Can you believe it? That's me, middle row center (under the arrow), standing with my fellow peers--President of the 1964 FAMU branch of the NAACP! Only, I was Juliette Saunders then. You can imagine the FAMU-NAACP as a whole was an integral participant in much of the events of that day. You see, during the turbulent 1950's and 1960's, the decades that spawned and nurtured the Civil Right's Movement, that saw, as well, the rise, promise, and martyrdom of Dr. King, the student body of Florida A&M University were involved in several demonstrations that have since been recorded for posterity. I speak of such incidents as the infamous 1960 Woolworth Sit-In (left); the Candlelight Vigil for what we now call a hate-crime victim; the 1960 protest against the arrest of 23 FAMU students (right) and, more personally, the 1963 Florida Theater demonstrations in downtown Tallahassee.

As a member of the FAMU student body in the early 1960s, events around me invoked deep feelings of concern for my own civil rights. Growing up in a small, 'Bahamanesque' enclave of Key West, FL I had been reared by strict parents--Alfred and Lorraine Saunders, both school teachers by trade with lofty moral values for education who set equally high standards for all five of their children. Though I look back on these years with nostalgic fondness, the experience left me somewhat sheltered from the more controversial events of the time. You can imagine the culture shock I encountered when I finally arrived on the Hill at a period when Florida's capital, like most racially divided communities of the South, was overwrought by civil discord over our growing demands for human decency and equal rights under the law for all citizens of the United States.

It was during the summer of 1963, after spending years on the sidelines as a curious spectator to the turmoil all around me, that I finally felt compelled enough to 'do my part'. That summer, Rev. C.K. Steele, head of the Inter-Civic Council and something referred to as the Minister's Alliance (as best as I can recall), was asking for volunteers to participate in the Alliance's latest, well-organized, non-violent campaign. The ministers held a series of meetings with active members of FAMU's NAACP student chapter. As the recently chosen 'president-elect' of that very chapter, I had wanted to lead by example. So, I signed up.

The campaign, I soon learned, was concentrated on the capital city's premier showplace--the historic Florida Theater (left) located prominently on Monroe Street downtown. Then "white-only", the theater's box office personnel consistently refused to sell entry ticket to Negroes. According to the organizers, small groups of Negro protestors were to go downtown and, in a quiet and orderly fashion, one by one attempt to purchase theater tickets. Not surprisingly, as each group took their turn and participants, such as myself, laid our money down on the counter, we were unceremoniously refused.

Now, we were not a militant group. As FAMU students, we did not wish to risk our academic futures, nor the sacrosanct non-violent reputation of the entire movement, by acting irresponsibly or with malice. As I can further recall, I wore dark sunglasses and placed a scarf over my head in an effort to disguise my identity for fear of repercussions. Technically, one could not claim that this was a protest led by malicious 'saber-rattling' students from the so-called 'colored' university; we were not required to flash our student IDs nor did anyone bother to ask any of us where we were from. The Florida Theater campaign was just a simple repetitive ritual of concerned Negro citizens trying to purchase tickets to that week's feature and being denied on purely racial grounds. After one group completed their task, the next group would soon follow without incident. There was no screaming, no fist banging, no outward signs of distress or anger.

What went through my mind during my initial excursion of pioneer duty was not fear. I heartedly believed that my participation was the right thing to do under the circumstances. I cannot describe the myriad of emotions I felt at the time; I just knew that as president-elect of the FAMU-NAACP I had a duty to stand with my fellow peers and demand the simple privilege to purchase a movie ticket.

Granted with today's vast ultra-modern multi-theater Cineplex's--such as the one at Tallahassee Mall--filled to overflowing capacity with patrons of all colors nonchalantly intermingling as well as purchasing and receiving tickets without a moment's hesitation, this might seem petty and somewhat silly. But, in 1963 this was important. That ticket refused me did not just represent a lost chance to see some overblown Hollywood production, it stood for something much more--man's indignity to fellow man; his abject ignorance; the seemingly total absence of Christian spirit; and overall injustice under the law. I had to do this!

Not surprisingly, the peaceful 1963 Florida Theater campaign came to an end under a cloud of violence--but NOT, I need not tell you, on the part of the participants. One afternoon, I was back at my dorm waiting on the return of Arthenia Joyner--one of my Delta sorors, now recently elected to the Florida Legislature (photoleft, second from left), who had gone downtown to do her "stint" as we called it. Suddenly, the door to her room came thundering open and she dashed inside. To my dismay, she appeared disheveled; her clothes were torn and she seemed distraught. When I inquired what happened, Arthenia explained that her group had been attacked by a group of white men as they walked along the railroad tracks. Concerned, I spent the rest of the afternoon making certain Arthenia was in good health and settled down.

