With the Might of Angels

by Andrea Davis Pinkney

  Even though this was the long way home, it was the shortest way to get to Prettyman. Yolanda and I walked along Weedle Lane, which brought us through the piney woods, up behind Prettyman, where the sports field meets the railroad tracks. The grass is high and yellow there, and thick with weeds. I had my pogo stick stretched across the backs of my shoulders, arms hung over each end.

  I nudged Yolanda. “Look at that baseball field!” I said.

  “It’s like something from a movie,” Yolanda said.

  I blinked. “They even have a dugout.”

  “And padded bases,” Yolanda said.

  We stayed low in the grasses.

  I saw a girl come out Prettyman’s back door and unlatch a bell from a hook on the school’s bricks. She looked to be my same age. She walked around the side of the building to the front, holding the bell. The bell was no bigger than a teacup, but when she waved it, it sure clanged loudly. That bell’s sound was as beautiful as the sight of the baseball field.

  “You hear that, Dawnie?”

  “They must ring that same bell when you step off a cloud to enter heaven,” I said.

  Saturday, May 22, 1954

  Diary Book,

  I’m as awake as a hooty owl on this black night, thinking about Prettyman’s baseball field. I’ve been trying to sleep, but over and over, I keep seeing the same moving picture in my mind: Me, Dawnie Rae, rounding the bases on Prettyman’s baseball diamond. Can you imagine anything better? I wouldn’t be surprised if those bases were made of real diamonds.

  Here are a few more things I want to write about me, to make this diary truly mine. Folks call me a “hay girl,” or a “coal catcher.” That’s the same as calling me a tomboy. People can say what they want. They’re mostly right in thinking I’m not scared of getting dirty. Hay and coal don’t bother me. Neither do dirt, night crawlers, bugs, or even the smell of rotten eggs.

  Running fast and hard makes me happier than a grasshopper at a jump-rope contest, and I swim as good as any frog.

  I’m nimble, too. I can wrestle a knot free from a tangle of shoelaces, trap a moth by its wing with two of my fingers, and clear the hedge that separates our yard from Marietta Street, where we live.

  I’ve never liked dresses or shoes that shine. Even if I were going to meet President Dwight D. Eisenhower himself, I’d show up to shake his hand in dungarees and Keds. Don’t stick me in starched skirts or anything with a ruffle, except on Sundays when Mama insists that I look “correct” for church.

  As much as it hurts to wear one of the three dresses or two skirts I own, I do it sometimes for Mama and Daddy, and for Goober, who likes to say, “Dresses show your strong ankles, Dawnie.”

  What’s really “correct” is what suits a person best. And what suits me is playing baseball. More than anything, I want to be part of the All-American Girls Baseball League, a group of women baseball players. But there are no Negroes playing in the AAGBBL. Not a single one.

  Someday I will write a letter to Jackie Robinson, second baseman for the Brooklyn Dodgers, and the first Negro baseball player to play in the modern major leagues, to see if he can help get me into the AAGBBL.

  If anybody would know how to break in, Jackie would. Used to be that Major League Baseball didn’t allow colored players. Jackie changed all that. He stepped over what folks called “the color line,” and added some color to the major leagues.

  Anyway, for now, I’ll have to keep batting in Orem’s Pasture, down past Yolanda’s house at the place where Ebert Street meets up with Landleton Avenue.

  Monday, May 24, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Things at school are getting stranger and stranger. I’m glad we’ve only got a few weeks to go before summer break.

  Today Mr. Calhoun called me and two other kids into his office. Yolanda, Roger Wilkes, and I slid onto the bench that faced Mr. Calhoun’s desk.

  Mr. Calhoun was looking mostly at me, it seems. Before he could even speak, I defended myself for what I thought I’d done bad. “Mr. Calhoun, I swear, the only reason I brought my pogo stick into school today was because yesterday when I left it out, there was bird plop all over the handle. Geese are coming back to Virginia from farther south, and they’re having a welcome home party.”

  Yolanda looked at me sideways. She was wearing a smirk. “Geese make big plops,” she said.

