We can sit together now, thanks to John Lewis

I shudder to think of what this country would be like today had it not been for Rep John Lewis ( D-Ga ),  2/21/1940-7/17/2020, and the other men and women who shared his vision of racial equality. Rarely does a day go by that I do not recall those horrible times when black people had to sit in the theater balconies and could not eat in many of the restaurants I was allowed to eat in during my childhood. I was eight years old when the Civil Rights Act was passed in 1964, but even at that young age I was well aware of its significance. Perhaps I noticed the injustice of that era more than many children my age because my cousin, Mona Kay Green, was black. She was my best friend. Mona’s grandmother and my grandmother were sisters. My family lived in Bowling Green, Ky. Mona’s lived in Louisville. Our families had business connections so we visited one another often. I spent an average of one to two weekends a month at my great-aunt’s house in Louisville: Mona was my constant companion during those formative years.

My mother loved going to the movies. She often took Mona with us. I did not understand why Mona had to sit in the balcony. I used to swivel around in my seat, squint my eyes and try to spot Mona somewhere up there in that dark abyss. My heart ached and wondered why we weren’t allowed to sit together. It wasn’t fair. One night when I felt particularly brave, I snuck up into the balcony and sat with Mona. Within minutes, the manager whisked me away and escorted me back downstairs.

Many times when we ate at a restaurant, we had to take Mona’s food to the car because she wasn’t allowed inside.

My first fight was over Mona. Her family also stayed at our house in Bowling Green, Ky. When I was in the first grade, Mona stood with me one morning while I was waiting for the school bus. When I got on the bus, I was greeted with jeers and a white boy who was older and bigger than me poked my chest with his finger and snarled, “What are you doing standing there with that _______?” I assume I had heard the "n" word before, but I did not realize its meaning until that moment. “Don’t you call Mona a _______,” I shouted and punched him in the face. He lunged at me but the bus driver broke the fight up before another blow could be struck. It’s safe to assume he would’ve beaten the daylights out of me but, from my perspective I won that fight as soon as I stood up for Mona.

That was the America I grew up in. That would still be the America of today had John Lewis and those like him not have had the tenacity to stand up against the bigots and racists that ran roughshod over this country. And now many of the grandchildren of those same bigots and racists are trying to regain the ground they lost to heroes such as John Lewis. But those of us who believe that all Americans are guaranteed freedom, equality and basic human rights must continue to, “get into good trouble,” as John Lewis said, and fight for equal justice for all.

I do not want to go back to those dark days when I could not sit in the movie theater with Mona Kay.

A Clerical Error

“Someone’s beating the front door in,” my wife said frantically, waking me at 5:45 a.m. I grabbed the semi-automatic rifle for me and the .22 for my son, who was sleeping upstairs. I ran to the door. “Who is it?” I asked.

“Open the Goddamn door,” a man shouted, repeatedly kicking the door.

My son heard the commotion and came downstairs. I threw him the .22. I cocked my SKS. When it clicked, all went silent. Then I heard murmured conversation and footsteps shuffling away. I told my son to cover the upstairs window. “If I start shooting,” I whispered. “Open fire and don’t stop until they’re on the ground.”

It seemed like a dream or a movie scene. I’d bought my rifle years before all the l mass shootings and controversy over assault weapons. I’d only shot it once. Like many gun owners, I thought I might need it for protection, but hoped I’d never have to use it.

I glided to my dining room window, peeked through the curtains and saw three men who looked to be in their early twenties. One of them opened the rear door of their van and pulled out a handgun.

I opened the curtains just wide enough for a good shot and positioned my rifle. 

My wife took cover in the back bathroom and called 911.

“Tell ‘em they’ve got a gun,” I said.

“I’m talking to the dispatcher,” she replied in a raspy whisper. “She said they’re on the way.”

“Tell her they’re coming back toward the house. I might have to shoot.”  

The man with the gun started up our sidewalk, the other two followed. I flipped the safety off and took aim. Surprisingly, I wasn’t nervous. I realized I was going to have to kill at least one man, maybe three. I could’ve heard a pin drop. I was not anxious to pull the trigger, but told myself that if he got halfway up our sidewalk, I had no choice. I couldn’t give them a chance to get into the house with that gun. None of the three men noticed the open curtain I hid behind. The man with the gun neared the halfway mark. I whispered to my wife, “Tell the dispatcher I’ve got to shoot.”

I positioned my finger on the trigger. Just as I started to pull it, the other two men grabbed the man with the gun. They appeared to argue, then rushed back to the van. I breathed a sigh of relief, but kept them in my sights. The man opened the van’s back door. I couldn’t tell if he was putting the gun back or getting guns for the other men. I was still wondering if I should open fire when a police car skidded into our driveway. Several more followed. In seconds our yard was swarming with law enforcement.

The two men must’ve heard the police coming. That’s why they grabbed their buddy.

My son came downstairs. I put the weapons away.  When I opened my front door, I saw officers surrounding the three men. My son came and stood with me. Two deputies met us at the door. I told them what had happened, and how thankful I was that they arrived before I had to shoot. The deputies said the three men were bounty hunters who had come to take my son to jail in South Carolina for leaving the state without permission. My son had been arrested for illegal possession of a prescription drug in South Carolina. He explained to the deputies how a judge had given him permission to return home to Kentucky while awaiting his court date. While my son went to get the court papers, the deputies told me that bounty hunters can enter a fugitive’s home to make an arrest in South Carolina, but bounty hunters were illegal in Kentucky. The deputies did not hide their disdain for the young men, who had apparently tried to argue their case for being there.  

“Do you want to press charges on them?” one of the deputies asked.

“No,” I said. “I just want ‘em out of here.”

As I walked with the two deputies toward the three men still surrounded by officers, I kept thinking how a simple bureaucratic mix up had put my family in danger, and how close I’d come to killing three men because of it. Almost daily, there are news stories about the war on drugs or gun laws. Those stories always seem to apply to somebody else, but on that day, without any warning whatsoever, a minor drug possession charge and a clerical error could’ve possibly caused the death of my wife, my son and myself, or put me in the national headlines for killing three bounty hunters.

Now, whenever I hear the news about how someone was shot in a horrible mishap, I think, “there but for the grace of God, and the Warren County Sheriff’s Office, go I.”

                                                     Bernard Mitchell Plumlee