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University of Kansas

Resilience and Reconstruction:

Utilizing Creative Mediums to Teach Civil Rights Movement History

Cassidy Locke

ENGL974

Dr. Ayesha Hardison

7 December 2020
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Abstract

In this essay, I ultimately argue that creative mediums, such as film and graphic novels,

should be utilized to teach history—specifically the Civil Rights Movement. I operate with an

analytical framework of two important narratives from a specific point in time of the movement:

Selma. I begin with an analysis of the 2014 film Selma, directed by Ava DuVernay. Following

that analysis, I closely examine the third book of John Lewis’ March trilogy of graphic memoir.

By placing these two in conversation with one another, I am able to examine not only the

similarities, but also the differences and what each of them offer on their own. Because both

authors place humanity back into activists, I argue that they should be taught in conjunction with

one another to provide a holistic, deeply empathetic understanding of the movement.

The journal I have chosen for potential publication is Radical Teacher: A Socialist,

Feminist, and Anti-Racist Journal on the Theory and Practice of Teaching. I chose this journal

because I believe my essay’s argument applies directly to these teaching pedagogies and

intertwines this research with my passion for education. They have open call submissions, and

they also give authors the opportunity to send an abstract or manuscript beforehand in order to

receive feedback before official submission. The audience of this journal ranges from secondary

education teachers to higher education teachers, which works well for my argument of shifting

history education.
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Through the longstanding Civil Rights Movement, countless depictions of the movement

create their own interpretation of the effects and implications of it. Through stories, film, art,

poetry, and more, a collective memory and consciousness has grown with all of the versions.

While a history textbook often presents the movement with the concrete information and facts,

an artistic depiction creates more room for empathy toward historical figures as it delves further

into the human experience and calls on emotional intelligence to process a story about real

people experiencing real emotion. Between the genre of film and graphic novel, a holistic

teaching of the movement offers a more complete understanding of the movement and those who

were involved in it firsthand. In this essay, I will analyze two creative mediums of the Civil

Rights Movement in order to argue that these are critical to understand the history. The first

section analyzes the film Selma directed by Ava DuVernay, which tells the story of Martin

Luther King Jr. alongside other movement leaders in the march from Selma to Montgomery,

Alabama, in 1965. Following the film analysis, book three of John Lewis’s March trilogy

becomes the subject of examination. These two, in conversation with one another, inform the

idea that creative mediums present a more beneficial way to learn about history, and they should

be utilized in schools in order to give students a well-rounded, fully developed education of Civil

Rights Movement history.

In the 2014 film Selma, DuVernay portrays a more profound understanding of the

humanity and emotions of activists, which provides a more holistic depiction of the movement

itself. With the fictitious element, more opportunity arises to center the emotional, humane

aspect of a deeply effective movement such as this. When reflecting on an interview with

DuVernay, Michael Martin shares, “Like other African American filmmakers, DuVernay

subscribes to the ethos that art serves a social purpose, debunks meaning and normative
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assumptions about Black people, and renders Black humanity in all manner of genres and

complexity” (Martin 57). Rather, while still telling the story of predominantly Martin Luther

King Jr., she also spends her minutes wisely to show the other sides of Black humanity and the

Black experience. She goes behind closed doors and depicts important, raw conversations, one of

the most important being conversations between King and his wife, Coretta. In several moments

of the film, they talk and cry together through conversations usually centered around his work

and their fatigue as they attempt to navigate the difficulty.

The discussions between King and Coretta are raw and emotional, and it requires

emotional intelligence to understand the impact and importance of them. This small and simple

decision by DuVernay plays a larger role at placing humanity back into King—as he is normally

and rightfully regarded as the icon of the movement, portrayals of him often forget to discuss his

personhood: feeling emotions, spending time with his family, resting. The film begins with him

alone with Coretta, preparing to give his acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize. She ties

his tie for him, and in a small and simple act, it symbolizes the overarching idea that he needs her

alongside him in this movement and that they work together. The small exchange of love and

good luck between the two sets a tone for the entire film that he is a husband first, activist

second, and the film weaves in and out scenes of them together to continue this motif. In

addition to the film starting with this emphasis on family specifically for the Kings, DuVernay

also takes time to paint a larger portrait of the Black experience during this time.

To give viewers an idea of the trauma that Black families endured, DuVernay utilizes the

scene of Bloody Sunday. In this scene of protest, disaster breaks out nearly immediately on the

bridge and police begin their attacks on the unarmed, peaceful protestors. This scene in and of

itself impacts the viewer, and “The visual effects reactivate traumatic experiences which the
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director exploits, indirectly providing a comment on contemporary citizenship issues” (Letort

196). The emotional response to the violence and pure hatred is unmatched. The aerial lens

shows multiple families flocking together as they run; however, while this scene begins with all

of the protestors, it ends with a focus on one family. The camera follows one particular family

down an alley as they make their way into a nearby diner. At this point, the family is anonymous,

and as they walk into the clearly Black-owned business, they attempt to calm down and sit at a

table to appear they have been there all along. Shortly, the police barge in, terrorize them, and as

the family works together to try and defend themselves, the police shoot the young man of the

family. In this moment, the sound goes muffled and a high-pitched noise takes over. The camera

pans to the mother’s face, which shows sheer terror, shock, and trepidation. The viewer sees a

mother witness her son blatantly murdered.

