Tell Your FriendsReverend Graham Williams
An 81-year-old park guide reflects on his days fighting segregation alongside Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
Shortly after the Rev. Graham Williams arrived in Macon, Georgia, in 1961, the young pastor received a message by mail. “If you are interested in integration, meet me in Atlanta,” read the letter, sent to clergy throughout the state. Williams, who had spent most of his life in the less-segregated North, showed up and started an alliance with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the man who had called the meeting, that continued until the civil rights leader’s assassination seven years later.
Since 1999, Williams, now 81, has worked as a park guide at the 28-acre Martin Luther King Jr. National Historic Site in the Sweet Auburn community of Atlanta. As he leads visitors through King’s Ebenezer Baptist Church and the house where King was born, Williams brings a lifetime of experience.
The son of two ministers, Williams competed as a prizefighter and served as a combat engineer in the South Pacific during World War II before taking up his life’s work in the church. His story, like King’s own, opens a window on an era in this country’s history that continues today.
“When I got to Macon, the city was pretty segregated. We didn’t have a black face working in the bank. We didn’t have one on the city council. We didn’t have anyone in government. Black folks couldn’t drink water where white folks drank water. Our first job with Dr. King was to take down signs from drinking fountains, from toilets, from bus stations. I was anxious to do it because I wasn’t used to not being able to go where I wanted.
“Where we came from, people called me Reverend and they called my wife Mrs. Williams. But white men in the South wanted to know my wife’s first name. I wouldn’t give it, because if they knew it, they wouldn’t call her Mrs. Williams, they’d call her Bessie.
“I thought Dr. King was too young. During those years, young ministers were supposed to sit down and listen to the older ministers. Dr. King was forward with his ideas and concepts. The astounding thing was, the more he talked, the older he seemed to get. He no longer seemed young; he seemed like a leader.
“When we first tried to integrate a restaurant in Macon, we were put in jail twice in one morning. So we’d leave home each morning with a toothbrush, a facecloth and a dime to call home, because we knew we’d be going to jail.
“We were terrorized often, and my children were afraid I would get hurt. Church officers walked every night with loaded guns in front of my church to keep the Ku Klux Klan from burning it down. I never drove my car without a full tank of gas. Many nights I’d sleep in the back room, away from my bedroom, because the telephone would ring through the night. They’d call and say, ‘Wake up, nigger, you’re next.’
“The very first black person hired at the bank was the president of my church’s youth group. The first black person on the county commission was the chairman of my deacon board. The first black judge of the civil and magistrate court of Bibb County was my music minister, Billy Randall, and he’s still on the bench.
“I was leading a revival near Macon when I heard about Dr. King’s death. The moment it happened I came home. Everyone seemed numb; no one could believe it. We called a meeting of the entire city because people wanted to riot. We told everyone to keep calm. Dr. King had told us many times he would be killed. But we didn’t expect it then.
“There was only one Dr. King. He was born for a purpose and he died for it. Since then, no one has been able to push the movement forward with his kind of vision and leadership. But the job he started isn’t finished. Dr. King lived and died for the cause of opening the doors of opportunity. It’s up to every individual to keep those doors open.”
Photo: Cedric Angeles
