“Hurry, now . . . get in,” Smith said, as he held open one of the doors. I looked at the others getting into the second car. Thelma, Minnijean, and Ernie were in the car with me. A white man sat behind the wheel. He had an absolutely terrified expression on his face and was busy looking all around us, his eyes darting back and forth.
“Roll your windows up, lock your doors, keep your faces away from the windows. Put your heads down when we start to move.” His voice quivered. He hunched over to secure something on the floor, and that’s when I saw the gun strapped to his side in a leather holster.
Smith leaned down to talk through the open window to the driver. “Move fast and don’t stop no matter what.” Then he looked at us and said, “Listen to your driver’s instructions and do exactly what he says. Your lives depend on it.”
We were surrounded by white men in suits speaking in frightened tones. Their expressions told me we were in the kind of trouble I hadn’t even imagined before. The enormous roaring sound coming from the crowd just beyond the door made me wonder whether or not they had waited too long to get us into these cars. Just for one instant I tried to imagine what would happen if the mob got hold of us.
“Now!” Smith shouted. “Let ’er roll.”
The driver shifted gears and gunned the engine as I crouched down in the back seat. Suddenly I heard the loud sound of what must have been a heavy chain, dragging. The door was opening, letting streaks of sunlight in. I scooted farther down in my seat, hiding my face. But I decided I had to keep my eyes open. I wanted to know what was happening to me. At least that way I’d know what to pray for.
I felt the car surge ahead. We were climbing upward, out of the basement toward bright sunlight. I could hear the tires spin onto a gravel driveway just beyond the door. The car gained momentum, lunging forward. As the full light of day crept into the windows, the deafening noise of the mob engulfed us.
“Get the niggers! Hang those niggers! Stop those cars,” I heard somebody shout. Then I saw wave after wave of white faces, angry white faces, everywhere. Their mouths were open shouting threats. Clusters of white hands with fingers extended seemed for a moment to envelop us . . . clutching, grabbing at us. Some of the faces were moving along with us, coming closer to the car windows.
“Hold on and keep your heads down,” the driver shouted. I heard the engine grind and felt us go faster. The people running beside us accelerated their pace, hurling rocks and sticks at the car.
That’s when the car really began moving fast, faster than I’d ever ridden before. Finally, there were fewer hands and faces on the car windows, the noises were subsiding. I took a deep breath.
“You’all can sit up now. But keep an eye out.” I could that the others in the car behind us were safe. We were mostly silent on our journey, craning our necks, keeping watch in every direction.
“Thank you for the ride home,” I said to the driver as I climbed out of the car. He cast a pleasant but impatient glance my way. I wanted to say, “Thanks for risking your life to save mine,” but I didn’t know how it would sound to the others. It was an awkward moment with a stranger, a decent white man.
“Get in the house now—go,” he said, pausing for an instant, then gunning his engine and pulling away. I waved good-bye to my friends. Standing at the curb for a moment, I peered after the car as it drove away, wondering if he would get into trouble with the segregationists when they found out he was the one who rescued us from the mob. He was the second white man I would pray for God to protect.
I turned to see that some of my neighbors had gathered, a few sitting in our lawn chairs, a few standing around talking. I wondered what they were doing there. Then Grandma India rushed out the front door, her arms open to receive me.
“Thank God you’re safe. Your mama is on her way home.”
She was shoving me, both her hands at my back, not letting me pause to say hello to the alarmed neighbors who kept asking if I was all right.
“Now you’ve had your lesson. You don’t have to go back that awful school anymore,” our neighbor Mrs. Floyd said, as Grandma ushered me past her.
I settled down on the couch in front of the television with the radio blasting loud from the hallway. I sipped the Grapette soda Grandma had given me and thought about what the mob might have done to us. I worried that they would come looking for us at our homes.
Although we had left shortly after noon, word came that the mob continued its rampage. Even after the Central High School registrar came out to announce on a microphone that we had been removed, not everyone believed her. Instead, they surged forward, threatening to overrun the barricades and the police, demanding to see for themselves that only white students remained. A police official convinced them to send representatives inside the school to check. When three women returned to report we were not there, the mob cheered but continued the siege.
Armed with guns, ropes, and clubs, the report said, they surged toward the school, in the doors and through the halls, dancing and shouting, “Two, four, six, eight, we ain’t gonna integrate.”
“Melba, where’s Melba? Is she all right?” Mother Lois came rushing into the living room, disheveled and frantic. “I got here as soon as I could. Those newsmen said you were trapped by the mob.”
“I’m fine, Mama.” I stood to embrace her.
“We’ve made a mistake. You’re definitely not going back to that school.”
“What’s that on your knee?” Grandma India asked.
“I fell.” I decided I didn’t need to add to Mother’s nervousness. I would wait until she calmed down to explain the details of my day.
