I’d been a VISTA volunteer back in Arkansas three years earlier. Now, in 1968, with a Civil Rights leader murdered and many American cities in flames, my memories returned to Arkansas and to things I found as shocking as the assassination.

I was 18 years old when I joined VISTA and had just finished my first year at UCLA (University of California, Los Angeles), majoring in International Relations. I joined because, as a recent immigrant from Canada, I could not join the Peace Corps. I also joined VISTA because, as corny as it sounds, I wanted to help make the world a little better.

My family felt a mixture of pride and anxiety with me leaving college and home. They expressed more concern when they learned I was assigned to Arkansas, which at the time was infamous for its prejudices and its governor’s celebrated stand against the integration of a Little Rock high school.

I was assigned to Paris, Ark., with Mary Ann Smerdel. We were two white 18-year-olds, she from Indiana and I from California. It was the time of the Civil Rights Movement, and in Arkansas “out-of-staters” meant “agitators.” We were two non-southerners in a world where teenage girls either lived at home or were married, and here we were, two kids representing the not-too-popular government. We were placed in this town without transportation or a job and in humidity we’d never experienced. Fortunately for us, fellow VISTA volunteer Jossie Hughes, a retired writer, was assigned to a town a few miles away and we could see her periodically.

Paris, Ark., was like a movie set. It was a small town (population: 3,000) built around a town square. It was in that town square that I had my first exposure to the layers of prejudice in the South. Segregation was everywhere. “Whites Only” signs hung on park benches and water fountains, and the seemingly more innocuous “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone” messages were posted on restaurant windows. What surprised me more, however, was seeing black people get off the sidewalk to let a white person go by. I was outraged then, and I still am, to think that these wide, wooden sidewalks that framed the town square were a means of keeping some people “in their place.”

Another event occurred a few weeks later that was equally as shocking. Mary Ann and I attended an introductory luncheon with VISTA bigwigs and some local Arkansas officials. One member of the Arkansas contingent was African American. He did not join us for lunch, but rather ate in the kitchen. In Canada and California I had read about segregation in schools, but never imagined it extended that far. I’ll never forget my shock.

It was the memories of these events that gave me perspective during the turmoil in the days after King’s assassination. It is probably this perspective that affected my career choice. I decided to pursue a graduate-level degree in history. Taking a cue from the Civil Rights Movement, I studied social change and how people come together to fight for their rights. Even during our training, we VISTA volunteers had a sense that history was being made. Later, working on my doctorate degree, I studied those who were making it.

While in Paris in 1965, Mary Ann and I organized a clothing drive, accompanied a welfare worker on her rounds, and finally made friends with some of the young people of the area. We had little to do in Paris, and many of its citizens were wary of us, a situation further aggravated when a black VISTA volunteer from out of state visited us. So we moved to Scranton, Ark. (population: 229) and worked as VISTA volunteers in Head Start and the grade school. We fit in better in Scranton, which was a small German Catholic community (Mary Ann and I were both Catholic).

In Scranton, our involvement with Head Start was fun. We loved the kids. We worked with the teachers and coordinated transportation to the school. Because both the government and the town wanted to get this program implemented, all children in this small, white community were part of the program. Its immediate success allowed us to “work our way out of the job.” We then became involved with the grade school system. In Arkansas, this was an era before any special school programs. Students either sank or swam. Mary Ann and I worked with students who needed help—we tutored, we encouraged, and we made friends. We worked in concert with the Superintendent of Schools and the teachers. With Jossie’s help, we also linked teenagers with possible employers.

The spirit behind the movements for social change that blossomed during that era’s War on Poverty was immensely important. I think we made a positive impact in Scranton because we bridged the gap between the community, which was wary of the federal government, and the federal government itself. We helped the community understand that the federal government was waging the War on Poverty on the community’s behalf.

Before we left, the citizens of Scranton called us to the school gym for a surprise “Thank You” award ceremony. Mary Ann became such a part of the community that she stayed there and married a local boy.

I left Arkansas with a greater belief in my abilities and a better understanding of different kinds of people. I eventually returned to UCLA, got my doctorate in history and now teach a university course on the United States in the 1960s, in which I incorporate my experiences with the War on Poverty and my memories of the Civil Rights Movement.

Today my students often ask me what they can do when they graduate. I tell them about AmeriCorps and encourage them to discover its possibilities.

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