We lived in the heart of my community, a short distance from the church and school I attended. As I grew older, I began going places on my own, like to ballet or piano lessons and to Girl Scout meetings. Still, my immediate neighborhood and its people continued to be the most important threads of the tapestry that was my life.
With the passage of time, I became increasingly aware of how all of the adults around me behaved the same. They were living with constant fear and apprehension. It felt as though we always had a white foot pressed against the back of our necks. I was feeling more and more vulnerable as I watched them continually struggle to solve the mystery of what white folks expected of them. They behaved as though it were an awful sin to overlook even one of those unspoken rules and step out of “their place,” to cross some invisible line. And yet lots of discussions in my household were about how to cross that line, when to cross that line, and who could cross that invisible line without getting hurt.
On those rare occasions when a white person came into our house, children and adults alike would all stand at attention, staring, waiting for them to give orders. There was the milkman, blond and smiling, who leered at Mother Lois every time he delivered our milk. Usually he would insist that she bring him a drink of water, even when she pleaded she didn’t have time. He’d set down his metal case with its glass bottles of undelivered milk and wink at her as he gulped his water.
She would clasp her shaking hands, nervously waiting for him to finish and go away. Finally, he would hand the bottle of milk to her; but when she tried to take it from him, he wouldn’t let go and kept holding it tight, forcing her to plead for it. And that’s when he would offer her free milk and ice cream if she “cooperated” with him.
Mother Lois’s face would turn red and her mouth would tighten just the same way it did when the insurance man offered her free premiums if she’d be his special colored lady. As always when either of these men behaved inappropriately, she would urge me to go inside. But somehow I knew I had to disobey—I had to stay with her.
Even though they were all adults, the milkman seemed to have some strange power over her, just as the insurance man and other white people did. I watched as she struggled to stay calm while the milkman hassled her.
Sometimes my father stood silent in the next room peeking through a crack in the door and listening to those men insult Mother. He would clench his fist and clear his throat loud, but he wouldn’t show his face or say anything. Afterward, he would either storm out, mumbling under his breath, or sit down in the chair at the dining room table and bury his face in his hands. Sometimes he talked loud as though he were really going to do something awful, but only after the white men left our house. I could tell he really loved Mother and wanted to protect her, but there was an awful big fear keeping him silent.
I would sit beside him as he took his shotgun out, oiled and cleaned it. There was a sad, pained look in his eyes as he would turn to me and say, “You understand, don’t you, that man’s got no call to talk to your mama that way.” He stood, then paced as he wrung his hands and whispered, “God, give me strength and patience to do Your will.” He would stroke my cheek and smile as he continued to answer as though he could hear all the questions in my head. “Someday things will be different, someday our men will be respected and not be called ‘boy’ and treated like children.” Then he would calm down and smile, describing his visits to states like North Dakota and Pennsylvania where our men were treated as equals—where they looked white men in the eye fearlessly, where they could protect their women. These were places where we would all move—someday.
THERE were so many times when I felt shame, and all the hope drained from my soul as I watched the adults in my family kowtow to white people. Whenever we shopped at the grocery store, they behaved as though they were worried about something.
The grocer, tall, skinny Mr. Waylan, with his Adam’s apple sticking out above his collar, his fish-belly blue-white skin and oversized fingernails, was the white man I saw most often. At least twice a week, I would accompany one or more of the adults in my family to his store. Looking through horn-rimmed glasses, with what Grandma India called “criminal eyes,” Mr. Waylan sometimes greeted us cordially. There were even times when he inspired a nervous laugh from Mother and Daddy with his placating chatter.
His store was one of my favorite places because going there was sometimes like going to a neighborhood party. Mostly our people shopped there, although a few whites from a nearby neighborhood came there, too. There was sawdust on the floor, and the air was filled with the aroma of spices, fruits, onions, nuts, and potatoes. Maybe it was the festive colors and sounds that reminded me of a party.
Early one Friday evening, when the store was crowded, our entire family went in for a shopping spree. We had Mama’s teaching check, Daddy’s railroad check, and the money Grandma India had earned from her work as a maid. It was one of those times when we all felt joy and peace and lots of hope. I looked forward to the bill paying because the grocer sometimes rewarded Conrad and me with Sugar Daddy suckers after the grown-ups handed over the money.
Grandma was the first to look over Mr Waylan’s bill. Her forehead wrinkled; she mumbled and handed it to Daddy. He looked it over and talked to her with his eyes. By the time Mother examined the bill, all their faces were grim. They quickly moved Conrad and me with them to a corner of the store.
They were certain the bill overcharged them by twenty-two dollars. That was more than a day’s pay, Daddy said. Still, they seemed frightened to speak up. After lots of whispered angry words, they decided to complain. Although Grandma approached the grocer in a calm, respectful way, he shouted back at her in an angry voice—loud enough for everyone within a block to hear. He said he gave us credit when we didn’t have eating money, so he expected us to pay without complaining.
