Linda C. Thacker

In April 1947, I was born in Birmingham, Alabama. My parents learned at my six-weeks checkup that I had a heart murmur – atrial septal defect, a hole in the upper chambers of the heart that failed to close when I was born. Fortunately, the University Hospital, now known as UAB Hospital, had excellent pediatric cardiologists.

Because of frequent doctor’s visits, I became familiar with the hospital. The entry, the lobby, the elevators are still clear in my mind. At one visit, when I was about seven or eight years of age, I remember when the elevator went down instead of up. I had never been down before! “An adventure,” I thought. I was a curious child.

In 1963 I had never thought about why my school was attended by whites only. The only black person I knew was Spicy, the woman who came to our home one day a week to iron.

Then, one Spring day when I was a Junior at Woodlawn High School, every class received an announcement that there would be a march of black students, and that these students would pass in front of our school. We were instructed to remain inside. We were instructed to be quiet.

My teacher was wise enough to know we would not be able to stay in our seats, so we were allowed to go to the window when the black students passed by like a parade. There was no sound, no shouting, no raised hands. Just silence. I watched a group of about 50 male and female students, just like me except for the color of their skin, walk in unison. I knew from other events at that time that they wanted an equal education, an equal opportunity to succeed. That touched my heart.

That day—that silent march of teenagers—changed me. I saw people with hopes and dreams and desires—just like me.