Lawrence A. Davies: Shiloh Baptist Church (Old Site), Fredericksburg, Virginia

Click here to hear excerpts from a traditional spiritual sung as a choir processional during the 11:00 a.m. service on September 3, 2006: "Children of God,

keep on marchin',

for one of these days,

we shall be free..."

(MP3 format)

Featured voices are the Senior Choir and Men's Choir of Shiloh Baptist Church (Old Site), with the Rev. Ronald Cooper singing the lead

Shiloh Old Site's History

From Civil Wrongs to Civil Rights

Reflections on the role of Rev. Lawrence A. Davies

in Fredericksburg, Virginia, during the years 1962-1996

An article by Emily Sanderson that appeared in the February 1997 issue of The Free Press

When Lawrence Davies and his wife Janice drove into Fredericksburg in 1962, the first thing that they saw was a restaurant sign that read "No Negroes Allowed."

"When we saw that, we knew how things were going to be," remembered Davies, adding that he was just glad that the sign read "Negroes" rather than one of the more "colorful" synonyms.

But the young couple and their toddler daughters simply ignored the racist welcome and continued down Route 3 toward the church where Lawrence Davies was hired to preach. Fredericksburg was to be their new home, and Shiloh Baptist Church (Old Site) was to be their new community.

The reality of segregation was nothing new to Davies, for he was born under Jim Crow, which ruled Davies' native Houston as surely as it ruled Fredericksburg. Attending segregated schools, drinking from "Colored" water fountains, and sitting at the backs of buses were all part of his upbringing.

But he was never taught to accept it.

"My father never accepted segregation," Davies stated.

He remembered when a white police officer made the mistake of calling his father "boy." His father lit into the officer with such furor that the officer changed his word choice. "He started calling my father 'preacher,' just so he didn't have to call him 'mister.' But my father was not a preacher at all," Davies laughed.

Though he was a young black boy--the son of a chicken breeder--in the 1930s, Davies was raised to believe he could succeed in whatever he chose to pursue. He was told that if he tried hard enough, he could achieve his goals and dreams, just like white children.

"My family was of the impression that being segregated and being black simply meant you had to work twice as hard to get half as far. But if you did it, you could make it. It just required greater effort."

With this in mind, young Davies excelled in school, skipping grades to graduate high school at only fourteen years old. After college, he went on to graduate studies at Howard University's School of Religion.

"My father indicated to me that he never wanted me to work for a white man," Davies recalled with a smile. "And I never have," he chuckled.

In 1962, Fredericksburg was a very different city than it is now. Robinson's Restaurant, which once sat at the corner of Canal and Princess Anne streets, was the only area restaurant that served African Americans. McQuire's Hotel was the only place they could spend the night. And Walker Grant School was the only place they could get an education, for the city's public schools were still stubbornly segregated.

Just three years prior to Davies' arrival, a Caroline County couple was forced to leave the state of Virginia for violating the state's interracial marriage ban. And then there were the hard-core racists...

"One time, members of the Klan were passing out leaflets on the street corners around here, and another time, there was a white supremacy group located in Spotsylvania publishing a newsletter on their views, Davies remembered.

Mary Washington Hospital was staunchly segregated as well. When black patients' conditions became too serious for one of the two black doctors to handle, they could admit their patients to the hospital--but they couldn't go in with them. Black doctors had to assign their patients to white doctors because they weren't allowed on the hospital's staff.

Once admitted to the hospital, all African American patients were confined to one floor.

"The hospital had a policy that all blacks were assigned to the fourth floor--no matter what their illness--and there were white and black rest rooms."

Davies' own children began kindergarten at the segregated black school, a school that got its "new" equipment whenever the white school was done with it.

Under the thumb of segregation, even a moderate-sized city was but a small village. Despite the variety of stores and services, Fredericksburg's African Americans had only a handful of options. They had two doctors, one dentist, a few barbers, and three churches.

"It didn't matter how much was available, because it wasn't available to us," Davies said.

During his first two years in Fredericksburg, Davies labored mainly from the pulpit of Shiloh Baptist Church (Old Site), where he still preaches. While local activists like Gaye Todd Adegbalola organized sit-ins, Davies supported their efforts by working with area ministers.

"The white ministers here were aware and interested in making changes, so we began to work together from the very beginning," Davies said. "We had to organize ourselves and develop strategies that were, as Dr. King would have indicated, nonviolent."