The tone of the scene is already horrific, but it shifts focus specifically to the reaction and

emotions of the mother. Immediately following, she sits on the floor of a diner, holding her son.

The police have left, the streets are quiet, but at the end of the day, she and her father are left

without him. This is a moment of intention from DuVernay to provide the awareness that even

after all is said and done within this movement, Black families are broken and hurting as a long-

term, traumatic result. The level of understanding trauma versus even witnessing it holds

significance, and DuVernay “immerses the audience in the violence experienced by African

Americans at this time, while also attempting to help while audiences understand the connection

between the past violences [sic] and modern day violences [sic]” (Arney 1). By executing this

scene, the viewer feels immersed; it is poignant and painful, but it further justifies her decision to

spend that time zeroing in on emotions of the movement because it makes any viewer wonder

what it would be like to be in their position.

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Following this scene, viewers learn that the young man who was murdered was named

Jimmie Lee Jackson, and it cuts to King and the grandfather of Jimmie Lee sharing a special,

heartbreaking moment where King gives his deepest condolences for the loss of his grandson.

Before King even begins speaking, he takes a moment to breathe deeply and collect himself,

even though he is at a loss for words. He tells Mr. Lee, “God was the first to cry” (DuVernay,

2014). They cry together, and Mr. Lee accepts that as truth. Their shared sorrow validates not

only the deep effect these traumatic murders have on each family, but it also shows the effect on

King from each individual experience. It is such a dynamic moment for King because he is

performing in three roles in this moment; not only is he the leader of the movement and the

minister for his congregation, he is also simply a Black man living in this time and knowing it

could have been his family. A lot of tension is at work in this span of a few minutes, and

DuVernay somehow captures all of the emotions seamlessly. The scene, overall, demonstrates a

recognition that Black families are hurting, but they have no choice but to remain fighting.

To reiterate King’s life of constant work with no breaks, the film renders a clear-cut

difficulty to balance activism with regular life for King. There is a constant theme in which King

is shown giving speeches or rallies, and then it cuts to him in a meeting or workroom showing

leadership. While King is typically shown in history textbooks strictly working in front of large

crowds, this film shows the work he does around the clock and behind the scenes. The scene

following King’s discussion with Mr. Lee, he delivers a riveting speech to a congregation. In this

moment, he is clearly expending his energy to rile up the crowd and rally them together. They

are angry, heartbroken, and motivated all at once—all because King had the responsibility of

creating that response through his powerful speech. However, immediately after the speech, he

dives into a conference room meeting with members from Student Non-Violent Coordinating
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Committee and has to break up an argument between them. While they are trying to make

decisions about how to move forward, it is evident that the group of activists deals with tension

and disagreement. Richard King notes, “the meeting of the representatives of the various civil

rights organizations after the second, aborted march also conveys a real sense of the tensions at

work among the various personalities and different organizations involved in the Selma

campaign” (473). This emphasis can become lost in the history because it is easier to believe that

these activists and organizations agreed on everything, but in reality, they had to spend extra,

laborious hours outside of the campaigning to come to agreements. This demonstrates an extra

layer of humanity for not only Dr. King, but also for the other activists featured such as John

Lewis of SNCC. It furthers deepens the idea that behind the scenes, they are dealing with piles of

extra frustration. The activism in the film shows their exhaustion but juxtaposed with the

everyday human experience and its own exhaustion, a viewer is inclined to feel the utmost

compassion for these characters being continually worn down and worked against.

DuVernay’s representation of King in this film is exceptional and simultaneously critical

to the collective consciousness of who King was. It, in some ways, goes directly against the

representation of that in most history textbooks, which is a heroic, perfect activist. While she still

depicts him as heroic and incredibly capable, she also shows the less-curated, more human sides

of him. In an interview, she says, “He was great, nonviolent. He’s got a statue and a holiday,

what else do we need to know? That’s such a homogenized view of this radical activist who was

a strategist able to construct campaigns and create coalitions with a bunch of people with

different ideas about how to reach goals under the threat of violence and loss of life. It’s

incredible” (Martin 70). She problematizes the typical understanding of King—a nonviolent,

resilient leader. While that is completely true, DuVernay sees so much more in King that must be
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brought to the screen in order to fight the textbook interpretation. Scholar Derrick Aldridge

studies the portrayal of King throughout history textbooks, and he writes that, “The textbooks’

focus on a ‘messianic King,’ even during his early life, denies students and opportunity to see

King as a real person and as a young man who develops into a leader over time” (Aldridge 667).

