Cameras flashed, bright lights stung my eyes, and reporters asked lots of questions for the next half hour. Many of the reporters asked the attorneys what they planned to do to get rid of the troops. And questions were directed to Elizabeth. She seemed shy about answering, but with Mrs. Bates’s help, she forced herself to say a few words. Eventually, however, questions were directed to all of us. My heart raced with fear and anticipation as I observed the process. I was almost hypnotized by the wonder of it all.
“Miss Pattillo, how do you feel about going back to Central High?”
“Miss,” I whispered as my hands perspired and my knees shook. Thoughts buzzed inside my head like bees disturbed in their hive. It was the first time anybody white had ever called me Miss. They cared what I thought. I struggled to find a suitable answer.
“We have a right to go to that school, and I’m certain our governor, who was elected to govern all the people, will decide to do what is just.” I felt myself speak aloud before I was ready. Who said that? It sounded like me, but the words . . . where had they come from? The white reporters wrote my words down and behaved as if what I said was very important. Pride welled up inside me, and for the first time, I knew that working for integration was the right thing for me to be doing.
“Mrs. Pattillo, how does a mother decide to send her daughter into such a dangerous situation?” Mother Lois was sitting, shy and quiet, in a shadowed corner of the room. I could tell she was startled by the question; nevertheless she stood and said, “Indeed it is a hard decision—but we are a Christian family, with absolute faith that God will protect her, no matter what.”
After the main session, reporters pulled each one of us students aside for what they called one-on-one interviews. Listening to all the talk about our being heroes and heroines made me proud of Mama and Grandma and all of us. I wished Grandma could tell the reporters how she stood guard and made the shooters go away. Then they would know she was a heroine, too.
When the conference broke up, I lingered in a quiet corner, soaking up the sights and sounds around me. I was fascinated by the way the reporters wrote so fast in their narrow notebooks and spoke into their hand-held tape recorders. Their confident way of moving about and their quick, sharp talk made them appear as though they knew they were free—at the very least they were in charge of their own lives.
The way they responded to me made me feel equal to the white reporters. They looked me directly in the eye. I never saw any sign they were thinking of calling me a “nigger.” Some of them looked at me with admiring eyes and answered all my questions about their work without making me feel silly for asking. They also behaved as though they were genuine friends with the people of color among their ranks, sharing work and laughter.
I felt a new fountain of hope rise up inside me. Just maybe, I thought to myself, just maybe this is what I want to be when I grow up. If I were a news reporter, I could be in charge of a few things.
That night I wrote in my diary:
Today is the first time in my life I felt equal to white people. I want more of that feeling. I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep feeling equal all the time.
I apologize, God, for thinking you had taken away all my normal life. Maybe you’re just exchanging it for a new life.
* * *
HOPE OF SETTLEMENT FADES AS GOVERNOR
FACES DAY IN COURT
—Arkansas Gazette, Thursday, September 19, 1957
The town was crowded with journalists from around the world. Their frantic phone calls asking for interviews before the hearing only added to the anxiety we felt because hecklers continued ringing our phones off the hook. I was relieved when we were told to refer all requests to the NAACP office.
The federal court hearing would be one of the most significant in history—a precedent-setting decision could be made that affected the whole country. That’s what all the newspaper reporters and radio announcers said over and over again. States’-rights advocates from surrounding Southern towns were up in arms. They were headed for Little Rock to add to the incendiary feelings in our town.
The segregationists were doing a lot of newspaper advertising to get people to participate in their rallies. The Arkansas National Guard remained at Central High, and hooligans rampaged through the streets. In particular they preyed on our people walking alone in isolated areas or at night. A new level of tension crept into our own household, nearly overwhelming me. I found it difficult to study, difficult to concentrate. Some days, it was as though someone had put me in Grandma’s cake mixer, but I was struggling to be still, not to spin or shudder or shake.
During those rare moments when I sat alone in my room among my stuffed animals, I daydreamed about Vince and what it would be like to be his ordinary girlfriend and have real dates. I had finally gathered the nerve to ask Mother and Grandma for permission to date. After giving me what amounted to a thorough exam with really hard questions about Vince’s intentions and character, Mother Lois said, “Have him come to the house.” Her expression saddened as she went on: “Now understand, this is not really dating, and you can only see this boy in the presence of another adult. I’m allowing you to do this because integration has taken away so much of your social life.”
I had a hard time containing my hallelujah shouts as I started to leave the room. But just as I reached the door, she said, “Of course, you’ll wait to exercise this privilege until after the court hearing tomorrow.”
On the night before the hearing, I took Grandma’s advice and let God worry about what was going to happen in that courtroom.
I wrote in my diary:
Dear God, We can’t get along without you. Governor Faubus has lots of attorneys and the paper says they have more than two hundred witnesses. I’m counting on you once and for all to make it clear whether you want me in that school. Thy will be done.
