That’s the title of the photo that made me start writing today. Walking slowly through the exhibition space at the Smithsonian’s Ripley Center, inspecting the abundance of photos from Road to Freedom: Photographs of the Civil Rights Movement, 1956-1968, this picture grabbed me. Stopped me still in my stride. A black-and-white photo, like most in the exhibit–it showed in its foreground, a Black man lying face down on a night-time sidewalk. A thick trail of blood flows from his head like an accusing river. Three white policemen in the background. One, his back turned to the dead man, loosely holds a gun, pointing down, in his right hand. The caption reads something about calming the riots.
It is this picture that makes me pull my backpack off my shoulders and drop it quickly to the floor. I search hurriedly for my notepad and pen. I begin writing this.

Another photo, Taylor Washington Arrested at Leb's Delicatessen, Atlanta, Georgia/Danny Lyon, American, born 1942, Gelatin silver print, 1964, copyright Danny Lyon
There are several other notable pictures. One by Gordon Parks of Stokely Carmichael standing in front of a chalkboard at some meeting. A picture of energy, focus, idealism; the proverbial “young lion.” Another of protesters marching in Alabama or Mississippi. What’s powerful about this one is that it’s raining. I notice in the photo, entitled “Dr. and Mrs. Martin Luther King Singing in the Rain,” that this is one of the few pictures that I’ve personally seen in which Dr. King isn’t wearing a suit. He looks like he’s wearing dungarees and a work shirt. He looks like a laborer. No pretense here. And the look of determination is unmistakable. That expression says, matter-of-factly, “I will not be moved.” There are several others of protesters facing down water hoses and nightsticks in Birmingham’s Kelly Ingram Park.
The last time I protested anything? I think maybe it was when my Comcast internet service went out for a few hours. I gave the customer service rep a mild tongue lashing.
Note: I probably would have missed all this as a first time visitor to the National Museum of African Art had it not been for the special guidance of a volunteer staffer named Paulette. A sharply-dressed, knowledgeable woman with intense eyes and a quick smile, she complimented me on my tastes in headgear (a toboggan) and took me down personally to make sure this exhibit, which goes to March 9th, was the first stop on my visit.