“I heard they passed the hat and collected a hundred and forty dollars to encourage those policemen to abandon their duties,” Grandma added.
“You must have been scared to death. I’m sorry,” Mother said.
We all listened as the newscast continued airing sounds of the angry mob taking over the school. I discovered that one reason we were able to slip into the school that morning was that the mob had been preoccupied chasing and beating three black reporters, James Hicks, Alex Wilson, and Moses Newsom, whom they had accused of purposely distracting the crowd in order to allow us time to get in the side door. Mr. Wilson was hit on the head with a brick, and even as he lay wounded on the ground, they continued to kick and beat him.
The mob had then turned to beat up white reporters. Several reached police lines. Even after they were inside police cars, they were showered with rocks.
A concerned and flustered Conrad rushed into the house to greet me. His friend Clark had told him I was dead. In order to settle him down, Grandma busied him with helping her fix lunch. I remained glued to the news, mulling over whether or not I should tell them what really happened to me that day. I decided it would only make things worse, and maybe it would make them decide I could never go back to the integration.
Later on, we got hold of a copy of the evening newspaper, the Arkansas Democrat. The headlines read: GROWING VIOLENCE FORCES WITHDRAWAL OF NEGRO STUDENTS AT CENTRAL HIGH. CROWD’S YELL TOUCHES OFF BRUTAL BEATING.
“These pictures are enough to curdle your blood,” Grandma said, pointing to the one of reporter Alex Wilson being beaten. There was another showing a white man riding on him piggyback. The paper was filled with pictures of the crowd and the police trying desperately to control it. Only by looking at those pictures did I begin to understand the real danger of that mob.
In my diary I wrote:
There seems to be no space for me at Central High. I don’t want integration to be like the merry-go-round. Please, God, make space for me.
The phone started to ring nonstop with calls from angry strangers spewing hatred and threats. There were also calls from our family and friends inquiring about my safety and warning us that the mob was continuing to search out and beat up people in our neighborhood. One phone call came from a news reporter who asked what I felt about the situation. Before Mother or Grandma caught on to what I was doing, I t
old him. He complimented me, saying I was articulate and asked if I could write. I said yes, and he asked if I would write an article about my first morning at Central. Right there I just jotted down a few notes and started dictating the article to him as it came into my head, the way I wrote letters to God every night in my diary. All the while I was talking to the reporter, I kept our instructions in mind: Accentuate the positive—don’t complain too much. He said my story would appear in newspapers everywhere just as I had written it because it was on the Associated Press wire. Sure enough, the next day I saw it on the front page:
Would you have exchanged places with me and entered Central as I did this morning? I went, and I am glad.
Previous to making actual entrance into Central I had feelings that I’m sure have never been experienced by a child of 15 years. Sensations of courage, fear, and challenge haunted me. With the morning, came my definite decision: I must go.
“The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in Him, and I am helped.” With this verse in mind and a hopeful prayer in my heart I entered the halls of Central High. The spacious halls brought again the school feeling, however the atmosphere was not conducive to study but one of uneasiness.
The sea of faces represented no special personality to me. Although some were kind, many showed contempt, especially some boys gathered in the halls.
I was beginning to believe that the long hard fight was over, that finally this American way of life was going to pay off. As I walked through the halls alone it seemed as if I were lost on an island, an island of strange people, having no way of communicating with them. I longed to tell them, “I won’t hurt you, honest, give me a chance, come on. How about it? I’m an average teenager, just like yourself, with the same aspirations and heartaches.” But it was useless, only a few facial expressions told me I had gotten through.
Each time as I was about to give up, exhausted from the jeers and insulting remarks, some kind face would come up and say: “I want you here” or “You’re pretty” or “Won’t you stay and fight it out?”
This above all made all the “Go home, nigger” and “I’m gonna get you before the day is over” fade into the background.
There were a few trying experiences such as being blocked from passage to class by a few rough, tough-looking side-burners, boys who I’m sure if separated would not attack a mouse. Then, there were the three women who jumped the fence and attempted to “get me.”
A favorite activity of the kids was to form a group in a circle and scream: “Two, four, six, eight, we ain’t gonna integrate.” I know of no physical injury to any of the nine students. I was slapped by one girl. I turned and said “Thank you” and continued on my journey to class.
I did not realize the size or the intentions of the crowd outside until I was told for my safety I had to leave Central High. This hurt me deeper than I can ever express. I’m glad I went, Oh, so glad I went, for now I know without out-of-school interference integration is possible in Little Rock, Arkansas.
When I finished the article I realized it was not the whole truth but a version that wouldn’t jeopardize the integration. If I had told what really happened, one of the officials might say we couldn’t go back. I composed the story in a way that would make my day sound okay. Maybe in a few days if I remained patient and prayed it would really be that way—white students would welcome me and smile and treat me like an ordinary human being.
