“Let the chisel shaping us as the Class of ‘72 continue to make our world a better place.” Keynote speaker, Brenda Ayler-White
We Came Home
Some boarded airplanes from California, Illinois, New Jersey, and Florida. Others drove from Charleston, Birmingham, and Atlanta. They came because the past beckoned the Selma High School Class of 1972.
Why? Because after 50 years, this class symbolized what integration and the Civil Rights movement fostered but did not define. Many of the graduates spread across the country like the Alabama River tributaries. But their return brought fresh water to Selma sandbars.
We Planned
The steering committee met eighteen months prior to plan the weekend event. The 50th Reunion seemed more urgent that the 40th. Yes, the Class of ’72 reunited ten years before, but this assembly could be the last. We lost a significant number since 2012, so the hunt for names and addresses was vigorous. For my contribution, I documented the moments with photographs.
We Saw A Different Town
The people were not the same. The school was not the same. But roots run deep. The weekend we came home, our lives altered. History would forge something unexpected and new. But what?
In our absence, Arts Revive in downtown Selma developed from a service station to a cultural center. On the banks of the Alabama River, the facility boasted a view of the Edmund Pettus Bridge, The St. James Hotel, and the Civil Rights Museum. Trepidation coursed among the committee members. Friday night Meet and Greet approached, but would attendees leave the venue because one air conditioner was nonfunctioning? Two team members greeted classmates with name tags, programs, gift bags, and T-shirts. I snapped pictures to recognize participants on our social media pages. No one complained or walked out because of the heat that June evening.
The steering committee led the way for others to mingle. Listening to soft jazz, sampling a plethora of goodies, and chatting seemed normal but different from 1972.
Why did some remain at home? Weddings, birthdays, poor health, distance. Others haunted by painful memories, stayed away from Selma because of high school unkindness or chaotic lives they left behind. I think we all understood.
We Wore White
We wore white for the mixer, fostering celebratory cohesiveness. Although social media helped me recognize folks I hadn’t seen in decades, I’m sure some low amplitude shock waves rolled throughout Arts Revive because everyone looked so different. But the night ended with humor and smiles. Goodbyes floated on the balmy night air. The next day we looked forward to our high school tour, pictures on the steps, and a casual riverside lunch.
What Happened To Us
Saturday, I woke early, slipped through French doors to our balcony in the St. James and relished the sun’s warmth before sultriness blanketed the city. A cup of coffee started the day off right. Viewing the panorama of the Alabama River, sprawling trees reaching down the banks for water, and finally the Edmund Pettus Bridge, I wandered back in time. The flooded banks of the Alabama River in 1961, Christmas tree lights on Broad Street and twinkling from the bridge, the ride from Selma to Craig Air Force Base—all blissful to me. Then, gray shadows pushed nostalgia to the edges. When the Civil Rights march came over “the bridge,” I heard about conflict but didn’t to see it. “Come straight home and lock the door,” said my parents.
Childhood melted into teen years. School integration remained on the fringe for most Selma students until the black R.B. Hudson High School was suddenly closed. A. G Parrish High School became the school for both races but with a name change to Selma High School. Because of forced compliance, confusion erupted for black and white. Through communication councils and election for black and white class officers, an uneasy peace existed. At our 40th reunion, the grief over the school closures seeped in. The program featured R.B. Hudson High as a part of our history. Little conversation ensued over the closings, but no one forgot. How could we?
We Toured Selma High School
My coffee cup empty, I laid it on the tray. My husband and I made our way to Selma High School for the tour. In the past decade, a multimillion-dollar project converted the halls we knew to an unrecognizable oasis.
“There’s the band room. It’s in the same place, but I recognize nothing else,” said a committee member. The landmarks were hazy, but the library where the communication council met materialized for me. How far we’ve come, I thought.
What a busy place! Groups from prior decades toured besides our class. Tennis shoes and balls pounded the gym floors. Cheers ricocheted down the halls. Saturday basketball games stimulated talk about championships, trips to the principal’s office, and lunchroom food. For fun, classmates piled into a classroom and settled into chairs for pictures from every angle.
Laughter was good, continuing through lunch at The Sandbar. The Class of ’72 filled every seat. No one seemed to mind my videos and pictures when I explained the purpose. They were too busy enjoying shrimp and catfish baskets, salads, and chicken tenders. Our lookalike T-shirts, designed by a classmate, made our pictures unique. Just like the 1972 football players shaved their heads as a statement of solidarity, we proudly wore our shirts, and that’s what mattered.
We Listened To Stories
The last event held at Arts Revive included a hometown band, catered meal, and more conversation. Everyone visited at will, shared stories, made plans to connect. Our keynote speaker, Brenda Ayler-White, a member of the steering committee, told her compelling story of giving birth at thirteen.
Statistically, she shouldn’t have finished high school, but the first white man in her life, our principal, told her he expected great things from her. The relationship they forged helped her stay the course for graduation, followed by college, and a successful career in New York. She hoped others made peace with themselves through the years, used their influence for change, and not despise the past.
“We can disagree but treat others with respect. Our class is a testimony of bringing differing opinions together. We lived it. Let the chisel shaping us as the Class of ‘72 continue to make our world a better place.”
The room erupted in thunderous applause and a standing ovation. This was the truth I longed to hear. Our speaker spoke for all. Peace only occurs when there is a listening ear and understanding heart. That evening, we turned out the lights in Arts Revive but not in our souls.
Our class was and is historic. We lived in a city that was, and a city which is. May we continue to be instruments of peace and not despise small things.