Marsha had begun treating me as though I were different. She wasn’t inviting me places, she stopped calling to tell me what the old gang was doing. It felt as though she no longer wanted me as her friend. Whenever we happened to meet, she called me the “chosen one.” I thought it was a strange thing to say.
Most of my other friends were behaving a little strangely as well. Some of them stared at me whenever I saw them or snubbed me or talked to me like you talk to people you don’t know well. We seemed not to have things in common anymore. There was so much new information in my head, so many new worries, that I didn’t have space for the ordinary things we shared before. I spent a lot of time thinking about safety and life and death and what would make the white people understand that I was equal to them.
I felt different inside, like something was stretching me, growing me, making me somebody else. So much of the past month, I had lived inside my head, pondering what would happen to me. It was as though I were forced to turn inward to get along at Central High. No one on the outside could understand what I was going through. The change frightened me because I was going somewhere, becoming someone, but I didn’t know where or who. I wasn’t ready to be grown up—or to not be Melba. In my diary I wrote:
I am worried about what’s happening to me. I feel like someone forced me into a roller coaster that spins up and down and all around and won’t stop. Nobody can make it stop but God.
Later that morning when the family sat down together for breakfast, I couldn’t believe that Mama was reading the paper over the breakfast table, something we were forbidden to do.
“I see here where the head of the FBI is angry at Faubus for telling lies about the FBI holding those schoolgirls in custody.” Mother showed me the Gazette headline and the first part of the article.
J. EDGAR HOOVER ANGERED BY FAUBUS REPORT OF FBI
September 28, 1957: FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover accused Governor Faubus of Arkansas of disseminating falsehoods by saying FBI agents held teenagers incommunicado for hours of questioning.
“He’s really fired up the segregationists,” Grandma said.
I shut my mind off—I couldn’t listen. Their talk made me queasy. When I couldn’t stand it any longer I had to speak up. “We’re gonna only talk about good things,” I said, gulping my last sip of milk. “No Central High talk.”
“Deal,” Grandma said, standing to clear the table.
By ten, we all piled into the car and started off for our big adventure. Grandma had offered to buy me a new store-bought dress—I couldn’t believe my ears. Then Mama made her announcement.
“Vince telephoned. He’s asked me if you could go with him to church tomorrow, then out for a bite. I said yes, provided the two of you come home to have dinner with us.”
“Melba’s got a boyfriend. . . .” Conrad’s chant was embarrassing me.
“Shut up,” I blurted out, suddenly very angry with my younger brother. Grandma looked at me disapprovingly and said, “Don’t take your Central High anger out on your brother!”
She was right. I apologized and sat back in my seat, aware of my anger and wondering what to do with it. It was the same kind of anger I felt at Central when somebody was mean to me. Then I remembered Mama had said “yes” to Vince, and the happiness I felt caused my anger to fade.
Little Rock’s Main Street was small and dingy by comparison to Cincinnati’s enormous shopping district. We only had three fancy stores—Kempner’s, Blass, and Pfeifer’s. During our walk through the last store, Mama found a dress she liked and asked me to try it. I pulled the blue-and-white gabardine dress over my head. Grandma smiled, and I knew that was the dress she would buy even though the price tag said $10.99.
The day took on a comforting quality. It was as though we were just an ordinary family as we picked out a shirt for Conrad and stopped for an ice cream break. There were actually fleeting moments when I didn’t think about being a Central High student. I stopped worrying about what would happen if some Central High students saw me and there were no soldiers around.
Saturday night we sat watching Wagon Train and The Sid Caesar Show on television, and all the while I couldn’t stop thinking about Sunday morning with Vince, especially since we were going to his mother’s church. At the same time, I wanted to keep Saturday, because it had indeed been my day. Grandma decided we wouldn’t answer the phone, so she put it in the cedar chest. Only the shotgun leaning in the corner near her chair reminded me that things were different.
When Sunday actually came around, I was in a real dither over my date. I couldn’t eat breakfast. Instead, I worked on new hairstyles in front of the mirror. My ponytail was absolutely childish, so I tried an upsweep, a swatch over the eye like Gloria Swanson, and a pouf like Elizabeth Taylor. Unfortunately, the ponytail looked best on me.
“Hmm, look at this,” Mother Lois said, entering my bedroom holding the Sunday paper wide open. “Here’s an article on Terry and his family. Talks about his parents and how they sat up late discussing whether he would go to Central—says they left the decision up to him.”
I walked over to share the paper. The headline read:
NEGRO PARENTS TAKE INSULTS, PRAY FOR CHILDREN’S SAFETY
There were comments from Thelma’s and Elizabeth’s parents about our dilemma. They spoke about the constant harassing phone calls and the daily insults and abuse at school. There were also pictures of the violence at Central High on every day of the previous week.
