But as the next week began, local radio, television, and newspapers claimed that 101st guards were following us females to the lavatory and harassing white girls. GI’S IN GIRLS’ DRESSING ROOMS, FAUBUS SAYS ran as a banner headline in the Gazette for Monday, October 7. Of course it wasn’t true. However, it made the military tighten up rules about where soldiers could or could not go with us and prompted them to launch a massive internal investigation.
I could see a steady erosion in the quality of security in response to charges of interference by the soldiers. It was evident as the early days of October passed that whenever the 101st troops relaxed their guard or were not clearly visible, we were in great danger.
17
FAUBUS WANTS SCHOOL RESPITE:
STILL SAYS NEGROES MUST BE WITHDRAWN
—Arkansas Gazette, Thursday, October 10, 1957
THE governor continued to conduct a public campaign, complaining loud and long in a nonstop series of newspaper, radio, and television interviews that integration must be halted. Inspired by his attitude, those who did not want us at Central High were digging in their heels and becoming much better organized in their efforts to get rid of us.
Each day we arrived to find we were facing a different set of circumstances. Officials experimented with ways of protecting our safety that would at the same time please politicians who wanted the troops gone from school and gone from Little Rock. Increasing physical violence brought back the 101st guards on some occasions. We found ourselves spending our days with one personal bodyguard from the 101st, or with varying numbers and kinds of bodyguards, or totally alone.
For example, when one of us had a major problem, they brought in a three-hundred pound 101st guard nicknamed Goggles. With nightsticks and other equipment strapped at his side, he made the kind of shield that fended off even the most hard-core segregationists. We grew to love him because being with Goggles meant a safe day no matter where you went. God bless Goggles and keep him in good health forever, was my prayer.
The beginning of the second week of October brought with it the realization that I would have to settle into some kind of routine that would allow me to cope with day-to-day harassment. Beyond the noise and hoopla of integrating school, beyond the glitter of news conferences, beyond anything else going on in my life, I had to figure out how to make it through seven hours with Central High segregationists each day.
My diary entry for Tuesday, October 8, read:
The ride to school today seemed livelier than ever. The driver of the jeep was friendlier. He finds all this confusion quite amusing.
I like what I wore—my orange blouse and quilted skirt. On my way to the third-period class, someone squirted ink on my blouse. I went to class feeling hurt and angry because I knew it would never come out. In English class, a boy was called on to recite. When he failed to answer the question, I raised my hand to recite. When I gave the right answer, he said, “Are you going to believe me or that nigger?”
Two days later, on Thursday, October 10, I wrote:
This morning I was given two new guards. This made me feel quite uncomfortable. I left home without eating breakfast and gee was I hungry. But I couldn’t go to lunch in the cafeteria because that room is becoming the main place for them to get me.
On some days I found myself thinking every waking moment about nothing else but my safety—consumed with learning skills that would keep me alive. When would someone get the best of me, and how could I head them off? By October 11, I had made myself ill with what appeared to be flu but was probably greatly compounded by a real case of fear and exhaustion. On that Friday, I stayed home from Central and snuggled down into my bed where it was safe.
I was well aware that my illness was more sadness and exhaustion than flu. I knew I had to get myself together because the next day I was supposed to meet with some of the eight others and some hard-core segregationist student leaders for a discussion that might lead to an understanding. To insure my speedy recovery, Grandma came after me with castor oil. I protested, but I knew it was no use.
I had tried to explain to her that I was just weary of hostile white students, hurtful deeds, soldiers and army jeeps back and forth to school, and news reporters with their endless questions. “Weary” had always been an older person’s complaint. But I knew for certain I was weary. Grandma was having none of it.
“The orange juice will cut the taste—here, drink,” she said, leaning in so close that I had no prayer of escape. “Don’t make me bend over this way, my back hurts.” Her spectacles slid to the end of her nose. I looked into her huge determined eyes, and I knew I was trapped. I gulped it down. The warm oily liquid was oozing across my tongue, down my throat when she popped a peppermint drop into my mouth.
And it wasn’t only the castor oil I had to endure with my claim of flu. That was just the beginning of a whole official ceremony that included Grandma’s garlic and herb poultice on my chest, which I figured was guaranteed to asphyxiate the germs. If that didn’t do it, the inch-thick Vicks salve she smeared over every centimeter of my body would surely send the flu bugs running. Yet as awful as some of her healing treatment was to endure, it felt better to be there at home with her than at Central High.
“It’s too bad you have to miss a day of school.” Mother Lois fluffed my pillows and tightened the sheet at the bottom of my bed. Dressed in her tan gabardine teaching suit with black blouse, she was off to school. “Hope you’ll be able to attend the meeting tomorrow.” She leaned over to kiss my forehead and to fetch her briefcase from the chair where she had left it. “Meeting with those Central High kids could be a first step to some kind of peacemaking.”
