This afternoon when I helped Mama hang the wash, I asked, “Are we uppity?”
Mama had clothespins pressed between her lips, holding them while she secured a sheet onto the clothesline. She released the clothespins, one at a time, clipped each to a corner of the sheet, and stood back as the breeze billowed the sheet toward her. She said, “What kind of cockamamy question is that?”
I told her what the kids at Bethune were saying.
It’s not often that Mama sucks her teeth, but today she did. “Dawnie,” she said, “let me remind you of a simple truth my own mother taught me, and that I have repeated to you and Goober a thousand times — sticks and stones can break my bones, but names can never hurt me.”
I’ve known that ditty ever since first grade, when Mama taught me the words to sing to that wisecracking Freddy Melvin, who once said I had beaver-tail feet.
“Sticks and stones” works most times, but today it didn’t answer my question. If going to Prettyman Coburn will make me uppity, I need to know.
I definitely want good books and the secret for going to doctor school, but I sure don’t want to be uppity.
Sunday, September 26, 1954
Diary Book,
Daddy explained that the judges working in the federal courts have issued an order. Hadley has to give Negro students the option to attend the white school if we want to. Prettyman Coburn’s got no choice — they have to let me enroll, or else they’re gonna be in trouble with the law.
“They’re kicking and screaming about it,” Mama said. “But even crybabies can’t stop what’s right.”
So, school integration is going forward. Tomorrow I report to Prettyman.
Tonight Daddy came and sat on the edge of my bed. With the curlers in my hair, I’d taken to sitting up at my headboard, hoping to fall asleep that way. It was easier than waking with tooth marks on my forehead.
Daddy held me gently by both my shoulders. He was looking at me squarely, so I knew to pay attention to what he was about to say.
He explained that the people from the NAACP had advised that he and Mama not come to school with me, that having them there might cause trouble.
“What kind of trouble?” I asked.
“Dawnie, you may see a lot of people gathered outside of the school tomorrow. Not everyone is in favor of you attending Prettyman Coburn, and there might be some who protest. The NAACP officials feel it may be harder to protect you if we’re there. Protesters may feel less threatened by one Negro child, versus all of us. If they see colored adults, they may get riled. This could cause them to want to retaliate.”
I listened carefully. The skin at the tops of my ears went warm.
Daddy had more to say. “Dawnie, you were born with the gift of gab. But sometimes that gift is not to be shared. This is one of those times. If someone offends, lock your lip, child. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
Mama came into my room after tucking in Goober. She explained that she would walk Goober to Bethune, like always, and that Daddy would walk me part of the way to Prettyman, but needed to say good-bye on the corner of Waverly Street and Vine Road. He would not come close to the school building.
Daddy’s work shift had started earlier, and Mama would be picking up Goober from Bethune in the afternoons. So I would walk home from school by myself. “Just make sure you stay on the main streets,” Daddy said. “And keep alert.” I nodded again, twice this time, to show I understood.
After Daddy and Mama kissed me good night, I looked up two of Daddy’s words in my dictionary.
Protest: An expression of disagreement or complaint.
Retaliate: To return like for like, often in an evil manner. To avenge, be out for blood, defend. Now my whole ears were warm. My neck, too.
Monday, September 27, 1954
Diary Book,
If I live to be a hundred, and I’m stuck to a porch rocker with bad legs, three teeth, and a mind as rusty as a rained-on pogo stick, I will never forget today.
I hope I don’t wear out my pencil in writing it all. But I can’t help but tell everything. Just as it happened.
I was up and dressed while the moon still hung above our house. Daddy had come home from his shift at Sutter’s and was ready to take me to school when I came into our living room. Goober and Mama were up, too, eager for this day to start.
Mama had pressed my dress with a mighty will. The bow, too.
She’d packed my lunch in a molasses bucket, and wrapped the whole thing in the leftover fabric used to sew the panels into the sides of my dress. Even my lunch tin was ready to make a good impression.
It’s one thing to wear a new dress and stiff shoes. Walking in them is a whole ’nother thing.
Daddy took my hand. We started out quietly. No talking, each embraced by the in-between. The sky was dressed in blue velvet. Stars decorated its cape. Our streetlights spread yellow pools onto the sidewalks.
Everything was still. Even the dew was asleep.
Daddy seemed to be thinking on something. His hand clenched mine. His jaw was tight. I was thinking, too. About Yolanda. About the New York lady with the black dress. About Goober. And most of all about Prettyman Coburn.
