August 12, 1963

Dear Diary,

Another scorching day in Birmingham. It feels like the heat is pressing down on everything, making everything heavier, even the air. Mama says it’s a sign of the times, but I think it’s just August in Alabama. Still, it’s hard to ignore the way things are changing, even for a twelve-year-old like me.

Yesterday, I saw Mr. Johnson get turned away from Woolworth's lunch counter downtown. He just wanted a cup of coffee. Just like anyone else. But they wouldn't serve him because of his skin. It made my stomach churn. Mr. Johnson's been a fixture in our neighborhood since forever. He always has a kind word and a piece of candy for us kids. Seeing him treated like that… it felt wrong, Diary. Just plain wrong.

Mama and Papa say we have to be brave. They've been attending meetings at the church every week, planning peaceful protests. Papa even talks about marching. I get scared thinking about it. I've seen the newsreels. I've heard the stories. The police dogs, the fire hoses… it's terrifying. But Mama says silence is worse. She says if we don’t stand up for what’s right, who will?

My best friend, Sarah, isn't allowed to play with me anymore. Her parents don't want her associating with "troublemakers," which is what they call my family now. It hurts, Diary. It really hurts. Sarah and I used to spend hours together, playing dolls and making up stories. Now, she just looks the other way when I see her on the street.

I try to stay hopeful. Mama reads us stories from the Bible every night, about courage and faith. She says God is watching over us, and that justice will prevail. I want to believe her. I really do.

Tonight, I heard Papa talking to Uncle James about the Children’s Crusade. Apparently, they’re planning to have kids march in the next protest. Kids! Like me! I don’t know how I feel about that, Diary. Part of me wants to be brave, to stand up for what’s right. But the other part… the other part is just plain scared.

I guess that’s all for tonight. I need to try and get some sleep, even though my head is buzzing like a beehive. Maybe tomorrow will be a little bit better. Maybe tomorrow, the heat won’t feel so heavy.

Goodnight,

Your friend,

Thomas