I was a freshman at Swarthmore College, Pennsylvania, when I first encountered the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, and it changed my life. I used to catch a bus at weekends to Cambridge, Maryland, to work with an inspirational civil rights activist called Gloria Richardson (no relation), who was working with SNCC – pronounced “snick” – to desegregate the city’s public places. I liked the sound of SNCC’s work, so I left Swarthmore, supposedly for one semester, to work at its national office in Atlanta. I never went back.

I grew up in New York state, where my father was a respected union man. The racism I encountered was palpable but subtle: teachers in seventh grade trying to put me in secretarial college, even though I was bright; people I did babysitting for assuming I’d do the dishes (they would never ask that of a white girl). There was no blatant segregation, but people would make it uncomfortable for you. Despite this, I grew up thinking the police were on my side. The south was different; it was racist and segregated, even after the Civil Rights Act of 1964, and I knew I could be arrested for the slightest thing.

I could type at 90 words a minute and do shorthand, so I made myself useful in the SNCC office. It was a hub of activism, filled with brilliant black people who knew how the world worked. I learned more there than I ever would have at college. It was an inclusive organisation; they valued everybody and made group decisions. I was never made to feel stupid, even though I was 18 and pretty naive. I learned the importance of checking your facts, and developed a strong sense of self. And I realised that if you do nothing, nothing changes.

We staged regular sit-ins, like this one photographed by the great Danny Lyon, in all-white restaurants like this Toddle House. They followed a similar pattern: the staff got angry and refused to serve you; the police arrived and asked you to leave; we refused, and went limp as we were taken to the county jail. I would be detained for five or six days, but I had it easy: I was never beaten.

We made $9.64 a week, and were fed and housed by local families or in dorms paid for by the office. We’d often have parties to let off steam.

Today, young black men are still arrested for no reason, but thanks to social media people can film arrests and hold the police to account. I understand people’s anger, and that throwing a brick will make you feel better. But my advice to black teenagers is to do something constructive: get involved in local organising; go into schools and give tutorials. Think: “What will most help my community right now?”

I’m now a documentary film-maker, activist and work with universities. I’m also a director of the SNCC Legacy Project. I’ve written about the dangers of focusing on the heroics of individuals in the civil rights movement, such as Dr King, as I think it’s more important to focus on ordinary folk. If you believe it’s only amazing people who are doing great things, you don’t realise you can do it, too. The reason people teach the great man theory is it immobilises you: then they’ve got you.

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