The Fat Girl Marches on Selma - Part II
In the spring of 1965 when the problems in Selma erupted, my college friend, Audrey Lazlo, and I packed overnight bags and hopped on one of the buses leaving for the beleaguered city. Participating in the march on Selma, albeit mostly from the kitchen of a church in D.C., was one of the great distinctions of my life. Not only because race relations were high on my list of concerns, but also because soon after, Audrey disappeared for a month. We never found out exactly what happened, but this was a time when women lived in a climate of fear and suspicion when it came to women’s healthcare, something women feel in red states now, 60 years later.
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In time, I became best friends with Audry, too. She was incredibly wise and learned. If I had a problem of any sort – with a grade, a class, an assignment, a person – the first place I would go was to Audry. Inevitably I would find her sitting cross-legged on her bed, holding court. We were only a few short weeks into the term and already her reputation as a problem-solver had spread; if you wanted to consult Audry, you’d best make an appointment or join the queue outside her door.
Audry and I had two things in common: we both spoke fluent French and we both were originally from Great Neck, an affluent town on the North Shore of Long Island that, at the time I lived there (which was only till I was five years old), was filled with well-to-do German Jewish refugees who had escaped the Nazis. My parents had fled Germany in 1938 and were quick to establish themselves, meeting in New York in the early 1940s and marrying shortly after. Audry’s parents were American-born, her father a doctor named Benjamin Lazlo, of Russian Jewish descent, her mother a Southern Baptist who’d grown up somewhere in Louisiana.
Since neither Audry or I ever had boyfriends, we spent a lot of time together.
In the spring of 1965, when the problems in Selma erupted, Audry came to find me in my room, suggesting we quickly pack overnight bags and hop on one of the buses leaving for the beleaguered city.
It wasn’t until we were in Chicago that I called my parents from a payphone, informing them of what I was about to do. Their reaction was instantaneous. “Don’t you dare do that!” they shouted. “We forbid you! It’s too dangerous!” Usually I was a good girl who did as my parents said, but in this instance I rebelled. After all, they were eight hundred miles away and there wasn’t much they could do. So, gritting my teeth and sweaty-palmed with anxiety, I climbed back on the bus – where we were told that this particular vehicle, filled to the brim with excited students, had been rerouted to Washington D.C.
Cover photo: Pedestrians at 3rd & Pike