A raccoon stopped me and Daddy from thinking too deeply. She peeked out from the fence post at the edge of Mrs. Thompson’s tea-rose garden. That raccoon moved with a sure waddle, not the least bit bothered by us. She was so pretty. And special. Her black eye mask was decorated with two full rings of white fur, not just white brows like most raccoons.
“She’s one-of-a-kind,” Daddy said. “Like you, Dawnie.”
Raccoons are plenty in these parts of Virginia, but there was no plenty about this raccoon. I’ve seen none other like her.
I named her right away, on account of how she moved. “Nice to meet you, Waddle.”
Daddy and I slowed our walk. Then Daddy stopped. It was full-light then. Morning.
Night crickets had quit singing, but the bullfinches had joined up with the whip-poor-wills, and there was a contest between them for who could out-flute the other.
Daddy said, “This is where I say good-bye, Dawnie.”
We were still four blocks from the school building. I wasn’t scared to walk the rest by myself, just sorry to lose the warmth of Daddy’s hand as he let go.
“Head on now, Dawnie,” he said. “Show everybody how smart you are.”
I pulled my lunch tin close. There was pride in Daddy’s eyes, but he looked uncertain, too. He waited for me to reach Elber Street, one block closer to Prettyman, then he waved good-bye.
It was when I got to the corner that I saw parked police cars, with their siren lights flashing. There were people everywhere, gathered in a snarl, waiting. I saw boys and girls, and grown-ups — and the sheriff. They stood behind barricades.
When I read a sign that said MOTHERS AGAINST INTEGRATION, I knew they were waiting for me. Not once did I want to turn back. I had waited too long for this day. The clock on Prettyman’s front said it was half past seven. School started at a quarter to eight. I was hard-pressed on how to get into school, but determined, too. I figured if I went around to the back entrance where Prettyman’s field meets up with the gymnasium door, I could get inside that way. But my figuring wasn’t fast enough. “There she is!” somebody shouted.
That’s when the trouble started. The girl from Millerton’s Department Store — the one with the peach-colored hair — came onto Prettyman’s front steps with the school bell in her hand. She clanged the bell to signal the day’s start. Something about the power of that bell called me forward. I was not going to be late on my first day.
I moved slowly along the street, then turned onto Prettyman’s front walk, where the crowd pushed at the barricades. Even then I wasn’t too scared because I was so eager to get inside.
The sheriff nodded toward one of the policemen, and four of them came up on all sides. They were carrying long guns! I wasn’t sure if they were there to protect me or stop me. The police kept
the people behind the barricades, pressing them back when they shoved to get at me. But even with all their force, the police could not keep those people quiet.
The Panic Monster came quick, shook me hard.
The protesters’ mouths were twisted and angry. Their faces looked liked tightly crumpled balls of paper. And, oh, were their tongues ever sharp!
“There goes the monkey!” someone hollered.
“Kill that chiggeroo!” somebody else yelled.
The Panic Monster was holding so tightly.
Shaboodle-shake-shake-shake-shake.
I tried to put my ears on the sound of the school bell, but it was hard not to hear the hatred in the people’s voices. Bobby Hatch and his brothers had shoved to the front of the barricades. The very worst part of it — the part that frightened me most — was that they shouted mean things about Goober in front of all the other people.
“And she’s got a brother, too. But he’s more stupid than any monkey.”
Shabooooodle-shaaaake-shaaaake-shaaaake-shaaaake.
In the crowd I saw a small girl, a child much littler than me. Her face looked kind. She was holding out a flower and a note. Her mama encouraged her to give me both of them. I smiled. So did she. But as she set the note in my hand, she spit on my new shoes. And the note wasn’t a note at all. The little girl had drawn a picture. It was scribbly, but there was no mistaking its meaning. It was a picture of me on my pogo stick falling into a patch of pricker bushes. Underneath she’d written, “Scratch off the black.”
Quietly, I just kept repeating what Mama had taught me. “Sticks and stones … Sticks and stones …”
I know the end of the rhyme says “names can never hurt you,” but that’s not true. Names do hurt. Hearing other kids yelling mean things was worse than a punch in the stomach. And it made me want to holler back, but I’d promised Mama and Daddy I wouldn’t.
More than anything, I wished I’d brought my baseball bat with me. Not to use it, but just to have it nearby. Just to grip it as tight as I could. To give my clenched fists something to hold on to.
