Uncovering a New Perspective of the South on the U.S. Civil Rights Trail

Midway through my journey on the Civil Rights Trail, I found myself reassessing my assumptions. As a Black woman navigating the Deep South, my primary concern had been for my physical safety. Yet, it was my emotions that proved to be in disarray. While at the Mississippi Civil Rights Museum in Jackson, where audio recordings reenacted the verbal abuse faced by African Americans during the Jim Crow era, I was moved to tears. This wouldn't be the last time.

On some level, my emotional response was anticipated. The Civil Rights Trail is powerful, reflecting a harrowing history: Established in 2018, it encompasses over 130 sites that commemorate events and activists from the Civil Rights era across 15 states and Washington, D.C. What surprised me was the depth of my feelings—or how equally touched I was by the sense of community I discovered while traveling through Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Alabama.

Following my emotional experience at the Mississippi Civil Rights Museum, I confronted a deep sense of despair in the room at the Lorraine Motel where Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. Here, as at other sites along the trail, I stood where those who fought for equality once stood, only to witness the dream fade away. At this very spot, it had died on the balcony of what is now the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis, Tennessee.

The anger I felt at the Legacy Museum in Montgomery, Alabama, was perhaps inevitable. Its exhibits, conveyed through first-person narratives and historical displays, illustrate the connections between slavery, lynching, segregation, mass incarceration, and police brutality—the stark representation of how many achievements of civil rights activists transformed into policies that perpetuate injustice against Black individuals today.

I channeled my anger into faith, visiting the Dexter Avenue King Memorial Baptist Church, where Dr. King was pastor during the Montgomery bus boycott. The focus remains on his vision for a Beloved Community, where everyone is cared for and treated with respect. I recognized that I had already experienced that sense of community during my travels: when a visitor sang protest songs at the National Civil Rights Museum, when a museum staff member suggested a local restaurant in Indianola, Mississippi, and here in the church, where our docent encouraged open discussions among our diverse group.

Ultimately, this experience reshaped my understanding of the South and my own country, igniting a renewed passion for Black history and the necessity of teaching it to all Americans. I learned that while change is often challenging, it is the beloved community that propels us forward.