Warriors Don't Cry

by Melba Pattillo

  I thought a lot about how to appear as strong as I could as I walked the halls: how not to wince or frown when somebody hit me or kicked me in the shin. I practiced quieting fear as quickly as I could. When a passerby called me nigger, or lashed out at me using nasty words, I worked at not letting my heart feel sad because they didn’t like me. I began to see that to allow their words to pierce my soul was to do exactly what they wanted.

  My conversations with my eight friends began to change, too. We joked less with each other, and there was considerably less talk about our hopes that the students might immediately begin to accept us. Instead, we exchanged information about how to cope: “Don’t go down this hallway to get to the cafeteria, that’s where the hit-and-run trippers wait for you.” “Stay out of the third-floor doorway; boys with knives hang out there.” “Don’t exit that set of stairs; that’s where the boys with the dynamite sticks always wait.”

  It was the kind of information warriors exchange to wage the battles they must win, or die. My energies were devoted to one goal—planning for my own safety and shielding myself from hurt. Even though I wasn’t totally satisfied with the grades on my report card of October 17, I decided I had to make staying alive my priority.

  October 20’s newspaper carried an article saying that Clarence Laws, Southwest Regional Field Secretary for the NAACP, denied rumors that we nine were being paid to go to Central, or had been imported from the North to integrate Little Rock schools, or that our parents were planning to take us out of school.

  On October 23, we left school without a guard and walked to the station wagon alone. On the morning of October 24, we walked to the front door once more without an escort. The evening headlines read:

  NEGRO STUDENTS ENTER SCHOOL WITHOUT ESCORT

  REDUCED TO SIX 101 AIRBORNE

  My brother, Conrad, complained that I wouldn’t play games with him—not even our favorite Monopoly. I realized he was right. Lately I had no time for play. Vince was complaining as well because I wasn’t available to speak on the phone or to go out with him. My after-school time was filled with meetings and news people and sometimes just sitting silent in my room to ponder what would become of me. Central High integration was slowly destroying my life.

  During one late October after-school meeting, we discussed the fact that President Eisenhower would not stop withdrawing 101st troops even though our parents and Mrs. Bates had sent a telegram informing him that opposition against us was more violent with each passing day. We discussed trying yet another approach to change the attitudes of school officials so they would take control of the hooligans.

  The next day was a living hell. In addition to increased heckling in the hallways, it was the beginning of a series of experiences in my gym class I would not soon forget. It all started with a verbal barrage I tried to ignore.

  “You’re already black meat, and what is black meat? It’s burned meat,” said the lanky brunette, with a devilish gleam in her eyes, as she stood outside my shower space. I stood stark naked, my privacy invaded, while others joined her, leering and spouting insults. I was racking my brain, wondering what she was talking about, and then it came, the scalding water. I felt myself cry aloud as the sheet of steaming water spread pain across my shoulders and back. I was stunned, paralyzed by the cruelty of their act. Two other girls appeared just at that moment to shove me directly beneath the spray and hold me there.

  I suddenly felt surging inside of me a strength that matched my determination. I grabbed my attackers’ arms and pulled them in with me as close as I could. I let them feel my anger with my elbows, my feet, and with words that would take me to brimstone and hellfire later, but at least I’d have time to prepare. I was using some of the same language they used on me.

  As the girls backed away, I emerged to find they had removed my clothing and books. There I was, scrambling about wearing only a towel and a bad attitude. When finally I found my outer clothing, it was stuffed in a corner, but my underwear was on the floor of another shower, soaking wet. I would freeze all day. I could look forward to damp spots seeping through to my outer garments. As I got dressed, my clothes irritated my scalded skin. It hurt to move.

  Later in the day I encountered the “heel-walking committee.” Groups of students would walk close up behind me and step on my heels, generating the most excruciating pain. I would walk faster, but they would catch up and continue doing it. After a while my heels were bleeding through my socks. When I went to the office for Band-Aids, the woman on duty turned up her nose and sneered. “If you can’t stand an occasional tap on the heel, why don’t you leave.”

  By the end of the day, I was exhausted from defending myself and trying to figure out what would come next. And I was beginning to have an uncontrollable urge to fight back.

  On Monday, October 28, Mrs. Huckaby notified us in writing that we were to contact our parents to come to a meeting in School Superintendent Blossom’s office, downtown, at 4:45 P.M. That last-minute request meant Mother Lois had to rush over from her teaching job in North Little Rock. But it was necessary, because we all hoped that meeting would signal the beginning of the school officials’ willingness to do something about the incredible increase in attacks against us. I couldn’t imagine what else they’d want to discuss.

  18

  AS we climbed the stairs with our parents to the meeting in Superintendent Blossom’s office, it was clear that we all had one thing on our minds—that school officials provide a concrete plan to stop the abuse by Central High’s hard-core segregationist students.

  “I’m angry enough to hunt bear without my shotgun,” said one of the fathers. “These folks had best do something really big to show me they wanna make this integration work.”