But the African American community still needed a voice in city government. Not only did Fredericksburg have no black city officials, it had only one black employee--a young man in an entry-level position at the public works department.

In response to this scenario, Davies made his debut into political life in 1964 by serving as campaign manager for the first African American to run for Fredericksburg's city council. The candidate, Waldo Brown, finished last in a ten-way race, but he cracked open the door that Davies walked through in 1966 when he became the city's first black councilman at the height of the civil rights era.

"We tried to do things from that point on to bring the community together, and we tried to get the black community to feel more a part of the mainstream," Davies said.

While people like Martin Luther King, Jr., and James Farmer were leading marches, demonstrations, and protests, Davies assumed a different role in the fight for freedom. With tactics more reminiscent of Thurgood Marshall, Davies went to city hall applying political pressure.

"We knew we had to stick to the political route as to avoid great disturbances in the community," Davies said of his strategy.

Though he had little clout in the beginning, he and others were working to unify the black community as a political force in the city. Slowly, his influence grew as he walked the tight rope of desegregation politics.

Then it happened.

On April 4, 1968, the assassin's bullet that killed Martin Luther King, Jr., sent a shock throughout the nation. Like a spark to a powder keg, the assassination set off waves of rioting in cities around the country. Eight people were killed in nearby Washington, D.C., and Fredericksburg's African American citizens could stand it no longer. It was time for change.

City Councilman George Van Sant described that period as Davies' finest hour.

"There were a lot of people wanting to tear up the city, and Lawrence was trying very hard to keep that from happening. He put himself physically at risk to convince those folks to focus their emotions in a different way." Davies planned a memorial service for King and offered that as an outlet to the people's outrage and heartbreak.

The black community was joined by many sympathetic white citizens who were also appalled at King's assassination and tired of the second-class-citizen label that blacks had been forced to wear for so long.

"Dr. King's assassination shocked the consciences of a lot of people, and many people of good will in this community wanted to do something to show their rejection of this way of doing things and their support of the nonviolent approach," Davies said.

Van Sant, who was then a professor of philosophy at Mary Washington College, helped to rally students and residents in a memorial march which he led from Wolfe Street to St. George's Episcopal Church, where the service was held.

"At the service, Lawrence read quotes from Dr. King, and it was a very powerful service," Van Sant remembered. "Fredericksburg was the only city of its size in the state that didn't have any property damage, and Lawrence was responsible for it," he said.

But the memorial service and march were just the beginning of the response following King's killing. Davies and the black community demanded immediate action toward total desegregation.

"When Dr. King was assassinated, it opened up direct dialog with the white community, and we called for a biracial commission. The city did establish the commission with four black and four white members, and they began immediately to seek to open public accommodations," Davies said.

The Biracial Commission began by pressuring the local motels, hotels, and restaurants to desegregate. The NAACP had selected Fredericksburg as the site of its statewide conference that summer, and there was only a short time to prepare. The crowd that the NAACP conference would draw in was never going to fit in McQuire's Hotel or Robinson's Restaurant.

"The vast majority of accommodations here were opened up without the necessity of protests, but before I cam, there had been some sit-ins in the late fifties, which had a great impact. The city had lingering memories of those actions and did not want a reoccurrence," Davies said.

For those segregationists who didn't feel threatened by past memories, the Biracial Commission made house calls.

Whenever we'd get a complaint, we'd go to the business or facility and talk with whomever was in charge. Sometimes we'd have to apply more pressure than others, but our insistence brought about the results," Davies recalled.

"By 1970, there were maybe two signs left that said 'White Only,' they used to be all over the city," Van Sant said.

Slowly, area businesses and facilities began opening their doors, if not their minds. "We never had the support of all the community, of course," Davies acknowledged.

Davies said obstacles to desegregation came in the form of "individual owners who were reluctant to make changes. The white members of the Biracial Commission had leverage that they could apply in terms of the chamber of commerce, which they used to pressure those that resisted change."

Davies stressed that many whites took specific action in the fight to end segregation.

"Students at Mary Washington College were very supportive during those difficult days. On certain occasions, they came en masse to city council meetings to support efforts for change. We were very grateful for their efforts because they made a difference," Davies recalled.

He remembered white citizens were often rebuked for their commitment to the civil rights cause, mentioning two local ministers who suffered to make integration possible.

