March was the self-described square, the child of a solidly middle-class family whose funeral enterprise has been a fixture in East Baltimore for half a century. He would draw on the discoveries of his high school years when he launched a community development corporation devoted to improving the struggling neighborhood around the business.
The three describe Thomas as the most politically aggressive of the bunch, a vibrant personality who was dedicated to a career in theater before he died of AIDS in 1987.
On the surface, the boys arrived at Loyola composed and confident.
"These were strong kids, with strong psyches," said Frank Fischer, 81, then a Jesuit priest who helped recruit black students. "They didn't have any special program to help them. They were all very bright, capable and psychologically equipped to deal with this."
But the boys certainly didn't feel that way. They arrived at an academy that was out of their comfort zone both emotionally and geographically.
Moore's journey to the suburban campus began at 6:30 a.m., required three buses and the occasional indignity. He met March at a coffee shop at the corner of Charles Street and North Avenue for the second leg of the trip, surrounded by black domestics traveling out to the county to jobs in the homes of white people.
A white bus driver routinely ignored Moore's request for change. Then, just before Moore would exit the bus, the driver would hurl coins at him.
Moore felt white passengers were affronted to see a black boy traveling out to the county. "I remember sitting there and feeling that people just didn't approve," he said.
In his own neighborhood, Moore stood out as well. Peers took one look at his tidy necktie and duffel bearing the bright yellow Loyola insignia and assumed he was uppity.
"Somebody, I never saw who, yelled at me down the street `White boy,'" said Moore, who said he hopes one day to write a book about the psychological effects of integration. "I never wore that bag again."
Moore rarely discussed these feelings. It wasn't the type of conversation his parents had time for in a household of eight children. Besides, civil rights and integration weren't topics of discussion in the hard-working, fairly conservative family.
In Moore's household, King was no hero. Moore remembers his father, a Republican - a rare choice for a black man, even then - watching television of King leading the march for voting rights in Selma, Ala. King, Moore's father shouted, ought to be thrown in jail.