  “I’m tired of them counting on us to make all the sacrifices,” said another parent. “We need to know what they’re willing to sacrifice.”

  Thirty minutes into that meeting, neither Blossom nor any of his people had addressed the issue we had told him we were anxious to discuss. Instead, all the school officials present were giving us the same song and dance about our not responding to our attackers in order to maintain peace. They were lecturing us on “the proper attitude” and the responsibility of our parents. There were no words from them about how they were going to take any responsibility for keeping students from abusing us.

  “Excuse me,” Mother Lois said, suddenly rising to her feet, interrupting Superintendent Blossom midsentence. I was frightened to see her standing there so tiny, wringing her hands nervously. “What I want to know is whether or not you have any specific plans for protecting our children.”

  “That’s none of your business,” Blossom replied in a rude tone.

  “Oh, I’d say it’s very much my business.” Mother’s words came rapid-fire. Still he ignored her, continuing his rhetoric as before. Silence fell over the room. She interrupted him once more. “As parents we have a right to know how you will protect our children.” He gave her neither an answer nor any acknowledgment that she had a right to ask such a question.

  Instead, he continued his meaningless comments, ignoring her as she stood there for several minutes expecting him to answer her. Finally she took her seat. Her face was red with anger and embarrassment. I felt that by disrespecting Mother that way, the superintendent was disrespecting all of us seated in that room. I was very angry with the others, especially the fathers, who did not stand up and defend my mother. The humiliation and fear I felt so upset me that I couldn’t consider anything that was said during the remainder of the meeting. Nevertheless, it was clear by the time we left for home that nothing had been resolved.

  NINE NEGRO STUDENTS ENTER CENTRAL AT DIFFERENT DOOR

  —Arkansas Gazette, Thursday, October 31, 1957

  ON Wednesday, with no sign of our military escorts, we decided to avoid the hecklers who were starting to greet us each morning. We arrived early and entered the Fourteenth and Park Street entrance, a block to the right of the front entry. We had dete
rmined that going in the front door presented more risks than it was worth.

  The repeated recitation by Governor Faubus that our voluntary withdrawal and the departure of all troops was the only way to bring peace was reflected by a change in the students’ attitudes. It was as though they counted on our getting kicked out at any moment. Those few who had earlier tried to reach out had obviously been pressured to turn away. One girl who happened to meet me alone in a rest room said that she and the other moderate white students were being harassed with telephoned threats and were being ostracized. It was evident that school officials and teachers were under more and more pressure from segregationists to help them get rid of us.

  For me the most frightening events at school were the increased number of pep rallies and assemblies that came with the football season and the beginning of the holidays. At those times, I was surrounded by a sea of hostile faces and a chorus of hurtful words. There weren’t enough teachers or guards on earth to corral the out-of-control students. We came to refer to the auditorium as the torture chamber.

  I had grown to expect being elbowed, poked, and kicked, to have my hair pulled, to be punched in the back or trampled as I was entering or leaving the auditorium. But having glue doused on the back of my neck and in my ponytail was more unpleasant.

  I was at first paralyzed by the terror I felt when during one assembly a boy thrust a knife at me. As I sat in a shadowy corner beneath the balcony overhang, he placed the blade against the right side of my face and whispered obscene threats. I surprised myself by biting down hard on his wrist, and then springing up out of my seat to find a teacher. But she wouldn’t listen to my complaint.

  “Both of you sit down right now. You’re disturbing the others,” she hissed, directing me back to my seat and returning her attention to the stage.

  No sooner had she turned to leave when out of the corner of my eye I saw the flash of the steel blade as the boy thrust it at me once again. Only this time he gripped me even tighter. I felt the sharp blade shave the side of my cheek. No matter how I struggled, I couldn’t break his hold. Once again, I bit down as hard as I could into his forearm, drawing blood. He quickly pulled back his arm, muffling his outcry. “A rabies shot, I’ll need a rabies shot now,” he growled at me.

  The teacher listened impatiently to my second report and then said, “These children have tolerated a lot of upheaval.” Even though she ignored me, I felt better because at least I wasn’t a whining wimp anymore.

  ALDERMAN ORDERS ARREST OF NAACP OFFICIALS

  —Arkansas Gazette, Friday, November 1, 1957

  THE adults we counted on were showing ever more stress. Mrs. Bates’s newspaper was being strangled economically. At the same time she and other NAACP officials across the state were under increased pressure from State Attorney General Bruce Bennett to turn over all records, including names, addresses, and phone numbers of members and contributors to the organization.

  Bennett had, a few months before in August, filed a civil suit against the NAACP saying the organization had been doing business in Arkansas for seven years although it had only recently registered as a foreign corporation. He had early on begun to badger Mrs. Bates for information about all the members and contributors of the state’s twenty-seven branches. It frightened us to see our allies being abused.