The messianic depiction problematizes the ability to view King as a ‘normal’ person, and

through this humanization process in the film, viewers are presented with a fully actualized,

well-rounded presentation of who Martin Luther King Jr. was not only as an activist and

preacher, but also as a human and citizen. Aldridge adds, “A critical presentation of King would

provide insight into the life of an ordinary man, who, along with others, challenged extraordinary

forces and institutions to gain full citizenship rights for all. Such a strategy presents a more

complex, genuine, and interesting knowledge base that would likely excite students about

history” (669). DuVernay offers this exact representation as she explores the depth of King’s

character and various roles he steps into, such as husband, father, and leader. Because of this

representation, this film should be utilized in History classrooms to teach a true testament of

King.

When historical figures are presented as more relatable, it creates an accessibility to

activism, and with a clear relatability factor, students begin to see themselves in historical

figures, specifically in leaders of such critical movements as the Civil Rights Movement that “[a

critical presentation] might also make history “real” to students in a way that will help them see

themselves as ordinary citizens who could bring about positive and progressive social change in

American society” (669). The film helps bridge the gap between then and now. Aldridge’s

article, he is simply predicting the effects of a reimagined history classroom; however, his

propositions hold truth as scholar Ashley Woodson finds. In a study over Black students’
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perspectives on history textbooks, she asks a focus group about their impressions and

understanding based on the Civil Rights Movement lessons from their history class. She observes

that “in relation to their understandings of civil rights leaders, their understandings suggest

troubling implications of ‘reductive’ and ‘overly simplistic’ presentations of history” (Woodson

62). Without a detailed, authentic account of history and the historical figures who led this

movement, students end up with a deprived understanding. Additionally, she learned that “my

participants viewed civil rights leaders almost exclusively as ‘heroes’ and ‘role models’” (62).

Much like Aldridge proposed, it creates a distance between heroic and authentic for civil rights

leaders. It leaves no room for mistakes or growth to assume that every decision was the correct

one, which is another reason why it is important to see the scenes in the meeting rooms with

push and pull between the leaders. Lastly, Woodson found that “these understandings seemed to

constrain their sense of contemporary race relations and civil rights struggle” (62). In order for

students to have a full understanding of the struggle, this history must be presented wholly and

raw with representations of King and other activists like in the film Selma.

With a proper education of Civil Rights history as the first step, it can organically create

young activists who are inspired to make change. An important element to ensure this effect is

the “call-to-action,” which this film arguably ends with as the credits roll. The song that plays

through the final credits, “Glory,” performed by John Legend and Common, is a strategic artistic

choice that leaves an audience feeling inspired and also connects the film’s historical context to

the events of the present day. The poignant lyrics, “Selma is now / Resistance is us / That’s why

Rosa sat on the bus / That’s why we walk through Ferguson with our hands up” display that

interconnectedness between all of these events. In a rich discussion about this specific song,

critic Brianna Arney says, “The song also reminds its viewers, again that Selma is not an isolated
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piece of history but still has relevance to African American’s social standing today” (Arney 4).

With the film ending this way, especially for a young audience, it leaves viewers with a choice to

make: whether or not they would join the movement. Students in a classroom would feel the

weight of this film, and Aldridge reminds that, “Ultimately, we must remember that educating

students about the history of their country has long been recognized as a vital aspect of preparing

the next generation to participate in a democratic society” (681). Teaching students this history is

not meant to just add to their knowledge bank, but rather it should be to inspire them to join the

movement and interrogate their own understandings around race and racism.

By fostering emotional intelligence and empathy, it breeds a more humane experience of

learning history. DuVernay makes a point to portray this history in a certain way in order to the

reveal hidden emotions and also provide a commentary on the power dynamic between men and

women of this movement. Unlike many other Civil Rights Movement narratives, DuVernay, in

some moments, centers one specific demographic who is often forgotten: Black women. David

Holmes dissects the scenes with women, but most importantly mentions, “Each woman is shown

within the film to propel the Selma campaign—sometimes in the background, other times in the

foreground, yet always in practically indispensable ways. And where DuVernay seems to gloss

over biographical details for a given character, she artistically and incisively captures her spirit”

(Holmes 187). While some of the women are shown briefly, it is all intentional in efforts to

understand their presence in the movement. Two main characters take the stage in the film:

Annie Lee Cooper and of course, Coretta Scott King; however, they have two different

functions. While Annie Lee Cooper is centered as an activist, Coretta Scott King’s character

functions more as a prop to King.

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First and foremost, the film begins, in part, with Annie Lee Cooper, played by Oprah

Winfrey, attempting to register to vote. While law enforcement is legally not allowed to block

any registrations at this point in time, they created impossible hurdles, which are clearly

displayed here. While all of her information is filled out and she answers a few questions

correctly, her application is denied because she cannot name all sixty-seven counties in Alabama.

