Read Online Holy Ghost Girl by Donna M. Johnson - Free Book Online
Authors: Donna M. Johnson
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nigger-lovers in Bossier City.”
Inside the tent Brother Cotton made the introduction. “Put your hands together and welcome God’s man of the hour, Brother David Terrell.”
Brother Cotton turned to hand Brother Terrell the microphone, but there was no Brother Terrell. The ministers on the platform looked around uncomfortably. Brother Cotton cleared his throat.
“I hope this don’t mean there’s been a rapture, or we’re in trouble.”
The audience laughed and craned their necks, trying to catch a glimpse of Brother Terrell. My mother played the opening notes of “I’ll Fly Away” and Brother Cotton and the audience started to sing. When Brother Terrell had not appeared by the second verse, Dockery went to look for him. He found him surrounded by the men, one of whom still gripped his bad arm.
“Let him go, mister.”
“I don’t need no glorified carny tellin’ me what to do.”
“I’m not tellin’ you. I told you. Take your hands off him.” Dockery had the broad shoulders and ropy muscles of a fighter. He rarely fought since joining the tent team, but sometimes his temper got away from him, and he had to pray through at the next altar call. This would be one of those nights. He grabbed the man who held Brother Terrell’s arm.
“Now, Dockery, now hold on . . .”
As the words left Brother Terrell’s mouth, one of the men took a step toward Dockery, and another landed a punch on Brother Terrell’s jaw. That’s when Dockery went wild. Randall came running with the other tent men and gave us an eyewitness account later that night. He said Dockery punched and kicked and yelled and that it took Brother Gunn, Red, and a couple of others to keep him from killing the man who hit Brother Terrell. Once the tent crew had separated Dockery from the attackers, Brother Gunn, one of the more even-tempered tent men, turned to ask them what they wanted. The largest of the three men shrugged off Red and walked back over to Brother Terrell.
“You better git them niggers out from under that tent. I mean clear ’em out.”
Brother Terrell spread his good hand in front them, pleading, “Those people came to worship God. I can’t, I won’t, ask ’em to leave.”
“It’s on your head, preacher.” The men turned and walked away. One of them lit a cigarette. Dockery started to yell that there was no smoking on the tent grounds, then let it go when Brother Terrell waved him and the others closer.
“Look, I got to take the platform. Someone call the law.”
Dockery snorted. “Those men probably are the law.”
In a tradition that harkened back to the roots of the modern Pentecostal movement, sawdust-trail revivalists had long welcomed blacks and whites under their tents. It all started when the one-eyed son of former slaves, Reverend William Joseph Seymour, founded a storefront church on Azusa Street in Los Angeles. After praying for months for an outpouring of the spirit, Reverend Seymour and his followers began to speak in tongues one day in 1906. They kept at it for the next three years. What became known as the Azusa Street Revival drew thousands of blacks and whites and was characterized by the Los Angeles Times as “. . . a disgraceful co-mingling of the races . . .” Holy Roller churches based on the Azusa Street experience sprang up all over the world, with one notable difference: There was no mingling of the races. Tent evangelists such as Billy Sunday, Aimee Semple McPherson, Jack Coe, and others persevered in interracial worship, but seated blacks and whites in separate sections of their tents when traveling through the South.
Not one for half measures, Brother Terrell said others could compromise with the devil, but bless God, he wasn’t afraid to face Satan head-on. “Red, yellow, black, or polka-dotted, we’re all God’s children, and we all sit together under my tent,” he said.
Not that we identified with the civil rights movement. The same whites who hugged the necks of black
Inside the tent Brother Cotton made the introduction. “Put your hands together and welcome God’s man of the hour, Brother David Terrell.”
Brother Cotton turned to hand Brother Terrell the microphone, but there was no Brother Terrell. The ministers on the platform looked around uncomfortably. Brother Cotton cleared his throat.
“I hope this don’t mean there’s been a rapture, or we’re in trouble.”
The audience laughed and craned their necks, trying to catch a glimpse of Brother Terrell. My mother played the opening notes of “I’ll Fly Away” and Brother Cotton and the audience started to sing. When Brother Terrell had not appeared by the second verse, Dockery went to look for him. He found him surrounded by the men, one of whom still gripped his bad arm.
“Let him go, mister.”
“I don’t need no glorified carny tellin’ me what to do.”
“I’m not tellin’ you. I told you. Take your hands off him.” Dockery had the broad shoulders and ropy muscles of a fighter. He rarely fought since joining the tent team, but sometimes his temper got away from him, and he had to pray through at the next altar call. This would be one of those nights. He grabbed the man who held Brother Terrell’s arm.
“Now, Dockery, now hold on . . .”
As the words left Brother Terrell’s mouth, one of the men took a step toward Dockery, and another landed a punch on Brother Terrell’s jaw. That’s when Dockery went wild. Randall came running with the other tent men and gave us an eyewitness account later that night. He said Dockery punched and kicked and yelled and that it took Brother Gunn, Red, and a couple of others to keep him from killing the man who hit Brother Terrell. Once the tent crew had separated Dockery from the attackers, Brother Gunn, one of the more even-tempered tent men, turned to ask them what they wanted. The largest of the three men shrugged off Red and walked back over to Brother Terrell.
“You better git them niggers out from under that tent. I mean clear ’em out.”
Brother Terrell spread his good hand in front them, pleading, “Those people came to worship God. I can’t, I won’t, ask ’em to leave.”
“It’s on your head, preacher.” The men turned and walked away. One of them lit a cigarette. Dockery started to yell that there was no smoking on the tent grounds, then let it go when Brother Terrell waved him and the others closer.
“Look, I got to take the platform. Someone call the law.”
Dockery snorted. “Those men probably are the law.”
In a tradition that harkened back to the roots of the modern Pentecostal movement, sawdust-trail revivalists had long welcomed blacks and whites under their tents. It all started when the one-eyed son of former slaves, Reverend William Joseph Seymour, founded a storefront church on Azusa Street in Los Angeles. After praying for months for an outpouring of the spirit, Reverend Seymour and his followers began to speak in tongues one day in 1906. They kept at it for the next three years. What became known as the Azusa Street Revival drew thousands of blacks and whites and was characterized by the Los Angeles Times as “. . . a disgraceful co-mingling of the races . . .” Holy Roller churches based on the Azusa Street experience sprang up all over the world, with one notable difference: There was no mingling of the races. Tent evangelists such as Billy Sunday, Aimee Semple McPherson, Jack Coe, and others persevered in interracial worship, but seated blacks and whites in separate sections of their tents when traveling through the South.
Not one for half measures, Brother Terrell said others could compromise with the devil, but bless God, he wasn’t afraid to face Satan head-on. “Red, yellow, black, or polka-dotted, we’re all God’s children, and we all sit together under my tent,” he said.
Not that we identified with the civil rights movement. The same whites who hugged the necks of black
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