The Troublemaker

“Here, Miss, you look like you're in a hurry,” said the small, neatly dressed Negro man as he moved with a gracious gesture of his hat to let me take his place in the long line at the DMV office in Tallahassee, where I was jn school at Florida State. 

“Thank you, but you were here first. I'm not in that big a hurry,” I said. My reply was simply a product of the fairness I'd been taught since childhood. However, in that year of 1944, I knew it was customary for black people to allow white people to go first...whether entering a building, standing in line, or taking a seat on a bus. 

My response caused people ahead of us to turn their heads to look at me with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. The black man had a momentary look of bewilderment. Then, he moved back quickly and decisively, keenly aware that people in the line were watching and listening.

I might have let the situation alone, except for what followed. Soon after I acquiesced and took the man's place in line, a white man walked in dressed in customary lightweight summer suit, white shirt and tie. Again, the black man moved back. To this the white man said condescendingly, "Why, thank you, Uncle."

Just the sound of that patronizing "Uncle" to a perfect stranger riled me. When the black man answered, "You're welcome, sir," I bristled even more. Realizing the crowd's leanings, I likely would have kept quiet, except that in a few minutes a large red-faced, red-necked man in overalls came in, obviously from working in the hot sun on some nearby farm.

When the black man again moved back to let this man in, I couldn't contain my feelings. Impulsively, I turned around and said to the black man, “If you keep moving back to let other people in line, you'll never get your license."

With that, the man in overalls said in a loud voice. "Young lady, I reckon you're from up North and don't know how we do things down here. Someone snickered.

I replied, with the furious indignation of Southerners accused of being Outsiders, to tell him that my pioneer ancestors had lived in this land for generations and L, as a Southerner, had every right to speak up.

Everyone was very quiet, observing this little drama, when the man in the suit decided to try and soothe the situation, caught as he was between an obvious upstart and the man in overalls.

Said the suited man to the farmer, "Well, I'm sure this young lady didn't mean to offend you. She's likely a student out at the college.’ Then with a nervous laugh, he added, "You know how they are," as if I were not even present.

The black man quietly left the scene, while I silently fumed at the unfair situation and the galling pretensions of these men. Perhaps seeing in me a threat to his previously unquestioned right to treat people with skin color as inferiors, the farmer began a tirade about Yankee troublemakers (pretending they were Southerners), uppity niggers and college girls...none of whom knew their place."

The crowd was enjoying this and waiting to see what I'd do next. What I really wanted to do was to strike him, but common sense and years of conditioning to "act like a lady" made this unthinkable. I looked about and did not see one friendly face.

With all the confidence I could muster, I moved out of line, looked directly at the now very agitated man in overalls and rapidly fired at him a speech citing my credentials: "My father was Malcolm A. Morrison of De Funiak Springs in Walton County, His father, Malcolm M. Morrison, owned large parcels of land in Walton and some that is today Holmes County. My great-grandfather, John Morrison, moved from North Carolina to Florida in territorial days and was one of the delegates to the Florida Secession Convention of 1861. All were opposed to slavery and to injustice, as am I, But, the Bible warns, ‘Cast not your pearls before swine lest they trample and send you’, so I don't think I will waste my time further."

While his mouth literally dropped open, too surprised to answer, I walked very, very swiftly down the hall and once out the door, I ran. I needed to work off the anger still churning inside me.

At the corner bus stop sitting on a bench marked "colored" was the Negro man. He looked up warily as I approached. Feeling I had to say something about the situation, but knowing I had only caused trouble, I just said, ‘Tm sorry.”

"That's all right, Miss," he replied as he stood up in a tired effort, his shoulders drooping. "You meant well. I'll come back tomorrow." Then, with his eyes scanning the skies, he said, "Looks like it's fixin’ to rain."

"Yes, it does," I replied. "I guess I'd better be getting back to school."