Throughout the scene, while the officer taunts her, she remains calm and collected. For the

viewer, this paints a clear picture of the prejudice Black Americans were facing—completely

unprovoked. Additionally, “What Selma fails to mention is that this was in fact Cooper’s fifth

time attempting and failing to register to vote” (Lott 3). That is not apparent in the film, but it

adds to the frustration about the incident. She did nothing to deserve the unfair treatment, which

creates a cheerleader effect for the viewers, as they want to root for her. Annie Lee Cooper has

this first scene as a shining moment, but a greater moment soon after shows her true heroism and

spotlight by DuVernay.

During one of the first peaceful protests outside of the church steps, she is a central

character. Not only is her face shown several times as she remains resilient, but she becomes the

main target of attack as she is beaten, assaulted, and slammed to the ground by police officers.

Simply put, “The second scene, involving Cooper being brutalized while attempting to defend

her son during a demonstration, highlighted the endemic and epidemic violence against Blacks

that characterized most of the civil rights movement, but was especially dehumanizing to

women” (Holmes 189). The contrast between these two main scenes with Annie Lee Cooper is

especially shocking because she is aggressively beaten after the viewer sees her calmly request a

simple right to vote. She has done nothing to deserve this inhumane treatment, yet she still stands

up for the movement despite the risk.

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In addition to Annie Lee Cooper, the arguably central woman figure in Coretta Scott

King, Martin Luther King Jr.’s wife. Her character in the film offsets that of MLK Jr., as she

keeps him grounded. It is a recurring theme that she does more than she is credited for, and

although she does plenty for her husband, she still feels as though it is not enough. In an

emotional exchange with her husband, she cries to him as she expresses that she does not feel

like her work is enough. However, DuVernay uses this as a means to explain how Black

women’s experiences are debilitating. Coretta is sacrificing her family and deals with the fear of

losing them every day, yet she stays in the fight, much like Annie Lee Cooper. In a heartbreaking

monologue to her husband, Coretta expresses,

I've gotten used to a lot. All the hours wondering after your safety, worried about how

you are. This house. Renting here. No foundation. Without the things the children should

have, all because of how it would look. I have gotten used to it, for better or worse. But

what I have never gotten used to is the death. The constant closeness of death. It's

become like a thick fog to me. I can't see life sometimes because of the fog of death

constantly hanging over (DuVernay, 2014).

More than anything, the wife of the leading activist in the historical Civil Rights movement

deserves recognition for dealing with the incapacitating anxiety of potentially losing her

husband. Greene reflects, “The monologue brings her personal story to the spotlight, and rather

than existing solely as a prop in the shadows of her husband, King is given center stage, while

Dr. King and film audiences must listen to her” (215). While DuVernay attempts to use this

scene to draw attention to the struggle and activism from Coretta, she still fails to actually
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explain her activism. Critic Martha Lott believes Coretta is grossly misrepresented in this film;

she indignantly says, “The film’s misrepresentation of Coretta harms her accomplishments in

many accounts of the Civil Rights era. DuVernay fails again to showcase one of the movement’s

most significant figures by presenting a Coretta who makes King feel guilty for leaving home

and their family to take part in the critical movement” (Lott 2). The interpretation that she exists

only as a shadow in this film works against DuVernay’s goal to exhibit her strength. Coretta

Scott King was an activist long before even met her husband, yet none of that is mentioned in the

film. While this misrepresentation could be a reason to distrust DuVernay, it was in order to

create a specific persona of Scott-King. She serves the purpose of humanizing King as well as

herself, but DuVernay did her a disservice by failing to illustrate her years-record of activism

with and without King by her side.

On top of the previous struggle, Coretta has to deal with King’s infidelity, and she is

forced to deal with it publicly as the FBI broadcasts it to the world. However, this moment

showcases a type of activism in the home. Through these battles, Coretta sticks by King’s side

for the sake of the movement. She understands that it would be too much of a strain to deal with

a public scandal, so in the film she chooses to stay silent. Ultimately, “As a mother, daughter,

wife, and activist she is remembered for her unwavering poise and beauty in the midst of

constant threats to her life and family” (Greene 214). These scenes in particular help round out

the remembrance of Coretta and her legacy alongside Dr. King.

Last but not least, DuVernay offers a clear interpretation about the role of Black women

in this movement with the scene in the Birmingham church. In the beginning of the film, four

little girls walk through the church, seemingly in preparation for a service. As they walk down

the steps, they giggle and discuss their hairstyles. As they discuss their hair, not only are they
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excited about it, but they are talking about trying to make their hair look like Coretta. One young

girl says, “I asked my mama can she make my hair like Coretta Scott King” (DuVernay, 2014).

