Warriors Don't Cry

by Melba Pattillo

  “How did you know they were planning something?”

  “My dad makes me go to those meetings—where they plan what to do to get you’all kicked out of school.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I want to help you.”

  “I can’t trust you after today.”

  “Hey, if I hadn’t convinced those guys to leave, they were gonna get you. And if you don’t believe I’m on your side, here’s proof, listen up. Stay off the far end of the second floor tomorrow. And don’t go to your locker after lunch.”

  “I gotta go, Grandma wants me.” She was standing over me, looking as though she were upset with me.

  I rushed to the kitchen with her following on my heels. I had to tell them what had happened, and it was only a matter of minutes before Mother and Grandma tore into me. Mother Lois was first to speak. “We have to wonder about Link’s motives.”

  Then Grandma said, “Perhaps he’s trying to set you up for the Klan—he’s gonna lure you into a trap, and then where will you be?”

  Although I, too, was undecided about trusting Link, I continued to defend Link as both of them came up with dozens of reasons why I shouldn’t trust this white boy. Still, there was something inside me that said he had taken a big risk giving me his car that day.

  I didn’t want to defy Mother and Grandma, but Link was inside Central. He understood what I was going through. They could not help me inside that school. I had no choice but to take any help that would enable me to survive. I had to take the risk of trusting Link a little bit, at least for now.

  Sure enough, the next day, I heeded Link’s warnings, taking a different route to class. Later I heard there was trouble on the route I usually took. By not going to my locker in the afternoon, I avoided meeting someone who must have been very angry, as he or she broke the lock and shredded the contents of the locker. The day had gone exactly as Link had said it would, but even so, I found myself wondering if he were only building my trust in order to lay a bigger trap for me.

  NAACP ASKS STERNER ACTION BY CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL TROOPS

  —Arkansas Gazette, Tuesday, April 1, 1957

  The NAACP renewed today its demand for more militant action by troops at Central High School. Otherwise we are confronted with the incredible spectacle of the government of the United States placing the burden of enforcing the order of its courts upon the slender shoulders and young hearts of eight teenage Negro students.

  Link warned me that with the beginning of April, segregationists would feel compelled to speed up their efforts, in order to get us out of Central before we could complete a full school year. Some of their tactics became desperate, and their desperation made it easier for me to avoid the more obvious traps they set. Still, on the pages of my diary, there was no real life anymore. It was as if my days consisted of only one thing—enduring pain in my mind and on my body.

  April 2

  Today we had a fire drill, I was very much afraid. There was pushing on the stairs and name calling. I almost lost my balance. Had I fallen down those thirty or so stone steps, I would have hurt myself or even been killed. They tried hard enough . . . that’s for sure.

  April 4

  Excitement over the Mikado makes me very sad. I hear they will spend much money on costumes and makeup to have a real grownup production. Oh, how I wish I could participate. Also the class play will be soon. All this drama would be wonderful for me since that is the field I might go into. I spend equal amounts of time daydreaming about becoming a news reporter and an actress. I wonder why I’m so close and yet the distance of a million miles away from this opportunity.

  April 8

  The boys are throwing lighted paper at me in study hall again. Oh well, not too much longer.

  It made me very unhappy to read today’s headline in the Gazette. A man named Thomas is proposing that all of us withdraw from Central and everybody support his voluntary plan for desegregation. He’s some businessman, president of First Pyramid Life Insurance Company. The long and the short of it is that he wants to set up all kinds of biracial boards and committees and eventually, somewhere, eons from now, maybe we’d have integrated schools. Pooo! Everybody important that suggests we withdraw just makes it harder for us.

  April 9

  It feels so scary because the adults here don’t know what to do. I believe the rational ones who would keep the violence in check are being controlled by those who want us out at any cost. Therefore, nobody is steering the ship—nobody’s in charge—not really. I can see that it’s possible we could have a riot within this school.

  April 10

  Today was very very hard. I had to get up and walk out of study hall. A boy stood over me shouting insults while the teacher and entire study hall looked on. He threatened to kill me right there.

  April 11

  I don’t think I could have lasted another minute. I hope somebody performs a miracle over this weekend. Do you hear me, God?

  In the days that followed, Link continued to phone me every night. Grandma India would hand me the receiver with a scowl on her face, but neither she nor Mother Lois forbade my talking with him. Sometimes Grandma even stood by, listening to the entire conversation, with arms folded and a huffy attitude. It was the first time I had ever continued to do something I knew very well they didn’t want me to do. But still they put up with it. I think Mother finally realized that Link was doing something for me they could not do—feeding me vital information that could help me survive.