But I couldn’t take the time to look at the newspaper. I was frantically doing final touch-ups to my appearance. When Mother left the room, I turned slowly in front of the mirror, thinking if only I’d had another week to prepare for this date.
Not knowing how girls were supposed to behave on dates made me nervous. I kept thinking about what to do or say. I thought about the women in novels I’d read and in the true romance magazines and on the soaps. I’d try to behave like them.
When Vince arrived, I headed for the living room. Mother stopped me in the hallway and took both my hands in hers. She held me at arm’s length, looking me over as if she were trying to preserve that moment in her mind. “Your first real date,” she whispered. “I know you are a good girl, and I love you.”
Then I was with Vince. He looked down at me, reaching out to hand me a dozen roses, my first roses, just like in the magazines and on Stella Dallas on the radio. Red roses.
I whispered my “thank you.” I saw the clock on the wall and with a sinking heart realized that in twenty-four hours it would be Monday morning. I would be going back to school, back to Central High.
The date went better than I expected. After a while I relaxed and stopped worrying so much about what to say and do. The minister at Vince’s mother’s church mentioned my name and had the congregation say a special prayer for me. I could see by the look on his face that he felt proud to be with me. Even dinner with my family went well until Grandma India mentioned news of Central High. The Mothers’ League was asking that the 101st be removed from inside the school or at least cut to a bare minimum.
Later, I lay in bed unable to sleep. The joy from my date with Vince was overshadowed by my uncertainty about tomorrow at Central High. I tossed and turned all night, worrying that the soldiers would be gone the next day.
When I arrived at school on that Monday morning, I had only one thought in my mind—find Danny and the 101st. He was right there, just as he had been in the days before. I kept looking back to see him because I had that nagging feeling he would be leaving all too soon. During English class I started to write in my notebook to keep calm. Later that evening I transferred what I wrote to my diary.
September 30: 9:30 A.M.
Each morning as I arrive, I look for the soldiers. I don’t want to imagine what it would be like without them. Even inside the classroom where things should be safe and civilized, I am never able to be comfortable because the teachers are not in control. I can’t even take pride in reciting. One boy in English class shout
ed “Don’t let that nigger go to the blackboard.”
That Monday was the day on which I came to realize the price I would pay to become a Central High student. I tried to figure out why. And then I knew it was because I was treated as though I were an outside observer, sitting and looking into a glass room that held all the white students, separate and apart from me. I was never really included in what they were doing. With that realization, a new pain seeped into my heart—a feeling I hadn’t experienced before. It felt as if I were a ghost, observing life, excited about it, but excluded. I wasn’t really a part of their world. I was treated as if I didn’t exist. Would it be this way all year long?
Apart from that painful realization, and the whispered nasty comments and small but agitating pranks, the day was simply very, very long.
“Patience,” Danny said. “In order to get through this year you will have to become a soldier. Never let your enemy know what you are feeling. You can’t afford to become bored.”
That evening I wrote in my diary:
A girl smiled at me today, another gave me directions, still another boy whispered the page I should turn to in our textbook. This is going to work. It will take a lot more patience and more strength from me, but it’s going to work. It takes more time than I thought. But we’re going to have integration in Little Rock.
16
GUARD TAKES OVER AT SCHOOL
—Arkansas Democrat, Tuesday, October 1, 1957
I ARRIVED at school Tuesday morning, fully expecting that I would be greeted by the 101st soldiers and escorted to the top of the stairs. Instead, we were left at the curb to fend for ourselves. As we approached the stairs, we were greeted by taunting catcalls and the kind of behavior students had not dared to exhibit in the face of the 101st.
Where were the disciplined ranks we had come to count on? I looked all around, but sure enough, there were no 101st guards in sight. Just then a boy blocked our way. What were we to do? My first thought was to retreat, to turn and go back down the stairs and detour around to the side door. But that escape route was blocked by those stalking us. A large crowd of jeering, pencil-throwing students hovered around us menacingly. We had no choice but to go forward.
“Where are your pretty little soldier boys today?” someone cried out.
“You niggers ready to die just to be in this school?” asked another.
Squeezing our way through the hostile group gathered at the front door, we were blasted by shouts of “Nigger, go home. Go back to where you belong.” At every turn, we were faced with more taunts and blows. There were no 101st soldiers at their usual posts along the corridors.
And then I saw them. Slouching against the wall were members of the Arkansas National Guard, looking on like spectators at a sports event—certainly not like men sent to guard our safety.
I wanted to turn and run away, but I thought about what Danny had said: “Warriors survive.” I tried to remember his stance, his attitude, and the courage of the 101st on the battlefield. Comparing my tiny challenge with what he must have faced made me feel more confident. I told myself I could handle whatever the segregationists had in store for me. But I underestimated them.
Early that morning, a boy began to taunt me as though he had been assigned that task. First he greeted me in the hall outside my shorthand class and began pelting me with bottle-cap openers, the kind with the sharp claw at the end. He was also a master at walking on my heels. He hurt me until I wanted to scream for help.
