What Bayard Rustin's
role in the March on
Washington teaches us
about the church
Fifty years after the historic March on
Washington, many are surprised to learn that when the event made the lead story
of Life magazine, it wasn't the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. on the
cover.
Although King's speech ultimately left the most
indelible mark on America's memory of the event, it was a photo of the march's
two organizers, A. Philip Randolph and Bayard Rustin, that was chosen as the photographic icon of the historic event.
Those who are aware of the community of leaders,
organizers and minor prophets who galvanized and supported the civil rights
movement know that Randolph and Rustin were two of King's most trusted
advisers.
Rustin, in particular, was instrumental in elevating
King's role in the Southern Christian Leadership Conference and is largely
credited with introducing him to the strategies of nonviolent resistance.
When Rustin first met a 25-year-old King in the
early days of the Montgomery Bus Boycott, King kept guns inside of his house
and armed guards on the outside. It was Rustin who gently persuaded him to
disassociate himself from guns and encouraged him to embrace nonviolent
tactics.
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When Randolph first envisioned the idea for a
"March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom," Rustin's history in the
movement, exceptional skill and deftness as an organizer made him the ideal
candidate to coordinate the massive endeavor. (Before his roles in King's
ascent and the March on Washington, Rustin, who began fighting for civil rights
in the 1940s, was a developer of the first Freedom Ride.)
Historian John D'Emilio writes that the eight
weeks leading up to the march "were the busiest in Rustin's life. He had
to build an organization out of nothing. He had to assemble a staff and shape
them into a team able to perform under intense pressure. He had to craft a
coalition that would hang together despite organizational competition, personal
animosities and often antagonistic politics. He had to maneuver through the
mine field of an opposition that ranged from liberals who were counseling
moderation to segregationists out to sabotage the event."
"And he had to do all of this," D'Emilio
explains, "while staying enough out of the public eye so that the
liabilities he carried would not undermine his work."
What "liabilities" did Rustin carry? He
was a gay man.
In 1953, Rustin was arrested on a morals charge
after getting caught in a sexual encounter with a man in the backseat of a car.
Rustin's sexuality was considered an open secret during the height of the civil
rights struggle. He never denied his orientation, and, sadly, his openness
would overshadow much of his career in the movement. Although he was an
eloquent speaker and profoundly influential in shaping many campaigns for
justice and equality, Rustin was typically relegated to behind-the-scenes work.
At times, Rustin even faced bigotry within his own
circle. The PBS documentary "Out of the Past" recounts
a story from 1960, when King and Rustin were planning a
demonstration at the Democratic National Convention in Los Angeles.
Fearing that the demonstrations would undermine his
own power, Adam Clayton Powell Jr., an African-American congressman from
Harlem, N.Y., insisted they cancel the protest. If they refused, Powell
threatened to claim Rustin and King were having an affair.
Of course, there was no affair, but King surrendered
to Powell's demands, and Rustin was forced to resign and remove himself from
the movement he helped shape.
Civil rights leaders later brought Rustin back
into the fold to help organize the march in 1963, but fearing his sexuality
would discredit the event, they appointed Randolph as the director, and
Randolph appointed Rustin deputy organizer.
A month before the march, news of Rustin's
sexuality resurfaced. FBI director J. Edgar Hoover reported Rustin's morals
charge to segregationist Sen. Strom Thurmond. Taking to the Senate floor,
Thurmond declared Rustin a "Communist, draft-dodger, and homosexual."
(Decades earlier, Rustin, a Quaker and conscientious objector, refused to serve
in World War II and had briefly joined the Communist party.)
This time, civil rights leaders closed ranks
around Rustin, and Thurmond's attacks had little impact. Recalling the incident
years later, activist Eleanor Holmes Norton said, "I'm sure there were
some homophobes in the movement, but you knew how to behave when Strom Thurmond
attacked."
Bennett Singer, the producer and director of the
2003 documentary "Brother
Outsider: The Life of Bayard Rustin," explained recently in an interview that "allies of the March
on Washington were fearful that the march couldn't take place without violence
and bloodshed." Always devoted to the principles of nonviolence he learned
in the 1940s, Rustin was determined to keep the march nonviolent. And he did.
Fifty years later, we know that the march was one
of the most crucial events of the last century, if not all of American history.
And Rustin did find some vindication in that Life magazine cover. But
because of the stigma of homosexuality that endured for much of the 20th
century, most Americans will never know Rustin's name or what he managed to
accomplish.
Thanks to President Barack Obama, however, Rustin
will find a new level of visibility later this year: The White House has
announced that Rustin will be posthumously awarded the Presidential Medal of
Freedom, the nation's highest civilian honor, in gratitude for his
extraordinary contributions to the civil rights movement.
Today in our country, it is difficult to imagine a
gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender activist being forced into a closet for
the good of any cause. But Rustin's story still resonates deeply inside many of
our religious institutions.
Our churches are home to many LGBT people who make
outstanding contributions to the life of the church as lay ministers, teachers,
hospital workers, women religious and priests. Many are forced to be silent,
however, because some in the church believe their sexual identities discredit
or taint their work.
Anyone who believes that prejudice in our church
is passing away is either unaware of or in denial about the hundreds of
exceptional LGBT Catholics who, every year, are fired from jobs, uninvited from
speaking in churches, or denied participation in church ministry because of
their honesty about their sexual orientations or gender identities.
Rustin's life reminds us that, not too long ago,
most of our culture believed a person's sexual identity could somehow taint or
discredit the knowledge, talent and gifts he or she brings to a community. His
story invites us to recognize and challenge the ways in which this toxic and
often subconscious belief is still playing out in our churches, communities and
families.
[Jamie L. Manson is NCR
books editor. She received her Master of Divinity degree from Yale Divinity
School, where she studied Catholic theology and sexual ethics. Her NCR columns
have won numerous awards, most recently second prize for Commentary of the Year
from Religion Newswriters (RNA). Her email address is jmanson@ncronline.org
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