by Ken Abraham
“We’ll sure do our best, Mr. Long. Thanks again for the shoes!” Suddenly, loud profanity drew their attention to the front of the school. Some white adults were standing outside the school, taunting some black teachers who had arrived for the meeting.
Mr. Long said something under his breath that Eddie couldn’t hear.
“Sir?”
“I don’t understand why they’re still kicking that dead horse.”
Mr. Long shook his head. “We have a good town here. Coloreds and whites all get along just fine. Everyone is happy with things the way they are. Why stir things up? I don’t know why those politicians in Washington can’t simply let well enough alone.”
Eddie gave a slight, noncommittal shrug.
Mr. Long patted Eddie’s shoulder. “See ya at the game, Eddie.” He got into his car, waved once more, and headed back toward his whites-only store.
16
INSIDE THE SCHOOL, tension was building as the teachers and administrators entered the auditorium and gravitated toward seats occupied by people of their own color. Principal Herron’s distinguished wife, Susan Herron, who also taught biology at Gallatin High, welcomed each person—black and white—as they filed into the room.
A sophisticated and traditional Southern woman, Susan struggled with embracing integration. Accepting it did not come easily to her, but as a Christian she recognized the moral rightness of racial equality, as well as desegregation’s inevitability, especially now that the federal government was involved. She felt it was her duty to set the example for the other faculty and staff at Gallatin High, so she went out of her way to welcome each person from Union.
“Oh, so good to see you!” Susan said to a black woman. The woman smiled weakly and shook hands with Mrs. Herron. “Pleased to meet you,” Susan gushed to a male teacher from Union, extending her hand awkwardly. He stared at her hand momentarily, shook it briefly, and then quickly moved on to find a seat. He wasn’t purposely trying to be rude. This was new territory for everyone.
At the front of the auditorium, sitting behind a bank of tables on the floor level rather than on the stage, Mr. Larry Aire, the sixty-year-old white superintendent of schools, and Donald Pepper, a thirtyish black official with the Tennessee Racial Equality Commission, shuffled their notes, fidgeted nervously, and took repeated sips of water as they waited for everyone to arrive. Mary Wertheimer, a white volunteer social worker in her midfifties, adjusted a microphone in front of the tables. Gallatin’s congenial mayor, Bill Knapp, stood along the side of the room, greeting and glad-handing with his constituents.
Union principal, John Malone, entered the back of the auditorium and looked first for his Gallatin counterpart, Dan Herron. Spotting Herron across the room, Malone smiled and waved. Herron, not a demonstrative sort of fellow, nodded curtly but cordially. The two principals took their places behind the tables at the front of the room.
Susan Herron spotted Anna Ligon and made her way over to her before the meeting began. “Anna, so good to finally meet you,” the principal’s wife said. “I’ve heard so much about you over the years. Your reputation at Union is an example for all of us.”
“Thank you very much,” Anna said. “It’s nice to meet you as well. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“Oh, yes,” Susan said. “I’m sure we will get along fabulously.” About that time, Union’s Coach Martin entered the room and waved to Gallatin’s Coach Vradenburg as they both took their seats. Like most of the others, the coaches found spots with people whose skin color matched their own. More than a hundred men and women were now gathered in the auditorium, with about two-thirds of the crowd white and one-third colored.
Superintendent Aire called the meeting to order. “All right,” he said loudly. “If we can all be seated, we’ll get started and try not to keep you too long. Thank you for being here. I say this from the bottom of my heart: it is truly good to see each of you.”
The superintendent paused momentarily and looked at Mayor Knapp. “We’re also delighted that the good mayor of our city could be with us this afternoon. As you know, he is a busy man, so he cannot stay long, but let’s thank him for dropping by to greet us.” Aire led a round of weak applause.
