The Day I Ordered a Cup of Coffee

FRANKLIN MCCAIN
On February 1, 1960, I met three of my friends at the North Carolina A&T College library in Greensboro, and together we walked the mile to Wool-worth's. I was wearing my ROTC uniform because I'd come straight from class. It was eerie, walking; nobody talked. For my part, I knew the day might end with me in a pine box.
At that time in the South, African Americans weren't allowed to eat with whites. Woolworth's had a sepa-
We sat down at the counter. Immediately, every eye was on us.
ways, I was no longer lonely. Better yet, I knew I would be okay, that I would make it all the way.
And I did make it, all 2,817 miles. I hit the coast of Guyana, South America, on March 14, after 70 days and five hours at sea. My ocean row raised $70,000 for the Blue Planet Run Foundation, which funds drink-rate lunch counter in the basement for "Negroes." My friends and I had agreed that we would sit down at the white lunch counter and ask to be served. And we did just that.
Immediately, there was a hush—it felt like a church in that Woolworth's. Spoons stopped halfway to people's mouths. Every eye was on us.
Franklin McCain (second from left) and friends took a seat and took a stand against bigotry.
Again, we asked the waitress for coffee and doughnuts, and she said, "I'm sorry, but I can't serve you."
"Why not?"
"It's just a custom," she said.
And I asked, "But you'll agree that the custom is wrong, won't you?"
We had resolved to be very polite— our goal was to embarrass people into doing right. So we sat there, waiting.
A policeman came in, and it was clear he was angry. His face was as red as a beet. He stopped right behind me; I could feel his hot breath on my neck as he stood over me. He pulled out his nightstick, and I said to myself, This is it. But he just stood there for a minute, then backed away and started pacing up and down. It dawned on me: He didn't know what to do. That's when I thought, This could work—we could win this.
There was a little old white lady who must have been 200 years old sitting farther down the counter. She finished her doughnut and headed straight for us. I braced myself for a blast of abuse. Instead, she put her hands on our shoulders and said, "Boys, I am so proud of you. I only regret that you didn't do this ten years ago." That gave me added resolve to see it through.
We went back to that lunch counter every day for six months until four African Americans—lunch counter employees of Woolworth's—were finally served a cup of coffee.
Fifteen seconds after I sat down on that stool on that February day in 1960, I felt so relieved, so cleansed, so self-accepting. It was the kind of feeling that holy people pray and chant for. It was the feeling of freedom that people live a lifetime seeking. I wouldn't have felt cheated if I had died right then and there. I was invincible. And I've never felt better in my life. ■