Rustin

Things need to change and change now.

Which is why we are staging a protest

at the Democratic National Convention.

And the Republicans are any better?

We plan on challenging them as well.

So you want me to lead 5,000 Negroes into Los Angeles

and disrupt the Democratic Convention?

I'm sorry. I'm not your man.

Who told you you are not our man?

Were you not our man

when you took command of the Montgomery bus boycott

or spoke with such eloquence the night your home was bombed?

You're conveniently forgetting I'm now co-pastor of Ebenezer.

When C.L. first heard you speak, he rang me and said,

"Bayard, there's magic going on down here."

You know what he saw? A star.

And when that star starts to shine brighter than any other,

including the most powerful Negro leaders that came before,

they will do everything in their power

to extinguish your light and put you in your place.

Mrs. Ella Baker, I have received a number of calls

from prominent men within the movement who see no wisdom in these protests.

Men with whom I share a strong kinship.

Not once you leave the room.

Friend, one of my greatest joys is watching you rise.

We need you to lead us into Los Angeles,

where we will most vigorously let Kennedy and the entire Democratic Party know

that unless they show up for our people,

take a stand against segregation, our people will not show up for them.

- Hear! Hear! - Yes! Yes! Yes!

Do this, Martin.

Own your power.

I am pleased to announce

that my friend, Dr. Martin Luther King, will be joining us in Los Angeles.

- Yes! - Yes!

I'm telling you, the best grits ever.

Lest I remind you, I was born and raised in Georgia. My mother was...

Try them.

Hm?

Mm!

Mm.

- How's my beloved Coretta? - Fine.

- And the kids? - Missing you.

Every time I step through that house, "How's Uncle Bayard?"

- Aw. - "Where's Uncle Bayard?"

And those self-appointed noble Negroes of the NAACP?

Roy.

Powell.

I can't wait to hear what they have to say about us making a move on LA.

My convention, my party.

I've spent the past 15 years fighting Dixiecrats in Congress,

going after and winning on everything from poll taxes

to the right to piss in the goddamn Congressional commode.

How dare his Black ass take aim without first coming to me?

Had King reached out, would you have said yes?

Hell, no. That fighting son of a bitch needs to keep down South where he belongs.

I blame Rustin.

Ever since the Montgomery bus boycott,

he's got King thinking he's the second coming.

The hell with Bayard Rustin.

His attention-grabbing antics are the exact opposite

of how policy is altered and laws are changed.

And let's not mention the unmentionable.

No.

I say, say it.

Say it, I say, and say it loud!

Listen to me.

I am phoning the good reverend doctor's office today.

If they don't call this shit off,

the world will know the truth about Martin Luther King and his queen.

And, baby, I do not mean Coretta.

Congressman Powell has done so much for Harlem.

Almost as much as he's done for himself.

But this is a bold-faced lie, and he knows it.

I have to tell Martin. I have...

Yes, I'm well aware of the fact

that Martin is your boss as well as your friend,

but at least let me speak with Bayard first,

as this is certain to disorder his soul most of all!

Me and Martin?

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Brothers, yes.

Besides, he's not my type.

Making threats, talking about going to the white print...

Chief, Chief, you call it trouble. I call it an opportunity.

In response to Powell's reckless accusations,

I'll write a letter tendering my resignation.

When Martin rejects it, we will have forced him to see

who wishes him well and who does not.

- What makes you so sure? - Hm.

- Be... Because I know Martin, sir. - Bayard?

- Sir. - You may know Martin, but...

All will be fine.

I assumed it would just be the two of us.

We thank you for your many years of service.

War Resisters League.

Whoo!

Oh!

Excuse me.

- Hey! My brother. - Blyden.

- Hey! - Hey!

- What's up, man? - What's up, man? Looking good.

Welcome to the party.

Mm.

Good Lordy, Miss Claudia.

Goodness. I'm just gonna squeeze right through here.

I tell you, man, I go south again ,

it's gonna be with a gun in my hand and Brother Malcolm in my heart.

Right.

Hey! What's up, man?

Bayard. Bayard.

Bayard.

Aw.

"For ne'er I saw a true beauty till this night."

Are you talking to the vodka or me?

Whoo!

I take it there was some sort of protest?

Uh, it kinda got derailed, so we invited everyone back here.

NAACP!

- Yeah! - Nice.

Obscure fact about Miss Ella Baker,

early champion of SNCC.

She's Al Capone when it comes to cards.

Tonk, Bid Whist, Crazy Eights.

You're marvelous and have absolutely no idea who I am.

Like you know what I know?

Ice.

Uh, who is that?

Doors barricaded...

tires slashed.

No escape.

Firebombs thrown inside.

Folks started screamin'.

I finally get out.

I'm on the ground.

This white man...

takes this pipe

and hits me...

over and over.

I'm so sorry.

Like we give a shit you sorry.

It's probably one of your uncles or cousins with that pipe.

- I was raised in Brooklyn. - Listening to this shit?

- Why would I have cousins in Alabama? - White boy talking shit.

Tom isn't like that.

Bet you these two are card-carrying members

of Martin-de-Lawd's nonviolence jamboree.

So let's play. I'll be the redneck.

Beat you so bad your body starts to scream.

Beat you like they beat Tyrone.

Beat you till you're calling for your mama.

Whoa, hey!

I'm the one that's been preaching passive resistance

since before you were born.

- So hit me. - Bayard, I can take care of myself.

The pacifist is opposed to using violence, but must be prepared to receive it.

Only aim left.

A policeman in '42 already took care of the right.

Symmetry.

I hear when King said "git,"

you tucked your tail between your legs and swished away.

You're irrelevant.

It's Friday night. I've been called worse.

So, what are you gonna do?

Offering my face as a punching bag to a would-be Sugar Ray wasn't enough?

I am talking about the party.

A party is hors d'oeuvres, laughter, mambo for Latin lovers on the hi-fi.

Earlier today, a fight almost broke out.

It did not used to be like that.

And now it is like that all the time. SNCC, CORE, the NAACP kids,

we're all fighting over agendas and slogans and songs.

- And you know who's winning? - Something tells me I'm about to find out.

Bull Connor in Birmingham, Strom Thurmond on the Senate floor.

While we all snap and snarl and eat each other alive.

- So, what are you gonna do? - I already have a job.

Muste and I have worked together off and on since I was in my twenties.

The man hates you because you possess everything that he does not,

charm, passion, a goddamn pulse.

Tom, you've yet to learn it is unwise to speak of that which you do not know.

Why don't you just admit that you're still upset

over what happened between you and Dr. King,

and so you will use any excuse,

including working a job that you hate...

- Irrational. - ...to avoid a cause that you love?

You're smart about some things, not about everything.

I can have an opinion.

And when it comes to my life, my past, especially as it relates to Martin,

I have the right to say, "Enough!"

Last time I checked, that was illegal.

Last time I checked, so were we.

- I've had an idea. - Hm.

Wanna be my assistant again?

Of course.

Give me the Randolph/Truman '48 folder.

In that trunk over there.

Thirty years ago, Gandhi walked to the sea,

picked up a handful of salt,

and inspired a movement that brought down an empire.

The time has come for us to do the same.

We are going to put together