Judge Davies spoke emphatically: “You are excused, gentlemen, but you understand that this is a moot question. The hearing will proceed.”
Continuing to speak for all the governor’s attorneys, Harper began reading a statement. “The position of Governor Faubus and the military officials of the state is that the governor and the state will not concede that the U.S. Court or anyone else can question the authority of the governor to exercise his judgment in administering the affairs of state, and since he does not concede this responsibility, we will not proceed further in this action.”
To my amazement, Harper led the way as several men and one woman gathered their papers and followed him out the door. “Is this a protest?” someone asked. Reporters ran for the door like corralled horses through an open gate. I thought they’d hurt themselves. The judge pounded the gavel.
The attorneys for the Department of Justice called themselves “amicus curiae,” saying they were prepared to offer more than one hundred witnesses to support the order for integration. Word was whispered down our line that “amicus curiae” meant friend of the court. But surely no real friend would keep us sitting on those hard seats long enough for a hundred people to testify. My heart sank as we nine eyeballed each other with grim expressions.
“We’ll be too old for high school if we have to listen to all those people,” I whispered aloud. To my delight, the judge announced the hundred witnesses would not begin until after recess.
In order to get to our lunch, we walked through a gauntlet of hot flashing lights and squeezed past people shouting questions. Once outside, we encountered the problem that had always plagued our people in Little Rock. There were no restaurants that would serve us, at least no decent ones.
The mighty Thurgood Marshall was forced to join us in a greasy joint that served wilted lettuce on overcooked hamburgers in the shabby section of our neighborhood known as Ninth Street. As he ate, he answered our questions. More than anything he seemed to be astonished that the governor’s attorneys had walked out of the room so suddenly. “It must have been their plan all along,” he said.
THAT afternoon the parade of witnesses presented by the Justice Department made one major point. They said the threat of violence due to integration was not sufficient for the governor to have called out troops. The mayor of Little Rock, the chairman of the school board, the superintendent of schools, the principal of Central High, and the Little Rock chief of police all testified that they found no threat of violence in Little Rock and had not requested that the governor send troops.
School Superintendent Virgil Blossom testified for a long time about the details of the school board’s plan for integration, which had taken two years and two hundred meetings to devise. U.S. District Attorney Orso Cobb asked how many complaints he had gotten. Blossom said the school board had received only a few complaints and suggestions for improving the plan. “As a matter of fact, the plan has been very well received. I’m not saying I believe any majority of the people of Little Rock want integration,” he said. “They don’t. But they favor this plan as the best answer to a difficult problem.” The judge asked the superintendent a question many people had asked me and one I had wondered about myself.
“How were these nine students chosen?”
“The Negroes were selected on the basis of scholarship, personal conduct, and health. We picked those who had the mental ability to do the job and had used it,” Blossom answered.
For just a moment, I fretted they would discover Thelma’s secret heart problem. But the fact was they had never had us examined by a doctor and there was no talk of doing so.
THEN it was time to present our case. The nagging voice inside my head said how could I put my hand on the Bible and not tell the whole truth. Another voice argued that yes, Mother and I were chased, but in fact we weren’t hurt—they didn’t really touch us. So the truth was—we weren’t injured on that day. Over and over again it had been explained to me that to say we were physically injured or attacked that first day on the school grounds or in the immediate area would be to support the governor’s case. We knew he would use the slightest justification to delay integration for all eternity.
First to testify from our group was Ernest Green. He wanted to go to Central, he said, because it was closer to his home and would save time and money. He was asked whether he offered any assault against the troops. “No, sir, I didn’t,” he said with a broad smile.
Next, Elizabeth Eckford testified. She did not complain about the life-threatening mob that had traumatized her. She sat erect, speaking calmly, saying that a few white people lived not far from her house, yet there had been no racial disputes. I was relieved when the attorney said that there would be no need for the rest of us to testify. Had I been asked to place my hand on the Bible, I don’t know what I might have been forced to say, perhaps truths that would have hurt us. I figured it was that divine force again moving us on to integration.
The attorneys for the United States made repeated references to the May 1954 decision. I had to stop listening. The very mention of that decision always made me sad. It brought back the face of the angry white man who had chased me down that day. Panic-filled recollections flooded my mind, blotting out the courtroom proceedings.
“Melba! Melba!” Minnijean was tugging at my arm. The others were excited.
The judge was announcing his decision, saying that the governor had “thwarted” the court-approved plan of integration by means of National Guard troops. The judge’s voice was deep, his tone emphatic, as he said, “There is no real evidence here that we shouldn’t proceed with the court-ordered integration of Central High School. The order is so entered.” He pounded the gavel, stood, and walked out of the room.
“Oh, damn nigger-loving judge!” someone shouted, using all those words that Grandma said would lead a body to hell.