Seeing Daddy’s jaw tighten and his eyes narrow, Grandma touched his hand to stay him. There was an ominous silence in the store. Everybody was staring at us. Other people in the store, some of them our friends, stood absolutely still, fear in their eyes.
At first, Mother, Grandma, and Daddy stood paralyzed. Then Mother took a deep breath, stepped forward, and said in a commanding voice, “Even when we’re being overcharged?”
“You just watch your mouth or you’all will be eating beans next month.” The grocer was shaking his fist at Mother Lois. There was fire in Daddy’s eyes, but once again, Grandma looked at him and he backed down; the three of them cowered like children before a chastising parent. There was a long moment of complete silence. All at once Grandma started to pull dollars out of her purse and Daddy did the same. Together, they paid the full amount.
Mama quickly shoved Conrad and me out the door. We’d make do with what was in our cupboards for the next few days, Daddy said. We wouldn’t be going to that store anymore.
On the way home Grandma fussed and fumed, saying she was fed up with buying day-old bread and slightly rotting meat for one and a half times the price fresh food was sold to white folks. I couldn’t stop wondering why Mama, Grandma, and Daddy couldn’t talk back to that white man.
Daddy was a tall man, over six feet four, with broad shoulders and big muscles in his arms. He could toss me in the air and catch me or hoist me over the fence with ease. Until that moment, I had thought he could take on the world, if he had to protect me. But watching him kowtow to the grocer made me know it wasn’t so. It frightened me and made me think a lot about how, if I got into trouble with white people, the folks I counted on most in my life for protection couldn’t help me at all. I was beginning to resign myself to the fact that white people were definitely in charge, and there was nothing we could do about it.
The next day, Grandma called all her friends and tried to get them to agree to form a group to shop across town. All but one person warned her not to cause trouble. After she had dialed at least ten numbers, she sank down into her chair with a sad face and placed the receiver in its cradle. She sat silent for a long w
hile. Then she picked up her Bible and read aloud the verse that cleared away the tears in her eyes: “And Ethiopia shall stretch forth her wings.” With a smile on her face and fire in her eyes she said, “Be patient, our people’s turn will come. You’ll see. Your lifetime will be different from mine. I might not live to see the changes, but you will. . . . Oh, yes, my child, you will.”
But as time passed without significant changes in my life, I was becoming increasingly anxious waiting for Ethiopia to stretch forth her wings. In my diary I wrote:
What if Grandma is wrong?—what if God can’t fix things. What if the white people are always gonna be in charge. God, now, please give me some sign you are there and you are gonna do something to change my life. Please hurry!
—Melba Pattillo—age eight—a Sunday School student
I was as impatient for change as I was with the location of the rest rooms marked “Colored.” As a child it seemed they were always located miles away from wherever I was when I felt the urge to go. When we shopped in the downtown stores, the rest rooms were usually located at the end of a dark hallway, or at the bottom of a dingy stairwell. It never failed that either I dampened my pants trying to get there in time or, worse yet, got a horrible ache in my side trying to hold my water until I got home.
An experience I endured on a December morning would forever affect any decision I made to go “potty” in a public place. We were Christmas shopping when I felt the twinge of emergency. I convinced Mother and Grandmother that I knew the way to the rest room by myself. I was moving as fast as I could when suddenly I knew I wasn’t going to make it all the way down those stairs and across the warehouse walkway to the “Colored Ladies” toilet.
So I pushed open the door marked “White Ladies” and, taking a deep breath, I crossed the threshold. It was just as bright and pretty as I had imagined it to be. At first I could only hear voices nearby, but when I stepped through a second doorway, I saw several white ladies chatting and fussing with their makeup. Across the room, other white ladies sat on a couch reading the newspaper. Suddenly realizing I was there, two of them looked up at me in astonishment. Unless I was the maid, they said, I was in the wrong place. But it was clear I was too young to be the maid. While they shouted at me to “get out,” my throbbing bladder consumed my attention as I frantically headed for the unoccupied stall.
They kept shouting, “Good Lord, do something.” I was doing something by that time, seated comfortably on the toilet, listening to the hysteria building outside my locked stall. One woman even knelt down to peep beneath the door to make certain I didn’t put my bottom on the toilet seat. She ordered me not to pee.
At first there was so much carrying-on outside my stall that I was afraid to come out. But I wanted to see all the special things about the white ladies’ rest room, so I had no choice. A chorus of “Nigger” and other nasty words billowed around me as I washed my hands. One woman waved her finger in my face, warning me that her friend had gone after the police and they would teach me a thing or two. Hearing the word “police” terrified me. Daddy and Mother Lois were afraid of the police. The ladies were hurrying out through the door saying they were going to tell the manager that they would never shop in that store again.