By lunchtime, I was nearly hysterical and ready to call it quits, until I thought of having to face Grandma when I arrived home. During the afternoon, when I went into the principal’s office several times to report being sprayed with ink, kicked in the shin, and heel-walked until the backs of my feet bled, as well as to report the name of my constant tormentor, the clerks asked why I was reporting petty stuff. With unsympathetic scowls and hostile attitudes, they accused me of making mountains out of molehills.
Not long before the end of the school day, I entered a dimly lit rest room. The three girls standing near the door seemed to ignore me. Their passive, silent, almost pleasant greeting made me uncomfortable, and the more I thought about their attitude, the more it concerned me. At least when students were treating me harshly, I knew what to expect.
Once inside the stall, I was even more alarmed at all the movement, the feet shuffling, the voices whispering. It sounded as though more people were entering the room.
“Bombs away!” someone shouted above me. I looked up to see a flaming paper wad coming right down on me. Girls were leaning over the top of the stalls on either side of me. Flaming paper floated down and landed on my hair and shoulders. I jumped up, trying to pull myself together and at the same time duck the flames and stamp them out. I brushed the singeing ashes away from my face as I frantically grabbed for the door to open it.
“Help!” I shouted. “Help!” The door wouldn’t open. Someone was holding it—someone strong, perhaps more than one person. I was trapped.
“Did you think we were gonna let niggers use our toilets? We’ll burn you alive, girl,” a voice shouted through the door. “There won’t be enough of you left to worry about.”
I felt the kind of panic that stopped me from thinking clearly. My right arm was singed. The flaming wads of paper were coming at me faster and faster. I could feel my chest muscles tightening. I felt as though I would die any moment. The more I yelled for help, the more I inhaled smoke and the more I coughed.
I told myself I had to stop screaming so I wouldn’t take in so much smoke. My throat hurt—I was choking. I remembered Grandmother telling me all I had to do was say the name of God and ask for help. Once more I looked up to see those grinning, jeering faces as flaming paper rained down on me. Please, God, help me, I silently implored. I had to hurry. I might not be able to swat the next one and put it out with my hands. Then what? Would my hair catch fire? I had to stop them. I picked up my books and tossed one upward as hard as I could, in a blind aim to hit my attackers.
I heard a big thud, then a voice cry out in pain and several people scuffle about. I tossed another and then another book as fast and as hard as I could. One more of their number cursed at me. I had hit my target.
“Let’s get out of here,” someone shouted as the group hurried out the door. In a flash, I leaped out of the stall, trying to find my things. I decided I wouldn’t even bother reporting my problem. I just wanted to go home. I didn’t care that I smelled of smoke or that my blouse was singed. Later when my friends asked what happened, I didn’t even bother to explain.
Much worse than the fear and any physical pain I had endured was the hurt deep down inside my heart, because no part of me understood why people would do those kinds of things to one another. I was so stunned by my experience that during the ride home I sat silent and listened to reports from the others. They, too, seemed to have had a bigger problem that day with hecklers and hooligans.
The experiment of doing without the 101st had apparently been a fiasco. By the end of the day more than one of us had heard talk that the 101st had been brought back.
Still, despite all our complaints, there were a few students who tried to reach out to us with smiles or offers to sit at our cafeteria tables; some even accompanied us along the halls. Each of us noticed, however, that those instances of friendship were shrinking rather than growing. There was no doubt that the hard-core troublemakers were increasing their activities, and without the men of the 101st, they increased a hundredfold.
President Eisenhower says he will remove the 101st soldiers if Governor Faubus agrees to protect the nine Negro children with federalized Arkansas National Guardsmen.
Those words from the radio announcer sent a chill down my spine as I sat doing my homework on Tuesday evening. I had hoped the rumors of the return of the 101st were true. But according to the report, the same Arkansas soldiers who had been dispatched by Governor Faubus to keep us out of Central High would become totally responsible for keeping
us in school and protecting our lives.
“Sounds like the wolf guarding the henhouse to me,” Grandma said. “Thank God you know who your real protector is, ’cause you certainly won’t be able to count on those boys for help.” She was peeking at me over the pages of the newspaper.
I didn’t know how to tell her how right she was. But then I couldn’t tell her I had had the kind of day that was making me think about running away where nobody could find me.
“Did you see where Judge Ronald Davies will be going back to North Dakota?” Grandma continued. “He will still retain jurisdiction over your case, though.”
“That really frightens me,” I said. “I feel safer with Davies being here.”
“He is being replaced by Judge Harper from St. Louis, it says.”
“Bad news,” I replied. I didn’t know bad things about Harper, but I had come to trust Davies as an honest and fair man with the courage of his convictions. St. Louis bordered the South; that Judge Harper might not be as open-minded.
Warriors Don't Cry Page 18
