I’d seen a lot of good, too—genuine color-blind goodness from white men and women who had been able to look me in the eyes and see me for what I am: a woman, a child of God, no more, no less. But in spite of the incredible hope I felt stirring across the country, I couldn’t answer with certainty when I wondered: Would enough white Americans really be able to pull the lever for a black man once they got in the privacy of the voting booth? Had the United States really come that far? And even if so, what new (or old) tricks would emerge to upset the will of the people? Would ballots suddenly turn up missing in key battleground states? Would the power brokers find some other way to disqualify or discredit him?
On November 4, election day, I arrived at Obama’s Denver headquarters about eight-thirty a.m. I spent the next ten hours making telephone calls and running errands between headquarters and the polls. Soon after I arrived home and ate dinner, a friend called.
“I know you’re going to stay up,” she said excitedly.
I wasn’t. I figured the election would be too close to call that night, and I was planning to go to bed. I was tired and, I admit, nervous. I would have plenty of time in the morning to wait out the results—at least, that’s what I thought. But when I glanced at the television, I quickly got sucked into the election coverage. Before long, newscasters were announcing Obama victories in key states. When Ohio moved into the Obama column, my telephone rang. It was my comrade Jefferson Thomas.
“I delivered my state,” he said jubilantly. “It’s all over now!”
And then reporters announced Pennsylvania for Obama, too. I thought: He could win. He could really win this!
By nine p.m. mountain standard time, national newscasters had put Virginia—a Republican stronghold in presidential elections and a hard-fought battleground this time around—in the Obama column, too. He ultimately won my state (Colorado) as well. Things seemed to snowball after Virginia was announced. McCain conceded. President George Bush called to congratulate him. Obama supporters were gathering by the thousands in Grant Park in Chicago. Tears streamed down black faces, white faces, brown faces, cream faces. Jesse Jackson, who had been on the balcony with Dr. King when the fatal shots rang out, looked genuinely overcome with emotion. Strangers were hugging. Horns were honking. Obama signs were flapping. Black news reporters, trained to maintain a poker face, were choking up, talking about their own mothers, fathers, and grandparents.
Before I could even process it all, my phone began ringing off the hook with calls from tearful peers, my sisters, Mother.
They all asked the same question: “Can you believe it?”
And then they’d say: “I never thought I’d see this day.”
Even Whitney and Brooke, who had grown up in a much different world from mine, were surprised that Obama actually pulled off a victory.
Ike and I were quiet and reflective, two children of the segregated South, perhaps still in a state of shock.
Just before ten p.m. MST, Obama took the stage with his wife and children. Even he seemed somewhat subdued and awed by the magnitude of it all.
“If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.”
He was talking to me. The tears began welling inside. Yes, I had my answer. America had proven me wrong—or at least filled in the blank. We were indeed a country ready to move beyond its racial scars and wounds into a more hopeful future.
What a long journey it had been from Little Rock and Central to this moment.
When I climbed those steps at Central, flanked by federal troopers on that September morning more than fifty years ago, I was just a fourteen-year-old girl doing what felt right for me. In time, I would come to understand the greater good—that my eight comrades and I were helping to start a journey sure to outlast any of us. But even with that knowledge, I could not imagine a future as spectacular as this. I could not imagine that I would live to see an African American—born of a black man from Kenya and a white woman from Kansas—pick up that journey and chart it successfully all the way into the Oval Office.
As I sat before the television watching news reports about the impromptu celebrations throughout the country, my she-ro Rosa Parks came to mind. With her quiet determination, she had shown me long ago what an ordinary woman could do. But like so many of the good soldiers who had marched out front, she had to witness this victory from heaven.
I felt grateful to be alive. Now, nothing could stop the tears.
A NOTE ON SOURCES
This book reflects many years of digging into the depths of my memory, unearthing painful pieces of my history that I buried when I walked away from Central High School in May 1960. After years of prodding me to tell my story for the public record, my friend Dr. Margaret Whitt, then an English professor at the University of Denver and a civil rights scholar, started the process officially in 2006 by recording dozens of interviews of me and taping my presentations to her class. Those interviews and much of Margaret’s subsequent research helped to provide the foundation for this book. She also traveled with me to Southfield, Michigan, and recorded an interview with my childhood friend Herbert Monts, whom I believe was wrongly convicted in the bombing of my family’s home in February 1960. My initial conversation with Herbert after contacting him in 2003, the discussion recorded by Margaret, and later interviews of Herbert were all combined into the segment of chapter 16 that is written in Herbert’s voice.
The family stories shared in the book are based mostly on my recollections and those of my family members. But some of the family history, described in the first chapter, is based on genealogical research conducted over several years by my sister Tina Walls.
The narrative on the history of Paul Laurence Dunbar, Jr. and Sr. High School was drawn from many sources, primarily the old Central High School Museum, which was located in a refurbished Magnolia gas station; the National Dunbar History Project, a traveling exhibit that resulted from a collaboration between the National Dunbar Alumni Association and the Special Collection/Archives of the Ottenheimer Library at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock; Mary S. Hoffschwelle’s book, The Rosenwald Schools of the American South, published in 2006 by University Press of Florida; and, of course, my personal experiences and those of my family members who both attended and worked there.
