Elizabeth Freedland McGowen, of Shepherdstown, protests against white silence in Charles Town. Courtesy photo

SHEPHERDSTOWN — Upon entering the foyer of the home in which I grew up, one was confronted by two boldly framed quotations: “The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in a time of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality” (Dante) and “There are men who would even be afraid to commit themselves on the doctrine that castor oil is a laxative” (Camille Flammarion).

Growing up in a Jewish upper class suburban Philadelphia neighborhood, there were other obvious indications that my parents were “different” from the parents of my friends — while most of my friend’s parents were playing golf at local country clubs, my mother chose to spend a great deal of her spare time reading and educating herself on local and world politics. She wrote letters to elected representatives and newspaper editors, and she seemed compelled to speak out by telephoning radio talk shows. My mother often took unpopular, dissenting stands on issues in which she so strongly believed. We children were reminded of our many relatives who were persecuted and then killed by the Nazis, and we were certainly made aware of pain and suffering throughout the world. In no uncertain terms, she wanted true liberty and justice for all!

My mother was also in the forefront on environmental issues (Rachel Carson of “The Silent Spring” fame was one of her heroes), and she was gardening organically and composting long before those terms became mainstream.

My mom was a proud member of Women Strike for Peace and Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom; between marches and vigils that my mother attended, our enclosed porch near the front door was sometimes used as a storage area for anti-(Vietnam) war and Civil Rights protest signs. As a typical easily-embarrassed teenager who wanted to be just like her friends, I found myself making excuses to hang out at other kids’ houses, rather than risk having my peers see anything “strange” in my home. My nonconformist parents tried often to get me interested and involved in current events, but at 13, I was more concerned with my name-brand clothing and the opinions of my peers. I was just thankful that my parents never forced me to go with them to any event more political than a Pete Seeger or Odetta concert . . . and certainly not to any protest marches . . . that was, until Aug. 28, 1963!

I don’t think my mom even gave us any advance notice of this event. She just woke my brother and me up at the crack of dawn and enthusiastically demanded, “Get dressed! I have three bus tickets for the March on Washington today. We have to get on the bus in two hours.”

When the three young Freedom Riders were murdered by the Ku Klux Klan, McGowen's mother wrote sympathy notes to their families. Pictured is a response from the Goodman family. Courtesy photo

“What march? When will we be home? I don’t want to go!” I screamed.

“You are going!” she said. “I don’t care if you don’t want to go. You have no choice. This is more important than anything you have planned for today. Some day you will be proud to have been a part of this march, and you will tell your children, and they will be proud of you! No arguments. Get dressed. We can’t be late for the bus!”

And that was that.

As we drew close to Washington, D.C., we saw what seemed to be hundreds of other buses. I can recall certain parts of the day vividly. I was awestruck at the reflecting pool, where I saw a vast rainbow of well-dressed people, of all ages and colors. I remember the strength and clarity of Martin Luther King Jr.’s powerful voice during his now-famous speech. And, I remember wondering how so many people could stand so still in that steamy heat, and maintain silence throughout his speech.

On our long walk back to the bus, my mom suddenly called out, “Look! There’s Joan Baez! Come on!” She grabbed both my brother and myself by the hands and flew across the street. Sure enough, we found ourselves standing in front of Joan Baez, who was wearing a patchwork sleeveless dress, walking barefoot as she carryied her guitar case in one hand and her sandals in the other. My mother threw her arms around her, and after hugging her, she thanked her for all she was doing to further the cause of peace and civil rights. I couldn’t have been more embarrassed.

A letter from First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt was written to Sylvia Reiter Freedland, one month after she took her children to the March on Washington. Courtesy photo

The rest of the day is a blur. For years, I didn’t tell any of my young friends where I had been that day, but as my wise mother had predicted, the day came when I began to tell everyone. When my own children were old enough to understand, I told them the story of how “MomMom” took me to the famous March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, where we heard Martin Luther King Jr. deliver his “I Have a Dream” speech.

“Wow,” my kids said. “You were there?”

“Yes,” I said, “I was there, and guess what? The day of the march, MomMom told me that some day I would be proud to have been a part of that march, and she knew that when I told my children, they would be proud of me!”

Over the past 30 years or so, I have participated in many marches and vigils. I have written many letters to our elected representatives and letters to the editor. That Dante quotation now hangs in my own home. My mother, Sylvia Reiter Freedland, died in 2005, but her influence continues to set an example for me, my children, my friends who had the privilege of knowing her and many others for generations to come. I know now that my mother’s lifetime of activism was her way of exercising her First Amendment rights, and displaying the courage of her convictions. Without my realizing it, my parents were using their own activism to teach their children (subtly and not-so-subtly) from an early age to get involved and take a stand for what they believed in.