Merry Christmas from the Colonel

A Couple of days before Thanksgiving 1964, I was getting ready to board a plane in Jackson, Mississippi, when one of the SNCC kids asked, "When we gonna see you again, Greg?"

I automatically answered, "I'll be back Christmas."

I had in mind spending Christmas in Mississippi with my wife and kids. On the plane to New York, I got to thinking, "Maybe we could take Christmas dinner down with us and eat it with some needy family." My thoughts kept rolling: "Why just one dinner and one family? Why not take a turkey dinner to as many needy Mississippi families as possible?" By the time my plane landed, I had made a private promise to take 20,000 turkeys to Mississippi on Christmas Day.

I've always had a thing about hunger. If I have a hobby other than track, I suppose it's feeding hungry folks. My earliest involvement in the civil rights movement in the South reflected that concern. In retaliation against black voter registration in Leflore County, Mississippi, white officials had stopped passing out free Federal-surplus food to poor folks, claiming they could no longer afford the $37,000 a year for storage and distribution. I hit the streets of Chicago and collected 14,000 pounds of food and personally delivered it to Greenwood, the county seat.

I felt that Mississippi was the key to the civil rights struggle, especially in the North. Mississippi was a symbol in the black community. Northern blacks made blacks from Mississippi the butt of jokes and put-downs. Mississippi had a strangle hold on the minds of all blacks; whenever there was a lynching, for example, everybody thought immediately of Mississippi, even though there were lynchings in other states. Feeding hungry Mississipians at Christmas would go a long way toward removing the lingering fears still plaguing the black community.

I knew I would have to go public with my private promise if I were to find a way to get those turkeys to Mississippi. The highly touted return match between Sonny Liston and Muhammad Ali (then still called Cassius Clay by most fans and sportswriters) was coming up in Boston. I figured if I could get each of the two fighters to buy 10,000 turkeys, I'd be home free. I phoned Sonny Liston and got a tentative OK. I then laid the idea on Ali, who thought it sounded great.

My next call was to columnist Drew Pearson. Now that I had the financing (I thought), I needed an organization to give the project stability and respectability. Drew had recently gone through a conversion experience. Earlier in the year, he had written a column criticizing me, Adam Clayton Powell and others: the entire column was an open letter inviting me to stay out of Mississippi.

Then Drew made the mistake of going to Mississippi himself. All of a sudden, new thoughts, new attitudes and new opinions started appearing under his byline. One beautiful column related his experience of sharing sweet-potato pie with a Mississippi sharecropper family. I figured the time was ripe to get him involved--while he could still taste that pie!

I got Drew on an airport phone in Kansas City. His first words were, "Dick, I must tell you that you were right and I was so wrong!" What an opener! I hit him with the idea of 20,000 turkeys for Mississippi. When I hung up, Drew Pearson was cochairman of a committee called Christmas for Mississippi. Immediately, the project became tax-exempt--taken under the wing of America's Conscience Fund, an established organization that was under the leadership of Drew Pearson and Harry Truman.

In his next column, Drew began plugging the idea. He had received a letter from a wealthy oilman named Emmett Thornhill of McComb, Mississippi. Drew had identified him as a Ku Klux Klan member and Thornhill was writing to set die record straight. He said he had broken with the Klan after it dropped the first three bombs in churches. Thornhill insisted that he had always enjoyed good business relationships with "coloreds" and complained. "This publicity you've given me has hurt me with 'em."

Drew offered a suggestion in his column:

Probably there is no man in America, even Representative Adam Clayton Powell, who is more hated by the Ku Klux Klan than Dick Gregory. He has given up performance fees of more than $6000 a week to raise money for the Freedom Movement in Mississippi and elsewhere.

Likewise, there is no organization more hated by Dick Gregory than the Ku Klux Klan.

However, if a man who has now renounced the Klan, such as Emmett Thornhill, would join in Dick Gregory's drive to give turkeys to the less privileged people of Mississippi--both white and black--it would prove beyond any possible doubt that he means what he says about a fair break for Negroes.

Furthermore, and even more important, it would prove that Americans can rise above personal prejudice.

Art Steuer, who'd been a friend since he interviewed me for an Esquire article some years before, and I flew to Boston to tighten up details with Sonny and Ali, only to find management on both sides locked in a clinch that looked like it wouldn't be broken. I returned to New York discouraged, knowing that something was going to happen to call off the fight. The next day's sports page told the story. The world's heavyweight champion had discovered a hernia "the size of a small lemon," which the examiners just happened to miss a couple of days earlier. The fight had to be postponed. Whatever the truth was about the fight cancellation, my 20,000 turkeys--along with countless bookies--had flown the coop.