I knew very well I would have to force myself to attend. It would be the first time ever that segregationist student leaders would be coming to talk to us integrating students in a reasonably safe place where we all could speak our minds. It was sponsored by a Norwegian reporter, Mrs. Jorumn Rickets, who had set it up with Ernie, Minnijean, and me, and the group spotlighted as staunch troublemakers: Sammy Dean Parker, Kaye Bacon, and their crowd. Sammy Dean Parker had been seen in the newspaper embracing Governor Faubus as she thanked him for keeping us out of school.
People referred to the meeting as a possible turning point, a time of coming together. I had thought about nothing else for several days. I even dreamed that we would go to the meeting, and afterward things would calm down considerably at school. After a real heart-to-heart, the white students would see the light, and that would be the beginning of a smooth year.
It was that hope that made me drag myself out of bed on Saturday morning and head for the Parish Hall of St. Andrew’s Cathedral. Upon arrival I learned the meeting would be recorded by the National Broadcasting Company for future use on a network radio show. I hoped that wouldn’t change our being able to speak our minds.
The meeting room was a stark white setting, with mahogany straight-back chairs. It was the kind of place that could well inspire a deep, honest talk that might help us get along with each other. Mrs. Rickets, a woman of medium stature with blond hair pulled to the nape of her neck, began asking questions.
Joseph Fox, labeled a Central moderate because he didn’t violently oppose our presence, said, “I lay the whole blame for this thing in Governor Faubus’s lap. We wouldn’t have had nearly so much trouble if he hadn’t called out the National Guard.”
“That’s not so. I think our governor is trying to protect all of us,” said Sammy Dean Parker, an avowed segregationist seen embracing the governor on the front page of the newspaper. “He’s trying to prepare us. He said we’d have to integrate, but he has to prepare us.”
Ernie said, “All we want is an education and to be able to go to school and back home safely.”
When Mrs. Rickets asked why some of the white children objected to going to school with us, Sammy Dean replied: “Well, it’s racial, marrying each other.”
“School isn’t a marriage bureau,” Ernie said.
“We don�
�t have to socialize,” I said.
Kaye Bacon said she had heard rumors that we wanted to “rule” over them.
“I don’t think you know much about our people. I don’t think you ever tried to find out,” Minnijean said.
Kaye admitted she hadn’t tried to understand much about us until that meeting.
“We’re scared to death five hundred of you’all are gonna be coming into school,” Sammy Dean said.
The white students also expressed their feelings about the troops. Several times they spoke of their outrage at having soldiers in their school. “How do you think we like being escorted in and out of school?” I said. “How do you think we like not knowing who will hit us and when or where we’ll be attacked?”
Later in The New York Times, Sammy Dean Parker and Kaye Bacon said that as a result of the meeting they now had a new attitude. One headline in the Gazette read: TWO PUPILS TELL OF CHANGE IN ATTITUDE ON SEGREGATION.
Sammy Dean Parker was quoted as saying, “The Negro students don’t want to go to school with us any more than we want to go with them. If you really talk with them, you see their side of it. I think the NAACP is paying them to go.”
When I read her statement, I realized Sammy hadn’t understood at all our reason for attending Central High. I wondered where on earth she thought there was enough money to pay for such brutal days as I was enduring. I wouldn’t know how much money to charge for all the good days I wasn’t having in my old high school with friends who liked me. What price could anyone set for the joy and laughter and peace of mind I had given up?
I stayed in bed all day Sunday, telling myself I was ill, but the truth was I was partially suffering from downhearted blues. That meeting hadn’t helped the integration at all. Those white students didn’t understand. Even when Vince called for our regular Sunday date, I didn’t give up my claim of illness. Snuggling down into the safety of my bed made me feel as though I were a carefree little girl who hadn’t been to Central High and hadn’t yet discovered that miracles don’t happen exactly when and how you want them to.
In my diary, I wrote:
October 14, Monday
Flu, absent—Governor Faubus is still speaking out and causing turmoil. Quotes in daily papers make me know he will not let us rest.
Today Mother Lois brought home a new hi-fi. I guess she thought it would cheer up my sadness.
October 15, Tuesday
Flu—absent
With my head under the covers so Grandmother could not hear or see me, I cried myself to sleep. I know I am fighting for a good cause—and I know if I trust God I shouldn’t cry. I will keep going, but will it really make a difference?
I feel like something inside me has gone away. I am like a rag doll with no stuffing. I am growing up too fast. I’m not ready to go back to Central and be a warrior just yet. I don’t have any more strength. I want to stay right here, listening to Nat King Cole.
On Tuesday, October 15, my friends entered Central with only one soldier from the 101st as an escort. Once inside the school, only twenty-one National Guardsmen and nine 101st Airborne soldiers guarded them in the hallways.
