Standing Together

Xavier Matthews entered the room with the dignity afforded royalty, which, in a way, he was. Though slightly stooped with age, he stood tall and proud, with defiance in his eye. He was escorted by a coterie of adult children and grandchildren. I stood to show my respect; even visiting journalists are permitted to show humanity.

We shook hands all around. Xavier clasped my hand firmly, a smile tugging on his lips. I did not shake hard, conscious of delicate bones, but Xavier had no such frailties. This man, who had once faced down the Ku Klux Klan, would bow to no one.

He sat observing me with a wry smile and gently chiding eyes.

"You don't use a recorder, Mr. Bryan?" he asked, his voice syrupy and serrated, that of a veteran public speaker used to commanding attention.

"I don't," I replied, smiling. "I find people open up more without one."

He nodded, flicking his gaze at his son, the stern-faced Thomas Matthews, also a Reverend. Thomas seemed to distrust me far more than his retired father did.

"I can understand," said Xavier. "I hope that pen of yours doesn't run out of ink."

I chuckled, holding my ballpoint over my notepad. "Not likely," I replied. "I bought a new pack for our interview."

This brought a few grudging chuckles from his family. I sympathized with their distrust. Over the decades, they had been interviewed and reported-upon with predictable regularity. Some articles were better than others. They had endured more than their share of attacks.

"I want you all to know," I said, hesitantly, "this isn’t a hit piece. I just want you to recount what happened on that day in May, 1995. Here on the Square.”

Xavier nodded calmly. He was dapper in his pinstripe charcoal suit, his bright yellow tie providing a welcome splash of cheer in a room heavy with memories and suspicion. His eyes flashed his kin a message: It's gonna be alright. I could feel their tension slowly ease.

“We want to commemorate the 25th anniversary of Standing Together," I said, restating my assignment. "We feel that people need to be reminded of what happened here -- given today's climate."

There was no need for me to elaborate. It had only been a year since George Floyd.

Xavier nodded, his eyes twinkling. "Well, Friday, May 6th, 1995, began like any other day," he said, placing his hands flat on the table in front of him. "Sunny and warm, but with a heavier police presence."

He let that sink in. I chuckled. "That is significant," I said, jotting down his words. “How did you begin the day?"

"As usual, with prayer and bacon and eggs. I always eat a big breakfast, which could be the reason I've reached this healthy old age. I don't let any stress keep me from doing right. We had known about the Klan rally for about a week before Standing Together. I didn't have a particularly nervous stomach."

I wrote furiously, saying nothing in response. My concentration encouraged Xavier to continue.

"Our rally was set for noon -- twenty-four hours before the Klan's," resumed Xavier, his gravelly baritone soothing. "Our church had taken care of everything. We had set up our podium and PA system, even our own generators. The county judge at the time, Colby Weaver, belonged to the Klan. He was no help at all."

I paused, frowning. "Judge Weaver? In the Klan?"

Xavier nodded vigorously. "Everyone knew. He was the reason the Klan had access to the courthouse. He wasn't about to say no to them. But our group? We were on our own."

His family passed around solemn nods of agreement, their eyes downcast.

"My wife, Becca, was a huge source of encouragement," said Xavier, staring at his interlocked fingers. They were long and gnarly, a few of them encrusted with gold rings. I noted his wedding band, faded but still prominent among them. "She led me in prayer that morning. In fact, she helped me write the words I was to deliver that afternoon. I still feel her passing every day. I know she watches me from the Promised Land.

"I was, in those days, the lead pastor for the Mt. Olive CME Church, whose flock my son Thomas now leads. We were a large, strong, proud congregation. There wasn't a man, woman or child in our church that wasn't outspoken about the Klan rally. We all felt obligated to answer the challenge. If I didn't have my people backing me, I doubt I would have felt as bold as I did. In truth, I was terrified."

"Your life was threatened?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," answered Xavier, to heavy sighs and whispers from his family. "Becca's, too. A couple of white kids assaulted Thomas one day after school. We were kept apprised of the situation by the police chief, Richard Taft. He was a good man, unaffiliated with the Klan. He wasn’t from around here. The Monday after my first sermon on the Klan -- which didn't mention them by name -- I received a bomb threat at home. It was a frightening time."

He paused to let me catch up. "Because of all this," he resumed, "my church provided me with a contingent, a crew ..."

"Bodyguards," broke in Thomas, laughing softly. His children chuckled as if relieved someone had used the right word. "They were bodyguards, Dad, let's not beat around the bush. You needed protection. You needed help."

Xavier grinned. "True," he said. "I argued at first. But, after Thomas came home with his nose bloodied, having been called every name in the book, I saw the wisdom. Of course, folks noticed. Before I knew it, the local newspaper accused me of 'taking advantage' of the situation. Said I was 'showboating.'"

He gave the most elegant eye roll ever.

"Of course, they would," interjected Xavier's granddaughter, Helene. "They were the Klan's mouthpiece."

"We asked the Dispatch not to give the Enemy any exposure," said Xavier, "but you know racial conflict sells newspapers."

I shifted uncomfortably. "With respect, I'll take issue with that," I said, aware of the hornet's nest I might stir up. "I never worked for the Dispatch, but as a rule, journalists don't discuss sales. If it's news, it's news."

"I call it publicity," replied Xavier. "That's what the Klan wanted. By agreeing to publicize their rally, the Dispatch gave them plenty of it -- all for free. You know, when we came up with Standing Together, it was the first time all the local churches unified for a cause. Yet, we had trouble getting the same publicity as the Klan. We were told to buy ads. Did the Klan buy ads? Most assuredly not. So the press found a way to profit."

