in 1979.

"The response was much different," he said. "The mayor, the governor, the leaders of Charlottesville all quickly came to the defense of those who were brutalized and abused. Nothing approximating that happened in Greensboro. And we were quickly isolated and alone."

Death threats led Johnson and his family to move from their house in the woods on the edge of the city to a home with several other families. He couldn't find a job. About 20 pro-labor protesters who had jobs in the Greensboro area were fired and left town, he said.

The attack came at a time when the WVO was "building the strongest black unity in the history of Greensboro," Johnson said. It destroyed the CWP, which changed its name once again before folding.

"If somebody could havetold me that I would have become a pariah in this city, I just wouldn't have believed it," he said. While listening to a radio show, he heard callers say that his death would have been the best outcome of the Greensboro massacre.

It has taken four decades, but attitudes in Greensboro are changing. In 2015, the state placed a highway marker near the site of the march and titled it "Greensboro Massacre," a word that even the truth and reconciliation report had avoided. And last week, spurred by the Charlottesville violence, the Greensboro City Council officially apologized.

Change can be painful, Johnson said, but he's convinced it is coming.

"There are going to be, in the process of social transformation, suffering and tragedies," Johnson said, standing underneath the marker. "I