When four black college students sat down at the lunch counter of F.W. Woolworth’s department store in downtown Greensboro, NC, on February 1, 1960, onlookers must have expected trouble. The store’s official policy was to deny service to any black person there. Police were called, but they did not arrest anyone because the students were simply sitting there, waiting to be served. They sat until the store closed, then returned the following day with more students.
By February 5, about three hundred black students crowded around the counter. Still they were not served and the police (with reinforcements) waited to see what would happen. The protest spread to 55 cities by the following month. Many students were arrested for disorderly conduct and other misdemeanors, but the sit-ins continued. These nonviolent protests became a critical strategy of the civil rights movement.
The Woolworth’s building is still there, but it is now the International Civil Rights Center and Museum. A replica of the lunch counter is there. (A portion of the original is housed at the Smithsonian Museum of American History in Washington, D.C.) It draws tens of thousands of visitors to Greensboro each year.
When I visited Greensboro last week, I was impressed by the historical plaques and buildings. It’s clear that the town holds a central place in America’s story. But I was more impressed by the people of Greensboro. Though the vestiges of racism are still there, I saw plenty of people from different ethnic backgrounds now living side-by-side in peace.
A hotel clerk recommended that I try a certain seafood restaurant on Saturday night. The place was packed. The patrons did not segregate themselves in cells of people like themselves. Instead, they joked and laughed with diners of various ethnicities. As I left the restaurant, a white family approached a carload of black people who immediately recognized them. The passengers climbed out, greeted the white family, and began hugging them. I wondered what Martin Luther King, Jr., would have thought if he had been with me.
The next morning, I entered the hotel’s restaurant for breakfast. The place was packed. Unable to find an empty seat, I turned to leave but a young black mother pursued me with her two children in tow. “We’re just leaving,” she said. “You’re welcome to have our table.” I wondered whether the Greensboro Four could have spoken more powerfully.
Walking back to my room, I encountered a couple of sixtyish black men who broke into broad smiles when they saw my T-shirt, which boldly identified me as “The World’s Greatest Grandpa.” One man said, “We’re grandpas, too, so where are our T-shirts? We belong together.”
Change comes slowly, but it does come. I’m happy to report that change is happening even in Greensboro.
Southern Mountains 