But the idea, I decided, was too big to let go. I had an organization and a co-chairman, so I decided to do it myself--with a little help from my friends. I figured we could raise the money in Chicago through street donations and a big benefit show. With the latter in mind. I paid a visit to the New York City town-house residence of Sammy Davis Jr., who was then starring on Broadway in Golden Boy. I was ushered into the living room and told that Sammy would be right down. Pretty soon he descended the spiral staircase. Sammy seemed a bit nervous, and I could understand his reaction. He didn't know if this was a social call or if I were going to ask him to integrate a lunch counter in Alabama. Besides, he was already 45 minutes overdue at The Tonight Show, where he was guest host for the evening. It was now or never, so I laid my turkeys-for-Mississippi idea on him. Before I could say "We shall overcome," America's greatest one-man show had agreed to appear at the Arie Crown Theater, McCormick Place. Chicago, on Sunday evening, December 20. I could see those turkeys come flying back to the roost!

Art and I flew to Chicago to start the ball rolling. The city's leading radio, television and newspaper personalities picked up the turkey banner and we were given office space by Leo Rugendorf, a supermarket owner in Chicago's South Side black community. I was criticized for accepting it, because people were saying Leo was involved with the Mafia. But his store was located in the heart of the black community; the legitimate side of his operation was making money for black people; and I desperately needed office space! I was sure I could use the facilities without getting mixed up with organized crime.

My personal priorities were tested one Sunday afternoon when Leo invited me to attend a recital on Michigan Avenue. The recital was in progress when I arrived; there were only a few people in the dark recital hall and a magnificent tenor was singing onstage. I found out later that he was one of Italy's most famous singers and the "family" brought him over each year for a private recital.

Afterward, we went upstairs for a little party. I was taken to meet somebody special. It was Tony Accardo. I knew the name, of course, from his Mafia reputation. Tony was reminded of my Christmas-for-Mississippi project. He said, "Oh, yeah. I heard about that. I like it. Good program. Help your people. Help your people."

Knowing who Accardo was and what he stood for, I really didn't want to talk to him about anything. So I walked away. A priest came over to me, obviously drunk. Filled with the spirits, the father said thickly, "Dick Gregory, I want to tell you something. You're a very likable guy, but you're moving too fast."

I was outraged. I said, "Wait a minute. You're a priest. And you're in the same room with Tony Accardo and Dick Gregory. Whatever you think about my activities, don't say nothing to me until you go over there and tell Tony Accardo and his Mafia henchmen about their ways."

The priest sputtered, "That's what I mean. That's the attitude there that's going to get you killed."

A "family" spokesman came over and told me. "You're really doing a good job. We like what you're doing. You don't have to worry about getting those turkeys. We'll take care of that for you."

I played ignorant. "Well, how? Christmas is only a few weeks away!"

"We have our ways."

"Well, I suppose you're talkin' about hijackin' the turkeys like y'all do whiskey. I'm taking those turkeys down to poor, honest folks in Mississippi. It would leave a bad taste in my mouth to feed them with stolen turkeys." I left the party.

Jim McGraw, a minister friend, was one of the special people I called upon for advice and personal support, along (continued on page 278)Merry Christmas(continued from page 110) with Jim Sanders, one of my writers, Art Steuer and Bob Johnson of Jet magazine. It gave me a blend of perspectives. McGraw was white Irish, Sanders was Midwest rural black, Steuer was New York Jewish and Johnson was a polished journalist with the amazing capacity to penetrate to the nitty-gritty core of any situation. Sanders and McGraw were out on the street corners of Chicago every morning at six o'clock, in zero and subzero weather. They had a big barrel with chicken wire across the top and McGraw was dressed as Santa Claus. Seeing him on those ghetto street corners playing Santa reminded me of one of my most famous comedy lines: "My oldest daughter said she doesn't believe in Santa Claus. I said, 'What you mean you don't believe in Santa, and I'm pickin' up the tab?' She said, 'Because you know darn good and well no white man's gonna be in our neighborhood past midnight!'"

And it was so beautiful to see black folks in Chicago reach into their pockets and purses to help their brothers and sisters in Mississippi. I saw a girl in her late teens excitedly drop a dollar into the barrel and giggle, "I've never helped Mississippi before." I also saw a wino reach into his pocket and give four pennies. I thought of the New Testament story of the widow and her mites--giving all that she had. You have to understand what four cents means to a wino to appreciate the beauty of self-sacrifice. That puts him four cents further away from that half pint. Who knows how long it will take him to hustle up the needed change for that bottle? And it's cold outside.