Mrs. Bates told us to remain seated until everyone else left the room. I sat very still for a long moment as everybody around me began moving. So, God, you really do want me to go back to that school. For a time it seemed as if I were all alone in a silent tunnel, and everyone else was way at the other end. I would always remember that judge and his huge, piercing dark eyes. There must be something wonderful in his heart, I thought. I would remember him in my prayers.
As a throng of reporters surged toward us, my heart was pounding, my breath coming in short spurts. I flashed my confident smile, but my knees wobbled. Those reporters went crazy, all shoving and shouting their questions at once. I thought they might injure us and themselves as they climbed over each other and tried to get their cameras into position. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before.
“Come Monday morning you’ll be a genuine Central High student. How do you feel about that?” one reporter shouted his question above all others.
“Monday morning,” I whispered, “I’m gonna be a Central High student—Monday morning!”
AT 6:20 P.M. Friday evening, Governor Faubus made a big deal of removing the Arkansas National Guard from Central High. He appeared on television saying that he would appeal Judge Davies’s ruling. He gave a long and impassioned speech, predicting once again that if integration took place, blood would run in the streets of Little Rock.
“You know he’s smart like a fox,” Grandma said. “He’s got something in mind, suddenly moving those troops that way.”
“Naw, I think he’s just following the judge’s orders. Anyhow, he’s a defeated man. Let’s celebrate.” Mother raised her glass of lemonade. Grandma frowned. She disliked any one of us to do with milk or a cola what sinners did with liquor.
“To integration with peace and joy and harmony,” Mother said, smiling, and took a sip of her lemonade.
“All right,” Grandma said, lifting an imaginary glass into the air. “To life without all this ugliness. Maybe now things will quiet down and get back to normal.”
That night I wrote in my diary:
Okay, God, so Grandma is right it’s my tu
rn to carry the banner. Please help me do thy will.
OVER the weekend, Little Rock became an eerie city. Only those with urgent business walked the streets, with quick nervous strides. People from my community did not gather and visit as they usually would. Like me, they must have been frightened by the news reports that continued to describe roving gangs of segregationists crisscrossing the city, looking to do harm to any of our people they could find. Rumors persisted that various people we knew had been beaten or chased.
It felt awful not to have authorities to turn to in the midst of all the violence. I could see fear in the faces of the adults around me. I could hear it in their whispered conversations. All my life I had felt unprotected by city officials. If some major crisis took place, like a fire in our community, white firemen had always taken their time coming to help. They didn’t fight to save our lives and property, as if neither had any value to them, so we had set up our own systems of summoning each other for help.
The integration dispute made me feel as though we were much more vulnerable. Whites had control of the police, the firemen, and the ambulances. They could decide who got help and who didn’t. Even if the Ku Klux Klan ravaged one of our homes, we wouldn’t call the police for help. None of us was certain which of our city officials wore civic uniforms by day and white sheets at night.
News reports described Governor Faubus as unruffled by all the turmoil. He was living his life and doing business as usual in the face of this crisis. One article said that through the two previous hectic weeks the governor had been sleeping soundly, eating regularly, chatting with his son in college, enjoying his fan mail, and relaxing as he read about his favorite president, Abraham Lincoln. He didn’t sound to me like a man who was remorseful or planning to mend his ways, or a man who was suffering the inconvenience of having his normal way of life shattered, as were we.
On Sunday, I thought the news of more violence in the streets might cause Grandma and Mama to forget about church. I should have known better. It was cloudy, with thunderstorms expected, as we cautiously drove our regular route to church. It upset us to see that sidewalks usually filled with families on their way to Sunday service were empty. We heard the church bells toll, their echoing clang a protest to the silence that blanketed our community.
However, a hopeful mood was evident in the church service. The judge’s positive decision for integration was God’s will, Reverend Young said. And God would give us the strength to go forth. He said we needed to pray and work to heal our divided community.
He spoke of the many God-fearing, reasonable white people who supported our activities and of the white ministers joining forces to help stop the violence. He expressed gratitude and prayed for Mayor Woodrow Mann, who continued to defy Governor Faubus, accusing him of being wrong in opposing integration and the federal government. Our minister urged support for the nine of us who were integrating Central, mentioning the three of us who sat in church, Gloria, Ernie, and me.
Mumbles of “Yes, Lord” and “Amen” made me hope some people had changed their minds and that now most of my church family thought that I was doing the right thing. But nevertheless there were those who disagreed and were willing to show their feelings at every turn. One woman snagged me in the ladies’ bathroom, saying, “The nice white lady I work for treated me like family up till now. These days she treats me like I’m just the colored help.”
“Look,” Mother said, “there’s a price to be paid for freedom; we pay it now or we’re in ‘ball and chain’ forever.”
“Easy for you to talk, Mrs. Pattillo. You’re an educated woman. I ain’t got no sheepskin on my wall.”
