by Jeri Watts
Putting on that dress this morning was what first started me to feeling sick to my stomach. Mama picked the white one — why not start as a dream? When she smoothed that frock, her dark fingers framed against the soft white fabric, I knew it just wasn’t right. I didn’t belong in that dress — I didn’t want to belong. Trying to be good to family sure can make things hard, huh?
Your building is as grand on the inside as I might have guessed. So much brick and so much beautiful carving work on a building for kids. It looks grander than my church. I’m glad we’re in the first room in the hall. How would I have found us? I would wonder how you recognized me, but then, I’ll bet you knew me by my scar — for once I liked it, because it was so nice to have you call my name, to hear a voice say, “Kizzy Ann,” and it was like I had a friend in a strange place and I knew where to go. You have the room looking so friendly and warm and welcoming. Our names on the desks and pictures on the walls and everything. The big windows make everything sunny, which is not like our building before. Windows are expensive, I know, and the slaves couldn’t do those when they built our school before. Plus, windows let the heat out. For now I like that my desk is beside the window, because I can see Shag where she waits for me sometimes out under the trees, but later I might feel pretty cold. Do you have good heat in this building? You probably do. I don’t mean to start out being a complainer. I’m just nervous.
Things could have been worse, I guess. Nobody spoke to me except when you wished me a good morning. I’d expected some smart remarks, some white kids ordering me around. Of course, only four of us black kids came today, to “their” school. I heard some of the other black kids talking about how they weren’t coming — even after your welcoming letters, they were afraid of what might happen. They’d heard rumors about dogs and police. They were just going to stay in their houses and see what happened.
I knew David Warren would come. He had to. His grandma is Mrs. Warren, and there is no way she’d allow him to stay at home.
Then the Stark twins, Ovita and Omera. They are so meek and shy that together they equal only half of a personality.
And me. None of us spoke at all. As soon as I got close enough to the building to see it, close enough to hear the chatter of students, to feel the slap of my lunch pail against my thigh, a bad taste filled my mouth and I felt my throat close tight. No words were getting past. Shoot, I was lucky air squeezed around that throat-blocking lump.
I noticed Laura Westover recognized her dress. She elbowed a blond girl beside her and whispered, then giggled. I kept my eyes lowered and my lips closed, and I was grateful that lump stopped me from saying just how mad I was.
But I was mad, Miss Anderson. I was. Even if this is an opportunity for education, like Mrs. Warren said, or a first step for our people, like Pastor Moore said, I was mad. And I don’t know that I’ll have that lump stopping my voice for long.
I’m not sure I want it to.
Shag was the icebreaker. After days of not being able to talk around that lump, I found it easy to open up to Shag.
She’s walked me to school every day and come back for me every afternoon. But today, I guess she sensed how down I was. I’ve told her, of course, and I really do think she understands me, but I think she acts instinctively. Today, her instincts told her I’d need her.
She stayed.
I saw her when I peeked out the window about nine thirty. She lay at the edge of the school clearing, where the shade of the big old oak kept her cool. Her head rested on her front paws, but her eyes darted quickly. Watching for me? Watching for trouble? I can’t say.
At lunch you let me go to her, and I appreciate that, Miss Anderson. You pointed her out —“Why look, Kizzy Ann, it’s your friend Shag.” Everybody looked. And they liked Shag, I could tell.
I joined her, there in the wind-dancing shade. The leaves rustled, the birds chirped, and Shag let her friendship and approval wash over me like a much-desired communion.
The lump in my throat melted, and I happily shared my lunch with Shag — the first bites I’ve been able to get down here since the first day. Her tail brushed the scattered leaves on the ground. She licked the green-bean sandwich off her muzzle and eased her right front paw onto my legs as she stretched out.
For the first time in days, maybe in weeks, I felt like I really was in the right place. My fingers settled into the soft, warm fur. And it was perfect.
Of course, life isn’t perfect — I felt my fingers catch in a matted area on the scruff of her neck, I pulled off two fat ticks, and I saw what looked to be dried cow dung on her back paws. But still, I had my friend and a perfect moment.
“What kind of dog is that?”
It was the first of many questions, and Laura was only the first of many students who wanted to know more about my Shag.
As fingers slid down her coat — one, two, three trips — and as I saw blue eyes and white faces look into my own, well, to be honest, Miss Anderson, I thought this might not be so bad after all.
I told my mama at dinner last night about how nice everybody was, how Shag was so wonderful, and how I should have just known she would win everybody over. I think President Kennedy should invite Shag to the White House and have her help with getting everybody to get along with everybody else. I thought things were going nice, and then, after I went out to help James with the evening milking, he told me different.
“You stupid baby. Ain’t no white folks wanting to be your friend. Weren’t you listening at dinner about how my JV team never gets written up in the News and Daily Advance? They write up every time the quarterback on the Bedford varsity team sneezes, but me and my team ain’t getting anything written about us, and we’re winning every damn game! We always got mentioned before. Sure, it was on the last page, but it was there.” He slammed the bucket into place under Sassy, and she stomped her hoof hard. He smacked her rump and kept talking. “I’d been hoping to see some headlines with my name — my name. I’m the damn quarterback, after all. But since this stupid integration thing, even though my team hasn’t lost any games, while the varsity hasn’t won any, the paper is just not mentioning the JV team at all.” He started pulling hard on Sassy’s teats, and she started bawling. He turned to look at me and said, “You stupid or something?”