"Sensing the need for integration, the Methodist Church reverend took a black parishioner into his all-white congregation. Unfortunately, much of his congregation left and never returned as a result. Rev. Thomas Faulkner disgruntled his congregation in the same way, but the ministers continued on doing the right thing."

"We appreciated their willingness to take that stand, even though they had to pay the price," Davies said.

In 1976, the 45-year-old black preacher from Texas ran a race that many people said he could never win. In fact, many area whites considered Davies' run for mayor so preposterous that they didn't even bother to vote.

One black man on an eleven-member city council was one thing, but a black mayor--never.

Although the 1976 mayoral election did show heavy overall voter turnout, most of those lining up at the polls were African Americans, many registered for the first time and committed to the Davies ticket. Meanwhile, many white voters went about their daily business, unaware that the next day would usher in a historical victory and put a black man in charge of Fredericksburg.

The May 5, 1976, newspaper headline in the Free Lance-Star read, "Davies wins mayoralty in century's closest race." Indeed, the election results put Davies ahead by a hair's width: he won by a mere eight votes, which prompted his opponent, incumbent Mayor Edward Cann, to demand a recount. But it was to no avail. Davies had won.

Most white people were shocked.

"I do remember listening to the radio the next morning, and there was one lady who was very distressed. She wanted to know if there were some way we could have another election," Davies recalled with a chuckle.

In truth, Davies' win surprised everyone, even him.

"I thought we'd have a chance at winning the second or third time around, but by the grace of God, we won."

Davies was able to tilt the scales with his solid black support and a 30 percent chunk of the white vote. Though his was a narrow victory, Davies said he "would have been happy to get even one vote from outside the black community." In fact, when he won the 1976 election, an amazed Davies was quoted in the Free Lance-Star as saying he was "grateful beyond expression."

It was the American Bicentennial year, and optimistic words for the future were on everyone's lips. For many, "change" seemed personified in a Baptist preacher who, in a subtle and yet certain way, had invited hope into the hearts of his supporters. After all, he was himself a testament to change. Less than ten years before, he couldn't dine with white people, and now he was the mayor.

Upon entering his first term as mayor, a goal he had obtained by the slimmest of margins, Davies recalled many residents' concerns over how the city would react to him. He wondered how he would be able to command enough support to lead the city.

"Some were uncertain as to how the oil and water were going to mix in those early days," he explained.

But Davies said he felt confident. He'd spent a decade in training on city council, and he said he saw the mayor's office as an expression of that role.

"I felt it was just a matter of continuing what we had begun. People knew my approach to dealing with problems, and they knew that we were going to try to get blacks to feel that they were part of the mainstream. I didn't worry about those who voted against me."

When I interviewed him in early 1997, Davies had only recently completed his fifth and final term as mayor. He still represented Fredericksburg on several state committees. Ever the politician, he treaded lightly when it came to his own personal obstacles in Fredericksburg. Though Davies could name numerous current businesses that wouldn't let him in the door thirty years ago, he declined to list names or share bad memories.

This cautious tact seems to be his political gift. In his reserved manner, he was able to maintain a balanced agenda and a relative calm during difficult times when other Southern cities did not fair so well. Through a keen sense of when to push and when to pull, he was able to quell racial tensions and become one of the most successful political figures in the city's history.

"Lawrence has always tried to maintain balance. His approach to any critical, nasty issue was to get people to stop and talk to each other. He feels and felt just as strongly about racial issues as those who wanted to riot, but he's always kept his cool," said Van Sant.

In 1976, many whites claimed the Davies victory was a fluke. But if Davies' win was a fluke, it was one of five consecutive flukes. He ended up serving an even twenty years as mayor--a city record. Whatever he did that first four-year term apparently worked, because some say he could've been mayor forever if he hadn't retired.

Davies attributed his twenty years in the mayor's office to a steady political path that built his constituents' confidence.

"I just did what I thought was the right thing to do. Though I did make mistakes, they were mistakes of the head and not the heart."

Whether he always did the right thing or not, two things are clear; he did construct a strong coalition of voters, and he did change Fredericksburg forever.

His is not the story of the typical black experience in Fredericksburg. And his is not a story of oppression and degradation, frustration or defeat. His is an extraordinary story of opportunity, tenacity, and victory.

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