  Whenever they confronted me with questions about our conversations, I told them the truth. Link and I mostly talked of which rest rooms to avoid, routes I might take to avoid special plans to terrorize me, how to get inside a classroom safely, and where to sit. He also explained some of the traditions and activities at Central High to me that I could not know otherwise. He described some of the regular school activities, as well as segregationist plans, moods, and behavior. I learned there were many secrets among school officials, many significant things taking place without our even being told about them, let alone being asked to participate.

  Link swore me to secrecy, so other than Mother and Grandmother, none of the other seven students knew he existed. Occasionally, during a general conversation about do’s and don’t’s, I would share some information that I thought would be helpful to them, but otherwise I kept my mouth shut. I figured I owed Link that.

  After a while, having him as my friend got to be fun for both of us. We played a cloak-and-dagger game, passing notes in books and such. But we never spoke to each other in school, or walked near each other, or acknowledged each other except with our eyes for fear he would get caught. He continued hanging around with Andy and his friends and attending the segregationists’ strategy meetings. He said the worst part of it for him was that he felt himself a traitor. He was torn between his loyalty to his family and friends, and his sense of guilt and responsibility for what was happening to the eight of us. Sometimes he justified what he was doing by saying if he protected me and prevented a major catastrophe from befalling any of the eight of us, he could insure some of his normal graduation activities, and besides, people wouldn’t think Central such an awful place.

  Meanwhile, we did indeed notice some stronger efforts by a few teachers to discipline students. The Little Rock School Board now demanded belligerent students be brought under control. At first we saw no difference, but we began to notice a slight bit of peace in the hallways, and we were heartened to hear that another girl had been expelled for handing out the cards saying “One Down, Eight to Go.”

  Easter. What a wonderful word, I thought to myself as I walked to Grandma’s room. If Easter Sunday was coming soon, it meant the end of school was only weeks away. The 29th of May. What would that last day of school at Central High be like?

  “Tonight’s the night,” Grandma said, making the announcement from her perch in her favorite chair. “We’re going into the trunks tonight. It’s time to make your selectio
ns.” She smiled with her all-knowing expression, because she was fully aware of how much it delighted us to view and touch her trunk treasures. There were gifts, heirlooms, and mementos we got to touch or see only at Christmas or Easter.

  There they were in the center of the room, the old trunks given to Grandma India as a young girl. One was a deep brown, with scrapes and scratches visible beneath the glossy veneer she kept up with biannual waxing. The second one was a deep garnet color and looked newer.

  “Have you given much thought to what you’ll be wearing to church this Easter, Melba?” Grandma India asked, as she lifted the lid of the first trunk.

  I had thought long and hard about wanting to dress grownup. The strength growing inside me to face the hostile students at Central had leaked into my home life. Now it bubbled up in me, allowing me to speak my mind. “I’d like to wear nylon stockings and little heels with whatever I wear. I am sixteen now, sixteen and a half, actually.” It was a daring suggestion, considering Grandma’s opinions on the subject.

  “Nylon stockings—heels. Have you been reading those trashy fashion magazines again? Let’s not move too fast, young lady. You’ve got all your life to wear stockings, but you’ll only be young once.” Grandma seemed adamant about my remaining a two-year-old, I thought to myself. It was the only thing she and Papa Will agreed on. He thought wearing nylon stockings and dating should begin at age twenty, but since he didn’t live with us, I knew what he thought wouldn’t have to be the rule for what happened in my life. But Grandma was right there, keeping me from growing up. Nevertheless, as she fussed and fumed about my wicked desires, I kept my expression pleasant, the same as I did in the halls of Central High in order to avoid expulsion.

  “Let’s take some time to think about the stockings,” Mother Lois said, smiling and moving toward the trunk to peek inside. “Tonight we’ll pick our special cloth from the trunks and get going on a design for all of our dresses and for Conrad’s shirt.”

  “Lois, maybe something two-piece would be nice for Melba this year,” Grandma said. As Mother nodded her head yes, and knelt beside the trunks, the silky waves of her hair fell down to her waist.

  Meanwhile I was taking time to corral my thoughts. I wanted them to ask me what I wanted to wear. As the discussion about my outfit continued without me, I felt the same as I did at Central when people talked over and around me. I felt power surging up in me once again, so I had to speak up for myself. “I want a grown-up outfit. A suit kind of thing that will be okay for school and church and look nice over my crinoline.”

  Grandma seemed taken aback by my forwardness. My Easter dress had been a decision she and Mother had made up until then. I could see her pondering whether to send me off to my room or to humor me. Then she said, “Well, young lady, seems you have strong opinions. But I guess you have a right. You’ve grown up a lot. Why don’t you tell us exactly what you want.” Then her eyes lit up as she withdrew fabric from the trunk. Her enthusiasm always peaked during discussions about fashion. She adored designing and making new clothes.

  Mama and Grandma could draw a picture, then sit in the middle of the floor and cut a pattern out of newspaper, and make a dress come to life in the fabric.