DuVernay uses this moment to show the importance of the King family and their influence,

specifically for young Black children. The girls wear their Sunday best, look gorgeous, and are

happy and carefree until an explosion abruptly ends this moment of purity. These young girls, at

elementary age, cannot even have a simple discussion about a small joy without interruption by

fatality. In Greene’s discussion of this scene, she says, “To construct this powerful sequence,

DuVernay emphasizes the girls’ subjectivity and the crudeness of the bombing. As she invites

the audience into the world of Black girlhood—an experience not often explored in mainstream

media—she interrupts their wholesome images with a devastating explosion” (216). This is a

clear commentary on how Black women, even from a young age, are unable to innocently live

life not only because of the brutality against them, but also because of the expectation to be

strong in the face of trial.

While the film Selma offers an introspective look into the movement, film is not the only

genre that does so. While DuVernay creates a visual that is stunning and effective, John Lewis

takes to a different genre to tell his version of the same story: the graphic memoir. The memoir

has many similarities to the film, especially in these particular scenes. Noting the similarities is

important in the larger conversation because it demonstrates that these narratives have the same

bulk content, but each story is individualized in a way that intensifies the understanding of the

movement. On the National Coalition Against Censorship website, in a resource about graphic

novels prepared by ALA and NCAC, it says, “Today’s graphic novels, however, are a singular

product of the 20th century. In their combination of text and image they are closest to another

major 20th century medium – film. Not surprisingly there is a rich interchange between the two –
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film technique informs graphic novels and, in turn, many filmmakers base their work on comics

or graphic novels” (NCAC, et al). They recognize the importance of these two genres and how

they can function together, which also explains the similarities between the film and the graphic

novel as they offer a visualization of devastating events. While the memoir is certainly rich with

action as well as emotion, I will focus on a few particular components, such as the focus of Black

women, the traumatic scenes, and the optimistic nature.

Similar to the film, in Lewis’ memoir, there is a focus on Black women’s activism. Lewis

often takes time to applaud the activism of Black women throughout this movement. The first

and most obvious being Annie Lee Cooper. In the film, one of the first scenes is Annie Lee

Cooper’s attempt to vote. She serves as a kickstarter figure in the film, but in the memoir, the

Black woman in the beginning trying to register is nameless. While it could be assumed that it is

Annie Lee Cooper, it adds an element of universalization for readers, considering that this

process of voting registration denial was happening every day. However, Annie Lee Cooper is

spotlighted later in the memoir in a larger way. The scene of the courthouse protest is also

depicted in the memoir, and during this scene, over 250 people were picketing outside of the

courthouse. Annie Lee Cooper is brutally attacked by the police. Before the frames that show the

attack, Lewis introduces her, “Annie Lee Cooper. She lost her job in 1963 for participating in our

first Freedom Day in Selma” (164). It sets a heroic tone for her character to understand that she

has already made sacrifices for the movement, and then she is brutally beaten. The next page

further explains her role and says, “The next day, photos to Annie Lee Cooper’s battered face

appeared in newspapers across the country. Some years later, she would be elected to the Selma

City Council” (165). Again, this creates an optimistic effect because readers witness this vicious
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scene with an underlying appreciation that eventually, Annie Lee Cooper reaps the reward for

enduring this. This helps to center Cooper as well as give young readers a glimpse of her impact.

In addition to Annie Lee Cooper, Lewis takes the time to center another woman who

often goes unrecognized by history and is not even featured in the film. Fannie Lou Hamer

played an enormous role in the movement. While it is a brief moment in the memoir, Lewis

dedicates a page to Hamer. He makes a strong claim about her and says, “No person represented

more to was SNCC was attempting to accomplish in Mississippi than a woman named Fannie

Lou Hamer” (47). He discusses some of her actions and then declares, “Afterwards she joined

SNCC and became one of the hardest-working, most dedicated activists I have ever known. In

many ways, Fannie Lou Hamer became the soul of the Mississippi movement” (47). It is quite

significant that Lewis would use such powerful language to describe her, which makes it clear

that he had a clear intention for her feature page. A beautiful image of her sits at the bottom of

the page with a determined facial expression and arms crossed. It is a heartfelt and imperative

tribute to Hamer that explains her dedication to the movement that could be overlooked, but

Lewis made sure that she receives recognition, which in turn, allows people to learn more of the

true history. Another key aspect of learning the true history, much like in the film, is witnessing

the traumatic events of this time period.

The traumatic scenes in the graphic memoir has the same effect of that in the film: it calls

for empathy. Flipping the pages, reading the harsh words, and seeing the events unfold create

this tactile, emotional experience for a reader. In a study on race in adolescent and adult literacy,

Antero Garcia thinks that, “this genre’s inclusivity can be more pronounced in comics. Words

are conceptual, and images are more sensational. When used together, a read can more readily

employ empathy” (Garcia 594). When all of these elements come together, a reader feels inserted
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into the movement. What is particularly poignant about this narrative, specifically with traumatic

events, is that it engages a technique presented by Hillary Chute, in that “the most important

graphic narratives explore the conflicted boundaries of what can be said and what can be shown

at the intersection of collective histories and life stories” (Chute 459). This narrative beautifully

interweaves the actual history along with Lewis’s own personal experiences within them. Lewis

has no reason to filer his experience because it is his story to tell.

