But meanwhile he warned me to watch out for any students who tried to hand me election pamphlets. School officers were to be elected on April 24. They would be nice and offer us literature, he said, but as we paused to take it they would ink our dress, grab our books, or worse. “I’ve been to some of those planningmeetings recently, and I can tell you they’re gonna pullout all stops and do everything they can to get you out of school before it ends, to make certain you’re not coming back next year.”
“What more could they do. They’re already exhausting us.”
“Yeah, but it’s gonna get much worse. The thing is, lately, they’ve been talking about pulling off something really big that will not only hurt you but your families—something that will force you to quit.”
JUDGE DAVIES OUT OF INTEGRATION SUIT.
AN ARKANSAS JUDGE IS PREFERABLE TO HEAR A LITTLE ROCK
SCHOOL BOARD PETITION ASKING POSTPONEMENT OF INTEGRATION
IN LITTLE ROCK SCHOOLS
—Arkansas Gazette, Wednesday, April 16, 1958
THIS more than any other story in the newspaper made me fear that the segregationists were making real progress in their constant hammering to defeat integration. Getting rid of that judge who was so important to our cause must have been an occasion for celebration among their ranks. Slowly, they were waging an effective campaign on every level, even at the federal level, to have things their way.
Back at school on Monday, just as Link had warned, people approached us as though they were including us in the election process.They would come up and offer a pamphlet with one hand while using the other hand to shower us with all manner of smelly liquids. Sometimes they would kick or even punch us, and usually whatever they did was followed by a shower of rude name-calling.
The elections at our old school, Horace Mann, weren’t nearly so sophisticated. At Central, people put up signs, wore buttons, and passed out materials, just as though it were a real election. They held debates and voting parties and did all manner of campaigning. I was intrigued watching the process, delighted at the complexity of it all compared to what I had been accustomed to seeing at our old school. It made me extra sad that I wasn’t allowed to participate.
Distributing campaign literature also gave renegade students an opportunity to hand out more flyers opposing us, like the “One Down, Eight to Go” cards. We figured somebody somewhere must have a full-time press going, dedicated to anti-eight campaign literature. Meanwhile, avid segregationists were fueling the battle against us by regularly appearing on television in order to enroll more people outside school to fight against us. For example, one group orchestrated a bizarre parade of cars that drove back and forth in front of the school honking their horns. That outside pressure ignited more explosions inside as the atmosphere became like a devil’s carnival with us as the central attraction.
The experience of walking down that hall to my homeroom each morning got so worrisome that I doubled my repetitions of the Lord’s Prayer as I walked from the front door up the stairs. Inside the homeroom class, I was entertained by a whole new series of indignities. I arrived one day to find a doll that resembled me, with a rope around her neck, hanging from the door frame. Another time, someone had provided genuine urine to spray in my seat and on my clothing.
I decided to ask the teacher whether or not she could stop people from throwing rocks at me and pushing chairs into my back. She told me I’d have to speak to Vice-Principal Huckaby because there was little she could do. The next day, I asked Mrs. Huckaby what could be done, and when she said she didn’t know, my heart sank. It felt like no capable adults were in charge. Later, Link confirmed that the teachers who made a big thing of disciplining segregationists hoodlums were themselves the victims of ostracism.
More frequently now, Link was full of talk about graduation events. Under any other circumstances, this would have been an exciting time of year, filled with wonderful events. He told me about the parties for the juniors and seniors. He told me about a huge gala at the Marion Hotel, and said the junior and senior picnics at Central High were better than Christmas and New Year’s combined. It made me feel more isolated, because now I had also been left out of the events at my old high school.
As our conversations grew more relaxed, Link began telling me about his parents. His father, a wealthy and very well-known businessman, had been forced to contribute money to the Citizens’ Council campaign in order to do a healthy amount of business in Little Rock. “He isn’t for race mixing, but he also isn’t for beating up anybody’s children,” Link explained.
JUDGE LEMLEY TO HEAR SCHOOL BOARD’S PETITION
—Arkansas Gazette, Tuesday, April 22, 1958
AS I read the article I felt despair creeping over me. Judge Harry Lemley of Hope, Arkansas, had been named to hear the Little Rock School Board petition asking for a postponement of integration for public schools. The first hearing was set for the following Monday at 9:30 A.M. He promised the final hearing would be held long before September. The article described him as a native of Upperville, Virginia, and a man who “loved the South as though it were a religion.” It was evident from that description that he wouldn’t be likely to violate southern tradition for my people.
I DESPERATELY needed the break that came with the Easter holiday. As usual on Easter Sunday morning, each of us twirled and pranced in our family fashion show. “Spiffy do,” Grandma India said as we climbed into the car. The church was filled to the rafters with people we didn’t see during all the rest of the year.