Mayor Knapp waved and smiled as though he were running for office again—which in his mind he probably was. The mayor stood behind the microphone at the front of the auditorium. “It’s so good to see all of you today. Good luck with what you are doing here.” He paused momentarily as though he weren’t quite sure exactly what the group was indeed hoping to accomplish and then quickly moved on. “We’ll see you all at the spring fair. Oh, and wasn’t the Christmas parade just sensational? You know that Union’s band was really a special feature this year.”
A pall dropped over the crowd like a heavy wet blanket as the educators realized they had most likely witnessed the last performance ever of the Union band in the Gallatin Christmas parade. Thanks to desegregation, there would be no more Union High School by next Christmas. The mayor stammered, trying to put a good spin on his gaffe. Finally, he simply waved good-bye and hurriedly exited the auditorium, a smattering of applause in his wake.
Superintendent Aire picked up the pace. “I’d like to thank Principal Malone and Principal Herron for helping to organize this event. And, of course, thank you all for choosing to attend. Although you didn’t have an option, I’m sure if you didn’t want to be here, you could have found some excuse. But I’m glad you didn’t.
“As you know, this is another of several meetings that we hope will aid the integration of the Sumner County school district. We don’t expect any problems; however, we don’t expect everything to come off without a hitch either. So as we make this transition, we will hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
“Before we get too far down the road, I’d like to introduce to you Mr. Donald Pepper from Birmingham, who represents the federal Department of Health, Education, and Welfare and is working under the authority of the HEW’s Director of Civil Rights, Leon Panetta. Mr. Pepper has been assisting us as part of the Tennessee Racial Equality Commission. We’re glad to have him with us. Mr. Pepper.”
Dressed in a stylish, well-tailored suit, white shirt, and tie, the young Negro stood and walked to the lectern. Poised and confident, he spoke with assurance. “Thank you, Superintendent Aire. Good afternoon to all. First, I want to congratulate both schools, Union and Gallatin, on their undefeated basketball seasons as they head into the district and state tournaments.”
Regardless of their skin color, almost everyone in Gallatin took their school sports seriously. Basketball was basketball, and both of the victorious teams belonged to their hometown. So Pepper had no problem getting a response from the audience.
Smart move, Principal Herron thought.
But then Donald Pepper lost the audience’s enthusiasm, displaying for all to see and hear that he was not a Gallatin native. “And just think what kind of team you all will have next year with the best of both schools playing together,” he declared.
Only a few people in the room applauded his comment. Coach Martin suddenly found his shoes terribly interesting, and the Gallatin coaches stared straight ahead into space. Some of the white teachers were less than enthusiastic about the possibility of a winning Gallatin team comprised of both black and white players.
Pepper hastily moved on. “Yes, well, then, before we begin the seminar section of our meeting, let’s open the floor for any questions or comments you may have. Don’t be bashful.” Pepper scanned the audience for a brave soul who dared to ask a question. Silence. He adjusted his tie and shifted at the lectern. “No questions? Surely, there’s something on your mind.”
Finally, a white teacher put up her hand.
“Yes, over here.” He pointed to the woman.
The nattily dressed middle-aged woman stood. “I just wish to say, on behalf of the Gallatin faculty, we are looking forward to all the folks over at Union coming here to Gallatin High and being part of the
Green Wave family.”
Her comment was met with scattered applause, especially from the white members of the audience. Anna Ligon applauded politely, but several of her Union colleagues were not so quick to join in. One Union teacher called out, “So we’re keeping the same name? Is it going to be Gallatin High? And the Green Wave? What about our nickname, the Devils?”
Another teacher from Union added an even bolder statement. “I didn’t think this was about being invited to someone’s house. I thought we were going to be building a new house together.”
Several of the Union teachers nodded in approval.
Donald Pepper attempted to pull in the reins before he lost complete control of the meeting. “If I may clarify,” he began. “We made the decision to close down Union next year for practical purposes and to integrate here at Gallatin. With the new annex we are putting up, there will be plenty of room for all the students, so centralizing in a modern structure such as this is the right way to go. As far as the name of the school and all that, well . . .” He took a deep breath, but before he had opportunity to say another word, another black teacher popped up.
