"I'd like to order please."
He sits at the counter with his back upright, gazing forward at the menu through his horn-rimmed black glasses. There is no smile on his face, no warmth to his demeanor. He's rehearsed this moment many times over, but practice isn't the reality of protest. In practice, he knows home awaits.
A friend asked him earlier in the week, "Why? You're twenty-four, you'll be starting law school in a few months. Why go to jail or worse, be beaten and even killed? Shouldn't somebody else take part in the sit-in?"
The question was fair, one that Medgar has pondered often. The answer was simple, the history complicated. Generations of his family endured pain and suffering. His father spent many days in jail. Mother did, too. And his mother endured the lynching of her father, which happened when she was too young to remember. Medgar never met him. But felt his presence all around the home. He knew Grandpa Louis was a big man, 6'5" or so. That he could hit a baseball farther than anyone in Alabama. Maybe even the whole country. An injury, then a second child, and life responsibilities called him home. And Medgar knew that Grandpa Louis was kind and gentle and loved his girls, but he was also tough and loathed bullying, always standing up for family and friends, even strangers.
Medgar's mother, Ella, was three when her father was lynched. For her mother, this finally soiled life in the South to the point she had to leave. She buried her husband and the next day took her two daughters up the dirt path to the main road into town, bought bus tickets, and headed north to Boston, where they eventually settled in Dorchester.
In Boston, her mother cleaned homes. Then, at night, every night without exception, she sat with her girls to read. They read everything. If the book was at the library, it was bound to end up on the small wooden bookshelf in the corner of their one-room apartment. And then there was that special day once a year when she'd take the girls to the local bookstore, and each could pick one book to buy. Ella loved that day and kept all those books on a special bookshelf at every home she lived in.
Ella went to Harvard and became a journalist. She wrote stories about race and, like her father, stood up to any talks of racism. Ella had the demeanor of Grandpa Louis. Kind to all, yet not one to shy from conflict. It wasn't discussed much, but she had been in her share of fights as a teenager. Quick with a punch at anyone who spat a racist comment. And even though they lived in the North, there was no shortage of those. With time, though, she adopted the nonviolent resistance practices of Martin Luther King Jr. and his movement.
She, nor his father, who was also a journalist, pushed Medgar into civil rights protesting. Then again, neither had to. Always curious about the photograph his mother kept on her desk of Ida B. Wells, one of her heroes, he read Ida's works in his early teens. And, of course, he read what his father and mother wrote. You can almost say he was born to protest for civil rights. It was the air of his home.
"Ma'am, I'd like to order please," Medgar says to the woman behind the counter.
"You can't. You know you can't sit here."
"Ma'am, I'd like to order please."
"I'm going to call the police if you don't move."
"Ma'am, I'd like to order please."
Medgar sees a man walking towards him out of the corner of his left eye. Others are getting up and coming as well. A crowd forms around Medgar and the two other protestors sitting beside him.
"You heard the woman, boy. Move," says the man whom Medgar first noticed walking over.
Someone takes a ketchup bottle and dumps the contents on Medgar's head. The sugar comes next. Then, a pancake from a table nearby. Maple syrup follows.
Medgar sits there. "Ma'am, I'd like to order please," his voice unfazed by the crowd.
That same man, the one Medgar noticed first, is now face-to-cheek with Medgar. Medgar turns his head towards the man. He can see the rage in his eyes. The man is pointing his finger, yelling something better left unsaid. Then he slaps Medgar in the face. He grabs Medgar by the jacket and pushes him to the ground. People start kicking and punching Medgar.
Medgar doesn't fight back. He doesn't resist. Curling up, doing his best to shield himself, he takes the blows. Anger boils inside as he wants to fight back. Peaceful resistance, he thinks. This is what leads to progress. And progress is what he’s peacefully fighting for. For his family. To honor their legacy. To build a better tomorrow. This was his answer to his friend's question. That's why he drove down. That's why, at this moment, he is the one on the ground.
Then, the beating stops. His two other protesters, two women similar in age to him but local to the South, who were not beaten in this protest, help him up. The three of them walk out. They walk towards a small room in a friend's home that serves as a gathering place. There, they will get cleaned up and then start practicing. The next sit-in awaits.
Note: "I'd like to order please." is a historical fiction snapshot. While based on real events, the story, characters, and incidents are fictitious.