“You addressed me several times this morning by my first name,” she told him. “That is something that is reserved for my intimate friends and my husband. You will refrain from calling me Daisy.”
The attorney retorted: “I won’t call you anything, then.”
Mrs. Bates shot back: “That’s fine.”
The next morning, all of Little Rock read about the gutsy NAACP president in a front-page story in the Gazette.
Over the weeks that my cohorts and I were out of school, Mrs. Bates became our point person—the one who arranged media interviews and often the one who spoke for us. She was ahead of her time as far as the media was concerned. She was naturally at ease under the glow of television lights and quick to fire off the perfect quote. I didn’t understand then how necessary the media was to this greater good the nine of us had been anointed to carry out. I was just one who never liked a whole lot of hoopla. So from the start I was uncomfortable with the constant throng of people always around us, asking questions, taking pictures. No matter the time of day or night, it seemed somebody was always at the Bateses’ house. Journalists. Politicians. NAACP fieldworkers. Sometimes the guests bunked in the couple’s basement. Sometimes they even stayed next door at the home of Dr. Garman Freeman, a dentist who was also married to a dentist. Theirs was an entire community of like-minded people. Dr. Lee Lorch, head of the math department at Philander Smith, and his wife, Grace, the white woman who had helped lead Elizabeth to safety on September 4, lived just across the street.
When I could, I’d slip away from them all, find a quiet corner somewhere, pull out my books, and at least try to look busy—a tactic I began using to deflect attention. When the nine of us were together as a group, I tried to be inconspicuous and just fade into the background. I never liked the feeling of being on display. I think Mrs. Bates eventually came to understand that about me and just let me be. I always appreciated that about her, and I’ve come to understand and appreciate her even more now that I’m older. She took a lot of the heat off our parents. They weren’t hounded by the press and got to stay mostly in the background. For that leadership, she was already paying a heavy price—threatening telephone calls every day, a cross burned in her yard, and a rock slammed through her picture window in the middle of the night with a message that promised dynamite the next time. And the nine of us hadn’t even made it inside the school yet.
After the first week of our missing classes, Mrs. Bates arranged for our teachers at Central to send homework packets containing our schoolwork so that we could at least make a valiant effort to keep up with our classmates. I saw my schedule for the first time when I received a homework packet. I was enrolled in English, geometry, biology, Spanish, gym, and speech. The Lorches pulled together a group of Philander Smith professors and other teachers to tutor us and help with our schoolwork. Dr. Lorch was particularly helpful to me because I struggled with geometry, which seemed so different from algebra. I occasionally took the bus to Philander Smith in the afternoon or evening when he was available to work with me. When I finished my schoolwork, I turned it in to Mrs. Bates, who arranged to get it to our teachers. What happened to it after that, I don’t know. I wouldn’t have been able to keep up without the help of Dr. Lorch and the other tutors. But I missed going to school. I missed the daily interaction with teachers, the give-and-take in the classroom that sometimes helped the textbooks make sense. I wondered how long it would be before I got to meet the teachers face-to-face and whether they would resent my presence as much as the mob that continued to gather each morning outside the school. I grew more and more anxious that I was falling behind in school, especially since no one seemed to have any idea how long the wait would be. I think all nine of us felt that way. Clusters of us had known one another before our fates thrust us together, but during all of those meetings and meals at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Bates, the nine of us began getting to know one another as friends.
On television, we often heard ourselves referred to as “the nine” or “the Little Rock Nine” in the same way that people sometimes identify twins, as if they have no separate identities. But we were growing more comfortable around one another, and I was starting to get a real sense of the distinct personalities. Ernie was the oldest, coolheaded and serious. His status as the lone senior seemed to catapult him into the position of our leader. He was usually the one Mrs. Bates and the press grabbed to speak for the group. Melba and Minnijean were the gregarious ones, both outgoing and outspoken. They were also good friends, singers, and quite comfortable in front of the cameras. Terry was a young intellectual who was always at the top of his class. But he also had a fun side, a dry, witty sense of humor that kept me in stitches. Elizabeth seemed painfully shy. She had expressive doe eyes that seemed to reveal a hint of sadness. She could barely even make eye contact when she spoke. There was a sweet innocence about her and an easy, trusting nature. Thelma was quiet, too, but she seemed the most fragile among us. Aside from being physically small—just about five feet tall and less than one hundred pounds—she had a heart condition that made everybody want to protect her. Jefferson was a sophomore, like me, and everyone’s pampered baby brother, a bit naive, but athletic and smart. He was always joking around and somehow seemed to find humor in even the most serious situations. He also loved music and had an unbelievably large and varied record collection. Gloria was the other sophomore. She was mature and dignified, petite and dainty. She also had what most teenagers envied: her own car. I had a December birthday, which made me the youngest of the bunch, but from the time I was a little girl, people always said that something about me seemed old. Maybe it’s my way with all kinds of people. I don’t know. But I got along well with everybody, and in the days ahead, I would be called in to referee when some of the personalities began to collide.