I merely took notes, preferring not to interject. I'd assured the family I would not come off as combative. The Dispatch certainly hadn't done my profession any favors.

"At any rate," went on Xavier, "we designed Standing Together as a response to the Klan, a kind of preemptive strike, if you will. A group of ministers -- myself, three or four others -- met with Judge Weaver. We asked him to let us use the courthouse for a 'rally-before-the-rally.’ We knew the Klan would preach hate. We wanted to take the wind out of their sails."

He paused, gathering himself.

“I arrived at the courthouse early,” he went on, “me and my ‘contingent.’ Becca, too, of course. She knew I was concerned about her and the kids’ safety, but that’s just who she was. ‘Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves.’ We consulted with law enforcement. There were dozens of uniformed and plain-clothed police officers on the Square. The state police had also shipped in about a dozen officers, and I believe the FBI was there, too, though you would never have known it.”

“They expected demonstrators?” I asked.

“As I said, there'd been threats,” replied Xavier. “There was nothing definitive -- remember, these were the days before social media -- but there was legitimate cause for concern. All we could do was continue our plans.

“Well, it didn’t take long for the Square to fill up,” he went on, his voice hardening. “We expected about 50 people, but there were probably 200, at least. I guess those ads worked. ‘So faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ.’ I realized it didn’t matter whether people came from churches. It could be a crowd of agnostics out there. What mattered was that we were reaching the community. That our message got past the White Supremacists to those who needed it.”

I scribbled furiously. His words were measured but relentless, a torrent that I had only one chance to catch. I took out my smartphone and activated the voice recorder. No one seemed to notice.

Xavier drew a quivering breath. “We had music, we had prayer. The Rev. Raphael Richardson led with a benediction, then the high school marching band played. Our church choir sang beautifully. As I looked out over the crowd, I saw all kinds of faces, black and white, male and female, young and old. For a small town, we really turned out! I was heartened to see the children, their faces upturned. I felt an enormous responsibility. Here we were, confronted by the Enemy, whose forces were also mingled in that crowd. What could I say that could live up to the moment?

“When it was my turn to step up, I was afraid. I had my speech in hand, but I felt unprepared to speak.” His voice trembled, the fear visible in his bright, shining eyes. A window had opened directly into the past. “I let the Spirit take over. ‘I can do all things through him who strengthens me.’ My gaze landed upon a little girl, riding her daddy’s shoulders. She couldn’t have been older than five. I spoke directly to her. The child gave me courage.

“Our task, Mr. Bryan, was to make clear we were up against the Enemy. The One who enslaves us, divides us, cheats us, destroys our self-worth. I never read a note. I poured out my heart instead to that one little girl. I could not have asked for a better audience.”

He reached for his water glass. I knew that a word spoken to him now would break the spell. I waited, hardly daring to breathe.

“The shot came out of nowhere,” Xavier said, his voice as brittle as glass. “I heard the crack of the rifle, but was unaware of its origin. Later, I learned it came from the northwest corner of the Square -- the Flask Building, which housed a pharmacy. I knew only that something like a small rock had struck near my right hand. At least, it sounded like a rock. I saw debris flying, papers fluttering. My initial, fleeting impression was that a wind had come up. You’d be surprised how the mind responds to a bullet.”

His eyes locked on the memory, tears welling. Thomas reached over to squeeze his arm.

“What happened?” I asked, unable to help myself.

Xavier smiled, the spell momentarily broken. “Pandemonium,” he replied. “Someone jerked me down off that stage. I fell and hit my shoulder on a concrete step. The police covered me up, just piled on. For about 10 seconds, I couldn’t see daylight. I heard Becca screaming my name. The whole area evacuated in under a minute, I think. I never heard another gunshot, and I was unharmed. Whoever had taken aim had missed his chance, thank God.

“They rushed me to the hospital but all I had was a broken shoulder. It bothers me to this day.” Xavier grinned shyly, rolling his shoulder. “They said the bullet was of a high caliber, the kind they use to shoot deer. But all their analysis couldn’t produce the one who took that shot. The Enemy got away clean. It is speculated the sniper was a policeman -- probably a Klansman. How else do you explain their escape? I went on about my life, my business. ‘For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.’ All threats against me ceased.”

“What about Standing Together?” I asked. “What about its impact on the Klan?”

Xavier shrugged. “Oh, they brought their Rottweilers and hoods and bagpipes. They set out their sale tables, hung their Confederate flags, sang their White Power songs, but to a smaller crowd. In fact, they preached mostly to the choir -- and to about a hundred policemen. I understand there were some noise complaints, but no one got hurt or arrested. You could say they shot themselves in the foot, taking aim at me. In a way, we stole their thunder. The Klan folded their tents after about an hour and left quietly. I doubt they converted a single soul.”

I wrote until I got caught up, then put a period. I noticed a tear rolling off Xavier’s cheek. He was back in the present, for whatever it was worth.

“No,” I said softly, “but I think maybe you did.”

He shrugged. “Who knows? I still think about that little girl, what she saw and felt that day. I think about future generations, Mr. Bryan. My grandchildren, and their children’s children. They give me hope.”

I gazed out the window at the courthouse square, its historic buildings and green, tree-lined grounds. A shaft of sun broke free of the overcast. From above, it all must look so innocent.