To assist this claim, Kathryn Nasstrom presents her work on memory and history, and

particularly, autobiographies of the Civil Rights Movement. Her work reiterates the ideas of

Chute’s, as she says, “History is under assault from autobiography, and, at least as some former

activists have it, memoir trumps history at nearly every turn” (Nasstrom 326). She acknowledges

that these narratives are more concrete, more compelling, and truer to the experience of the

movement. Chute also presents an argument for another narrative, and although she is discussing

two unrelated authors, the argument can be applied to Lewis’s memoir as well. She writes,

“Authors like Spieglman and Sacco, engaged with the horizon of history, portray torture and

massacre in a complex formal mode that does not turn away from or mitigate trauma; in fact,

they demonstrate how its visual retracing is enabling, ethical, and productive” (459). Lewis has a

clear vision of how his graphic memoir will be beneficial in order to reexamine this history

through his candid lens. In an early section, Lewis illustrates some key moments from the heat of

the movement. Starting with President Johnson signing the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which

served to trick people into thinking it was monumental. Lewis does not hesitate to call it as it

was: incomplete. It still did not ban literacy tests and other voting restrictions. He says, “I was

invited to attend the signing ceremony, but I decided to stay in the South. I felt that was where I

belonged. The news from Washington seemed so far away – we were in the middle of a war”
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(Lewis 85). This is a critical note for young readers; they should not be fooled by governmental

action because it often lacks a necessary action, and in this instance, that is a literacy test ban. In

comparison with history textbooks, bills or executive orders, especially in movements like this,

are marked as a milestone. Lewis offers a better perspective by examining what’s missing and

how they will continue to fight, and he is using this instance as a subtle nod to educate readers on

the harmful system in which they are operating. Within the system, it is extremely difficult to

make legislative change, and even when they do, it is most likely insufficient. Because this

action is not enough, they keep fighting and begin plans for another protest.

On the next page, the new protest occurs, in which Lewis participates and is accused by

an officer of being an “outside agitator,” to which he responds “I may be an agitator, but I am not

an outsider. I grew up ninety miles from here” (Lewis 86). The officer quickly and heartlessly

responds, “not in my town” and shouts to his fellow officers “y’all know the drill.” Lewis

explains that these arrests led to an injunction that banned gatherings of more than three people

in Selma, and it specifically named 47 people, including Lewis, as well as 15 organizations,

including SNCC. Song lyrics are woven throughout the page that say, “Woke up this morning

with my mind stayed on freedom.” This adds to the underlying attitude of the activists, knowing

that no matter what, they have no choice but to stay focused on the goal. Lewis strongly ends the

page with “It stopped the Selma movement in its tracks” (87). This is an attention-grabbing

moment following the President signing a bill, as it shows that governmental action, both federal

and local, continues to indicate the movement’s progress. This local action by the officers

hinders the movement, and the activists have to find an inventive way around it. It also creates

anticipation for reader, as they want to quickly flip the page and find out what they’re going to

do.
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However, on the next page, Lewis makes the reader wait in order to focus on another

troublesome situation. He writes, “meanwhile, many of our volunteers in Mississippi were

canvassing for people willing to attempt to register – and to accept the risk that came with it”

(88). It shows two men canvassing, standing on the side of the road, attempting to talk to

enslaved workers about voting. They are visibly nervous as they stutter and sweat and are

quickly interrupted by a white man who is seemingly the plantation owner. The owner says to

them, who are innocently trying to have a conversation, “D’you know Mississippi law allows me

ta shoot trespassers?” as they respond with no, he says “Are you gonna git off this plantation?”

(89). That ending threat closes the scene, and while it is short, it serves a great purpose. Lewis

wants to emphasize the smallest of life-threatening events. These small moments are too

seemingly insignificant to include in textbooks, but with this memoir, Lewis can feature this

story that is not a one-time circumstance, but a rather common occurrence for canvassers in

Selma. Following that incident, it shows a rally and meetings in which the activists are

discussing whether or not they should continue. Lewis includes the numbers, “In Mississippi that

summer we suffered more than 1000 arrests, 80 beatings, 35 shootings, 35 church burnings, and

30 bombings” (91). These are bold and in the middle of the page to draw attention to these

alarming numbers. At the bottom of the page, Lewis explicitly and firmly states,

“Demonstrations must continue. The pressure must be kept on” (91). This position he takes is

controversial and inspiring. It is pivotal for a young reader to not only experience the shock of

those numbers, but to understand fully that Lewis demanded they continue despite the numbers.