Soon thereafter we learned that the Minister's Alliance would meet with the student body on the steps of Jackson Davis Hall to discuss the incident. At that meeting a cry went out for a mass protest demonstration in front of the theater to highlight the assault and draw press attention. We all knew that local reporters would let the attack on colored students go unnoticed in the newspapers if we did not act.

Though the ministers left it to us to decide, we were well aware of the consequences. Up to this point local authorities had no reason to harass or arrest the Florida Theater protestors. There had been no disturbances at the site. However, an organized mass demonstration in the heart of downtown Tallahassee complete with students shouting anti-discrimination slogans and marching up and down Monroe Street carrying signs and singing "We Shall Overcome" was another matter all together! Thus, we were warned, "If you do this, you WILL be arrested!"

The summer of 1963 was to be my last on the Hill. In the fall I was making the necessary arrangements geared at finally receiving my bachelors of science degree. As I listened to the arguments for the proposed demonstration, I pondered to myself why would I jeopardize the attainment of my degree just to gain the right to buy a ticket to a movie I didn't even know the title of? However, as outraged as I was regarding the attack on my soror, nothing was going to stop me from joining my peers in protest against this senseless and cruel act of aggression. At least that was my naively defiant thinking at the time.

I truly believe that we did not see the coming demonstration (right) as dangerous. I believe that since we clearly had the backing of the Minister's Alliance, the local chapter of the NAACP and several other civically active organizations we would be protected from harm. I did not believe that we would be beaten ourselves, tear gassed, or even killed. However, I did believe that the time had come bring public attention to this ongoing injustice. So...I went downtown. I sang "We Shall Overcome". I carried my sign and I walked up and down Monroe Street shouting anti-discrimination slogans. And, yes...I was arrested and marched straight to the Leon County Jail!

Luckily, I did not stay in jail. Others did. I did not get expelled. Others did. I did not get tear gas in my eyes. Others did. I did not have to run from barking dogs. Others did. For, you see, most of us in that first group of demonstrators were released. Neither were my peers in the second group detained or harassed. Yet, those that came after us received the brunt of the city's reaction to this 'act of civil disobedience' as it was cagily phrased. These students spent days crowded together in jail. Others and I did what we could to alleviate their plight, however, it was a rough and harrowing time for all involved.

Did I ever demonstrate again? Well, remember when I told you that nothing would stop me from 'doing my part' and joining my peers in protest? Seems I misspoke. Something did call a halt to my short career as a civil rights activists and that something was my late father-Alfred L. Saunders, Sr (left). Somehow word reached Key West that I had been arrested (I suspect my elder sister Juanita had something to do with the breaking news flash) as that very evening I received a phone call from home. The subsequent conversation was short and very to the point. Under no uncertain terms, my father ordered me to cease and desist all public involvement with the movement or face having my financial support to complete my education cut-off with no right to appeal! Try as I might to convince him that, as a student leader, such important exercises were part of my duty, Alfred Saunders would book no opposition. He would not budge.

Being a dutiful daughter, I decided I could not go against my father's august will and, sadly, withdrew my participation. When fall approached and the demonstrations began anew, Juliette Saunders was not in the number. It was hard trying to explain to my peers why I could no longer join them. It was equally hard watching them head off campus without me. However, in a behind the scenes way, I did focus on my responsibilities as president of the FAMU-NAACP. There were trials to prepare for, letters to write, and support funds to deposit at local banks. These, non-public, duties I could perform without disobeying my father's expressed commands, and I did so willingly. Never once undermining the academic responsibilities so importantly upheld by my parents.

As I look back on my years at FAMU, I will always be grateful to many personages. To Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. for the inspiring example he set as a stubborn adherent to the cause of non-violent social change. To Rev. C.K. Steele and the Minister's Alliance for their bold leadership. To the NAACP for their faithful financial and legal support. To all the FAMU-SGA presidents of the era for their dedicated activism. To the students who demonstrated before us during the 1956-58 Bus Boycott, the Woolworth Sit-In, the Candlelight Vigil, et al. To the dedicated NAACP advisor who served and taught us well, especially to be patient. To the learned professors on the Hill who in their own way encouraged us to become leaders of tomorrow; to my tireless peers who walked beside me and for me, especially those, like Arthenia, who were attacked that sad day. Finally, to my family who did not turn their backs on me in spite of my forthright, outspoken ways. Without experiencing all I had during the summer of 1963, I truly would not be who I am today--a fearless child of God, fully conscious and in receipt of my lawful rights, now fighting for His cause.