sense of who she was and how deeply she loved her daughter.

I have fond memories of Clifford, my grandfather, who also wrote many letters to Mattie and his mother. Together, I have a strong sense of my ancestors referred to in this letter and others which I plan to share in future newsletters.

This day, November 28, 2025, 98 years since the letter above was written, I remember my grandmother and feel all the love she poured into me before her death in 1972.

I am her devoted granddaughter, Dr. Mary M. Marshall, PhD.

Sources

https://archives.libraries.emory.edu

https://en.wikipedia.org

Oral History