The church service seemed to last longer than usual. Afterward there was so much talk of integration that I felt wrung out. The only bright spot in my Sunday was Vince’s offer to drive me home from church. Mother frowned at the suggestion. When I pleaded, she demanded that she trail us in her car. So we formed a two-car caravan, Vince in his brand-new square-back, red-and-white Chevy, and Grandma, Mama, and Conrad following close behind in our car.
“I guess I’d better not speed,” he said, grinning that handsome smile. I was craning my neck to look back every now and then. “Yep, they’re there,” he said. I was embarrassed that Mother was following us so closely. To make things worse, Vince had one thing on his mind—integration, finding out about what we nine were doing, when we got together, how we studied, and what the NAACP said to us in meetings. I began feeling as though I were giving a news report.
“How does it feel to see your name in the paper, to be a celebrity that everybody’s talking about?” I glanced at him in his Eisenhower jacket and slick shoes. He was sharp and wonderful. Why couldn’t it be another place and time?
“Uncomfortable,” I grumbled.
“Hey, there’s got to be some good things in all the fuss they’re making over you.”
“It’s all so new that I can’t figure it out yet. Right now I’d give anything for just one day of normal school with old friends.”
“Too late for that, you’re a Central High student.”
I had counted on our date as one last opportunity to feel normal joy before Monday came. Our conversation and his cute charms were supposed to stoke my daydreams so I’d have something to smile about when things went wrong at Central. No such luck. In less than twenty-four hours, I would face my first day inside Central High without this protective veil.
10
CITY AND STATE POLICE TO BE THERE TODAY;
OFFICIALS CONFIDENT. FAUBUS SAYS HE’S HOPING FOR
NO UNREST; U.S. KEEPING CLOSE EYE ON LITTLE ROCK
—Arkansas Gazette, Monday, September 23, 1957
AS I read the morning newspaper that Monday, what with all the changes, I thought maybe the headline would read, INTEGRATION HALTED AGAIN. At least this time it seemed everybody was expecting us to arrive at Central High School and go inside for classes.
As I walked back to the kitchen, I decided I would begin to mark off my days at Central High on the big wall calendar that belonged to Grandma. I longed to see all the cross marks fill the days that would become weeks and then months. I glanced at the month of September and picked the spot where I would put the first cross mark, if I completed the first day. Lord, please let me be strong enough to fill in this day and all the school days that follow, I whispered.
It was not yet eight o’clock when Mama and I parked at the curb, just outside Mrs. Bates’s home. I was surprised to see so many people milling about the yard. There was double the usual throng of news reporters. Everybody spoke in whispers. We greeted each other as though there were a compelling reason not to talk in ordinary tones. I was ushered through the crowd and into the living room, where radio and news reports held everyone’s attention.
Hundreds are gathered at Central High to await the arrival of nine Negro students who will begin the court-ordered integration. Some believe the governor should have instructed the soldiers to remain at the school to keep order. Assistant Police Chief Gene Smith and a group of officers arrived at 7 A.M. to patrol the area. Fifty state police have joined them.
We nine acknowledged each other with nervous smiles and a very few whispered words. Adults nodded to each other with the kind of glances that seemed to carry secret messages as they periodically looked at their watches. The nervousness grew worse with each passing moment. People were pacing, pretending to smile, sitting a moment, then rising to pace again. After a while, I became one of those people. We were going to be late for school, no doubt—late on the first day. What would everybody think? The phone rang. It was time to be on our way.
Mother Lois looked as though she were on the brink of tears. As we filed silently out of the house, I waved good-bye to her. I wanted to hug her, but I didn’t want everyone to think I was a baby. Other parents milled about, looking as if we were being carted off to be hanged. As we started to walk to the cars, they clutched at us as though they weren’t completely certain we’d be coming back.
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br /> We settled ourselves into two cars. Mrs. Bates was in the first car with four of the nine, and a man introduced as C. C. Mercer. Another NAACP official, Frank Smith, was driving the car I rode in with the remaining four students. We watched the news reporters run to their vehicles and rev their engines. The nonwhite reporters seemed hesitant about getting started. They hovered together. That’s when I realized it must be difficult, even dangerous, for our people to cover a story like this.
We seemed at first to be driving in circles. Our driver explained that the police advised we not take the usual route because segregationists might lie in wait for us. I looked at my watch. It was after eight-thirty. We’d be very late arriving—even later than I had feared.
Central High was located on Park Street, stretching a two-block distance between Fourteenth and Sixteenth streets. But the route we took confused my sense of direction. I was surprised when suddenly we pulled up to the side entrance at Sixteenth Street, just beyond Park. Amid noise and confusion, the driver urged us to get out quickly. The white hand of a uniformed officer reached out toward the car, opening the door and pulling me toward him as his urgent voice ordered us to hurry. The roar coming from the front of the building made me glance to my right. Only a half block away, I saw hundreds of white people, their bodies in motion, their mouths wide open as they shouted their anger.
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