“But you said a lot of people, like Preacher Moore and even the Right Reverend Stanbridge, have gone to the paper to complain.”
“So what?” James said. “The editor says he prints what he wants. And he doesn’t want stories about any black kids. There won’t be stories about me or anybody else on the JV team, not this week or any other week. There is no JV team as far as the News and Daily Advance is concerned. There is no black football team. It is a white world.” He looked at me, looked hard. “You listen to ’em tomorrow — do like I told you before, just drift on close and listen up. They won’t notice you because they don’t really care about you, and you’ll find out what they really want. It’s not being your friend, I’ll bet you that, you little idiot.” He tapped me on the back of my leg with his boot and pulled harder on Sassy’s udder. She stomped her hooves, and Shag danced out of the way.
I listened to my brother, Miss Anderson. I looked back through my writing. My entries are filled with my fears, my doubts, my worries about how I’ll be treated, how I’m different from the kids in your school. One day — one day where those kids play nice with Shag — and I had let myself believe everything is nice! I spent time thinking all kinds of thoughts about friendship surrounding us here in Bedford County and color not mattering when folks realize people are people, but then I was left wondering if James was right and I was wrong.
I got the truth today.
I eased my way near Laura and her friends, being careful not to put my interest out there for them to close the door on. I know that sometimes black folks are invisible to people like Laura Westover, and I was invisible to them today — today I was just listening. Because even though I kept telling myself good things all weekend, J
ames’s voice kept saying it wasn’t right.
Dog shows. That’s what they’re interested in. Dog shows. Not getting to know me. Not getting to be friends.
You probably think that’s bad, me listening. Granny Bits says eavesdroppers are no good, that what they’re sneaking to hear will come back to bite them deep and hard. I was bothered by what they were saying, but I knew I would be even more bothered not to know.
And it wasn’t right, that ideal notion of friendship and people being people.
As for Laura Westover, well, like I said, dog shows are what she and the others care about. It seems Laura’s family has a prize boxer that just won second place in a dog show up in Richmond a while back. Her daddy showed him, whatever that means. I don’t know much about dog shows, to tell the truth. They were talking about judging and conformation and I don’t know what all. Guess I’ll ask Mama to take me to Miss Anne Spencer’s library soon as possible.
I feel worse than I did on the first day of school, somehow. I was nervous before. I expected white folks to make it hard. But this is worse, Miss Anderson. I made a mistake and let down my guard. I let them in, and now I feel a fool. In just a manner of days, it seems like I’ve gone from careful to happy to stupid, and I don’t like being that. Not one bit.
I reckon it’s because I’m sensitive to all of this — it seemed all special, I admit, folks liking my dog the way I like her. I got really excited. But this just hurts, Miss Anderson. And when I get hurt, I get hard. Granny Bits says it is the wrong way to get, but I can feel myself doing it all the same.
It’s important to know what people who are against you are saying. And whether you or Mrs. Warren or my parents like it or not, being at a school together doesn’t change things. Those white kids aren’t my friends. I know it. Folks may be pretending to offer some chances to black people, going to school together and all, but this is still a place that can see Medgar Evers shot down in his driveway like he is nothing and no one gets arrested. This is still a place where a white man can tell somebody else to switch a black girl in public and no one does a thing. You say that things are changing, Miss Anderson, but I don’t see much changing at all.
That trip to town was sooner than expected. Granny Bits had some special ironing from Mrs. Dr. Stanbridge’s friends in Lynchburg to deliver, and I got to pop over to the library. And I wish I could say it put my mind at ease. But, oh, I am so mad!
Miss Anne Spencer’s library has a section on dogs. There are books on bulldogs, Irish setters, wheaten terriers, German shepherds, Labrador retrievers — you name it and there was a book on it. But not one on border collies.
I went back to that old reliable Encyclopedia Britannica and reread the little entry on border collies. Then I went looking for Miss Anne. “You don’t have any books on border collies,” I said.
She shook her head. “No.”
I swallowed. I’ve never talked to Miss Anne much, and, as I said before, she is a published poet. That surely deserves respect, as most blacks aren’t published, especially black women. I tried not to sound ornery when I spoke. “You probably need to get some. Since you don’t have any. And some people might want to read about them.”
She peeked at me over her glasses. “People like you?”
I looked her in the eye. “Yes, ma’am.”
She shook her head again. “Too bad they don’t know about you in New York. Publishers in New York decide to put out books based on what people are interested in. I suppose they don’t think anyone is interested in border collies, because I can’t get my hands on one. Of course, there are a lot of books I can’t get my hands on.”
I didn’t want to hear about what books she could or couldn’t get. I just wanted to know more after what Laura had said. I guess that showed on my face, because Miss Anne gave me that look people do when they think you’re getting ready to say something sassy. I swallowed up the words I’d been ready to say.
