As the two of us led the march across Selma’s Pettus Bridge on March 7, 1965–“Bloody Sunday”–a group of white men came toward us. Hosea looked at me and said, “John, can you swim?” I could not. Neither could he. “There’s too much water down there,” I said. “We’re not going to jump, and we’re not going back.” Together, we went forward.
All the way to Montgomery, eventually. And Hosea, more than anyone else, was at the head of that effort. He organized the unorganized, registered the unregistered, helped drag the issues into the light so we could deal with them. He was a man of faith. A man of hope.
