The Davenports(70)

Olivia’s eyes settled on the single-ply wood board she’d painted last week.

EQUAL OPPORTUNITY IS HUMAN DIGNITY

The words came to her with a rush of emotion. Her hand, made steady by hours of needlepoint, created a banner she hoped was worthy of the unified message.

Mr. DeWight picked up her sign by the wooden post added later and handed it to her. “Ready?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

He rubbed her shoulder. With his free hand, he grabbed his own banner off the table. “Let’s go.”

Hand in hand they emerged from the community center to a crowd that had doubled in size since Olivia had arrived. The street was full of people who fought what was expected of them, damn the consequences. Now she was one of them. Olivia wondered if this was what her sister felt. She’s never given up, she thought. Helen’s time spent in the garage was the poorest-kept secret of Freeport Manor. Yet knowing the disappointment and eventual heartbreak her disobedience would bring, Helen still fought to do what she loved. Olivia smiled at her sister’s courage—at how much fulfillment could be found in doing what you were passionate about.

Mr. DeWight squeezed her hand and together they walked to the front of the crowd. People quieted as they passed. The hush around her heightened the nervous excitement now rushing through her limbs. Olivia no longer felt tired or clumsy from lack of sleep. No, it was the opposite—a spark of wild energy that threatened to burst through her skin.

“Brothers and sisters,” Mr. DeWight called to the people gathered. Olivia let the confidence and conviction of his voice lift her up. “Remember, this is a peaceful demonstration. We’re here in solidarity with our brothers and sisters in the South. The burden and horrors of Jim Crow are not theirs alone. There will be no violence. Our voices”—he held up his sign, I AM A MAN—“are the only sword and shield we need.” The hand that still held Olivia’s shot up to the sky. Together, their raised hands stood as the joint signal to begin. The crowd held up their signs and posters, banners and flags, and moved forward, parting as they passed Olivia and Washington DeWight as if the pair were a stone in a river. She watched men and women of all shades and ages move as one. Without waiting for him, she grasped her post with both hands and held her own sign high. He joined her, matching her pace.

At the edge of the group, people handed out copies of a blue pamphlet to anyone who would take it. The same blue pamphlet she received the afternoon she first stepped into Samson House. Its reception was as varied as the people of the city. She noted each tiny burst of pride when a passerby stopped to ask questions. Another person threw it on the ground. Still another reached out to gather more. Mr. DeWight’s mission at work.

Mrs. Woodard sidled up next to Olivia. The older woman’s dove-gray suit had a white rose in the lapel. Its perfume mingled with the smell of horses and exhaust. “I thought there would be more ladies here.” Mrs. Woodard sighed.

Olivia glanced at the crowd. “Fewer than we expected, to be sure, but enough.” Hetty was up ahead with her cousin and some of the working girls.

“A good group of them from the garment factories were warned they’d be forfeiting their jobs if they came here today. Even if they were not scheduled to work.” Mrs. Woodard tutted. “More like sweatshops, if you ask me.” She shook her head and lifted her sign higher. Her voice joined the others, chanting, “Equality is dignity.”

Olivia’s heart raced, her throat hoarse from the power of her own voice. Her eyes couldn’t take in her surroundings fast enough. Though she recognized the route they marched, everything appeared brighter, larger in the river of people that buoyed her body, her mind, her soul. They stopped along the way to speak to passersby. It was as if the meeting from the basement had spilled out into the streets, only exponentially larger. In the light of day, everyone seemed sharper, bolder, and so did she. The nervousness she felt leaving the house had evaporated—no—transformed into something else.

You are exactly where you are meant to be.

“Not bad for your first time, eh?” Mr. DeWight gave her a lazy smile.

She couldn’t contain the wide grin on her face, even if she wanted to. “This is amazing,” she said as the nearly completed fa?ade of city hall and Cook County Circuit Court came into view, casting its shadow over the activists. Her muscles burned from holding her sign, but the solidarity of the people around her bolstered her confidence. Laughter, despite the seriousness of what they were gathered to share, swirled around her. North LaSalle Street thrummed beneath her feet. Automobiles, carriages, and the vibrations from within the twelve-story building going up behind her. The crowd parted for the construction crews. It was here Olivia noticed a shift. The street was crowded. Some people had stopped to stare, jeer. A brick came tumbling through their column of marchers. It skittered about their feet, but the crowd regrouped and continued moving forward.

Olivia only had to look at the people beside her for strength. They ignored the looks from shopkeepers, some of them heckling the marchers, their shouts indecipherable in all the noise. Some of the demonstrators walked in circles. Their signs bobbed up and down to songs Olivia didn’t know. High above them, a boy about three years of age, sat on the shoulders of his father. He held on to his father’s chin and smiled down at her.

“What was your first rally like?” she asked Mr. DeWight.