Mrs. Bates understood the anxiety the nine of us felt about being out of school, and she tried her best each day to assure us that things would be resolved soon. Thurgood Marshall was coming to town to represent us, she said. That really excited me. He was already high on my list of heroes. Even before successfully presenting the Brown case in the Supreme Court, he had argued a case in Little Rock that involved my uncle Byron Johnson. He was among a group of black teachers at Dunbar who had demanded equal pay with the white teachers in the 1940s. The NAACP and Marshall took on the Little Rock School Board in that case and won. I knew we were in good hands.
Judging from what I was reading in the newspapers, we would need someone of Marshall’s status to battle our hardheaded governor. By now, I was reading the newspaper practically every day. The adults involved were spare with the details, when they talked about the case at all. But the local newspapers and the black press helped me keep up with what was going on. I followed the legal wrangling, which seemed nonstop. Just three days after the National Guard blocked our entry into Central, the school board was back in court, asking for a suspension of its own desegregation plan. Davies took just four minutes to refuse the request. His message was clear: Integrate now. Then, following up on an investigation ordered by Davies, the U.S. Justice Department filed a petition asking the court to force the governor to remove the National Guard and comply with the desegregation order. The department’s investigation had found no credence to the governor’s claims that he called out the National Guard to keep the peace based on evidence that violence would erupt at Central if black students were admitted. The investigation determined that Faubus had acted purely as a segregationist with the sole purpose of keeping out the black students. Davies scheduled the courtroom showdown on that matter for September 20.
Meanwhile, it was hard to miss the political maneuvering, too. Thurgood Marshall and others had begun urging President Eisenhower to get involved. Initially reluctant, the president responded to a telegram from Faubus objecting to the “extreme stand” from the federal court. The two men decided to meet at Eisenhower’s summer home in Rhode Island on September 14. The nine of us happened to be meeting with Mrs. Bates
at her home that day when we saw a television report about the meeting. We gathered around the television in the basement and watched as Faubus and Eisenhower emerged from the meeting smiling. The men shook hands for the cameras. I sighed with relief. It appeared that a favorable agreement had been reached. With excitement, I pronounced to the group:
“And now, we’ll go to school on Monday!”
But Mrs. Bates quickly shot back: “Well, not so fast.”
Experience had taught her caution. As it turned out, she was right. Despite Eisenhower’s declaration that the two had engaged in a “constructive discussion,” the men had reached no agreement. Nothing changed. We’d have to wait nearly another week for the September 20 court hearing.
I had never been inside a courtroom until that day. My friend Bunny, who was home from the private school she attended in North Carolina, went along to offer her support. I didn’t know what to expect, and as we walked inside, I could feel my palms getting sweaty. The courtroom was still, dark, and quiet. I could almost hear myself breathe. I took a seat near the front. When the judge entered, he sat behind the large mahogany desk before us. He was small and serious. But my eyes stayed mostly on Mr. Marshall. Bunny and I were mesmerized by this attorney who had the swagger and aura of a movie star. I had never seen a black professional with more confidence. Here was a black man striding up and down this courtroom with the certainty that this was where he belonged. Tall and lean, with closely cropped black hair, he was as handsome as he was smart. And he did not tread lightly. I suppose I had been conditioned to expect diplomacy, perhaps even deference, from a black lawyer practicing in a room full of white people. It was the southern way. But not this man. He spoke his mind, and he did so unapologetically, indignantly. He commanded respect, and respect is what he got, especially from Judge Davies.
I added Judge Davies to my list of civil rights heroes that day, too. He treated Mr. Marshall with the respect he deserved, a respect that might not have been as forthcoming if one of the white southern judges had been presiding. Davies was destined, it seemed, to become a part of this chapter in history. Eisenhower had appointed him to the federal bench in North Dakota two years earlier, and Davies was dispatched to Little Rock on a temporary assignment in August 1957. One of the first cases to hit his desk would become the most high-profile and significant of his career.
In stature, Davies stood barely five feet tall. But he was fearless and unfailingly fair in the face of segregationists willing to try just about anything to have their way. Faubus and his attorneys even questioned whether Davies had the proper authority to preside over the school desegregation case since his jurisdiction was North Dakota. But Davies rejected their challenge and kept right on moving. Like Marshall, the judge didn’t mince words. In one of the earlier hearings, he told Faubus: “The testimony and arguments this morning were, in my judgment, as anemic as the petition itself. … In an organized society there can be nothing but ultimate confusion and chaos if court decrees are flouted, whatever the pretext.”
Faubus didn’t attend the September 20 hearing. Instead, he sent his attorneys. But they soon grew frustrated after Davies overruled them several times. Before the hearing was over, they gathered their papers and announced that they were leaving. It caused quite a buzz in the courtroom. Judge Davies slapped his gavel on the desk.
“The hearing will continue,” he said.