Just then I heard a familiar voice: “Melba Joy Pattillo, just what are you doing in there.” It was Grandma India calling out to me. She stepped inside the room. I was so happy to see her that I rushed to give her a hug. Her embrace made me feel safe, but the fear in her voice brought back my fear. My curiosity had gotten us into a real mess, she said. The police and a whole bunch of white folks were outside waiting for me. Grandma pushed me away and wiped my tears. And even as she straightened the bow on my braid, those voices were shouting at us through the door.
“I’m demanding you’all get out here right now. I’m with the Little Rock Police. Don’t make us come in after you.”
Grandma straightened her shoulders, assuming the posture of a queen as she reached down to take my hand, and instructed me to stand tall. As we walked through the door, I tilted my chin upward to match her chin as she looked the two policemen right in the eye. She spoke to them in a calm, clear voice, explaining that I was not good at reading signs. Then she apologized for any inconvenience I had caused. Her voice didn’t sound frightened, but I could feel her hand shaking and the perspiration in her palm.
Suddenly, one of the officers moved close and blocked our way, saying we had to come upstairs for a serious talk. Grandma didn’t flinch as he moved too close to her. Instead, she smiled down at me and squeezed my hand. But as he beckoned her to move ahead, I knew we were in more trouble than we’d ever been in before. When she asked where he was taking us, he told her to shut up and do as we were told. Some of the crowd moved with us. When we passed close to Mother Lois, she and Grandma talked to each other with their eyes. I started to speak, but Grandma pinched my arm.
Once inside the upstairs room with the straight-back wooden chairs, long table, and cardboard boxes, both officers lit cigarettes. One of them said we must be part of a communist group from up North, trying to integrate Little Rock’s bathrooms. Grandma’s voice only cracked once as over and over again she insisted that I had made a mistake. She called them “sir” and “mister” as she protested that we were good Little Rock citizens grateful for the use of our own bathrooms. She said she remembered the time when we couldn’t even enter the front door of the store and she was humbly grateful for that privilege.
Finally, after an hour, the older policeman said he’d let us go, calling us harmless niggers gone astray. But he warned if we were ever again caught being curious about what belonged to white folks, we’d be behind bars wearing stripes, or even worse, wearing ropes around our necks.
As we climbed into the car, Grandmother India warned me that curiosity killed the cat and it was going to be my undoing. As punishment for my bad deed, she made me read the Twenty-Third Psalm every day for a month. I also had to look up “patience” in the dictionary and write down the definition.
IN a way, she was right—patience was slowly bringing changes. As I celebrated several birthdays, growing into double digits, the one major change I could see was Mother Lois’s attending still more classes at the white people’s university. I was so fascinated with the idea that I had to see this school; so she began driving the whole family past the university extension on Sunday afternoon rides. It was located in the kind of all-white neighborhood we only dared travel through during the day. I craned my neck to look at the pretty houses and manicured lawns.
Sometimes, on our way there, we passed Central High School, so tall, so majestic, like a European castle I’d seen in history books. “Wow, that’s a lot bigger than our high school,” I said one Sunday. “I want to go there.”
“May Brown cooks there,” Grandma said. “She tells me that’s where the richest white families send their children. Folks up North know about Central High School. They know it’s a good school.”
“I wish I could see what’s inside,” I said.
“Don’t you dare even say that, girl; curiosity gets a body in a whole lot of trouble. Be patient,” Grandma commanded once more as she smiled at me. “Be patient, and one day, God willing, you’ll see inside that school, I promise.”
3
HOW could I ever forget May 17, 1954, the day the Supreme Court ruled in Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas, that separate public schools for whites and blacks were illegal? The adults around me behaved so strangely that their images became a freeze-frame, forever preserved in my mind. I learned lessons on that day that I will remember for the rest of my life.
I was twelve years old. That afternoon, I sat at my desk in my seventh-grade class at Dunbar Junior High, copying from the blackboard. My teacher had been called outside. When she returned, she appeared frightened and nervous. Erasing the blackboard before we could finish our copying, she spoke breathlessly about Brown v. Board of Education.
“Does that mean we have to go
to school with white people?” my friend Carl asked as a chorus of voices echoed his question.
“Yes, maybe.But you needn’t concern yourself with that. Collect your things. You’all are dismissed early today.” Although she said the Brown case was something we should be proud of, something to celebrate, her face didn’t look at all happy. I didn’t understand why she was in such a big rush to dismiss us that way, but I didn’t ask. Going home to be with my grandmother India was something I looked forward to every day. Peering over the book or newspaper she was reading, she would always greet me the same way: “And what did you learn today?” She hadn’t finished high school, but she had read lots of books, and she studied everything and everybody all the time. Over an after-school snack of warm gingerbread and milk, the two of us would talk and laugh until it was time for me to start my chores and homework.
Warriors Don't Cry Page 3
