The John Birch Society...the John Birch Society...you don’t hear too much about them these days...I wonder why not..?

I’ve always understood them to be an organization just a tad short of being the Klan. It is a sad commentary, however, that in this day and time, that they are not the most radical nor dangerous of groups out there....

They preach....constitutionality...and the fact that it espouses white supremacy, and black inferiority.  They, with their version of their Southern Baptist God....good ole boys, ya know....deserving good ole boys, because, after all, their daddies were good ole boys, so its their right to be good ole boys..and yours not to be.

So, this is what they are saying now...?

 I can remember my first recollection of the John Birch Society...

It was in the late 50’s, and I was about 8 years old.  It was the summer time, so, naturally I was staying with my grandparents for the summer in northern Georgia.  It was a hot day.  One of those July days in north Georgia that felt heavy with heat.  It was mid-day on a Saturday, so my granddaddy, Marshall Allgood, worked only a half day at the Coca-Cola Company...he helped start that franchise with the Wardlaw family from scratch.

He was well respected by everyone, including all the southern whites in the area.  Most folks called him Mr. Marshal out of respect.  He was frugal, humble and unassuming, yet the first black in the town to own a car, and the only one to be able to leave each of his nine children their own homes.

On that hot Saturday in July in north Georgia, he and I stumbled upon a rally for Senator Herman Tallmadge on the town square.  We were just coming out of the hardware store, and there were lots of folks standing around in the hot sun listening that day...mostly white men, most with coveralls on, but some with suits and ties on.  There were a few women scattered around, with their bonnets...some with aprons on, squinting in the glare of that hot georgia sun and maybe holding a young-un or two by their hands, keeping them in tow.

The stage was a flatbead truck borrowed from a local farmer decorated with the American flag.  Country and western musicians were twanging away on it...and a little ole granny clogged away.

There appeared a gentlemen who started speaking, and he kept saying how glad he was that he was a member of John Birch Society. ("what was The John Birch Society?", I wondered.)  He was there to not only introduce the Honorable Senator Tallmadge, an avout racist himself, but he was also there trying to sign up members for...The John Birch Society....

He was really workin’ up a sweat as he seemed to stalk the stage like a bobcat.  As he walked back and forth shouting into the microphone, rallying folks...he would wipe his sweat with his rag, ball the rag up in his fist and pound the air with his fist on every important point.

I can’t remember exactly what he was saying, but it was not flattering about colored folks.  I remember feeling so very, very bad about myself as he was describing how bad colored folks were...and what ought to be done about it.

We were standing to the far right of the flatbed truck /stage, almost in back, coming out of the hardware store.  I looked up at my granddaddy...he was staring straight at Mr. John Bircher. He watched him pace that stage and sweat that sweat and curse that negro.

”Granddaddy, are we that bad?”...”Grandaddy, what are we going to do?” “Are we going to do anything, Grandaddy?”...”What can we do, Grandaddy?”....Grandaddy....!

He didn’t look down at me, but kept staring at Mr. John Bircher...then he said, “we’re going home”.

“Going home?", I thought.

About that time, my granddaddy put his hands in his coverall’s pockets like he always did, stepped off the curb, and waded straight into the crowd, heading for his truck parked on the other side of the crowd. And he walked slow...real slow...and when the folks in the crowd looked up and saw Mr. Marshall coming their way, they realized who he was and they slowly parted...and let him pass.  Talk about a parting of the sea, this was a parting of a sea of rednecks!  And the John Bircher on the stage began to notice what was going on. As he stared at us, an elderly colored man and his piccaninny grandson, walking thru his crowd, silently.  As he saw the reaction of the crowd, he started speaking slower and slower, and quieter and quieter, until he was silent. His silence underscored the silence of the crowd, and of that moment.

Without a word, without a word, I saw a strong black man, who was as strong in his convictions as he was humble in his heart, strut his hard-earned respect right into the midst of a group of southern bigots.  In that one act, he completely dispelled all of the hate and all of the venom that Mr. John Bircher was spewing.

And my granddaddy just kept walking thru the crowd, hands in his pockets, looking straight ahead with a look of determination and pitty on his face, until we reached his old Chevrolet pickup truck with all the slop buckets on the back.

And I noticed that as we passed, some people in the crowd looked at him, while others turned away...many seemingly ashamed of being there....others more glad than ever that they were!  But they all did look, and they all did see, and they all did have a great opportunity to learn....and so did I.

And then we went home.