Ten of us arrived in Southern Alabama, late in 1971, freshly graduated from colleges up north. All VISTA Volunteers, that domestic version of President Kennedy’s beautiful dream of the Peace Corps. 

Before dispatching us to Alabama, our supervisors had us clean up to look more like southern young people. The boys got haircuts and we girls tied back our hair. We were a ragtag counter-culture bunch of northern kids fighting poverty in the deep South. What could go wrong? 

We slipped into the tiny town of Opelika, Alabama trying to not look like outside agitators, which we certainly were The premise behind the War of Poverty at that time was that people were poor because they weren’t exercising their rights. Our job as community organizers was to go into poor black communities and fire them up to demand better commodity food, better schools, transportation, welfare and tenant rights — all of it. To walk right up to that white old boy power structure and call them to account. Right on! 

So, we came to Alabama, puffed up and proud of our idealism, but no one – not my family, none of my friends, not the teachers that inspired me– no one thought this was a good idea for me. And the poor Black people we were meant to serve they were completely confused. We’d introduce ourselves with our northern accents, and they would tilt their heads and ask, 

“Ain’t you s’pose to get married after college? Get a job?”

“Don’t your people need you at home?” 

 “They must be payin’ you lots of money to come way down here to solve our problems.”

 Those weren’t the only questions.  When we gathered in the police station for our introduction to Sheriff Belk, he asked,

“Ain’t you Yankees got trouble with your Negroes back at home? Why the hell come here?”  

I did my best not to answer those questions. I’m still struggling with them today.

My first assignment was Lulu Harvey, the poorest old woman in Lee County. That’s saying something. Miss Harvey lived out in Shotwell with her grandbaby.  We arrived in the morning and called from the yard,

“Good morning, Miss Harvey. We’re here from Head Start.”

 That was our secret cover. The black people liked Head Start. 

She came to the door and let us in. I sat across from that child, a slant of light falling on her from the open door. Her eyes were dull, hunched over, not speaking, not moving. 

“She’s a good baby”, Miss Harvey said, “Two years old and not a word from her.” My heart broke. We looked around. We’d never been in a poor woman’s shack before. My heart broke again. Finally, we asked how we could help. 

Miss Harvey looked at us, maybe wondering, 

“What the hell do these little white girls think they can do?”

In truth, we had no idea, other than we’d try to do whatever she asked.  

Wisely, she said, 

“You know down at Sears on Tuesday they throw away all their cardboard.  Winter’s comin’. I sure could use some new cardboard for them windows.”

 “Yes, ma’am.” 

We were off on our poverty fighting mission. 

No campaign for racial justice. 

No overthrowing the capitalist class 

No end of oppression. 

Nope. Just cardboard! 

So, we brought her that cardboard and some firewood throughout the winter until we were chased off her property by her kinfolk who yelled at us to stay out of their damn business.

The wisdom of that old lady clings to me today.  She knew us better than we knew ourselves. We couldn’t save that baby, find her a decent house, get her the dignity she deserved. The lesson: Never ask a well-meaning fool for help. They have no idea. Ask them to do something simple, somebody that they can do. That makes everybody feel better.