Fictional first-hand account of the Selma Marches

March 7th, 1965 was the day known as Bloody Sunday. I would love to forget this fateful and
infamous day, however it is important to remember. The more knowledgeable we are of these
mistakes, the less likely it is that we will repeat them. I was a firsthand witness to the atrocities
that occurred that day. Now I intend to inform the public of these actions.
First, some background. I, Jordan Schaefer, was a white member in the first of three
waves of protesters marching from Selma to Montgomery. We were marching to promote equal
voting rights for all citizens. This was, of course, the right that makes a democratic state a
democracy. We brought attention to this by marching 50 miles along the highway that connected
Selma to Montgomery, Alabama. I had taken part in other marches and protests that had been
organized by the NAACP and I was among the crowd at the I have a dream speech. Now that
we are informed, it is time to explain the events of Bloody Sunday.
On that day we were attacked multiple times. The first of which occurred as we crossed
county borders. As we were walking some state troopers threw tear gas at us, unarmed
protesters. This was quickly followed by country boys from the area jumping and beating us with
billy clubs. The attack by the countrymen was, of course, ignored/supported by the state
troopers. As we crossed the county line there was a bridge we were to cross. The bridge was
blocked by police, firemen, and more state troopers. When we reached the bridge wearer wary
of our counterparts on the opposite side of the bridge. Then we saw the fire hoses being hooked
up to some hydrants. I heard a man at the front and center of the crowd (I was closer to the front
left of our group) yell, Look out! That was when they sicced the dogs on us. One vicious
German-Shepherd came right for me. The dog lunged for a bite of my arm. It missed, but
quickly recovered. I was bitten in the back of my left calf by the dog. Before the dog could rip
some of my flesh off, I was able to punch him off me. We were then shot with highly pressurized
water from the fire hoses. I avoided the initial blasts, but I have been scarred for life by the
image of clothes and skin getting blasted off of my fellow unarmed protesters. I still hear the
screams of agony in my nightmares. Soon after I fell victim to the hoses as well. I saw the hose
coming my way so I turned my back to it. The water hit the middle of my back, ripping off my
shirt in the process of incapacitating me. The hose stayed aimed on me for a while, it seemed.
During this time I didn't feel much pain. Maybe it was because of the adrenaline from fighting
the dog or due to how fast everything seemed to be going down. The hose pushed me to the
back of the crowd. I laid there for a while, the pain had set in and I couldn't move without feeling
like I was being repeatedly stabbed in the back. That is when I blacked out. The next thing I can
remember is waking up face-down on a hospital bed. I was informed that my muscle had been
torn by the German-Shepherd and that multiple two layers of skin had been blasted off of my
back. I wasn't able to leave my bed without immense pain, so this was the end of my Bloody
Sunday experience.
After Bloody Sunday, the countrys attention was back on the issue of civil rights. Soon
after our march, The Voting Rights Act of 1965 was passed. Despite the pain, suffering, and the
mourning of multiple deaths, we accomplished our goal. Though the prices were not paid in full
yet. Many other white protesters involved in the Selma marches, including some of my friends,
were killed in later weeks by radical segregationists. I was thoroughly scared for my life. The Klu

Klux Klan had even left a burning cross in my yard. After this happened things seemed to cool
down a bit. Overall tensions were still high but my situation had been toned down.
That Sunday was the last of my involvements on the road for the NAACP events. I
helped organize a couple more events, the details of which are lost from my memories, for the
NAACP. I retired from protesting in 1967. The rewards of my work make me proud to this day,
but the physical and mental wounds are not lost. The memories of hearing these nice AfricanAmericans being called the most horrible names and watching them be spat on and abused has
scarred my mind for the last 50 years. These individuals inspired me to move forward and never
stop believing in the power of the public. Watching these brave men and women peacefully fight
for the most basic rights was inspiring and humbling. I couldn't speak any more about them
without sounding like a broken record. This is where I stand as of today.
I hope my story has informed someone who didn't know much about these events. I
hope my story has inspired someone to get involved in their community. Most of all I hope this
has inspired someone to go outside and try to change the world in a positive matter everyday. I
thank you for taking your time to read this, and I hope it wasn't a waste of your time.