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Bruce Hartford: So how did a nice guy like you get involved in civil rights? Don Jelinek: I was then 31, I came down to Mississippi for my three-week summer vacation and stayed three years. My parents were unhappy that I was jeopardizing my lawyer position to "work for the colored who don't like Jews anyhow." My law school friends all thought I was crazy, and accused me of turning radical. Frightened because the bodies of three civil rights workers had been unearthed the previous summer, because three others had already been slain this year, because a civil rights lawyer had been shot at only a few months ago, but mostly because, to me, Mississippi was Nazi Germany with a Southern accent and I was a Jew voluntarily flying to the crematorium. Yet it was not beautiful in any way easily understood by a citified Northerner. Wall Street was not alone in wishing I would not go. Three years later when I looked back upon it I could still say it was beautiful, even up close, even after the stereotypes and cliches were stripped away.
If you are looking for Rochester chat room, please try Rochester Chat.From dawn to dusk the sharecroppers farmed, but at the end of the year, they were still in debt, with even less money for a decent home, decent food and minimal medical care the next year. ) the privation, the sharecroppers were wholesome, religious, caring people: caring, in fact, for large extended families including the babies of their children working in the North, and old folks who were never shuttled off to old-age homes. Then neighbors would arrive and ask the same questions all over again.Serious crime and adultery were almost unknown, children were respectful of their elders, marriages didn't seem to break up, few farmers even cursed. I would be expected to stay for dinner, play with the children (who intermittently searched for black skin under my whiteness) and probably stay overnight why not?Night Exchange is where adults come to share their most intimate desires and have fantasy chat.You can be whoever you want to be on the Night Exchange.
Down to their last morsel (literally, their last), a sharecropper family would share their meal with another black family or a civil rights worker. When I drove up to a sharecropper's home, introduced myself and offered a document for the farmer to sign, he would simply ignore my breach of basic friendliness and tell someone to run inside and "get this man some Kool-Aid." Then all the children would swarm around me as their elders asked questions: Where are you from? since by then it was too late to see anyone else.