9
FAUBUS, U.S. GOVERNMENT HEAD INTO CRUCIAL
COLLISION IN FEDERAL COURT TODAY
—Arkansas Gazette, Friday, September 20, 1957
The first clash between the federal government and a state over school integration will reach a crucial stage at 10 A.M. today in Federal District Court at Little Rock. The immediate issue will be whether Governor Faubus and the Arkansas National Guard should be enjoined from further interference with integration at Little Rock Central High School.
The overriding historic issue will be whether the federal government has the constitutional authority to check a state governor when he uses the powers of his office to defy the federal court.
SITTING alone in my room, I couldn’t stop thinking how Governor Faubus would for certain have to be in that courtroom. I couldn’t imagine that he wouldn’t be there. In my diary I wrote:
This is the day I hope to meet Governor Faubus face to face. I can’t decide what to say to him. If only he will listen to me one minute, I know I can make him understand there is nothing so bad about me that he shouldn’t allow white children to go to school with me.
The weatherman says it’s going to be 85 and up this afternoon. I’ll regret wearing my cotton blouse and quilted skirt, but they’re new and pretty. I want to look just right so the governor will know who I really am.
The nine of us walked up the sidewalk toward the Federal Building at a brisk pace. Our group included Mrs. Bates, attorneys Thurgood Marshall and Wiley Branton, and a number of people I did not know. I was told they were community ministers and lawyers, coming along to protect us. Between awkward scraps of conversation, I could hear our footsteps on the sidewalk as we moved toward the official-looking building. I had never paid much attention to it before.
It was a muggy day, rather like the inside of a steam room. As we grew closer to our destination, there were more people and more chatter, but my mind was flooded with important things I wanted to say to the governor. One voice inside me said he didn’t care what I thought, but the other said I should be prepared just in case.
I was a bit on edge. A small part of m
e was becoming accustomed to the fact that since the integration had begun, both my people and whites stared at me. Some of the faces lining the streets on that morning had welcome smiles, others were indifferent, while still others were undeniably angry. I wore dark glasses, which allowed me to peer out wherever I wanted without anybody being able to see how fearful I was.
I had never been in court before. I’d only seen pictures of judges. I felt frightened—frightened of the Federal Court, but mostly frightened of all those powerful government men, the governor’s lawyers, who could make things happen just as they wanted.
I had read in the newspaper that attorneys for the federal government would be arguing that there was no evidence of the kind of violence that made it necessary to call out troops. Since the governor claimed our going to Central was what caused the trouble, we nine students were subpoenaed to tell what we had seen and experienced on that first day at Central High School. I was afraid of what would happen if we lost. Would that mean we could be sued or arrested? Would the news reporters make fun of us? What would my friends say?
“We’re going to have to take the kids in through the side door,” a man’s voice said. My pace quickened as we were ushered past all the people milling about, through a very narrow, dimly lit marble hall, where our voices and footsteps echoed. We were led to the elevator, walking fast as if we were being chased. The door slid shut, and I stared straight ahead. My knees were trembling, and every inch of my body was perspiring. That elevator was so full that I could hear its guts grinding as it struggled to deliver us to the fourth-floor courtroom.
I hoped the opening elevator doors would admit fresh air. Instead, they revealed a crush of people, jammed body-to-body, shoving each other, desperately trying to get through that narrow hallway to go somewhere or do something. I was blinded by the glaring lights held high over the heads of the sea of people by news photographers trying to get pictures. We could hardly get out of the elevator and into the throng. Like sardines we wiggled and pushed, trying to forge a pathway. I stopped thinking about fresh, cool air, I just wanted to breathe and not be crushed. As we emerged, several reporters started shouting questions at us. I felt as though I were attending one of those Hollywood openings I’d seen on TV.
“What do you think of Governor Faubus?”
“How do you think the white students will treat you if you go back to Central?”
“Why do you want to go to the white school?”
“Are your parents buying knives and guns?”
“No,” I shouted. “Nobody’s buying weapons.”
Mrs. Bates touched my shoulder. “Shhhhhhhhh!” she said. We had been cautioned not to talk back to reporters on this day. We were to say nothing until after the NAACP attorneys had made our case.
Flashing cameras and blinding lights followed as we inched our way through the corridor. The questions continued—rapid-fire, close in our faces. Perspiration trickled down the back of my neck. I could see beads of water on the noses and foreheads of many people crowded around me.
“Smile, kids,” Mrs. Bates whispered. “Straighten your shoulders. Stand tall.”
It felt as though there were about a hundred people in that hallway, where only half that many should have been squeezed in. Cameramen were perched on chairs and even on each other to get pictures. They must have been real anxious to be there because they were undoubtedly suffering in the sweltering heat and risking bodily injury as well.
