(bench creaks) - Let me tell you a story, a story about my father, Otis Moss Sr. (gentle strings music) (birds chirping) It's the story of my father's determination to exercise his right to vote.

One morning in the fall of 1946, he got up, determined to cast his ballot.

My father was a farmer, a sharecropper in the rural South.

He served in the military during the First World War; always a man of dignity, quiet courage, and determination.

Our mother, his devoted wife, had died at an early age, and my father struggled as a single parent of five children.

- I'm going to vote today.

(singer vocalizing) (birds chirping) - [Otis Jr.] We were amazed, excited that our father is about to do something really significant.

- [Son] Go vote, Papa!

- Bye, Papa!

- Vote 'em out!

- Yeah, go get 'em!

- We love you!

- We love you.

Go get 'em!

(children kindly cheering) Good luck!

Bye!

Love you!

- Love you, Papa!

- [Son] Take care!

Go vote 'em out!

- [Otis Jr.] He walked from the house well-dressed, well-groomed, six miles to the town center.

Now, in every age, things have been introduced to keep certain people from voting, especially Black people.

We knew the racism, the hatred, the injustice represented in Governor Eugene Talmadge.

- [Talmadge] And some of the Negros revoked.

If I'm your governor, they won't vote in our white county in the next four years!

(crowd cheering) - [Otis Jr.] He was well aware of all of the dangers, toys, snares, and roadblocks to keep him from voting, but he was willing to face all of that and exercise his right to vote.

He did not know what the experience would be for him on that day, but he was well aware of what was taking place all over the South at that very moment.

(people chattering) (register dings) - [Worker] Mr. Goldsmith, my best to your family.

- Sir, I'm Otis Moss, and I'm here to vote.

(paper rustles) - [Worker] What did you say your name was?

- Otis Moss.

- Otis, it looks like you've come to the wrong polling place.

You need to go over to the Mountville School.

- I have a letter here from the county stating that I vote here.

(paper rustles) - People from your side of town are to vote in Mountville.

You're supposed to get a letter, but the mail's been slow this past few weeks.

Now, did he come in?

Have you seen him?

- [Man] I think he came here a little earlier.

- May I have my letter back?

(workers quietly chattering) (bench creaks) - Let me tell you a story about my grandfather.

He'd already walked six miles to the first polling place.

Now, he's being told, "You've come to the wrong place": a clear and blatant lie.

Now, he has to go to the Montville School.

The Montville School is in a different city.

I imagine as my grandfather walked, the sounds of the world crept into his ear: "You are a second-class citizen."

"You are three-fifths of a person."

"You are nothing but a Negro."

But in his spirit, he heard his faith and the Psalm say, "Ain't gon' let nobody turn me around."

Not just walking, but marching to the next polling place.

He steps through the doors of the Montville School, unsure of what he will face.

- Absolutely.

- Bless you.

Yes?

- I'm here to vote.

I was sent here from the La Grange Courthouse.

- You are in the wrong place.

You supposed to vote at the Rosemont School.

- No.

The clerk from the courthouse said I was to come here.

- I don't know about that, but I know you supposed to vote at the Rosemont School.

- Ma'am.

(bench creaks) - Let me tell you the story of my great-grandfather.

Because of the color of his skin, he was held back from voting, voting, a basic right of his, one of his freedoms.

And because of the way he looked, he wasn't allowed to.

Despite the next polling place being six more miles, despite the disappointment and the anger and the frustration, his determination, strong-will and dream to vote outweighed any disappointment that crossed his mind.

- Boy, I sure am sorry, but the polling place closed.

Now, if you would've been here five minutes earlier, we woulda let you in.

(deep somber music) (deep somber music continues) (deep somber music continues) (deep somber music ends) - Wounded, but never give up.

Denied, but never accepting that denial.

Insulted, but refusing to accept the insult inwardly and thereby setting an example and a memory for generations unborn.

Just a few years after that, our father was killed in an automobile accident.

Fast-forward.

I became a participant in the Civil Rights Movement and the Voting Rights movement, and joined Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in the Selma march, witnessed the signing of the Voting Rights bill, 1965.

That was a great moment.

It was a great victory in the civil rights struggle; it was a great accomplishment.

However, no one could dig up our father's bones and put a ballot in his hand.

Some things are beyond repair.

(intense strings music) (birds chirping) - [Children] Did you vote?

- Give Papa a minute.

(singer vocalizing) Next time.

Next time.

Listen here, promise me, if you get a chance, you gotta vote.

(intense music swells) (intense music fades) - One of the remarkable moments in my life and in my memory is taking my son, Otis III, to vote.

I paused on my side of the curtain in proudful silence and listened for Otis III punch his ballot.

That became music, freedom music, liberation music, the sound of my father's footsteps, trying to cast his vote.

(deep music) (deep music continues) ♪ Walk with me, Lord ♪ (catchy music) ♪ Walk with me ♪ ♪ Walk with me, Lord ♪ ♪ Walk with me ♪ ♪ While I'm on ♪ ♪ This tedious journey ♪ ♪ I want Jesus to walk with me ♪ ♪ Walk with me, Lord, walk with me, Lord ♪ ♪ Walk with me, Lord ♪ ♪ Would you walk with me ♪ ♪ While I'm on ♪ ♪ This tedious journey ♪ ♪ I want Jesus to walk with me ♪ ♪ Walk with me, Lord ♪ ♪ Be my freedom ♪ ♪ Be my friend, Lord ♪ ♪ Be my friend, Lord, would you be my friend ♪ ♪ While I'm on ♪ ♪ This tedious journey ♪ ♪ I want Jesus to be my friend ♪ ♪ Would you be my friend, Lord ♪ ♪ Walk with me, Lord, walk with me, Lord ♪ ♪ Walk with me, Lord, walk with me ♪ ♪ Would you walk with me ♪