The day of the big show at McCormick Place arrived almost before we realized it. Charles Evers and Drew Pearson flew into town. Charles, brother of slain civil rights leader Medgar Evers and then the state field secretary for the NAACP in Mississippi, had been in charge of setting up distribution of the turkeys when they readied their various destinations. Drew had been busy collecting donations from his many contacts in high places. We all got together at the turkey office. Drew, so distingushed with his mustache, his black coat and his black Russian-style hat, truly looked like the ambassador of good will that he was. He sat down and started pulling checks worth thousands of dollars out of his pocket as casually as if they had been telephone messages. He further pledged to make up whatever cost we could not raise through benefits and street donations. My Christmas dream was now a full-fledged reality!

Back in New York City, United Air Lines had a limousine at the stage door of the Majestic Theater waiting to pick up Sammy, who rushed out the door, following his Saturday-night performance, and raced to Kennedy Airport, where the last flight from New York to Chicago was being delayed until his arrival. Other performers had rallied to the cause. Eartha Kitt, who was playing the Palmer House, had agreed to appear. George Kirby, a neighbor of mine, was in town and had let it be known he would be proud to be on the bill. Red Saunders' band was to provide the music. And, at the afternoon rehearsal, the Four Step Brothers showed up to volunteer their talent.

The show was slated to start at eight P.M. At 7:30, my wife, Lillian, McGraw and I stood in the lobby, waiting. We were all nervous. We needed heavy ticket sales at the door to be successful. Then the good people of Chicago started pouring in. The show was a tremendous success.

Wednesday, December 23, 1964, was T day. Two refrigerated trucks were already rolling toward Mississippi from Iowa and another from Chicago. We went out to the Butler Aviation sector of O'Hare Field in the wee small hours of the morning. A heavy fog choked the atmosphere and some people were worried that we might be grounded. I wasn't worried. We had God on our side. When we arrived, a truck was being unloaded and its contents lifted by conveyor belt into a chartered cargo plane. Five hundred turkeys were being loaded, along with hundreds of toys donated by Chicago manufacturers.

I rode down to Jackson, Mississippi, on the cargo plane. Lil and my two oldest girls, Lynne and Michele, went down on Delta, accompanied by McGraw, Our planes landed simultaneously at the Jackson Municipal Airport. An integrated reception committee of about 300 people--benevolent Baptist preachers, workers for the Council of Federated Organizations, bodyguards and Charles Evers--had been waiting two hours for our delayed arrival. I was dressed for the triumphant entry. A lot of folks in Mississippi used to refer to me as "that millionaire nigger," and I didn't want to spoil their image. I was munching a big, black cigar, and I was described by the Associated Press as looking "splendid in buckskin boots, a three-quarter-length black-leather jacket and a cowboy hat." After an onslaught by the gentlepeople of the press, I waded through to the reception committee. Evers was all smiles as he said, "Welcome to the Magnolia State, land of the brave niggers and the nervous white folks."

We drove to the Pratt Memorial Methodist Church, where about 1000 people were jammed into the sanctuary--standing room only, with more people arriving all the time, The officiating preachers crowded behind the pulpit and began competing with one another for the privilege of reading off the names of those who would receive turkeys.

We had a real problem. We had only 500 turkeys, with another 3000 coming in on the truck from Chicago. Heavy fog had delayed its arrival and the driver had phoned to tell us he couldn't make it until the next morning. The distribution committee announced that everyone with four kids or fewer would have to come back on the following day. Only four people got up and left! So the committee decided to switch it around by asking people with 15 or more kids to come forward and get a turkey. That approach didn't work, either. It set off a stampede.

It may sound strange, but at least 90 percent of those people had never had a turkey before in their lives. Fannie Lou Hamer had told us: "I'm 47 years old and I've had a turkey only once in my life, and I had to buy that on the installment plan." Now we saw firsthand the truth behind Fannie Lou's words. We saw it in the faces of those who received the first 500 turkeys. We saw it in the tears of pure joy and gratitude streaming down worn and weary cheeks. We saw it in the hope, almost pride, that accepted a turkey not as a handout but as a gift. We heard it in the hundreds of God bless yous and in the testimony of a woman who sobbed, "1 got 14 kids and I make 15 dollars a week. I don't have to say no more . . . thanks." Another woman took a turkey from me and testified, "Mawnin1, Lawd." In the most pious voice I could muster, I answered, "Yes?"

That night, I spoke at a rally at the Masonic Temple on Lynch Street in Jackson. The white Citizens Council of Ruleville, Mississippi, had announced that it was sending two possums and a sack of sweet potatoes to me in Chicago. I opened my remarks by acknowledging its gift. "Sending me food--that's like sending a relief check to Rockefeller. They don't know my background! I'd jump over a whole carload of sirloin to get to a good possum. Why, I could sell those possums on the black market in Chicago and get enough money to send down 200 more turkeys."

I also had some more serious words for that wonderful crowd.

