The 'orderly sea of humanity' that marched on Washington

On Aug. 28, 1963, an estimated quarter-million people of all races streamed into the U.S. capital, arriving by bus, train, plane, bicycle and even roller skates, on one of the district's typically hot, muggy summer days. A group from Brooklyn had walked the 237 miles after leaving New York on Aug. 15. Another cluster wheeled a casket down the National Mall, prepared to leave with the remains of Jim Crow. Some were dressed in overalls, representing sharecroppers of the Deep South, while tens of thousands wore business attire, many with neckties, despite the humid heat. Still others were in clerical garb — white clergy almost exceeded trade-union representation, which was huge. Many of the marchers wore hats to ward off the sun, although the temperature mercifully never rose above the mid-80s. When they massed along the rectangular reflecting pool between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument, some of the younger and less inhibited turned trees into shady perches, while others dunked their feet in the cool water.

This orderly sea of humanity constituted the largest demonstration to date in U.S. history — the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom. They carried placards demanding jobs and civil rights legislation, voting rights and an end to racial discrimination in housing, public accommodations and schools. Some focused on other issues, like the absence of blacks from television programming, noting that even dogs had TV shows. The overarching message was unmistakable: This movement was nationwide, multiracial, inclusive of all income levels — and it would not be stopped.

An undercurrent of frustration had swelled since the 1961 Inauguration of President John F. Kennedy gave unprecedented hope to the nation's blacks. Two years later, much of this hope, like the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People slogan "Free by '63," had dissipated as the centennial of the Emancipation Proclamation came and went in January without the administration's having sent any civil rights legislation to Congress. Finally, in June, the president proposed a civil rights package — not a perfect bill but one that could be improved and ultimately enacted if it had national support. Winning such support was the purpose of this march.

Federal and local government anticipation of the event bordered on hysteria. All government offices were closed. Some 6,000 armed and uniformed members of the National Guard, Army Reserve and D.C. police lined the streets. Trucks and helicopters at nearby military installations at Fort Belvoir, Fort Meade, Fort Myer and Quantico stood ready to move troops wherever needed at a minute's notice. The Washington Senators, the city's major league baseball team at the time, canceled a scheduled game to free up traffic-control officers. On Capitol Hill, police standing five feet apart formed a cordon around congressional buildings. The Washington Daily News described local feeling as something akin to when the Vandals were about to sack Rome. City Commissioner Walter Tobriner, echoed by local newspapers, advised the city's workers to stay home unless they planned to march; workers who chose not to follow this advice were stunned by what they saw that morning. Truck convoys of Army troops and Marines raced through downtown to designated positions, while D.C. police and National Guardsmen stood at every corner.

Taxicab drivers cruising the city hoping to pick up fares reported a deserted downtown. Some commercial enterprises would later complain that the march cost them hundreds of thousands of dollars in lost revenue for the day. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who had neither planned nor organized the march but to whom history awarded ownership, commented that it was a small price to pay for the rights at stake.

More than 1,500 accredited news representatives covered the event, which was relayed around the world by Voice of America and other international broadcasters. My boss, black megapublisher John H. Johnson, headed the joint editorial team for Jet and Ebony magazines — the largest we had ever had. Some 33 reporters and photographers from Chicago headquarters, Los Angeles and New York bureaus and various world capitals descended on our D.C. bureau, a block from the White House, where my job as bureau chief was to deploy them strategically and efficiently, assuring coverage from every angle, while maintaining a central communications base, using police radio scanners and a bank of telephones.

In response to the government's alarm, march leaders intensified their planning and redoubled their efforts to ensure a peaceful demonstration, even censoring their remarks to prevent any misunderstanding about their commitment to nonviolence. Between impassioned speakers, gospel singers Mahalia Jackson and Marian Anderson soothed rankled souls with moving freedom songs and spirituals. Celebrities were spotted everywhere. Major league baseball pioneer Jackie Robinson, ignoring the government's dire warnings to keep children away, marched with his 11-year-old son. It was the power and grace of the black freedom movement at its best as well as its most integrated — a portent of the future.

Dr. King took the microphone at his appointed time to do what he did best — to speak, inspire, give encouragement. He was neither the planner nor the planned main act of the program. But looking out over this incredible multitude, he seemed to draw in all their hopes and dreams, masterfully molding them into a modern-day Sermon on the Mount, to the elation of all who believed in the promise of America. The tearful cheers and applause that followed were so loud and enduring that Little Rock's famed civil rights leader Daisy Bates, assigned to speak after Dr. King, later laughed that no one in the crowd heard a word she'd said, so overwhelming was the reaction to King's resonating words "I have a dream."

When Congress returned to Capitol Hill after Labor Day, the big question was whether Kennedy could win a vote on his civil rights bill. As to whether the March on Washington had had any effect, the initial consensus was that it had not but that the growing unrest across the country and white fears of a black upheaval were making many Americans uneasy. Even after the march, there was an air of pessimism as momentum built for one of the most extensive drives to enact legislation in the nation's history.

The administration's bill, while far-reaching, did not satisfy many segments of the black community, including moderates who supported the president, and there was strong opposition within both political parties. Against this backdrop, the civil rights leadership mobilized a massive campaign of letter writers and foot soldiers to sit in the galleries of Congress and to visit the offices and fill the mailboxes of legislators.

On Sept. 15, two weeks after the march, a bomb exploded under a black church in Birmingham, Ala., and four young girls attending Sunday school were killed. The heinous crime shocked the conscience of an already wary nation. Then on Nov. 22, President Kennedy was assassinated. Within days of taking office, President Lyndon Johnson pledged to pursue passage of civil rights legislation — without compromise or delay.

Fifty years later, the 1963 March for Jobs and Freedom has taken its rightful place on a continuum that began with the Supreme Court's declaration in 1954 that segregated schools were unconstitutional; advanced at an agonizing pace through more than a decade of voting-rights drives, boycotts, sit-ins, freedom rides and marches; and culminated in the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965. On the shoulders of ordinary folks and towering heroes, inspired by the precious blood of too many martyrs, both black and white, we had finally overcome.