February, 1946 – Columbia, Tennessee
It was on Monday morning, February 24, 1946, about 10:00 A.M., when Bernice Coleman and her 6 year old son Beckwood walked approximately 3 blocks from their home in the Negro community to the center of town. Bernice Coleman walked to the center of town everyday, except Sunday, to shop and prepare for the evening meal. When Beckwood was with her she would try to make it a special day.
On this morning, however, they wouldn’t return with the daily ration of milk, meat, and what ever fresh fruit and vegetables she could afford. And there would be nothing special for Beckwood. That memorable day, and those that followed, and Beckwood’s entire life would be unalterably changed when William Fleming was thrown through the plate-glass window of the Castner-Knot Electric Appliance store in the downtown business district. It was about 9:45 A.M. when Gladys Stephenson and her 19 year-old son James entered the Castner-Knot Electric Appliance store.
Gladys Stephenson was a friendly woman, considered by her friends to be warm and generous. She was very proud of her son, who in spite of his age, was a veteran of U.S. Naval operations in the Atlantic and the Pacific, having just recently returned home. She had gone to the appliance store that morning to pick-up a radio which she had left for repair, and which she intended as a gift for James. Finding the radio in a state of disrepair she complained to the repairman, William Fleming, who became abusive, suggesting that people such as she had no place to complain and should consider herself very fortunate to obtain service of any kind. Mrs. Stephenson objected to his abuse, whereupon Fleming reportedly assaulted her physically.
Rushing to his mother’s defense James threw Fleming through the plate-glass window at the front of the store Bernice Coleman watched in horror as Fleming crashed at her feet. She grabbed Beckwood and backed from the sidewalk into the street. The traffic was braking in her path as onlookers surrounded the Stephensons who, by that time, had left the store. Motorists abandoned their cars and advanced to the scene of the dispute.
Many were carrying utilitarian objects which they would convert to instruments of violence. Bernice Coleman was hit first on the back of her head with a blunt object. She was struck again with the same object, this time at the base of her spine and asshe clutched Beckwood to her chest she was kicked, then driven to the ground by an automobile whose driver was screaming “Nigger”. James and Gladys Stephenson were slapped and punched at random by the milling crowd. James was then clubbed by a policeman summoned by Fleming who had emerged without injury. The peace officer then turned his baton on the face of Mrs. Stephenson.
“Mama, Mama.”, Beckwood cried, almost breathless under the weight of his mother’s ample frame, now barely conscious, instinctively tightening her protective grasp.
“Quiet son. You be quiet.”, she whispered, as the crowd surged above her towards James and Gladys Stephenson who were then being taken into custody.
News of the day’s events spread quickly. The ramparts of of fear and hostility rose up, further segregating the city which had become a repository of hate, creating a cancerous impunity for rumors heralding preparations for the onslaught of mob violence. The Negro population cleared their streets, locked-up their homes and braced themselves for the inevitable. Their neighborhoods were without sound. Motionless. An occasional street lamp was the only visible seam of life in a vigil of darkness, and a needed point of reference for a peaceful community being consumed by its worst fears.Friends had gathered to help Jeremy Coleman care for his wife and son. They moved about in the Coleman home, deliberately, behind shaded windows with the added cover of blankets and sheets.
From her bed Bernice Coleman watched as the children were shepherded to the back of the house, or into the attic. The adults then assembled in the tiny parlor, making themselves as comfortable as possible. Then waited. Beckwood lay in the attic of the small house. He could hear was the distant sound made by the bands of white men roaming up and down the neighboring streets. During the night forces made up of state patrolman and the state’s national guard moved in to secure the neighborhoods, leaving no way in or out, while loosely organized white mobs moved stealth like, and fully armed, shooting indiscriminately into the houses.
At dawn on Tuesday morning, while the entire Negro community was sequestered in their homes, additional law enforcementand military units in full battle dress and armed with automatic rifles and machine guns began a methodical sweep of the Negro business district. Store fronts were smashed and battered, inventories were looted and property wantonly destroyed. To follow the path of destruction one needed only to trace the litter of furniture, food stuffs, business equipment and medical supplies which had been cast into the street by the “riot crazed” forces. Nothing was spared. The trail of wreckage wound through every venue of the Negro community. Insurance company files and records were carefully destroyed. Hospitals were vandalized.
Patrols broke into funeral parlors, pillaging the chapels and desecrating the caskets of the dead. After they emptied the cash registers of the hard earned money of the businessman they turned their collective forces of hate down the residential streets. Beckwood was still hiding in the attic when someone inside the house shouted hysterically, “Here they come!” “Get down. Lay on your stomach.”, he heard his father yell out.
Then there was gunfire. Distant at first, it grew increasingly closer until volley after volley ripped through the house, sounding like someone hammering on the wooden exterior with only the echo being heard. Laying in front of the attic vent, Beckwood looked into the filtered sunlight of the early morning. He watched innocently as the weatherbeaten walls of the besieged houses disintegrated under the impact of automatic weapons fire. Cavernous like openings appeared where small windows and doors had once been. Police and guardsman rushed the houses. They beat the men, women and children brutally, then dragged them into the street. Beckwood heard his mother screaming with excruciating pain; he knew they would be coming for him soon.
The Terror in Tennessee, as it came to be known, was over almost as quickly as it began. Radio announcements declared: RIOTING NEGROS UNDER CONTROL! The post script, though, was delivered later that day when the assassinated remains of two Negro men were taken from the jail where, with approximately 70 others, they had been placed in protective custody for questioning. It would be many months before all the victims were exonerated.