  Roger snickered, but I really didn’t see what was so funny. Yolanda was sticking up for me, and she was only telling the truth.

  Mr. Calhoun didn’t think it was funny, either. He was serious when he said to me, “Dawnie, you have the highest grades in the elementary division at Mary McLeod Bethune School, and as such, we’d like you to give a speech for the sixth-grade Stepping Up ceremony next month.”

  I know I have good grades, but giving speeches — that’s not me. I answered with a question. “How come Yolanda and Roger are here?”

  Mr. Calhoun was quick to answer. “The three of you are our best and brightest students, and we’d like each of you to speak at the Stepping Up ceremony. Yolanda and Roger will say a few words. As the highest-ranking student, you, Dawnie, will deliver a speech.”

  Yolanda bumped me with her leg. Roger was shaking his head, like he was being asked to walk on fire.

  “Additionally,” said Mr. Calhoun, “we’ll be administering a special academic test to each of you to assess your full abilities as you enter seventh grade.”

  I don’t mind school tests, in the same way that baiting a fishhook doesn’t bother me. But it’s the end of the school year, and I’m sick of studying, and it doesn’t seem fair that we have to take a test, seeing as the three of us are the smartest kids at Bethune.

  Right then I was wishing I was getting in trouble for my ploppy pogo stick. At least a scolding would be over as soon as we left Mr. Calhoun’s office.

  Mr. Calhoun explained that the test would be given in four parts, each for a different area of study, and that we’d take the test in one hour segments after school, beginning next week. At the same time, at home in the evenings, we’re to work on our remarks for the Stepping Up program.

  Roger and Yolanda started to grumble quietly.

  They had no good reason to complain. They were way luckier than me. They were being asked to “say a few words” at the Stepping Up ceremony. I would have to give a whole speech! I tried to turn my attention to taking the test, which came to me a little more natural.

  Roger raised his hand. “Mr. Calhoun, is the test on stuff we’ve already learned?”

  “It’s a standardized test issued by the Department of Education for the state of Virginia. It covers all aspects of the sixth-grade curriculum,” Mr. Calhoun said.

  “How are we supposed to study?” Yolanda wanted to know.

  “Just come prepared to do your best” was Mr. Calhoun’s answer.

  As much as I tried, I couldn’t yank my thoughts away from the ceremony. I asked a question more important than all the questions about the test. “Do I have to wear a dress for the Stepping Up?”

  Mr. Calhoun said, “That’s up to you, Dawnie.”

  When we got outside, Yolanda said, “That’s up to your mama.”

  After Suppertime

  When I told Mama and Daddy about the Stepping Up ceremony and the test, they were pleased.

  “Up, up, up,” said Goober. “You can fly, Dawnie.”

  Daddy said, “You’re a Johnson. You’ll perform well on that test, and you’ll step up proudly at that ceremony.”

  Mama’s words were hard to hear. “I’ll go down to Woolworth’s tomorrow and buy fabric for a new dress. Two weeks isn’t a lot of time, but I can make you something lovely for your Stepping Up speech.”

  “You can fly, Dawnie,” Goober repeated. “Dawnie can fly.”

  Tuesday, May 25, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Since what I write is between you and me, I will use your pages for pie-in-the-sky dreaming. My biggest, most pie-in-the-sky wish is to meet Jackie Robinson.

/>   Jackie won’t ever get the chance to read you, but I will write him letters right here on your pages. I will tell him what I wish I could say if he knocked on our front door, and stayed for supper.

  Dear Mr. Jackie Robinson,

  I am the only girl in all of Lee County who loves baseball. I can bat, pitch, and even ump at a game if I have to. Out back, hanging from our yard’s biggest tree, there’s a rope with a mop head tied to the end of it. My tree mop, I call it.

  This is how I’ve learned to bat. Every chance I get, I swing at that mop head, keeping my eyes pinned to its strings, pushing my bat right up on it to send the mop head swinging.

  Mr. Jackie Robinson, I’ve always wanted to know:

  How does it feel to play baseball in front of so many people?