We didn't raise this money and send these turkeys, you did. It's your fault. You have completely purged this state of negative thinking. Everybody who eats anything this Christmas will think of you. We brought turkeys for the champs. You earned that. What you're doing in this state-has put a lot of people off our backs. For a long time, Mississippi was the garbage can of race relations. Anything that happened up North was dumped in the Mississippi garbage can--"Look how much worse it is in Mississippi." Now you folks have put a lid on that can and there is no place to dump that Northern garbage but in their own back yards. And the smell is beginning to spread.

When you integrated that golf course down here, the cat in New York begins to wonder, "Where's mine?" Same thing with schools and libraries. The opening day of school, you integrated school after school without any kind of incident in Jackson. Mississippi. But in Jackson Heights, Queens, 64 white parents were opposing the school-integration plan in New York City.

Some people up North said that Sammy Davis would do a benefit in Chicago but he was scared to come to Mississippi. Well, he probably is! If the President of the United States hasn't been to Mississippi in 50 years, why should Sammy come? Well, if the President won't come to Mississippi, take it to him! Take your kids to the White House on Easter, when they have the big egg roll on the lawn. Just dump your little ole kids on the lawn and say, "We want to play, too."

While folks praise Bob Hope for going to Vietnam and criticize me for coming to Mississippi. Well, it's safer in Vietnam. At least there you know the Government is on your side.

The next morning, that truck from Chicago still hadn't arrived. The driver called at 9:30 and said he was in Columbus, Mississippi, and still on his way. More tired, a bit more weary but no less patient, the second-nighters waited patiently in front of the candy store next to the NAACP offices on Lynch Street. Finally, about 2:30 P.M., the truck pulled in.

David Brinkley s camera crew was set up on Lynch Street. David had told them not to bother to come back to work if they didn't get exclusive pictures. Evers. McGraw and I jumped onto the back of the truck and were about to hand out turkeys. A lone white man was standing far behind the large crowd of blacks. Evers called to him, wishing to show clearly on national television that this was, indeed, an integrated project (in fact, 1500 turkeys went to whites, 300 to a Choctaw Indian reservation and a number to Chinese families).

The white man protested violently, indicating that he had a "bad back." McGraw realized that the poor guy thought we were going to make him help unload ihe truck and he shouted, "We just want to give you a turkey!" The guy ran to receive, forgetting, evidently, about his bad back. Thus did Brinkley get his exclusive, "The first man to receive a turkey in Mississippi was a white man."

All kinds of motor vehicles were on hand to meet the other trucks and to load up with turkeys and take them to the out-of-the-way districts: farmers with their dilapidated flat-bed trucks and city dwellers with their station wagons. One woman suffered a heart attack, she was so excited. But when the ambulance arrived to take her away, she told the driver, "Don't take me to no hospital, I'm gonna cook this bird in the mawnin'. "And she drove home in a car with friends. Another woman betrayed her unfamiliarity with cooking turkey when she said, "Oh. thank you, Mr. Gregory. And I sure am gonna ask God lo bless you tomorrow when I'm Iryin' this turkey."

I looked again at those faces, and it was like a bread line anywhere in the world. These were not just the hungry people of Mississippi. They had the same look of people you see in newsreels--of people who are waiting to be fed in China, in the Congo, in Europe, in America during the Great Depression. These faces had a universal expression. As I watched them, it dawned on me more strongly than ever that the number-one job facing humankind, before landing on the moon or on Mars, before curing any more diseases, before inventing another invention, is feeding human beings all over the world. I kept thinking of a statement Mississippi Governor Paul Johnson had made: "I am sure the people of Mississippi would appreciate it very much if those turkeys were sent lo the Northwest disaster area." (Floods had just devastated parts of Oregon and Northern California.) I chuckled as I remembered that we got the turkeys from out West and I thought. "How they gonna cook them under ten feet of water?" And I also wondered what Mississippians Governor Johnson was talking about. Certainly not blacks, because he didn't represent them at all. And certainly not poor whites, because he didn't represent them, either. I summed it up later in a quote in Jet magazine. "We can't handle those problems that God has inflicted upon man, like the Northwest disaster; we're living to solve some of those problems that man has indicted upon man."

One decade and one year later, the sovereign state of Mississippi elected a new governor. Cliff Finch. An old friend from Mississippi, James Allen, arranged for me to participate in the inaugural proceedings. What a difference 11 years had made! I was met at the airport by the governor's chaufteured limousine and we were escorted by Mississippi slate police. I spoke at the governor's dinner. After my speech. Governor Finch made me an honorary Mississippi colonel, along with Charles Evers and Aaron Henry! The old faithful turkey watchers are now members of the governor's official staff. Since I was at the top of the list of awardees, I became the first black colonel in the state of Mississippi. Harland Sanders may be the Colonel of Kentucky Fried Chicken, but I'm the undisputed Colonel of Mississippi Turkey!