“So this annex you mentioned? Is that where the colored students will go?” Visions of mobile home–style trailers parked around the school and serving as temporary classrooms likely filled most of the audience members’ minds.
“Oh, no,” Pepper said unconvincingly. “All the facilities—all the classrooms and the teachers will be integrated. All students, white or colored, will have the same books and the same supplies.”
Another Union teacher raised his hand.
“Yes, sir?”
“That’s good news about the supplies. My name is Frank Brinkley. I’m a biology teacher. See, every few years, folks from Gallatin High bring over the used and discarded books and the old microscopes and all. That’s what we would get for supplies.” The way Brinkley drew out the word made it obvious that the supplies were insufficient. “And despite our poor, inefficient tools, Union High School has graduated students who have gone on to be doctors, lawyers, and teachers. Last year, when I saw the box of outdated books and broken beakers from Gallatin, I finally got fed up and told them what to do with all their ol’ junk.”
A few Negroes in the room laughed.
But Brinkley waved everyone quiet. “No, I was wrong. And I got called on the carpet for my comments. So I went over and talked to the superintendent and told him how I felt about Union always getting Gallatin High’s castoffs. I explained that it offended me—not that I wasn’t appreciative—but it frustrated me that we couldn’t do better than that. It insulted me that they’d bring those leftovers to us and dump ’em on us and expect us to teach with that stuff. So I’m glad to hear you say we won’t have that problem anymore.”
A female teacher from Union turned around in her seat to address Brinkley. “See, as for me, Frank, I don’t care so much about the facilities or the supplies. Sure, I know that we have to make do with secondhand things, but that doesn’t bother me. Because I know that at Union, if a student has a problem, he or she is going to be noticed. It is not just that student’s problem; it is my problem too. That’s one of the best things we have going for us at Union. We give our kids personal attention and instruction. Will our kids have that over here?”
Several black people frowned and shook their heads, while several white people nodded.
The Union teacher continued. “Some of our kids ride the bus for an hour to get to school. When they come in, they are hungry; these kids need food and lunch every day. Some of them need coats and other clothing. At Union, we teachers notice our students. We notice how the kids are dressed or if a student needs eyeglasses to see the chalkboard. We correct their posture and keep an eye on who is socializing with whom.”
A white male teacher stood. “So why can’t you do that same thing here? You will still be seeing and counseling the same students. You’ll just be doing it in this building rather than in the old school across town.”
“So we will be integrating the schools but segregating the counseling? Is that what you’re sayin’?” a colored man spoke up. “Coloreds watchin’ out for coloreds; whites watchin’ for whites. That doesn’t sound like desegregation to me.”
“Hold on, everyone,” Donald Pepper shouted into the microphone, holding his hands up like a traffic cop. The room got quiet. “Hold on!” he repeated. “Let’s have only one person speak at a time so we can all hear and consider what is being said. Okay, who’s next?” He spotted a white teacher who had raised his hand.
The man in his midforties stood. “I, for one, can understand what the folks from Union are saying. They’re looking out for their own kids, just like we look after ours. That makes sense to me. What doesn’t make sense is this: If they don’t want this integration program, then why in the world are we doing it?”
“That’s right!” several white teachers chimed in, along with several Negro teachers. “If nobody wants this change, why are we doin’ it?”
A Negro teacher stood to his feet. “Sir? Mr. Pepper, sir. We have a good school at Union, and we have a good school at Gallatin. Why can’t the government just let us alone? This desegregation mandate is going to ruin our schools.”
Pepper shifted uneasily in his seat and scribbled something on a notepad.
The Negro teacher continued. “Did you look at yourself in the mirror this morning, Mr. Pepper?”
Pepper looked up at the man and blinked.
