StoryCorps EXTRA: My Own Private Sit-In

Michael Garofalo (MG): Hey there podcast listeners, it’s Michael Garofalo for the StoryCorps podcast from NPR. And over this Martin Luther King Day weekend, we had a couple of things we wanted to share with you that didn’t quite make a full episode, so we’re sending them out in a podcast extra.

And as I’m recording this, I’m actually looking at some photos from the Civil Rights Movement, including one from the summer of 1960. There’s a group of white protesters, and they’re picketing the integration of a Maryland amusement park. They’re holding signs that say some pretty vile things, things I’m not going to repeat here. But you can see the photos that I’m talking about on our website, StoryCorps.org.

At the end of the line, you can see a young black man, and he’s clearly counter-protesting. And as he strides along holding his own sign, he’s smiling defiantly. In another photo, the same man sits alone at a five-and-dime lunch counter in Arlington, Virginia. A group of angry white men surround him. Some of them are wearing armbands with swastikas. And the man? He smirks.

On a different day, at the same lunch counter, a white child sticks his finger right in the man’s face. And again, he doesn’t look that bothered. In fact, he looks a little bemused. The person in these photos is a civil rights activist you probably haven’t heard of. His name is Dion Diamond. He grew up in the 1950s in Petersburg, Virginia, and at StoryCorps, he talked about how he got started protesting for equal rights.

Dion Diamond (DD): I was 15 years of age when I first started having my own private sit-ins. I guess I got tired of looking at signs that said ’whites only’. So, I would go into the five and dime store, sit at the ’whites only’ lunch counter, and whenever the police came, I skirted out of the back door.

My family had no idea — the only way they found out was from the newspapers. You know, like a reporter calls home, ’Do you know your son’s in jail?’ and my parents became very proud of me, but they wished it would have been somebody else’s child.

I’ve done some crazy things, but you take chances when you’re young. I call it youthful exuberance.

I can remember having a sit-in at the lunch counter in Arlington, Virginia, and word spread throughout the neighborhood and that’s when they started gathering around. This child, I would say he was about 12, 13 years old, he took his finger and pointed to me, like, ‘get out, you know you are not wanted here.’

I could only hope as he got older, some of his attitudes regarding equality and equal rights changed.

The last time I was arrested, in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, I was their guest on more than one occasion so the guards, the white guards, told these inmates, ’We got a troublemaker here, gang. If you give him a hard time, you may get time off for good behavior.’

I think that was the time I was most frightened, except a couple of the guys in there, they knew, somehow, who I was and they told the guys, ’Don’t mess with him.’ That was my salvation.

Today, when people read my name, they may not know who I am, and most likely they won’t. I have three grandkids, they aren’t the least bit interested, but any time I pick up a historical publication, I feel as if a period or a comma in that book is my contribution.

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MG: That’s Dion Diamond, from Washington, D.C. You can see some photos of Dion back in the 1960s – and trust me, they’re pretty amazing – on our website, StoryCorps.org.

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MG: Next, I want to share some voicemails from you guys, our listeners. In our last episode, we shared the story of Rickey Jackson and Eddie Vernon. In 1975, Rickey Jackson was convicted of a murder that he didn’t commit. His conviction rested on the testimony of a 12-year-old boy, who lied about what he had seen. Rickey spent nearly four decades in prison before that boy would finally come forward and tell the truth, leading to Rickey’s exoneration. Rickey sat down with that boy, now a man, his name is Eddie Vernon. Here’s part of their conversation.

Eddie Vernon (EV): As I grew up, I was depressed, suicidal. It ate me up so much inside, man.

Rickey Jackson (RJ): I don’t know if I ever told you this but you did your part when it counted most. You know that? You hear me talking to you, man?

EV: Yes…

RJ: You did your part when it counted most.

EV: Okay… Thank you.

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MG: And here’s some messages that your fellow listeners left for Eddie.

Sarah Sullivan (SS): Hi, my name is Sarah Sullivan, and I’m calling from Manchester, New Hampshire. And, I just want to leave a message for Eddie. It’s hard for me to even say to you, but you need to forgive that 12-year-old boy. It’s okay, you did the right thing. You can’t beat yourself up anymore. And I’m sure, and I’m not the only one who feels that way.

Leslie Ingram (LS): Hi, this is Leslie Ingram. I’m calling from Saratoga Springs, New York. I just finished getting my 12-year-old son packed off on his way to school, and I was listening to this story, and Eddie, you were 12 when you made this mistake. My son is 12, 12-year-olds make mistakes.

DJ Feather (DF): This is DJ Feather, I’m calling from Annapolis, Maryland, leaving a message for Eddie Vernon. Um, I have a quote that I’ve gone to, and thought of, in different places and times in my life that says, ”The function of redemptive love, both God’s and man’s, is not to make the sinner feel better about his past. It is to give him back his future.” And I really really hope that you find your future back again.

MG: Thanks to everybody who called in and left messages for Eddie. If you ever hear somebody on the show that you want to leave a message for, the number to call is 301-744-TALK, that’s 301-744-T-A-L-K.

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MG: And that’s it for this podcast extra from StoryCorps. The Dion Diamond story was produced by Afi Yellow-Duke and Jasmyn Beltra-Morris. Rickey Jackson and Eddie Vernon’s story was produced by Jud Esty-Kendall. I’m Michael Garofalo, and we’ll be back soon with more stories. Until then, thanks for listening.

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