“Melba, we’re inside now. Take off those dark glasses. Please.” I was embarrassed to be singled out that way by Mrs. Bates. The glare of the light hurt my eyes, and I didn’t really want to look into the faces of all those people who seemed to be staring at me.
“Some of you’all think we’re stars, but really, all these reporters are here to see if we’re gonna get killed or not,” teased one of the comics from our group.
Step by step, with enormous effort, we managed to get through the crush of human bodies. The courtroom was smaller than I’d imagined, about the size of an average living room, with wooden benches lining either side of a narrow aisle. I had heard someone say the courtroom only held 150 people. It was filled to overflowing. I was glad to see that a good number of the spectators were our people. Sections of the room were roped off. We were squeezed through the crowd and ushered to one of the areas in front, near the bailiff.
Reporters holding their notebooks sat in the jury box and in a small section at the rear of the room. As we took our seats, I noticed the United States and Arkansas flags displayed in the front of the room.
“Niggers stink. The room smells now,” a voice called out from somewhere behind us. I turned around to see three white ladies directly behind me.
“I’ll bet you don’t even know your ABC’s, monkeys,” one of them said. “You monkeys. What are you looking at?” I glowered at her, trying not to say what I was really thinking. Where I came from adults didn’t behave that way.
Suddenly uniformed soldiers were arriving. I turned my attention away from the woman heckling me as the soldiers paraded down the aisle with military precision. So these were the armed men who were keeping us away from school. These were the leaders of the Arkansas National Guard. Up close, they seemed much less intimidating. Some of them were no taller than I was.
Several men and one woman, all wearing business suits and carrying briefcases, were talking to the uniformed men. I figured they were the governor’s attorneys. I asked where the governor was, expecting him any moment. That’s when one of the attorneys told us that an elected official does not have to appear to answer a summons. Maybe I would not have the privilege of seeing the governor after all. I had hoped that seeing him in person would help me get over my dislike for him.
Suddenly, a whisper of concern made its way through our group. We were all aware that Thelma Mothershed had a heart condition, and now, right before our eyes, her lips and fingertips were turning blue. She struggled to catch her breath. All of us focused our attention on her, and instantly I knew it was a mistake. Not only might it alarm her, but our behavior could also alert school officials to her failing health. I assumed they had never bothered to check her school records; otherwise they might have stopped her going to the integration.
“Shhhh. Thelma will be just fine. Sit up straight. Think about what you’ll say if you’re called to testify.” Mrs. Bates relieved our tension as she moved to sit beside Thelma.
“All rise. The Honorable Judge Ronald Davies presiding.” The deep voice sounded like a circus ringmaster announcing the next act. I held my breath. I had read so much about him. What would he be like? A very small man wearing a black robe entered and moved swiftly toward the massive desk. His smooth dark hair was parted in the middle, framing his pleasant round face.
As he climbed up to the imposing leather chair and settled in, what stood out most of all were his huge eyes peering through thick horn-rimmed glasses. From where I sat, I could see only the top part of his black robe, his round face, and those all-seeing, all-knowing eyes.
Shortly after the hearing began, one of the governor’s attorneys, Tom Harper, stood and made a motion that Judge Davies disqualify himself because he was biased due to his appointment by the federal government specifically for our case. Judge Davies pounded his gavel and ruled the motion for disqualification was not legally sufficient and not timely.
Next Wiley Branton asked the court’s permission to file a supplementary complaint joining us in the government’s petition against Faubus and two Arkansas National Guard commanders. Davies ruled it could be filed.
The governor’s attorney Tom Harper then asked to have subpoenas withdrawn that had been served on Arkansas National Guard Commander Adjutant General Clinger and his assistant, saying men on military duty are exempt from subpoenas. Again the judge ruled against them.
Meanwhile, there was a commotion at the rear of the room as reporters hustled back and forth, scribbling on note pads and whispering to each other. They behaved as though they
had some divine right to do whatever was necessary to get the information they needed. They were an electrifying show unto themselves, separate and apart from the judge and lawyers.
The more I watched them, the more I thought I’d like to become one when I grew up. As a reporter, I would get to observe interesting events and write about them. I’d also get to behave with a know-it-all urgency, as though what I was doing were more important than anything else.
The seats were so hard that I was pleased Judge Davies moved things along swiftly, pounding his gavel, denying motions presented by the governor’s attorneys, all the while speaking sternly. Finally, just before noon, Harper, once again speaking for Governor Faubus, asked if preliminary matters were taken care of.
“Well,” the judge growled, “I haven’t gotten the late mail, but I think so.”
Continuing in a matter-of-fact tone, Harper then asked Judge Davies to dismiss the case because it involved constitutional issues that required a three-judge panel. Judge Davies ruled that the case would continue. In response to that ruling, Harper said, “May we be excused?”
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