  For the next hour, we rummaged through Grandma’s trunks filled with fabrics she had collected over the years. There were remnants of dresses and suits I had seen her wear all my life. There were brand-new pieces and full bolts she had gotten from her mother before she died or from her sisters as trades for other things. Easter was always a time when we each were allowed to choose the cloth we wanted.

  CELEBRATING the Easter holiday was a big event in our family. Attending church on Easter was a grand ceremony when everybody dressed up in the very best they could afford. There was always an Easter-egg hunt on the church grounds, and a parade of people in special hats. A few weeks back we had officially begun the sacred holiday with the pledge of our sacrifices for Lent. It was a family tradition that Mama and Grandma would review our Lenten commitment as we shopped the trunks.

  “Have you two considered adding more items to your sacrifice list this year?” Grandma asked as she began to sketch the design for my dress.

  “Uh, Grapette colas. That’s what I’m doing without. I haven’t slipped yet,” I declared, thinking how many times I’d thought about slipping.

  “That’s all?” Grandma’s tone let me know she wasn’t pleased with either the number or quality of sacrifices on my list. One year I had chosen to give up the radio, and another, candy bars. I knew for sure I would never promise to give up either of those things again.

  “Well, what about giving up television to spend more time reading your Bible?” Grandma said.

  “Ohhhh, Mother, Grandma, please, since I’m giving up so much in Central, can’t you let me slide by this year?” I pleaded with them as I sat caressing the thick folded piece of purple velvet I had pulled from the trunk to covet. The scent of cedar balls was beginning to fill the room.

  “There’s lots of hard work to be done on repenting for sins. Have you listed your sins?” As Grandma spoke, she rocked back and forth a little faster, and turned her attention away from her sketching to look at me.

  “I’ve lumped together into one big sin all the hundreds of times I thought evil of people at Central,” I said. “There were also several times I thought about sassing adults back, mostly teachers and principals at school. And I didn’t trust God on two occasions.”

  “And how about not answering all your fan mail?” Mother Lois added. “Don’t you think it a sin to ignore all those people who take their valuable time to write to you? You were so good about it at first.”

  I realized she was right. At the beginning, I had faithfully answered those letters each weekend. They came from France, Germany, England, Africa, and Australia, from people all around the world, mostly congratulating me for going to Central High. Grandma would sift out the mean ones, which were few and far between. I got several marriage proposals from cute boys, some of them white, who sent their pictures. Grandma forbade me to send them more than a polite thank-you. I wanted at least to learn more about them and file them in an “if you need a husband when you’re a grown-up file.” But Grandma said that would be a personal sin.

  MEANWHILE, back at school, I feared my grades would suffer horribly because I couldn’t concentrate. Every moment of every day was filled with awful surprises that began early each morning. I hoped and prayed I wouldn’t get ejected before the end of school. I took heart because I could see signs of the kind of student activities that only come near the end of the school year.

  Late one evening, Link telephoned. He was furious about the announcement of the cancellation of many of his senior class activities. He spoke of all his hard work to maintain good grades, his athletic awards, and his student leadership, and now his hopes for a wonderful senior year were dashed. The traditional senior events had been canceled because of the possibility of trouble as a result of integration. School officials also cited the presence of the Arkansas National Guard as another reason.

  Link was inconsolable. “I don’t know what I can do about it,” I said even as I wondered whether his disappointment and anger would make him turn against me.

  “You can do a news interview saying we’re not such bad people and that everything is getting better at school. That way everybody in the world won’t think we’re all villains.”

  “Link, you don’t want me to lie, do you? Everything is getting worse . . . not better.”

  On and on he went, telling me how Central High’s students were suffering and sacrificing the reputation of their nationally acclaimed school because we had come there. He was more angry than I’d ever heard him. “This was a good school, ranked high on the national scale, and now our halls are filled with soldiers and people are treating us like criminals!”

  I could only think to tell him to have faith that God would make things okay. I couldn’t do what he asked, I couldn’t change things. That’s when he
really got sarcastic, saying, “Don’t give me that God stuff. That’s what Nana Healey always says. I don’t believe in God. If He’s there, why is He letting all this happen?”

  “Who’s Nana Healey?”

  “My nanny. She’s colored—like you.” He had often spoken of her, but this was the first time he had told me she was not white.

  “The reason I’m attending Central is so I don’t have to spend my life being somebody’s nanny,” I said in a tone to match his indignant manner.

  By the end of the conversation, Link’s anger had shifted from me to the situation. He was frustrated, vowing he was going to do something about the cancellation. Our conversation aroused my suspicions anew. Was he just being nice to me temporarily to get me to lie to the news people? Who was he? After all, I had no way of checking him out. I couldn’t tell the others about him or talk about him to the NAACP people. I was at his mercy, having to decide on my own whether or not he was genuine. I would have to be on constant alert from now on, watching for signs of what his real motives were.