All that evening we continued our vigilance on the couch in front of the television. Mother seemed to relax a bit, and Grandma settled down with her almanac and handiwork. The newsmen reported more roving gangs of hooligans doing their evil deeds throughout the city.
From his Sea Island, Georgia, retreat, Governor Faubus urged our leaders and school officials to allow a cooling-off period before resuming integration.
President Eisenhower had earlier complimented us on our bravery in a radio message, saying all parents must have sympathetic understanding for the ordeal to which we nine children had been subjected. Now he issued a warning statement:
I want to make several things very clear in connection with the disgraceful occurrences today at Central High School in the city of Little Rock. I will use the full power of the United States, including whatever force may be necessary, to prevent any obstruction of the law and to carry out the orders of the Federal Court.
He ended his long statement by demanding that all persons engaged in obstruction of justice “cease and desist.”
“At least we’ve got a President who respects the law,” Grandma said, applauding.
“There will be no school for you tomorrow, Melba,” Mother Lois said.
“But I’m going to school tomorrow, aren’t I?” Conrad asked.
“Perhaps. We’ll have to see how things go,” Mother Lois said.
“I’ll bet that mob will heed the President’s words,” Grandma said. “Things will be back to normal tomorrow.”
But this time Grandma was wrong. After a restless night, we awoke on Tuesday to find the mob had not heeded the warning of the President. As early as 7:30 A.M. more than two hundred people had gathered in front of Central High to protest our arrival. The headlines read:
IKE CLEARS WAY TO SEND TROOPS:
COMMANDS CEASE AND DESIST IN LEGAL MOVE
—Arkansas Gazette, Tuesday, September 24, 1957
The article said that President Eisenhower signed a history-making proclamation clearing the way for possible use of federal troops to quash any further school integration violence in Little Rock.
But next I read: FAUBUS CHALLENGES IKE ON USING TROOPS. From Sea Island, Georgia, on September 23, Governor Faubus had declaredthat the President couldn’t use federal troops to combatthe Little Rock integrationviolence unless he, as governor, requested himto do so. And headded, “I don’t plan to make any such request.”
And even as I read those headlines, the announceron the radio said the unruly crowd surrounding Central High was larger than it had been the day before.
12
“GOVERNOR Faubus didn’t ask for federal troops, but they’re up in his face anyhow,” Grandma said as we sat watching the arrival of the 101st Airborne Division early Tuesday evening. We were transfixed as we listened to newsmen describe the power of that very special military unit.
Fifty-two planeloads—C123’s and C130’s have brought 1200 battle-equipped paratroopers to Little Rock to see that integration is carried out at Central High School without further violence.
Planeloads of the men of the 101st Airborne Division stationed at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, started landing at Little Rock Air Force Base at 3:30 P.M. this afternoon, at half-hour intervals. The troop convoy is entering Little Rock to take up positions at Central High School.
I sat perfectly still, my attention riveted on the television screen, where the most wonderful pictures moved before my eyes. Silhouetted against the slate gray sky, jeep headlights cast halos in the evening light as the mighty 101st Airborne Division rolled across the Broadway Bridge into Little Rock. It was a caravan of army vehicles that seemed to go on forever.
“More of God’s handiwork,” Grandma said, her eyes brimming with tears. “Who’d a thought Mr. Faubus’s mistreatment of our nine little children would bring the President and the 101st down on his head.”
The arrival of the troops made me feel hopeful that I had protection from the mob. But it also made me feel even more frightened because President Eisenhower hadn’t chosen to send just any old military unit. The men of the 101st were famous heroes, combat specialists, the newsman said. If we needed such brave soldiers, the President and those powerful men in his cabinet must have agreed that the integration was as dangerous as a hostile enemy in war.
It felt to me as though the nine of us were expected to wage some kind of war to make integration happen. The thought upset me. I knew Mother was alarmed as well when she suggested I leave the next day for Cincinnati to live with Uncle Clancey and attend school there. I didn’t want
to go away because I knew it would get printed in the newspapers and the segregationists would think I was afraid. They would think they had won. Why couldn’t she have made this offer earlier? It would have been so much easier then.
For the first time ever, Grandma placed dinner on trays in front of the television so we could hear President Eisenhower speak to the nation. “Let’s put things into perspective. He is our President, and he happens to be talking about us. The whole world’s watching, why shouldn’t we,” she said.
Speaking from the White House, President Eisenhower said he sent troops because “Mob rule in Little Rock menaces the very safety of the United States and the free world.” This was so, he said, because gloating communists abroad were using school integration riots to misrepresent the United States and undermine its prestige and influence around the globe. And then he looked straight into the camera and said, “Mob rule cannot be allowed to override the decision of the courts.”
Warriors Don't Cry Page 14