It is also important to note that while graphic novels often seem as though they are meant

solely for kids, it still has the ability reach a larger audience. However, Lewis understands that

the readers will be young adults: intermediate, middle, and high schoolers specifically. He writes
 Locke 20

with this in mind, and he says, “if the young people get it, if the young people understand what

happened, how it happened and why it happened, they can influence the adults” (Hughes). He

understands the influence of a generation. With previous generations learning an inaccurate,

shortened version of the Civil Rights Movement history, this is an opportunity to correct that. He

aims to truly educate the younger generations with this novel in a way that is visually pleasing,

action-packed, and enticing for young readers. It, then, creates a cyclical process in society

where educated young people can impact adults, and then the younger people grow into the

adults who then learn from the next generation. It fosters communal learning in order to truly

grasp the history.

Another remarkable device that Lewis uses in this novel is the inspiration for young

people. The memoir is dedicated “to the past and future children of the movement,”

demonstrating that Lewis understands the impact graphic novels have on a younger audience.

Furthermore, “Dedicating the work to its ‘future children’ serves as a direct invitation to the

readership to become part of the group with its many famous individuals and ‘get into good

trouble’” (Schmid 5). Additionally, in an interview with Comics Alliance, Lewis explained that

intention with the novel. He affirms, “I hope that March will imbue people with something – the

young, the very young, and those not so young, will be ready to go out there, and push and pull”

(Hughes). This quote demonstrates that Lewis understands the influence of his novel, but even

by ending it with “push and pull,” it shows that his novel will not sugarcoat the difficulty of the

movement. While it is meant to inspire, he remains candid about the struggle of activism, which

builds a sense of trust between Lewis and the reader. Scholar Nasstrom applauds autobiographers

from this movement, and specifically Lewis, because

 Locke 21

More pointedly, they turn their life stories toward the political end of shaping a public

understanding of the movement that encompasses the expansive movement they

remember and whose remembrance remains vital precisely because the movement is

unfinished to them, its most deeply challenging goals yet to be realized (335).

This fluid representation of the movement calls into question the typical history textbook, which

puts students under the impression that these events are long-gone, of the past, and that racism

and civil rights is no longer an issue in the United States. The narrative from John Lewis, who

was alive during the movement in the 60s, and only passed away in 2020, helps to conceptualize

the idea that the fight is far from over.

In this particular memoir, there is one more element that adds a noteworthy layer to the

process of learning the true history. John Lewis makes a conscious choice to sprinkle in little

pockets of hope throughout the novel by continually interrupting the narrative with a snapshot of

the future. These snapshots include various ways in which progress has been made, and this

creates a nonlinear telling of history that helps students understand the correlation between these

events throughout Lewis’s life. Leading up to one of the most critical, climactic scenes, Lewis is

preparing for the march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge. He is packing his “army surplus

backpack with things I might want in jail” (Lewis 187). It is an intense moment he has with

himself as he is preparing to potentially go to jail, and on the next page, it cuts to the US Capitol

in 2009. A speaker overpowers in a large text bubble, “Ladies and gentlemen – the President of

the United States!” (188). Lewis deems Former President Barack Obama’s inauguration as a

necessary interruption here. It is initially perplexing; however, on the next page, it shows Lewis
 Locke 22

and Obama embracing one another in an amorous hug. In the last frame, Obama writes a note, as

he hands it to Lewis, the reader flips the page to read “Because of you, John” (190). A close

observation discerns that Lewis has tears in his eyes as he reads the note.

The next page immediately flashes back: March 7, 1965 – Selma, Alabama. Lewis has

his trench coat and backpack on with a deeply determined facial expression. The juxtaposition of

these two moments, which are not only historically significant but also profoundly personal for

Lewis, generates a certain effect for readers. The function is twofold: it humanizes Lewis even

further, while also providing a sense of hope. It serves as somewhat of an explanation: this is

why he marched. This is why he kept fighting. Not only does he see the reward for his activism

as he attends the inauguration of the United States’ first African American President, but he also

is personally thanked for his activism. It is an emotional and moving moment of optimism that

Lewis crafts. As Nasstrom reflects, “memories (and by extension memoirs) do not contain

simple and faithful retrievals of the events, experiences, and emotions of the past. They are

instead selective reconstructions informed by present-day circumstances” (334). The reader

understands, now, that when Lewis remembers these two events, they are directly correlated.

When watching a film or reading a story in its traditional, linear form, it often breeds impatience

and frustration at the horrors going on with seemingly no progress. However, Lewis understands

that a reader, especially young, could use some optimism, so he uses his memory to craft these

interruptions that serve as a reminder that while has progress been made, it is still a current issue

to work toward justice.

With a solid analytical foundation of the memoir, now I will move into a conversation

about graphic novels in the classroom, specifically to represent and teach the Civil Rights

Movement. Utilizing graphic novels has many benefits for students, as they are “useful tools in
 Locke 23

classrooms where students are primarily visual learners. They illustrate cognitive and literary

concepts resulting in stronger comprehension of the materials” (Downey 183). This relates back

to the idea that, when teaching history through a graphic memoir, students are bound to have a

deeper understanding of what actually happened. Downey also quotes fellow scholar Crawford,

who specifically recommend graphic novels as supplemental reading to help meet social studies

standards. He says, “A central purpose of social studies is to promote civic competence and

provide young people with the necessary skills and knowledge to become informed citizens”

(185). This is exactly the mission Lewis sets out to accomplish, and therefore, the memoir could

easily be utilized in a classroom.