  Who taught you how to swing a bat?

  When you’re on the field, what are you thinking about?

  What does Brooklyn look like?

  Your fan,

  Dawnie Rae Johnson

  Wednesday, May 26, 1954

  Diary Book,

  There are two public schools in Hadley—ours and theirs.

  Our school, Mary McLeod Bethune, is for colored kids only. It includes kindergartners up to twelfth graders. Everybody at Bethune is colored, including the teachers.

  When you live in Hadley, and your skin is any shade of dark, you attend Bethune. There are three “divisions” at our school — elementary, middle, and high school. But really, it’s all the same — the Negro school, where white kids wouldn’t go if it was the last school on God’s earth. Bethune is in the colored part of town, the place white folks call “Crow’s Nest.” I hate this name. I am no ugly blackbird, and I don’t live in a nest. I live in a green wood-frame house on Marietta Street, just off Carlton Avenue, a few minutes from Bethune.

  Their school, Prettyman Coburn, is for white kids only. It’s in the white part of town, the part people call “Ivoryton.” I hate this name, too. How come they get to live in Ivory, when we have to live with crows?

  Our school is named after Mary McLeod Bethune, a fine Negro lady who started a black college and gave advice to President Franklin Roosevelt. Good for Mary. She really helped Negroes. But I will only tell this in my diary, because I’m ashamed to admit it out loud — I hate our school.

  I mean, I like going to school, but I hate the stuff in school. At Bethune, everything’s broke.

  Our pencils are chewed to the bone. The spines on most books are cracked and so raggedy. And how many lessons have I had to piece together because the pages of our books are torn, or missing?

  At Bethune, our classrooms are cramped. We stay in the same room all day with the same teacher who teaches us all subjects.

  Even though we’re not supposed to chew gum in school, underneath the desks there are enough wads of Wrigley’s Spearmint to patch the cracks in a whole bathroom. And speaking of bathrooms, the girls’ rooms at Bethune stink. The toilets never flush right. The sinks are rust-stained the ugliest brown ever. Even a crow would not want to pee at Bethune.

  Bethune’s wall clocks haven’t worked since I started in kindergarten. It has been 2:45 at Bethune for seven years!

  Bethune is a redbrick building that covers two blocks. When it rains, the bricks rain, too. The streets and sidewalks around Bethune fill with red clay streams from the silt powder that’s come loose from the school’s rickety bricks. I like rain, but sometimes I worry Bethune will melt right into the ground, like syrup on a pancake.

  Prettyman Coburn is two miles from where we live. It’s double the size of Bethune, and twice as nice.

  That school is a limestone castle, and as white as the kids who go there. Like Bethune, Prettyman takes up two blocks. But those are two of the cleanest blocks anywhere, with sidewalks free of cracks and weeds.

  The outside of Prettyman Coburn School looks just like its name — pretty. There’s a clock on Prettyman’s front cornice. A brass clock that tells the time perfectly and is always correct.

  That’s how it is. Negroes get a stinky school with broken clocks. White kids get a castle.

  We pass Prettyman Coburn each Sunday when we drive to church. Every Sunday, I look and look at that white-as-white building, with the big white-as-white doors, and the little pointy trees lining the walk, spreading across the front like the collar on an expensive coat. And every Sunday, I wonder what’s inside Prettyman’s walls. If the outside is any clue, the kids at that school are getting their book learning with some nice stuff.

  I hear they’ve got a science lab in that pretty school, that you get a different teacher for each subject, and that students move from room to room for their classes. I would give my eyeteeth, and my molars, too, to have a science lab at school. There’s even something called a “homeroom” where kids start and end the day. Can you imagine? A classroom like a home?

  Thursday, May 27, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Yolanda and I walk to school together every morning.

  Well, Yolanda walks. She carries her books and mine, while I pogo.

  This morning I told Yolanda I’d race her.

  “No fair,” Yolanda said. “You’re wearing overalls. I’m in a skirt. I can’t run in a skirt. And — I’m carrying a bunch of books.”

