We visited the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama on the fourth day of our Civil Rights Heritage Retreat. The bridge itself is named after a Confederate general and state-level leader of the Alabama Ku Klux Klan. Situated on the west side of Selma, the bridge leads to the state capital of Montgomery. This location was the site of three protest marches held in 1965, first organized after police shot and killed Jimmie Lee Jackson, a young voting rights activist. The first march across the bridge on March 6 was led by Hosea Williams from SCLC, John Lewis from SNCC and approximately 600 other local activists. It was dubbed ‘bloody Sunday’ after Alabama Governor George Wallace approved the police to prevent the demonstration by any means necessary. That night, the event was televised across the nation to some 50 million viewers, gaining the Civil Rights Movement national attention. Two days later, Dr. Rev. Martin Luther King Jr attempted to lead the protesters across the bridge, but they were again met by the police. Finally, after a federal court order permitted the protest, the voting rights marchers left Selma on March 21 under the protection of federalized National Guard troops. Four days later, they reached Montgomery.
Our group did not face such odds or adversaries. Our sacrifices included being away from the comforts of home during our winter break and riding a bus between different heritage sites. A bus ride that in 1960, when the freedom riders crossed state boarders as we were doing now, would have been illegal due to mixed races sitting together. But here in 2023, I reflected on this detail ironically rather than with trepidation. It wasn’t until we disembarked from the bus on the east side of the river that I felt uneasy. Logically I understood that this was not the site of an active protest. Yet, as we began our walk across the bridge in Selma, I scanned the horizon then looked down from the bridge to the waters flowing below. Did Civil Rights demonstrators fear the fall as I now did? As we crested the arch on the bridge, my heart began to pound – it wasn’t until You reached the top of the bridge that we could see what lay on the west side of the road to Montgomery, where the police had waited with permission to enact violence. I was reminded of the demonstrations in Rochester in 2020 where people gathered in outrage over the death of Daniel Prude in police custody. People in our city marched to the 490 bridge, and were met with tear gas, dogs and “less lethal ammunition” from police who congregated on both sides of the bridge. I wasn’t there that day, but my heart pounding reminded me of the day I kneeled before armed police with my hands up and palms open in prayer. A prayer for systemic oppression to end for the greater humanization of everyone in our community. An act that resulted in my being shot, and a year later, led me to matriculate at Nazareth.
I did not pray in Selma. We were able to walk across the bridge unmolested by agents of the state. But as we crossed that bridge, I reflected on the commitment to living a life of purpose which the Civil Rights fore-bearers embodied. In 2015 President Barack Obama joined Congressmen John Lewis and other 1965 demonstrators to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the Marches. The fight for Civil Rights does not end and systemic racism isn’t something that only exists in the South – out there, not here in Rochester, on our campus and in our communities. It takes immense bravery to recognize the bridges we are called to cross. The way I see it, bridges invite us to cross over from one place to another, from one state of being to another. We must cross over from concern for ourselves alone, our smallness as individuals, into a journey of connection with a greater purpose. John Lewis stated: “Soul force is the ability to counter the forces of injustice with fearlessness, knowing your soul is connected to the greatest force in the universe. Threats, violence and aggression are simply tools that are used to make us doubt our ability to overcome.” (Across that Bridge, p. 136). On this journey, I realized that the movement for equity would require my spiritual discernment as well as alignment with a community of believers. In my education at Nazareth, I have met people willing and able to embrace the bridges we were called to cross as advocates, organizers, demonstrators and simply, as people.
When my brother passed away suddenly in May 2022, I came to an impasse. Ahead of me was an unknown future scarred by loss, made hazy with trauma both personal and generational. I didn’t want the grief that threatened to consume me to detour me from continuing to pursue a degree, but I felt so hapless, unable to find my way. That’s when my colleagues became friends. They showed up for me and accepted my new normal when I could not. They encouraged me, fed me, and offered shoulders to cry on. Because of them, I will be graduating on time.
Each of us has gifts that are needed, and the movement for equity and inclusion is definitely a marathon and not a race. This is the work of a lifetime, and my time at Nazareth has led me to reflect on my identities of privilege and marginalization, asking myself – how is my soul called to purpose? We are living in “unprecedented” times. Do I speak up in class? Send an email that might make waves? Confront my own fear of conflict? Can I apply what I learned on one trip, one bridge after I graduate? How can I collaborate with others to create meaningful change while loving each other into who we want to become? Its a messy journey, and one that requires perseverance and rest proportional to bravery.
Asha Gozzelin is a '23 social work candidate, yoga and meditation teacher, space holder and permaculture gardener and herbalist. Ze thrives in liminal spaces, community potlucks, frolicking in the waters and forests of the Finger Lakes.