And Vince was there, smiling and beckoning to me, I smiled back but continued down the aisle to sit with my family as usual. The Easter sermon was much longer and louder than on ordinary Sundays. “Old Rugged Cross” was sung with tears and organ chords that made goose bumps and chills climb up my spine. As we sang the last song and prepared to gather for a traditional Easter dinner, I even felt a moment of contentment.
Vince and I sat together at the church dinner, reminiscing about our earlier dates, and for the first time I felt as though we were good friends again. Still, he was not someone with whom I could talk about my Central High experience. I had lived through so much turmoil since we first met that my thoughts and dreams were now totally changed from a year ago. We had simply drifted apart because we had so little in common, except our past relationship. I now felt as grown-up as I had once thought him to be. Nevertheless, as we sat sipping lemonade on that sunny day, there was no doubt in my mind I was enjoying one of the special moments of my life. Still, I couldn’t help thinking that I had more than a month to go until the end of the school year. Central High was never out of my mind.
In my diary I wrote:
I am happy today, but I am also frightened. The appointment of Lemley means we have to pray hard. This is not supposed to happen in America. I mean segregationists aren’t supposed to be able to have their own judge.
I salute the flag every morning as I look at a picture on the homeroom wall directly in front of me. I will never forget that picture as long as I live. It is a brown pasture with white sheep. As the boys behind me call names and the girls to each side sneer, I look straight ahead because those sheep are smiling at me. I think it is a smile from God. It is a promise that if I salute the flag like a good American, all these integration problems will be worked out eventually.
26
INSIDE Central, everyone who wasn’t talking about getting us out of school seemed to be talking about the upcoming production of The Mikado. I listened intently for every little crumb of information I could get. I felt a vicarious delight just being near the excitement. From what I could learn, the production was nearly professional, with many props and the kind of fancy equipment I’d never even heard of. How I longed to be included, or at least permitted to attend. I thought I had resigned myself to being left out, but it was haunting me again.
When some of The Mikado actors in full makeup appeared in the hallway, I was naturally curious. I must have relaxed my guard as I stare
d at them a bit longer than I should have.
“Hey, nigger,” one of them yelled at me across the hall, “I’m made up to be almost as black as you.” That started a whole round of taunting in the hallway. I snuffed out the spark of delight growing inside me, donned my warrior veneer, and walked away.
The segregationists’ campaign against us seemed to get even worse during that week. Sign-carrying, card-dispensing, tripping, kicking crusaders revved up their efforts to reduce our number to zero. Meanwhile Mrs. Huckaby, the woman I considered to be somewhat near fair and rational about the whole situation, had lapsed back into her attitude of trying to convince me there was nothing going on. It seemed like whenever I reported anything to her, she would work herself up into a lather: I was seeing things; was I being too sensitive, did I have specific details?
When she stopped behaving in a reasonable way, it took away the only point of reference I had. I desperately tried to understand how such an intelligent woman could be reasonable and understanding one moment, then seem so cold, distant, and dispassionate the next. I supposed that she must be under an enormous weight and doing her best. I tried to see the overall picture—to remember that over the long haul, she had been a tiny pinpoint of light in the otherwise very dark experience of dealing with Central High’s administration. But once again I had to accept the fact that I shouldn’t be wasting my time or energy hoping anyone would listen to my reports. I was on my own.
By the end of that week I had flashed endless smiles in response to negative deeds or words. If God was giving stars in crowns in heaven, as Grandma always promised, I’d earned two or three.
BY Saturday morning, as my family rushed about the house making breakfast and doing household chores, I lay with my face down in my pillow, hoping they would be quiet. But it was not to be. I had an early morning phone call from Link.
“I need your help,” he said. “I want you to come with me now.”
“You’re crazy. You know we can’t be seen together.”
“It’ll be okay. I promise. I’m going where it’ll be safe.”
“Where?” I asked.
“You’ll see. Meet me on the other side of the bridge—just inside North Little Rock.”
I was confused about meeting him. I wondered whether or not this was the trap the KKK asked Link to set for me so they could get rid of me.
“Please, Melba,” he pleaded. Hearing the urgency in his voice I decided to do what he wanted. I felt queasy as I explained to Mama and Grandma that there was a big emergency with Thelma and I was going to visit her. It was the first time in my life I had ever looked them in the eye and told an untruth. They were reluctant to let me go, but I promised I would stay in our own neighborhood where it was safe. I prayed for God’s forgiveness for lying as I drove away.
I spotted Link’s car, just on the North Little Rock side of the bridge. In broad daylight, I parked my car and got into his. He told me we were going to Nana Healey’s house. I didn’t say much as we drove along. It felt awkward being with him. Although we had talked lots on the telephone, he was in some ways a stranger—a white stranger. Sitting next to him made me wonder again who he was and what he wanted with me. I tried to close my mind to Grandmother’s words: “The only thing a white man ever wants with one of our women is personal favors.”