I used old newspaper clippings, particularly the Arkansas Gazette, to jog my memory in some cases, as well as to cross-check my recollection of the court battles and the political and social upheaval swirling around me during that time. The following two memoirs and biography also were very helpful for their perspectives: The Long Shadow of Little Rock by Daisy Bates; Warriors Don’t Cry by Melba Pattillo Beals; and Faubus: The Life and Times of an American Prodigal by Roy Reed.
Also helpful in transporting me back to my days at Central were the photographs, papers, and other files of Daisy Bates and Elizabeth Huckaby, archived in the Special Collections Division of the University of Arkansas Libraries in Fayetteville.
ABOUT THE TYPE
This book was set in Sabon, a typeface designed by the well-known German typographer Jan Tschichold (1902–74). Sabon’s design is based upon the original letter forms of Claude Garamond and was created specifically to be used for three sources: foundry type for hand composition, Linotype, and Monotype. Tschichold named his typeface for the famous Frankfurt typefounder Jacques Sabon, who died in 1580.
NOTES
Chapter 1: A Different World
5. “In slave times” Interviewer, Samuel S. Taylor, WPA Slave Narrative Project, Arkansas Narratives, 1936–1938, vol. 2, part 3, Federal Writers’ Project, United States Work Projects Administration; Manuscript Division, Library of Congress.
Chapter 2: The Playing Field
38. “as little integration as possible” Roy Reed, Faubus: The Life and Times of an American Prodigal (Fayetteville: Un
iversity of Arkansas Press, 1997), 184.
Chapter 4: Wait and See
65. Now that a federal court Orval Faubus speech on late-night television, Little Rock, Arkansas, September 2, 1957 (Labor Day). Orval Eugene Faubus Collection, series 14, subseries 1, box 496, Special Collections, University of Arkansas Libraries, Fayetteville.
67. “I have a constitutional duty and obligation” Juan Williams, Eyes on the Prize: America’s Civil Rights Years 1954–1965 (New York: Viking Penguin, 1987), 100.
74. “You addressed me several times” Grif Stockley, Daisy Bates: Civil Rights Crusader from Arkansas (Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 2005).
80. “The testimony and arguments this morning” “Making a Crisis in Arkansas,” Time, September 16, 1957, 25.
Chapter 5: D-Day
84. “Go home, you son” Gene Roberts and Hank Klibanoff, The Race Beat: The Press, the Civil Rights Struggle, and the Awakening of a Nation (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2007), 177.
91. “In the final analysis” Mayor Woodrow Mann telegram to President Eisenhower, Eisenhower Presidential Library and Museum website, “Civil Rights: The Little Rock School Integration Crisis,” www.eisenhower.archives.gov/Research/Digital_Documents/Little-Rock/littlerockdocuments.html.
91 “I want to make” “President’s Statements,” New York Times, September 24, 1957, 18.
92 “The immediate need” Mann telegram to Eisenhower, “Civil Rights: The Little Rock School Integration Crisis.” Eisenhower Presidential Library and Museum website.
95 “I don’t care if the president” Daisy Bates, The Long Shadow of Little Rock (Fayetteville: University of Arkansas Press, 1986), 102.
96 “You have nothing to fear” “Quick, Hard and Decisive,” Time, October 7, 1957, 24.
Chapter 6: The Blessing of Walls
117. Though I remembered seeing the card “One Down … Eight to Go” and others that appeared around campus after Minnie’s expulsion, the exact wording was found on cards archived in the collection of Elizabeth Paisley Huckaby (MC 428), series 2, box 2, Special Collections, University of Arkansas Libraries, Fayetteville.
Chapter 7: Star-Studded Summer
133. “She ultimately won a lawsuit” Mildred Grossman Collection (PHMS 2002–23), series 1, box 1, Special Collections, Albin O. Kuhn Library and Gallery, University of Maryland, Baltimore County.
Chapter 8: Just a Matter of Time
147. “If Daisy Bates would find an honest job” Bates, 155.
147. “We stand neither for integration” Sara Alderman Murphy, Breaking the Silence: Little Rock’s Women’s Emergency Committee to Open Our Schools, 1958–1963 (Fayetteville: University of Arkansas Press, 1997).
Chapter 9: First-Semester Senior
170. “This man has the sympathy” “Bomber’s Fate,” Time, December 7, 1959, 24.
Chapter 11: Scapegoats
195. “This must be a nightmare” Bates, 182.
Chapter 12: Graduation and Good-bye
208. “pressure as hypnosis” “Police Testify Binns Admitted Bombing Home,” Arkansas Gazette, June 8, 1960, 2A.
