The Song of Freedom

Franklin Press pulled himself up onto the most sturdy branch of the weeping willow, feeling the morning breeze blow over his face. That cool, crisp springtime breeze of Birmingham, Alabama. Just yesterday at around the same time, Franklin's older brother, Miles, had joined him in the branches of the willow tree.

"Feel that, Franklin? That's the wind of change, brother," he had said, "I swear to you, one day, we will truly be given freedom."

Freedom.

That's a word his brother used often. A word that felt strange on Franklin's tongue. Freedom. For a negro boy in 1963, freedom was a sweet nectar that Franklin had never tasted. The prejudice and segregation of the south bound the African American population just as the chains of slave-owners had many years ago.

A more powerful gust of wind gently shook the branch on which Franklin was perched upon, causing him to lose his balance just slightly. He steadied himself and then shifted into a more comfortable and stable position on the limb of the tree. The Weeping Willow was where Franklin came to think, where he came to escape the turmoil that echoed through the city. The Willow was the only place where his mind was clear, the only place he could make important decisions like the one that faced him now.

The date was the second of May. Earlier in the morning, Shelley the Playboy on WENN had given the signal that today was the day. D-day, the other kids were calling it. Franklin didn't know what he was going to do. He didn't want to go to jail, but his friend, Kenneth, had announced that this was a risk that he would happily take. Kenneth had been trying to convince Franklin to join the march for weeks, repeatedly asking him, pestering him, to make a decision. Franklin wanted the freedom his brother spoke about so often. He wanted to be able to do the things that only white men could do. He wanted to drink from the same water fountains, eat at the same diners, shop at the same stores. He wanted these so-called winds of change to pass over Birmingham, to mend the wounds and slashes that had been carved into the souls of the innocent by prejudice and segregation. But still, though Franklin longed for equal rights, for liberty, a battle raged deep inside him. How could Franklin, just a mere negro boy trying to learn his way in life, make a difference? How could he change the tides of a failing rebellion against hate when so many had tried and failed?

Franklin heard footsteps coming towards the willow tree. He slowly swung down to a lower branch causing the tree to rustle slightly and saw that it was his mother walking along the narrow dirt path from the backdoor of their small house toward the tree.

"Franklin," She called out, peering through the dense leaves of the weeping willow, "Is that you up there?"

"Yes, Mama," Franklin replied while carefully grabbing onto a different branch and testing its weight before using it to drop down onto a lower limb, "I'm coming down."

"Breakfast is almost ready, hon, you better come inside and wash up." She said while turning and beginning to walk back towards the house. Life was hard for Franklin's mother. Franklin's father had left them before he was born and she was forced to work for minimum wage at the soap factory to support Franklin and Miles. It was almost impossible for a black woman in the deep south to get a well-paying job, as they were all reserved for the white people. Franklin wished he could do something to help his mother, but as far as he knew, it was completely out of his control. That seemed to be a reoccurring problem for Franklin, knowing that he couldn't make a difference yet still knowing that things wouldn't change if he didn't try.

Franklin jumped off of a lower branch and braced himself as he hit the ground. Standing up, he brushed off his jeans and began to shuffle down the path to his small house, kicking a small pebble along with him. When Franklin reached the back door, he pulled off his worn-out shoes and stepped inside. The small house carried a fragrance of melting butter and fresh bread right out of the oven. Franklin walked into the kitchen to be greeted by Miles who was already sitting at the table, eating his breakfast and reading a book. Franklin's mother was at the small wooden counter that was placed under the window, spreading butter over a piece of toast. Franklin pulled out a chair and took his seat next to his brother, still thinking about the march. Outside, Franklin could hear the springtime birds singing. Franklin's mother put his breakfast before him on the table and cleared her throat, rousing him from his thoughts.