Stories: Legacies of Who We Are - Awele Makeba

Storyteller and educator Awele Makeba combines performing arts and history to tell a powerful story from the American civil rights movement.

I am Awele.

Daughter of Alice, granddaughter of Ruth,

great-granddaughter
of Big Momma Alice and Madir Corine,

great-great-granddaughter
of Anna and Zitii Benyen.

It is my hope

to find my best possible self
in the service of others.

Now, my daddy, he used to tell me stories.

My daddy, he would say,

"I want you to know who you are
and where you come from.

That will guide you as you discover

who you must be.

Now, you listen to this story,
you hear me, baby girl?

It's not going to be in a book.

Your teacher is not going to tell it,

but you need to understand who you are."

That became a guiding principle

in the stories that I wanted to tell.

Stories about legacy of who we are.

I used to hear all the time
that children are the future,

but what does that cliché really mean

and how are we preparing them?

So I looked for narratives
about young people

and the legacy that they bring
as agents of change.

The power that you have right now.

Today, March 2, 1955 --

the story that I want to share with you

comes from 1955, March 2.

It's about a courageous 16-year-old girl,

Claudette Colvin.

And it comes full circle today

because a week ago today,
in San Francisco,

my middle school students,

they performed a program
that I had written,

"Agents of Change,"

starting with the reenactment
of Plessy v. Ferguson

from 1892 to 1896,

moving to Brown v. Board
and a student-led strike

by Barbara Rose Johns,

jumping to Claudette Colvin
and the Montgomery Bus Boycott

and ending in 1960
with the Sit-In Movement,

the non-violent movement led by students.

So I'm going to share the story,

and I would like to also share
the work I do with it,

as a case study.

I paid my dime at the front of the bus,

and then I ran to the back door

with the rest of the colored kids

so the driver wouldn't take off
before we got on.

Also, well, whites don't want us
walking down the aisle next to them.

When I got back on the bus,

colored section was full,

so, I sat in the middle section.

I took the last row seat on the left,

it was right by the window,

wasn't thinking
about anything in particular.

"Hey."

I didn't know the girl
next to me either, this older girl.

So I just looked out the window.

Driver went more stops,

more people were getting on,
colored and white.

Pretty soon, no more seats were available.

"Give me those seats,"
the driver called out.

Colored folks just started getting up.

White folks started taking their seats,

but I stayed seated.

Girl next to me
and the other two across --

they stayed seated.

I knew it wasn't the restricted area.

"Make light on your feet!"

Girl next to me got up immediately.

She stood in the aisle,
then the other two girls.

But I told myself,
this isn't the restricted area.

The driver, he looked up,

looked in the window,

that mirror.

He pulled over.

A pregnant lady, Mrs. Hamilton,
got on the bus.

She ran to the back and got on,

not knowing he was trying
to have me relinquish my seat.

And she sat right next to me.

"The two of you need to get up
so I can drive on."

"Sir, I paid my dime, I paid my fare.

It's my right, you know,
my constitutional --"

"Constitutional?
Ha-ha, let me get the police."

Well he got off and he flagged down
two motormen, and they came.

And those motormen,
they came onto the bus.

Looked at Mrs. Hamilton.

"Now the two of you need to get up
so the driver can drive on."

"Sir, I paid my dime. I'm pregnant.

If I were to move right now,
I'd be very sick, sir."

"Sir, I paid my dime too,
you know, and it's my right,

my constitutional right.

I'm a citizen of the United States.

You just read the 13th
and 14th Amendment, it'll tell you so.

I know the law. My teacher,
she taught it at school."

You see, my teacher,
she taught the Constitution,

the Bill of Rights,
the Declaration of Independence,

Patrick Henry's speech --
I even memorized it.

My teacher, she would prick our minds,

trying to see what we thinking about.

She would say, "Who are you? Hmm?

Who are you, sitting right here right now?

The person that people think they see
from your outside?

Who are you on the inside? How you think?

How you feel? What you believe?

Would you be willing to stand up
for what you believe in

even if someone wants to hold you back
because you're different?

Do you love your beautiful
brown skin, children? Hmm?

Are you American?

What does it mean to be an American? Huh?

Homework tonight, write me an essay:
"What does it mean to be an American?"

You need to know who you are, children!"

My teacher, she would teach us
history and current events.

She said that's how we can understand
everything that's going on

and we can do something about it.

"Sir, all I know is I hate Jim Crow.

I also know if I ain't got nothing
worth living for,

I ain't got nothing worth dying for.
So give me liberty or give me death!

Ouch! I don't care! Take me to jail."

They dragged her off the bus.

Next thing, Claudette Colvin
was in a car seat,

backseat of the police car,

handcuffed through the windows.

The following year,

May 11, 1956,

Claudette Colvin was the star witness

in the federal court case
Browder v. Gayle.

Her, an 18-year-old teenager

and two others, women, Mrs. Browder.

Their case, Browder v. Gayle,
went up to the supreme court.

On the heels of Brown
v. Board of Education,

the 14th Amendment
and her powerful testimony that day,

the rest is history.

Now, why is it we don't know this story?

The Montgomery Bus Boycott --

we hear Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King,

they will forever be lifted up.

But the role women
played in that movement,

the role of Claudette, as an up-stander,

it teaches us important lessons
that challenge us today.

What does it mean to be a participant?

A responsible citizen in a democracy?

And lessons of courage and of faith?

So I find freedom movement history
that includes young people

so that they can explore these big ideas

of identity, your chosen identity,

and the imposed identity.

What does membership in society mean?

Who has it? How do we make amends?

Race and violence in America,

as well as participatory citizenship.

So these stories allow me
to have conversations,

to speak the unspeakable,

that many are afraid to have.

Once in Eugene, Oregon,

a young, blond-haired,
blue-eyed boy, middle schooler,

at the end of a performance
in the dialogue said,

"But Ms. Awele, racism's over, right?"

And not wanting to answer for him, I said,

"Turn to the person sitting next to you.
See if you can come up with evidence."

And I gave them four minutes to talk.

Soon, they began to tell stories,

evidence of racism in their community.

A girl wrote to me,
a high school student in San Francisco:

"I was going to skip school

but then I heard
we had an assembly, so I came.

And after listening to the students talk

and seeing your performance,

I thought I should organize my friends

and we should go down to a board meeting

and tell them that want
to have advanced classes

for A through G requirements."

So, I tell you this story today

in honor of the legacy of young people
that have come before,

so that they will have
guideposts and signs

to be the change
that they want to see in this world,

as Claudette Colvin was.

Because she struck down
the constitutionality

of segregated seats

in Montgomery, Alabama.

Thank you.

(Applause)

Thank you.

(Applause)