“If you did, you saw a Negro man. Sir, you are one of us. Why are you trying to be one of them?” He pointed to the white teachers around him.
Pepper bristled at the teacher’s remark. “I’m not one of you or them. Frankly, sir, I am not here to worry about your schools. I’m here for one reason only: desegregation. I’m here to deal with segregation and to see that it ceases within this school system.”
Another female white teacher spoke up loudly from her seat, without being recognized by Mr. Pepper. “Personally, I thought the Freedom of Choice policy we instituted in the early sixties worked pretty well. If Negroes want to attend Gallatin High, they can, but they don’t have to. If white parents want their kids to go to Union, they can do that too. We have a number of Negroes at Gallatin, and we’re doing fine. What’s wrong with that arrangement?”
Susan Herron had been holding her tongue, but she refused to remain silent any longer. To imply that the Freedom of Choice policy the school district had implemented was working was beyond the pale, as far as she was concerned. Susan stood to her feet and faced the crowd. “We’ve had thirteen Negro students attend Gallatin High in five years since the Freedom of Choice policy was enacted. Thirteen. And almost half of those students came this year. Meanwhile, no white students have chosen to go to Union. None. Not one. While the current attitudes may not be entrenched forever, we are fooling ourselves if we think the Negroes and the whites have actually decided they want to attend school together. They have not.”
A Negro teacher broached the question likely on the minds of most Union faculty members. “Who is going to decide, and on what criteria, which of our teachers will still have jobs? When our schools merge, Gallatin will have a couple hundred more students, but I’m sure the school board will not want to duplicate classes. Most of our teachers have been at Union for ten or twenty years. Some even more. We don’t have a large turnover of faculty members, so many of our teachers, while highly experienced, are not spring chickens. This is no time for them to be going out looking for new jobs, especially when the one school where they have been welcome is closing. And what about our coaches? Will Coach Martin be the basketball coach of the Green Wave now? Or will he merely be an assistant? We have to face these kinds of issues at every position.”
A white teacher sprang to her feet. “This is not fair. I am picking up on a lot of hostility from the Nigras—”
Susan Herron put her hands over her face. She wanted to scream. Oh, no! Did that woman actually just say that?
Sh
e had. And Susan wasn’t the only person in the room who picked up on it.
“The Nigras?” a colored man spoke out of turn. “Wait. Did you say, ‘the Nigras’? Are you not an English teacher at Gallatin? I’m a history teacher at Union. If I can learn to say Caucasian, surely you are intelligent enough to pronounce Negro correctly. That’s the kind of thing—”
Anna Ligon covered her mouth with her hand, as though she could somehow silence what she was hearing. “This is not making things better,” she whispered aloud.
Several teachers, both coloreds and whites, leapt to their feet, wanting the floor. Mr. Pepper waved his arms emphatically, trying to calm everyone. But no one paid him any attention.
“Yes, and what about history? Whose history are we going to teach? White history or black history, or some amalgamation?”
“This is an insult,” a stylishly dressed, sophisticated-looking white woman clutching an Etienne Aigner handbag declared. “When I invite someone into my home, I want that person to feel welcome, but I don’t tolerate that person disrespecting everything I have established.”
“Are the darkies going to shower with the Gallatin students after physical education classes?” a custodial staff member wanted to know.
Recognizing that all semblance of order had disappeared, Donald Pepper stood up and placed his hands on the table in front of him. Without even bothering to use the microphone at the podium, Pepper yelled, “That’s enough!” He raised his fist and slammed it down on the table. A metallic bang! echoed in the building.
The noise startled the crowd and got their attention. “Everyone, please calm down!” Pepper implored. “And sit down!” He glared at several dissenters who had stood and were yelling at one another.
Slowly, the schoolteachers and administrators regained their composure.
Pepper shook his head, obviously irritated. “And we are supposed to be the best of those who understand the need for integration and how it should work,” he said as much to himself as to his colleagues.
