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stration route passed by several segregated businesses where we paused in silence, then marched on. At one, a tiny breakfast spot called the College Cafe, there were two men standing in the front window. One was black, one was white. In front of them was an old sign that read, “White Only”. I remember noting the irony to the lady next to me as we moved on.
Later I heard what happened.
The white man was Max, the owner. The black man was Joe, the cook. They had worked side by side for many years, opening at five in the morning and closing at three in the afternoon. There had never been a cross word between them.
Our march passed on by, heading for a church in the black neighborhood for more singing and speechmaking. Back at the College Cafe, Joe the cook took off his apron and laid it on the counter.
“Max, I can’t work here no more,” he said.
Max was genuinely puzzled. “Why in the world not?”
Joe was quiet for a moment. Then he found the words.
“That was my preacher went by just now. My friends. And my grandchildren. They can’t eat here. So I just can’t work here.”
They looked at each other for what seemed like a long time.
“Well, alright,” said Max. He went over to the window. He took up the “White Only” sign, tore it in half and threw it in the trash can. “I reckon now you can work here again."
Joe put his apron back on.
“Yessir,” he said, “now I surely can.”
They never spoke of it again. They didn’t need to. It seems to me that in the ongoing sweep of history, the great revolutions are made one heart at a time.
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