Benjamin Cooper, 1960

Getty Images

“Benjamin Cooper” – ever heard that name before? Ring any bells? Probably not, I guess. But there’s a good story behind that name. I know you like the sound of those African-American names…they kind of conjure a certain vibe, don’t they? Kind of give you the chills, right? Those names are full of old tales most folks don’t know about. All you people would be lucky to have a friend like Benjamin Cooper. How come, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. The day you can say you know Ben Cooper, that’s the day all your friends will look at you with respect. Now, I know Benjamin Cooper, that’s for sure, because Ben Cooper is me.

I’m a war veteran, and a black man. I fought on the front lines. The real ones, mind – I’m saying I was one of the first to land on Normandy, aboard a GMC 353 Amphibious Landing Vehicle. Ain’t that a mouthful? We just called it the Duck. I had orders. I had a duty. My ears was full of gunfire, Nazis shooting all around. I could feel the Duck pitching from side to side. I still get nightmares about it today, tell you the truth. Sometimes I wake up in the night feeling seasick. Gotta smoke a dozen cigarettes before I can get back to sleep. War leaves a mark, you know. Those scars will always be there. I remember all the details. The weather was raging. The sky was gray, the sea was angry, and you couldn’t see two paces in front of you. Fog so thick you could cut it with a knife. My heart was pounding in my chest. Knees like Jell-O. Could barely keep hold of my gun.  I felt like Uncle Sam had sent me to the slaughterhouse; just an old steer walking blind into the saw blades. But it was worse than that. I was at the very front of the landing vehicle, of course, being black and all. Behind me on the Duck I could see all those doe-eyed white boys, their prayers being swept up into the wind that cut around their pale faces. I was the same age as them, barely twenty. We were just kids. Before the war I had ambition. I was on my way up, and wanted to be a farmer. Was going to buy me a piece of land back in America, but destiny had other plans. I was conscripted to the front lines, and all those dreams went up in smoke. Sometimes when I’m out walking around Washington, I head over to the Lincoln Memorial. I’m American! I’m a black man! And I fought in the war.

When the Duck hit dry land, we ran out into that hell. What could I do? Was I going to be a man of action? The Nazis had machine guns, and we couldn’t see where they were hiding. On that beach in Normandy I saw guys get their heads blown clean off. Arms torn to shreds, bodies that didn’t even look human any more. Nobody expected an atrocity like that. The German defense was so strong, so unexpected that the Marines were falling before they were even out of the water. They died piled on top one another. I tell you, it was worse than a slaughterhouse. You imagine that? In the slaughterhouse the cattle walk in Indian file up to the guillotine. They chop their heads off and skin ‘em, then take all the meat off. That’s efficient capitalism, you see. White folks figured out they could make the cattle go up in lots of lines at a time. That’s what D-Day was like. I was in the front line, and I knew I was going to die. But here I am, still alive. Not a single bullet touched me. Kind of a miracle, if you ask me. Once our mission was done, Europe was delivered from under the devil’s axe. I came back to the States then, and felt like I still had some fight left in me. You see, calling up Benjamin Cooper to go to war, that’s one thing. But recognizing Benjamin Cooper as an American was another. That’s why I was talking about the Lincoln Memorial – it’s a place of pilgrimage for me. I pray before the statue of the president who was assassinated, to show my gratitude for black liberty.

It was on February 1st, 1960. Keep that date in mind. I was the man who started the sit-ins all across the country. I got up one fine morning in Greensboro, North Carolina, and decided to go and have my coffee and read a few pages of my Bible in a diner that was for Whites only. See, you didn’t believe me when I told you that Benjamin Cooper started all those sit-ins all across the country. That day, I walked right into the diner with all those racist white folks staring at me. I sat down at the counter and ordered a coffee. It was a segregated restaurant, of course; I wasn’t allowed to sit down in there. The waitress came over straight away, and told me: “We don’t serve niggers in here!” The black woman mopping the floor muttered “Damn fools!” in response. I felt sorry for her; I think she might have lost her job for saying that. She had no power there. Then the owner, Mr. Harris, came out and spoke to me all polite. “Sir, you are bothering the other customers. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave before I call the police.” That was the least of my worries. Mr. Harris didn’t call the police. I stayed on that stool until the restaurant closed. Nobody served me. But a lot of people heard about what I did, and started doing the same. Black college kids called it a “sit-in”, and started doing it all over the country. They went into places where Blacks weren’t allowed to go, and protested peacefully. They stayed for hours, and bothered themselves lots of customers. It caused a whole ruckus. I even wrote a letter to the president:

“Dear Mr. President, My name is Benjamin Cooper, and I’m a black man from Greensboro, NC. I’ve gone into the whites-only restaurant in Greensboro many times now. When I go in I try to order coffee, but the waitresses refuse to serve me because I’m black. I call upon you to end discrimination in our land. I believe that God will give you strength, and will guide you toward an answer to this problem.Sincerely yours, Benjamin Cooper.”

A few years later, in 1964, the Civil Rights Act imposed desegregation in all public establishments.

Alan Alfredo Geday