208. “Why are you getting” “Binns Draws 5-Year Term in Bomb Case,” Arkansas Gazette, June 9, 1960, 1A.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Carlotta Walls LaNier
This book would not have been possible without my wonderful family, friends, and supporters who have encouraged me from beginning to end and reached out to help in so many ways. First, to Mother, thank you for your quiet strength and for helping to make me who I am. You and Daddy were a great team. I’ve never stopped missing him, but I know he is smiling down on us all from heaven. Loujuana and Tina, I realize that my Central journey uprooted you in your formative years, but you moved on without complaint, accomplished great things, and lived your lives with grace and dignity. I feel fortunate to be your older sister, and I am proud of all of your accomplishments. To Ike, Whitney, and Brooke, thank you for your love, support, and patience over the years. You gave me the time and space I needed to finally be able to tell my story, and you’ve allowed me to tell it this way. My love for you is everlasting. And to the rest of my family—the aunts and uncles who helped to raise me, the many cousins who have shared my life, the in-laws who are as close as blood kin, my nephews, nieces, and great nephew, whose very existence made it necessary for me to tell this story—I carry all of you in my heart.
I also owe deep gratitude to
—Herbert Monts and the Monts family—I hope that revealing the truth of what happened to you during those dark days in Little Rock starts a healing process.
—Karol Merten, a retired associate communication professor at the University of Denver, who never stopped telling me for twenty years that I should write a book.
—Jacquelyn Benton, a professor of Africana Studies at Metropolitan State College of Denver, whose excitement and encouragement fueled the fire early on.
—Margaret Whitt, whose persistence, contacts, and guidance finallly helped me to get this done. You will retire as “chief of posse” after the North Carolina book tour.
—Leslie Trumble, director of the Visual Media Center in the School of Art and Art History at the University of Denver, who added order to my world by putting the many photos under consideration for the book onto a single disc.
—Denise Anthony, an archivist professor in the University of Denver’s School of Art and Art History, who generously helped me to preserve my tangible memories by putting together a team of students to archive the many boxes of papers, photographs, and artifacts that I’ve kept from Central for half a century; and her graduate students, Annie Nelson, Shannon Walker, Sarah Johnson, and Emily Tormey, who put in countless volunteer hours after class to do the work; and Mary Stansbury, the Library and Information Services program director, who graciously approved the purchase of materials for the project; I could never repay you for your dedication, hard work, and professionalism.
—Dudley Delffs, vice president and publisher of trade books for Zondervan, the first publisher I approached, who took the time to read an early draft and offer suggestions. Your encouragement helped me to recognize the potential of this book.
—Brian Kracke, a representative for Pearson Custom Publishing, whose openness and honesty about the publishing industry broadened my mind to the range of options and helped me to make the right decision.
—Kira Stevens, whose wise advice led me to the perfect literary agent.
—Linda Loewenthal, my representative at the David Black Literary Agency, who saw the potential in this project and guided me expertly through the process, starting with connecting me with Lisa Frazier Page.
—Lisa Frazier Page, the writer who found the right path to help me complete this journey. Your listening skills and research enabled you to question, probe, and grasp the meaning of my emotions and words and craft them into this finished book. I will be ever so grateful. I look forward to a long friendship.
—To Kevin Page, Sr., Enjoli, Danielle, Kevin, Jr., and Kyle, thanks for loaning me your wife and mother, even on family vacations. You have been great sports during this project.
—John Turchiano of the Hotel and Restaurant employees Local 6, whose encouragement, introductions, support, and suggestions were invaluable.
—Melody Guy, my editor at Ballantine/One World, whose passion for this project and great editing suggestions helped to make the book better. Your parents carried on the torch for the Little Rock Nine when they rose those early mornings in the late 1970s, escorted you to your bus stop and watched you set off for a twenty-five-mile journey to get the best possible education. It makes my journey seem worth it to see you—such a talented and accomplished young woman—living the legacy.
—Porscha Burke, Melody’s assistant, whose sense of organization, enthusiasm, and persistence kept this project on task from start to finish. Your knowledge of the process and cheerful attitude impressed me greatly and assured me that the book was in good hands.
—The staff a
t the William J. Clinton Foundation, particularly Helen Robinson, whose friendship and wise guidance helped to get many areas of this book locked down; Laura Graham, whose intervention and professionalism iced the cake; and Ana Maria Coronel, whose assistance and follow-through kept things flowing smoothly.
—Johanna Miller, a historian at the University of Arkansas, whose invaluable insight, research, and willingness to help cannot be measured.
—Michael Madell, National Park Service superintendent at the Little Rock Central High School Memorial Site, whose encouragement and focus helped me through the many projects we shared.
—Laura Miller of the National Park Service, who gave me the possibilities to publish; however, I am glad I waited.
—Spirit Trickey, whose enthusiasm never waned.
—James “Skip” Rutherford, dean of the Clinton School of Public Service, who has helped whenever and wherever I needed it. Our business relationship started with a handshake in 1996, but it has developed into a lasting friendship. From Skip to dean Skip—what growth!
—Bunny & Peggy, my best buddies, who have been an integral part of my life forever.
—The Denver Chapter of the Links Inc., my sisters, who have always been there for me.
—Melba, whose willingness to share a wealth of expertise and experiences will never be forgotten (even though I did not quite follow “the program”).
—My eight comrades and friends (Elizabeth, Ernie, Gloria, Jefferson, Melba, Minnijean, Terrence, and Thelma), for enduring the journey.
A Mighty Long Way Page 29
