This is America: I found my civil rights roots on the reporting trail

USA TODAY: On the trail of Jimmie Lee Jackson, I found my civil rights roots

Thursday, May 20

The gravesite of Jimmie Lee Jackson sits just off HWY 14 in Marion, AL.

On the trail of Jimmie Lee Jackson, I found my civil rights roots

USA TODAY's Javonte Anderson reflects on the reporting experience for his historical investigation of Jimmie Lee Jackson, the 'first martyr of the voting rights movement.'

OPINION

I packed my bags, strapped on my fanny pack and dashed out of my Chicago apartment, rushing to catch my Uber. It was 3 a.m. on an April morning, and I was headed to O'Hare International, the nation's busiest airport.

As I sat on a plane on the way to Montgomery, Alabama, I was thrilled to be working on my first big historical investigation for USA TODAY.

As my Twitter bio says, I am Javonte Anderson. I'm just a boy from Gary, Indiana — a rough but nurturing place; a place where grit, intelligence, discipline, manners and street smarts are required to make it out.

It wasn't until college until I truly unlocked my intellectual curiosity by taking an African-American history class. I spent 18 years of my life in grade school not learning much about my people's history, so this exposed me to a world I didn't know existed. I inhaled books, scholarly articles, anything I could get my hands on. Ironically, it was my passion for African-American history coupled with my journalism career that landed me here at USA TODAY covering racism and history.

So, let's get to Alabama.

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I don't know why, but a few months ago, while reading an article about George Floyd, a random name from history popped into my head — Jimmie Lee Jackson. Jackson was a 26-year-old Black man whose 1965 death at the hands of an Alabama state trooper helped spark a national movement and led to the passage of the Voting Rights Act.

The parallels between Floyd and Jackson were tragic and striking. Both were ordinary Black men who were killed by police. Both of their deaths prompted seismic movements that led to major political change. But there was one major difference.

George Floyd's name and image were everywhere. Rightfully so. People knew about the injustice Floyd suffered, but no one remembered Jackson.

Jimmie Lee deserved to have his story told.

I felt a real sense of purpose as I made my way to Jimmie Lee's hometown of Marion, Alabama. Getting there meant driving from the airport in Montgomery through one of the most hallowed places in civil rights history -- Selma.

On the road heading into Selma, cramped inside my compact rental car, the trip became about more than just work.

From miles away, the iconic Edmund Pettus Bridge, one of the most notorious sites of the civil rights struggle, beckoned. Clad in radiant white paint, it curved across the Alabama River, with the name of a former Ku Klux Klansman emblazoned across its center.

The road leading to the bridge is bounded by not-so-subtle reminders that you're entering sacred territory. There's a Bridge Crossing souvenir shop, a Freedom Riders Adventure Park and a towering, yellow McDonald's billboard that reads: "Welcome to Historic Selma."

Just before reaching the bridge, there's a Civil Rights Memorial Park to the right and a National Votings Rights Museum to the left.

Edmund Pettus Bridge

JESSICA KOSCIELNIAK, USA TODAY

The tradition and pride of the civil rights movement run through Selma, a powerful force that shapes the city's identity. Everything centers around this nostalgia, from the museums to the amateur historian at the base of the bridge, selling overpriced magazines and greeting every tourist hoping to share a snippet of the city's history.

After a 12-hour travel day, I should have checked into my hotel, got some rest and prepared for the next few days of reporting, but my soul wouldn't let me. As soon as I crossed the bridge, I pulled over and hopped out of the car.

This was my moment. My chance to walk across the bridge, my chance to put my feet on the pavement. But I couldn't simply walk across it. I lingered. I snapped photos. I stopped at the top of the bridge and gazed out at the Alabama River.

Then I tilted my head to the sky where clouds appeared fluffier, the sun shined brighter, the birds chirped louder, and the stingy southern breeze blew freely.

At that moment, I felt the spirit of my ancestors. I felt how it was all connected. How the sacrifice of my courageous ancestors allowed me, a 29-year-old Black man, to succeed and feel empowered in 2021.

My ancestors endured the hardships of slavery, and it took their blood, unpaid labor, patience and lives to liberate future generations from shackles. Their descendants continued to carry the torch, not settling for de jure freedom, not settling for sharecropping, not settling for segregation. The hundreds of people who tried to march across the bridge on March 7, 1965, Bloody Sunday, would not settle for unequal access at voting booths.

A sign rests on a bench at the Civil Rights Memorial Park near the foot of the Edmund Pettus Bridge.

Jessica Koscielniak, USA TODAY

After nearly two hours on the bridge, I finally left and checked into my hotel. The next morning, I woke up with a hunger to explore the region. I started with Selma. Murals depicting Black heroes adorned the side of buildings, even the vacant ones. I visited every monument, plaque and even a local makeshift museum.

I was a kid in a candy store.

I struck up conversations with everyone: tourists, the gas station attendant, the restaurant servers, the barbers, the local florist. We talked about everything from their experience growing up in a city full of such history to where I could eat some good southern soul food. I'm talking about ham hocks, neckbones, fried okra and cornbread — a meal that would have made my great-grandmother proud.

I quickly understood that perhaps no place more than Selma did the civil rights movement mean more.

I called my editor that afternoon brimming with excitement. We, of course, talked about my reporting goals for the next few days. Still, I mostly ranted about the rich landscape: two-story willow trees draped in silky Spanish moss, the granite civil rights memorials in front of churches and the old-school architecture that made Selma resemble a town still unchanged from the 1960s.

Next, I traveled to Marion, Alabama, about 30 miles west of Selma and the place where Jimmie Lee was shot. I learned that in order to tell the complete story of Jimmie Lee and his forgotten legacy, I had to tell the story of Marion, a small city whose contribution to the civil rights movement is undoubtedly overshadowed by Selma.

Selma has the bridge, the visitor's center, a museum and a blockbuster movie. It gets all the visitors.

I saw no tourists in Marion. It's a quiet town. All the activity centered around its white-columned courthouse and the post office across the street.

I spent the next few days reporting. Hustling.

I called my mother on my final day of the trip. I was excited to tell her about my experience. I wanted to talk about the civil rights movement, the bridge, the history of this place I'd just spent three days scouring.

"Hey, ma!" I said when she answered the phone.

"Hey, baby," she responded. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm in Selma, Alabama for a story I'm working on," I said.

"Oooh, you eat any good food?" she asked.

Read the full investigation here.

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Reach Javonte Anderson at janderson1@usatoday.com and on Twitter: @JavonteA. This is America is a weekly take on current events from a rotating panel of USA TODAY Network journalists with diverse backgrounds and viewpoints. If you're seeing this newsletter online or someone forwarded it to you, you can subscribe here. If you have feedback for us, we'd love for you to drop it here.