“Well,” I said, “do you have anything about dog shows?”
Miss Anne took me over to the old book section, with the books nobody can check out anymore because their covers are barely hooked on or the pages are torn or whatnot. She barely touched the books as she ran her fingers over the spines, almost like a caress. She was muttering, and then her hand closed over a sage-green book and she eased it into my hands.
“This is the only copy I can get. Of course it is not new either. Be careful with it and sit right here. Don’t try to put it home when you’re done. Just bring it to me when you finish looking.”
Librarians. I swear. They act like you can’t be trusted, like you aren’t smart enough to shelve it back where it was. Like the books are more important than you. But then I thought about the way James throws a book down when he gets all frustrated with reading, and I just said, “Yes, ma’am.”
I can’t tell you all of it, Miss Anderson, because I was there two hours and I only skimmed all those rules. That’s what it was, a rule book. From the American Kennel Club. They are the experts in this country, on dogs and dog shows, and everything. They have listed all the dog breeds that are recognized by them — meaning, I think, that if your dog hasn’t been in America long enough or isn’t good enough in some other way, you can’t have your dog in a dog show. Sort of like how a dog show — the ring, they called it — isn’t for just any dog.
I guess that seemed fair. I mean, the book made clear that the winning dogs, the ones picked by the judges, are examples of the breed that are closest to their own brand of perfection. And every breed has its own standards. So a soft-coated wheaten terrier must have a uniformly black nose, and it has to be large for the size of the dog. Who gets to decide “large”? That judge. So you can win in one dog show but not even get third place in another. It all depends on the judge.
To try to make things even, though, they have all these rules written down, like not having a snippy muzzle on some breeds (meaning it is pointy when it should be squared). It gets real particular. I don’t think Old Man Hubbard’s coon dog, Howler, would even be allowed in the ring, and he is the best tracker in three counties.
There was a lot more in there — how a dog is considered a champion if he has won fifteen points at two different major shows with two different judges, how a dog that doesn’t get that champion designation is “unfinished,” how a dog has to be judged while moving, not just in a stack (which is when the dog stands, posing almost), because a moving dog shows flaws that could be covered up when he’s standing still. It made my head swim, I tell you.
And then I realized it didn’t matter. Because the AKC doesn’t recognize border collies, so Shag can’t be in a dog show.
I appreciate your kind words telling me not to take things personal. But it is personal. When people talk together, it has to be personal, doesn’t it?
“Your dog’s not real.” That’s what that stupid Laura told me when I got to school today.
“She looks real to me,” I said, reaching down to pass a cupped hand over Shag’s well-shaped head. “Feels real, too.”
Then she called me stupid and told me her father said a border collie was a no-account dog, not even registered with the AKC.
“I know that,” I told her. “I know about the American Kennel Club. And I know that Shag could win any old dog show that lets border collies in.”
“Not while she’s with you, Kizzy Ann.”
“You think I don’t know about dog shows? For example, I happen to know that Shag is a natural at stacking.”
Now, of course, you realize, Miss Anderson, that I hadn’t known this for all that long, nor was I really sure that the stacking Shag did was actually correct, but sometimes the spit and vinegar just gets in me.
Granny Bits says my spit and vinegar is my curse, and she would say that what Laura told me next was my payback.
Because Laura knew what I didn’t. She knew that black folks aren’t allowed to participate in dog shows. That book in the library didn’t say one thing about it. But Laura knew. Here�
��s how she said it: “Read between the lines, dummy.” She knew that the biggest strike against Shag isn’t the fact that border collies aren’t recognized by the AKC. The rule book might not say anything spelled out clear like the snippy muzzle or being registered in the United States as a breed. But it’s a rule just the same, she said.
Laura Westover knew Shag’s biggest problem is that she belongs to me.
I know you could tell something was wrong. And I’m sorry you were so bold as to touch my forehead to see if I was feeling poorly. I don’t think you’ll hear kindly about that from parents, seeing as how everybody gasped when your palm grazed my skin. I didn’t mean to be pouting or anything. I just couldn’t believe that my color would block my dog from opportunities. Sure, I can’t go to the movies in the front door, and I can’t order in a white restaurant, and I can’t sit on the same school bus seat as the white kids. But I never thought my dog would be affected just because of me.
I went home and tied a bow in Shag’s fur, right behind her right ear, all perky looking. I thought it would make me feel better. Shag didn’t growl or show her teeth, but she let me know she didn’t like it. Just like when she lets Mama bathe her in sweet-smelling shampoo sometimes, but she stands there with that hard look on her face. She lets Daddy trim her fur with shears, and she stands perfectly still, even when he doesn’t do it very well. She knows, better than any of us, I guess, that she is just a farm dog. Shag doesn’t care about fancy.
I slid the bow out and threw it away. Shag snugged her head under my hand, and we sat for a pretty long while. It’s like she was telling me that she didn’t mind about the dog show. She didn’t want to stack or pose or let some judge run his hands over her fur to feel for her bones in the right places. She’s a working dog who follows work commands. She’s a no-bow dog. And it doesn’t matter to her.