A story in the Wednesday Arkansas Gazette was headlined: TWO NEGROES ILL. I thought it was funny to read about myself and Terry Roberts being out of Central High with the flu. By the time the paper printed the story, I was already back in class. According to that same article, Terry had said that things had been so bad for him the week before that he had almost decided to quit Central and go back to Horace Mann.
By the time I returned to school on Wednesday, things had deteriorated. The headlines that day read:
101ST DIVISION CUT BACK FORCE TODAY;
1/2 GOING BACK TO KENTUCKY
Until that time, when soldiers were taken away it was only to Camp Robinson—a stone’s throw away. The announcement of their departure to Kentucky gave segregationists reason to celebrate, and it was evident in the students who bragged about their renewed hope of getting rid of us.
As I stepped into the hallway, just for an instant the thought of fewer troops terrified me. But the warrior growing inside me squared my shoulders and put my mind on alert to do whatever was necessary to survive. I tried hard to remember everything Danny had taught me. I discovered I wasn’t frightened in the old way anymore. Instead, I felt my body muscles turn steely and my mind strain to focus. I had to take care of myself. I could really depend only on myself for protection.
A new voice in my head spoke to me with military-like discipline: Discover ink sprayed on the contents of your locker—don’t fret about it, deal with it. Get another locker assigned, find new books, get going—don’t waste time brooding or taking the hurt so deep inside. Kicked in the shin, tripped on the marble floor—assess the damage and do whatever is necessary to remain mobile. Move out! Warriors keep moving. They don’t stop to lick their wounds or cry.
DURING early morning classes that day several students heckled me about Minnijean, saying that if she tried to take part in their school activities there would be a big retaliation. Word had gotten around school and to the Central High Mothers’ League that Minnijean would be participating in a student talent show. Segregationists demanded that we not be allowed to participate in any extracurricular activities.
“That nigger ain’t gonna sing on our stage. My daddy says he’ll see her dead first.” The boy shouting this ran past me, knocking my books out of my arms. When I bent over to pick them up, someone kicked me from behind and pushed me over. I landed hard on my wrist. It felt broken.
“Okay. Get yourself up, and I’ll get the books.” It was a voice I didn’t recognize, speaking to me while students rushed past, laughing and pointing as I lay in pain. An Arkansas National Guard soldier was standing beside me, gathering my books and speaking in a gentle tone.
“Can you get up? Try to get up on your feet as fast as you can.”
I tried to get to my feet, but my head was pounding and my body ached.
“What the hell, gal, take my hand. You’re gonna get us both killed if you don’t move. We ain’t got no help.” He took my hand and boosted me upright. It hurt to stand on my ankle. “Let’s move outta here, right now!” He was pushing me faster than my body wanted to go, but I knew he was right, I had to move.
When we finally got to a safe spot, I thanked him, blinking back hot tears. That soldier, whoever he was, stayed within full sight of me for the rest of the day. He didn’t say anything, but whenever I looked for him, he was there. As I was leaving school, he was standing in the hallway, slouching against the wall like his buddies. But he had been kind to me, and I would remember that not all members of the Arkansas National Guard were of the same character.
That evening, during the meeting at Mrs. Bates’s house, we were told that within a few days we would no longer have the jeep and station wagon to take us back and forth to school. We would have to set up car pools. I tossed and turned all night, wondering whether or not we could survive without our 101st guards and the station wagon escort.
By mid-October, there were fewer and fewer 101st guards and fewer Arkansas National Guardsmen. We quickly learned that the presence of the 101st had lulled us into a false sense of security. The segregationist students were just biding their time until they could make their move. As the guards were reduced in number, our attackers revved up a full campaign against us. The less visible the 101st, the more we suffered physical and verbal abuse.
JUDGE DAVIES DISMISSES SUIT FOR REMOVAL OF U.S. TROOPS;
STATE MAY FILE, FAUBUS SAYS
—Arkansas Gazette, Friday, October 18, 1957
That lawsuit had been filed by Margaret Jackson and the Central High Mothers’ League. Segregationists continued to apply whatever pressure they could to get the troops reduced. Governor Faubus continued to bargain with President Eisenhower for our withdrawal from school and for an extension to begin integration sometime in the far distant future. Faubus’s declarations provided a glimmer of hope that made segregationists f
eel their oats. We were suffering increased harassment inside the hallways and classrooms, and still the troops were dwindling day by day.
Although I saw some 101st soldiers around the school, Danny didn’t seem to be there any longer. At first I looked for him in every corner, but finally I was so busy defending myself that looking for him was no longer the first thing on my mind.
IN the days that followed, I neither understood nor controlled the warrior growing inside me. I couldn’t even talk to Grandma India about the way I was feeling. It was a secret. As Samson had been weakened by a haircut, I thought I might lose my power if I spoke of it. I stopped complaining as much to my eight friends about the awful things segregationists were doing to me. I stopped trying to figure out what might happen the next moment, the next hour, the next day and focused intensely on right now.
Warriors Don't Cry Page 20