  “I’ll give you a head start.”

  “What if I trip or get my clothes dirty? My ma will put a wooden spoon to me when I get home.”

  Poor Yolanda. She’s as fast a runner as me, but hardly ever gets to run for real, because of wearing skirts and dresses every day. I mean, she can sorta run, like when a car is coming, and we’re trying to make it across the street. But that’s not fun running.

  Today I agreed to walk with Yolanda. “Okay, me and you, together.”

  Even though Yolanda’s feet couldn’t run today, her mind was working fast. “We’re early, Dawnie,” she said. “How about we go again past Prettyman before Bethune, just to see?”

  I’d never been by Prettyman in the morning, other than on a Sunday with my family. I’d already disobeyed Mama and Daddy once by going to Ivoryton without them.

  “I don’t think we should,” I said, wanting more than anything to see kids going into that pretty building with its pointy trees and diamond fields, all under the morning sun.

  “We’ll just pass by the back, like before,” Yolanda said. “We won’t even stop this time to look really. We can just keep walking.”

  We got near enough to the school to hear the bell that was ringing to welcome the students. The same girl from before was ringing it, too. She looked so proud and happy to be holding that bell.

  The bell’s rounded tone seemed to be calling me.

  Saturday, May 29, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Mama says there’s not enough time to make me a fancy enough dress for the Stepping Up ceremony. So today we went downtown to Millerton’s Department Store to buy me a dress.

  The whole thing gave me a bad case of the how comes. That’s when questions pester me and will not let go. The how comes are like flies. As soon as one how come shows up, more follow.

  How come the saleslady at the store wouldn’t let me try on any of the clothes? She made Mama hold each dress up in front of me.

  Same for the shoes. Mama had to trace my foot on a piece of paper and slip the paper inside the new shoes to see if they’d fit.

  I noticed a white girl my same age going in and out of the dressing room, appearing each time with one of the new dresses on, and her feet in new shoes, seeing if they were her size.

  How come Mama didn’t tell the saleslady that you can’t know if something fits unless you put it on your body?

  How come Mama hushed me when I started to say this to the saleslady myself?

  How come Mama held my hand so tightly the whole time we were in that blasted store? She was near to crushing my fingers in her grip. Alls I could think on was how the blood was being shut off from my pitching hand.

  How come Mama’s voice changed from strong to scar
ed whenever the saleslady spoke to her?

  How come Mama never once looked that saleslady in the eye?

  We settled on a pastel dress with a rounded white collar, and black patent leather shoes with an ankle strap. The dress had a label that described it as “Peach Melba.”

  I stood very still in front of the store mirror, my arms out wide like a scarecrow, while Mama held up the dress and shoes in front of me.

  Right then I wanted to do something that would’ve made Mama punish me from here till forever — I wanted to spit! First on the saleslady, then on the dress. Then on the insides of each patent leather shoe.

  I know how come I wanted to spit, too — it wasn’t fair that I couldn’t try the dress on, ugly as it was. It’s a good thing I held on to my spit. I don’t think there was enough of it inside my mouth to show how mad I was.

  The white girl came out of the dressing room wearing the same pastel dress. We both stood in front of the mirror.

  “Oh, Mother,” squealed the girl. “This dress is dreamy! I’ll take it.” She was so happy, and twirling in the same dress my mama was buying for me.

  How come the white girl’s mother told her they would not be buying the pastel dress?

  When I cut my eyes, and looked hard for a moment, I knew that girl. It was the girl from Prettyman Coburn! The bell-ringer girl!

  It’s too bad her mother wouldn’t let her buy the Peach Melba dress. It looked good on her. Her hair is pastel to match the dress. And with all that twirling, she made the dress come alive.

  But as my mama was folding my Peach Melba dress into a Millerton’s shopping bag, her mama was forcing the other Peach Melba dress back on its hanger, and onto the dress rack.

  Later, I heard Mama tell Daddy we’d be eating Goober’s peanuts for dinner till September since they’d spent so much money on that stupid dress.