Another consideration with reading material in the classroom, especially for young

students, is the intimidation factor of reading itself. Many students fear reading, especially if it

does not always come naturally to them. However, with graphic novels, “they are perceived as

less threatening by overwhelmed students, and the pictures can help them grasp the meaning of

the content, learn new vocabulary words, advance the narrative, and be more motivated to read”

(183). Clearly, the benefits are multifaceted and intersectional, and this ultimately helps

educators more. Similar to the film, the visual element helps students envision the events better

than a few photos in a textbook. Additionally, there are psychological benefits which teachers

should be striving to help students accomplish. Of the seven multiple intelligences identified by

well-known psychologist Howard Gardner, three of them (linguistic, spatial, and interpersonal)

can benefit from the use of graphic novels (183). This not only engages multiple types of

learning but is also simply more enjoyable for students. Downey notes, lastly, “What was once

disregarded as a lower form of literature has evolved into a pop culture artifact, then into a tool
 Locke 24

to lure the reluctant reader, and now a medium to increase literacy, comprehension, knowledge,

and creative thinking” (186). The graphic novels evolution serves multiple prevalent purposes.

Furthermore, the use of graphic novels can play an imperative role in encouraging

students to join the fight for social justice. This was clearly one of Lewis’s goals, as he detailed

in interviews, but multiple scholars have engaged in conversation about this. The duo Kasey

Garrison and Karen Gavigan tackle this in their article about using graphic novels to explore

social justice issues—it is a fascinating exploration between the effects mentioned above and the

actual action students might take following a reading. They initially determine, “The

combination of visuals and text in these titles can provide a lens for students to explore and

understand the challenges and injustices of the world around them” (8). As earlier observed, the

memoir gives readers as close to a hands-on experience it can. It is an immersive experience. The

pair specifically mentions the March trilogy and how it is used in secondary schools to teach the

Civil Rights Movement. They discuss how specifically graphic novels that address social justice

issues “also address the racial implications of important events in history that have worked in

part to shape today’s societal tensions. Seeing these issues play out through illustrations,

combined with text offers young adults more information and opportunities to think, react, and

question the historical narrative they may have previously heard and accepted” (Garrison &

Gavigan 11). It demands them to interrogate the version of Civil Rights history they read in their

textbook—especially the depiction of the Messianic King. By using this text as a vehicle, it

makes it so much easier to facilitate conversations in a classroom surrounding race, human

rights, and activism. Additionally, “The dialogue that the civil rights autobiography undertakes

with history is also the key to its potential to revise the grand narrative, as these reveal that the

grand narrative can be rewritten, even by those who lives parts of it” (Nasstrom 362). By
 Locke 25

employing more of these memoirs, films, and firsthand narratives, students can see the ways that

they are interwoven.

One of the most essential moments of Lewis’ memoir is the final page: a phone ringing.

While this is literal for Lewis, as he is answering the call to write this memoir, it is also deeply

symbolic. Considering his intent for a young audience, this is clearly a moment of a call to

action. Similar to the film, it ends with a moment of contemplation, and in a classroom

specifically, a discussion about these endings is necessary. Scholar Aldridge recognizes that

history is sometimes better understood without rigid time periods because it makes it easier to

connect people and events over time. He adds, “Such connections tend to make history more

interesting and relevant to students, who are better able to see the relationship between the civil

rights movement and our present struggles for equality, democracy, and freedom” (673). Lewis

meets this goal in his memoir, and although he presents the story linearly, his tidbits of progress

and snapshots of the future aid students in connecting the past and present.

These two genres, film and graphic memoir, provide a more efficient understanding of

the Civil Rights Movement. In order to protest the white supremacist, revisionist history in many

history textbooks, these mediums must be utilized. An intentional, reflective humanization of

activists within this movement is crucial to a students’ understanding of the weight this

movement and the collective memory of it. Students, and anyone willing to learn, need to see the

raw emotions and experiences of those who led this movement in order to see them as fully

rounded-out people. Additionally, the traumatic scenes breed empathy that is harder to tap into

by simply reading about it. Overall, while both the film and the memoir have similarities in their

depictions, their natures have different effects. The film is slower and more intentional, and the

graphic memoir is more fast-paced and attention-grabbing, which makes it not a question of one
 Locke 26

over the other, but rather understanding the power of using these mediums in conjunction with

one another. A powerful and investigative reading of Civil Rights autobiographies, viewing of

films, and searching other mediums all invite learners to reimagine their understanding of Civil

Rights movement history, who the activists were, and how the understandings ultimately

intersect to inform the present.

 Locke 27

Works Cited

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