The neighborhood got more and more dismal. It was a part of town where our people lived in awful, run-down chicken-shack houses, some in such bad condition that they looked as though they’d fall down any moment. Folks stood around in clusters talking. There were groups of men dressed in ragged, filthy clothing, drinking from liquor bottles as they chatted. I’d seen places like this before on those rare occasions when Grandma and I passed through as we went to visit friends or our relatives in North Little Rock. Being there made me feel so fortunate that Mother had her teaching job. Without that job, I might very well be living in a place like this.
“Hey, why so quiet?” Link touched my arm, and I turned to face him.
“I’m frightened, I guess.”
“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. You’re a lot safer here than inside Central, aren’t you.”
We pulled into the yard of one of the shabbier places. I wanted to turn and run. Instead, Link opened the door and reached for my hand as I stepped out into a puddle of water. He teased me about being graceful and having shaky ice-cold hands as I watched him fumble with the key to the trunk.
“Well, don’t just stand there, grab a bag.” He was pulling bag after bag of groceries out of the trunk and stacking them on the hood of the car.
“She hasn’t got any kin, so I’ve got to keep her fed.”
“Why you? Where are her own people?” I grabbed two bags of food and followed as he led the way.
“She hasn’t got any people. She worked for my family all her life. As a young girl, she worked for my grandparents. When Daddy got married, Grandmother sent her to him as a kind of gift. She’s been with me all my life.”
“Why isn’t she with your family anymore?”
“’Cause she got sick—real sick. My folks let her go, just like that, after all the time she’d been so good to us. She’s got no money for a doctor. She won’t take my money. I think she’s got tuberculosis. But I don’t know for sure.” He knocked on the weather-beaten door.
“Nana, it’s me. May I come in?” His voice was loud but ever so gentle as he called out to her. A feeble voice called back. Holding bags of groceries in his arms, he pushed open the door with his elbow.
There in a dark room sat an aged woman, her profile etched against the sun shadow in the one window of the room. Long silver-gray hair in braids framed her lined face, which was worn and weary. Wrinkled skin was stretched taut over protruding cheekbones. Her fingers were stiffened into position as though she were holding an apple, but her hands were empty.
As I moved closer I could see she was wearing a freshly starched, flowered cotton dress just like my own grandmother might have worn. Her appearance was immaculate, her posture was erect, and she tilted her chin upward, demonstrating her own dignity and pride despite her circumstances.
The tiny, bare shack was spotlessly clean. It was one room with a makeshift bathroom in plain view. In one corner there was a cracked sink, over which a slab of a broken mirror hung. Despite the rundown condition of the few pieces of furniture and the torn curtains on the window, there were touches of pride all around. A picture frame on her night table held a photo of a small boy with blond curls. It must be Link as a child, I thought.
“Nana, I want you to meet my friend Melba,” Link said, raising his voice to an ear-shattering level. Then he leaned over to whisper to me, “She can’t hear good, go closer. I want you to convince her to see a doc, somebody you know and trust.”
“Your friend?” said Mrs. Healey.
“Yes, ma’am, she’s my friend, aren’t you, Melba?” He was talking loudly and grinning at me as though he wasn’t certain of what I would say.
I didn’t say anything, turning instead to read Mrs. Healey’s reaction. Her expression was angry. She could barely move about or speak, but she gathered her strength, and after a long moment she said, “Boy, you’all are gonna get yourselves in a heap of trouble. You know better.”
“Yes, Nana.” He knelt beside her and took her hand. “Don’t you worry about it. I’ll handle it. You talk to Melba while I make a cup of tea for you.” He took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and began putting the groceries away. I watched as he placed staples in the splintered wood cabinet and on the sagging but meticulously lined shelves above the sink. He behaved as though he had performed those same tasks many times before.
“Mrs. Healey, you’re looking very nice today.” I drew near to her.
“Well, I don’t feel so good. But I gets up and dresses myself. Cleanliness is next to Godliness.” Suddenly her emaciated body was racked with a cough. She reached for the handkerchief tucked in her sleeve. On and on she coughed. Link turned from his chore
s, staring at her with a pained expression on his face. He reached for a cup from the cupboard and filled it with water. Holding it up to her mouth, he gently helped her to drink from it.
“Nana, we gotta get you to see a doc.” He nudged me with his elbow. “Your turn,” he whispered to me.
“Mrs. Healey, this sounds like the kinda cough that isn’t going away real soon unless you get some doctoring and the right medicine.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she said, clearing her throat. “Jus’ takes a while for me to get my bearings after one of these spells.” Her voice was raspy, and the coughing started again. On and on she coughed, her feeble body shaking as I tried to hold on to her.
Link got a cold cloth. I held it to her head, and the coughing finally stopped. I made up my mind I was going to help Link get a doctor to come and see her.
After a while, he went back to his work. He opened the door to the icebox. The wheezing old appliance, without light, looked as though the inside panels were ready to fall. It was empty until he started packing shelf after shelf.
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