I was so proud of Ernie and Elizabeth, who were called to testify. They answered questions thoughtfully and articulately about why they wanted to attend Central and what happened when we had tried to enter on September 4. And of course, Mr. Marshall did not disappoint. He gave a rousing closing argument. In one simple but powerful moment, he turned and pointed at Ernie, Minnie, and me, shook his head, full of righteous indignation, and said:
“These young people should be in school.”
Judge Davies didn’t take long to render his decision: The National Guard had to go. Faubus could no longer use the troops to block our entrance into Central. With that, Davies banged his gavel once more, and court was adjourned. The room was filled with supporters, who filed quietly out of the courtroom. But I was absolutely jubilant. I’d just seen everything I’d learned about the Constitution, the judicial process, and justice come to life. Justice had been served. I assumed that meant our ordeal was finally over. I turned to Mrs. Bates and said:
“This means we can go to school!”
Her caution again caught me off guard.
“We’ll see,” she responded, not sounding excited at all.
I was disappointed. I didn’t understand her lack of enthusiasm.
That night, Faubus went on a statewide radio broadcast and announced that he was withdrawing the troops from Central in compliance with the federal order. He lambasted Davies and the Department of Justice. He also took one more swipe at the NAACP. He urged the group to back off of its integration plans in favor of a voluntary “cooling-off period.” And he threatened the possibility of bloodshed.
I went to bed that night feeling completely deflated. The weekend was yet ahead. Anything could happen. Bunny was headed back to school in North Carolina. The National Guard was gone. And the governor was peddling fear. After what I’d seen of that mob outside Central, I couldn’t be sure that his threat wasn’t real. I had no idea whether my parents were thinking that, too.
Outdoors, a storm raged, casting a gloomy pall over the entire city. The weather was mimicking my mood. The big day was set for Monday, September 23. But a world of doubt lay between this moment and that one. Mrs. Bates was right. I’d just have to wait and see.
CHAPTER 5
D-Day
When I opened my eyes the morning of September 23, the first thing I noticed was the sun. It streamed into my bedroom through a pair of bare, horizontal windows near the ceiling. After such a wet and gloomy weekend, this was surely a good sign. The National Guard troops were gone, and the court order still stood. Once again, I put on my new, store-bought dress.
The plan was to meet at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Bates and wait for instructions from the city police, which now had the responsibility of protecting us. When Mother and I arrived by seven forty-five a.m., several of the other students and their parents were already there. The front yard and living room were abuzz with media, snapping photographs, shooting television footage, conducting interviews, and darting here and there. As usual, I skirted past them with little notice and joined the cluster of students. Soon, our long wait would be over. By eight a.m., all nine of us were there. We chatted anxiously about our “first” day of school—which classes we had, which ones we feared, what our teachers might be like. I think all of us recognized what could happen. We’d seen the mob outside the school. Elizabeth had even been close enough to feel its wrath. But I didn’t want to talk—or even think—about the danger. None of us did.
The police called a little while later and instructed Mrs. Bates to transport us to a side entrance of the school, away from the crowd gathering out front. It was time for us to go, Mrs. Bates said. We hugged our parents and headed out. I was excited to be finally starting school. Each day out had been worrisome for me. Despite trying to keep up with the homework, I couldn’t help wondering what I was missing by not being in class, and I worried about falling behind. I would work extra hard and do whatever it took to make up for the lost time, I promised myself. Before heading out the door, I glanced back at Mother, and she had that look on her face again—the smile that didn’t match the worry in her eyes. The nine of us then piled into two cars, driven by NAACP officials, for the short ride to Central. As we drew closer to the side of the school, I could hear the muffled sounds of a crowd beyond the car’s closed windows. Though the school building mostly blocked my full view of the crowd gathered out front, I knew the mob was back. They were not going to give up their fight easily. But neither was I. The cars carrying us rolled up to the curb, one behind the other, and pulled quickly to a stop next to the side entrance. The drivers hopped o
ut and yanked open the car doors. Suddenly, the chants and jeers of the crowd sounded deafening:
“Two, four, six, eight, we ain’t gonna integrate …”
I stepped out of the car and moved swiftly behind the other students. I had no time to think or worry about what the crowd was saying or doing. Just take one step and then another, I told myself. In no time, all nine of us were at the side door. We rushed through a set of large double doors, which closed quickly behind us and shut out the light. No one made a sound, but we kept moving rapidly through the darkness. I just followed the footsteps up some stairs and then up another set, into the light. Next, there was a long hallway, and we stopped just outside the main office, where we were met by a primly dressed white woman with graying hair and glasses. She seemed very professional and pleasant enough as she handed us our schedules and pointed the way to our classes. I would come to know her as Elizabeth Huckaby, my English teacher and the vice principal for girls. As my eight comrades and I were preparing to head to our classes for the first time, the crowd outside was growing steadily and working itself into a frenzy. The chaos had started even before we arrived. News photographers and reporters captured the upheaval that unfurled when four black journalists who had been with us at the Bateses’ home made it to the scene just moments ahead of us.
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