  In my diary I wrote:

  What will become of us if the NAACP is not strong. It feels as though segregationists are attacking from all sides. They know very well we count on Mrs. Bates and the local NAACP people as well as Mr. Marshall. If they’re busy defending themselves, who will see after us?

  During those first days of November, we found ourselves coping with yet another crisis brought on by insensitive Central High School officials. The tiger was their school mascot, and the Tiger Directory was a list of all the students’ names, addresses, and telephone numbers. Despite our requests that our names and numbers not be listed and despite the fact that school officials had overwhelming evidence that our lives were in jeopardy, our information was nevertheless included. Yes, newspapers had printed the information before, but they had stopped. This new release summoned into action passive students who might up until then have thought twice about calling us. So of course we got more and more phone calls. Whether they were threats and vicious language or mere hang-ups, those calls took our time and energy.

  I continued to yearn for the return of the 101st full-time. We were told that a couple of hundred soldiers remained at nearby Camp Robinson. Somehow, I figured that maybe, since things were so bad, they would come back to be with us every day—guarding us up close as they had in the beginning, but it wasn’t happening. The next time I saw Danny, he said he didn’t think they would return on a regular basis because the powers that be wanted us to stand alone. Those times when we were lucky enough to get our 101st guards were wonderful. We treasured their presence, as infrequent as it had become.

  Sometimes we were guarded by the Arkansas National slobs, as we called the federalized soldiers, who, by then, had shown us in every way that they loathed the responsibility and didn’t take it seriously. They had become visibly hostile toward us, sometimes whispering threats and taunting and teasing us when they got us alone. Segregationists were publicly urging them to abandon their duty stations rather than guard us.

  ON one of the first days of November, Minnijean arrived at my house after school to show me Life magazine. It had a full-page picture of my back in it. There I was, ponytail and all, saluting the flag. It wasn’t the first time we’d seen ourselves in print or on television, but we giggled at the wonder of it all—Miss Minnijean and Miss Melba could now be seen on the pages of Life, Look, or The New York Times.

  We did, however, begin to notice there was a price to be paid whenever we appeared in periodicals or on television; the next day the harassment inside Central would always increase.

  As Minnijean and I spent time together that evening, I could tell she was beginning to be deeply affected by what was being done to her at Central High. She seemed especially vulnerable to the isolation we were all struggling to cope with. She had decided she would be accepted by white students if she could just show them how beautifully she sang. She was almost obsessed with finding an opportunity to perform her music on stage. She said she was definitely going to participate in a school program and had in fact already made inquiries about it.

  Little did we know that even while we were discussing her performing in school programs, the Central High Mothers’ League was preparing to make a bigger fuss than ever before to exclude her. With each passing day the furor about her wanting to participate was building. But their threats did not stop Minnijean. She was already waging yet another campaign to sing on stage. This time it was to sing “Tammy” in the talent show. It was as though these objections fueled her need to do what wasn’t wanted.

  I wondered whether or not she had considered that the audience would boo her off the stage. Did she figure they would be enraptured by her performance? I shuddered at the thought of what the students would say or do to her if she made it. But I could tell that her anxiety over the constant abuse we endured and sadness over being left out was clouding her view. She delighted in planning for the performance, announcing and displaying a joyful glee about the possibility of singing in front of the white kids.

  When I talked to Ernie about my concerns, he brushed them aside. As usual, he was taking the situation in stride. Even when he was punched with punishing blows or was kicked to the floor, he kept a positive attitude. I liked his attitude even when I didn’t agree with his view.

  Like me, Thelma was very concerned about Minnijean. We talked about how we could convince her to stop pushing to participate. Each of us was hearing increasingly negative responses to her desire to do so. It was clear to us that both students and outsiders would take the opportunity to make a huge issue of her request.

  Terry was philosophical about it: Let her try and she’ll learn her lesson, once and for all. I c
ould see Terry becoming more fatalistic about our predicament. His hopes that we could change people’s minds were visibly reduced. He was nervous, not as cheerful, not humming his funny tunes.

  Stress was beginning to tell on Gloria, too. She was clamming up, becoming solemn. I could almost see her mind working to try to set things right so she could keep going in her meticulous way.

  Elizabeth had never fully regained her composure following her awful encounter with the mob. Continued harassment was also taking its toll of her. She reacted by becoming silent and withdrawn. When I discussed Minnijean’s predicament with Elizabeth, she appeared alarmed and agreed that we ought not attract unnecessary attention to ourselves.

  Carlotta strained to keep smiling. Although she often took a lot of heat, especially in gym class, she tried to make the best of it, as did Jeff. Like the two other boys, Jeff was taking a lot of brutal physical punishment. He was quick on his feet, but he often got trapped in gym class or in corners of the hall, where he was kicked and punched.

  Whenever we compared notes, we all agreed: the students’ attitudes had become polarized. We felt it would be best for Minnijean to back off, but none of us could talk her out of it. She was adamant. The more we pleaded, the more determined she seemed to become.