I was afraid my dress might rip. Not from not fitting me, but from holding in so much riled-up stuff at my insides.
When I finally got to Prettyman’s front door, it looked so big. I knew that if I could just get inside, I’d be all right.
The policemen pressed in closer on each side of me as we made our way up the steps and into the building.
Prettyman sure lives up to its name. The wide hallways and tiled walls gleam under the morning sun that blesses them with her light. I was starting to see why the white part of town is called Ivoryton.
The policemen took me to the second floor, to the principal’s office, where I sat and waited. And waited and sat. And had to use the bathroom, but didn’t dare ask.
At least the Panic Monster had let up for now.
I could see by the placard on his office door that the principal’s name was Mr. Lloyd.
The phones rang all morning. Each time she answered, the school secretary spoke graciously. “Prettyman Coburn, may I help you?” And each time, she looked over the tops of her glasses at me.
I stayed very still. Watching the clock. Wondering when I’d be meeting my teacher. Nobody talked to me. My lunch tin rested on my lap. At two o’clock, the school bell started to ring from outside. Its clang was muted by the thick windows. When I looked out, the police cars and barricades were still there. But this time a grown-up was ringing the bell, not the girl from the morning.
Mr. Lloyd wouldn’t speak to me, or look at me even. He explained to his secretary and the policemen that most parents had taken their children home soon after I’d come into the building, and that there weren’t enough students at school for the teachers to teach. The bell was a signal to the teachers that the school day had ended. The principal pushed his chin in my direction. “This child’s done for today,” he told the policemen.
My insides started to churn. Back came the Panic Monster.
I didn’t want to face those angry people with their signs and spitting. Thankfully, Mr. Lloyd told the policemen, “Take her out the back.”
We left the building at the place where I’d hoped to enter, through a set of steps alongside the gymnasium that led to Prettyman’s baseball field.
Maybe it was seeing those bases and that green-green grass that put a hankering on my feet. Maybe it was the sky so big above me. Maybe it was the bullfinches, free in the trees, and still singing. It didn’t matter that home was two miles away. I took off my Vaselines. Held them tight by their straps. Hugged my lunch tin. Then I ran and ran and ran till I saw our house and Goober waiting for me inside the front fence. Mama was there, too, hanging laundry. She didn’t see me coming until Goober called out, “Dawnie!”
Mama put both her arms around me and smoothed my rumpled hair. My muffin had lost its curl. My bow had flown off while I was whipping through the streets and avenues that led me home. Mama’s hands smelled like her lavender laundry starch. Their gentleness was a sure comfort. She kissed me twice on my forehead, then by my ear. She whispered, “Dawnie, Dawnie, sweet potato pie.”
Something inside me tumbled open, and I cried.
Evening
Pulled pork and fried pickles for supper. I tried, but couldn’t eat none of it. My stomach was too tight. And queasy.
Goober sat with his chin rested on the table.
He rocked gently in his chair. He’s been very quiet all evening. He hasn’t looked at me much. His eyes have gone someplace else for now. He’s locked himself off.
All through supper, Goober mostly watched the pickle person he’d put on my plate. Finally, softly, he said, “Eat, Dawnie.”
“Not hungry, Goober,” I said.
Tuesday, September 28, 1954
Diary Book,
The Panic Monster had a hold of me all night. He sure works hard, even when I’m sleeping.
Daddy had to wake me this morning. I’d slept past the in-between, past the clock, even.
“Dawnie, time for school,” he said, rubbing slow circles on my back.
Mama was there, too, saying, “You don’t have to shine, but you do have to rise.”
There was light at my window. It startled me. Morning had snuck up on me.
I dressed quick. I could only stomach orange juice.
Mama had set out one of my church skirts, a simple blouse, and a cardigan. It was still more dressed up than if I were going to Bethune. At least Mama took pity on me, and let me wear a plain white headband, not a bone-y bow.
I hurried into my clothes. But the Vaselines — uh-uh. Mouse traps on my feet would have been more comfortable than those shoes. Mama and I agreed on my loafers, which I wear for everything except baseball.
Mama secured my knuckles around the handle of my molasses lunch tin, which she’d still dressed up in the Peach Melba fabric.
This morning my picture was in our town newspaper, the Hadley Register.
The headline said: SHE STANDS ALONE.
Daddy bought ten copies of the paper. He’d picked them up on his way home from the dairy supply, as newsstands were just opening.
I’ve clipped the article here:
The first steps toward school integration in Hadley began yesterday when one brave Negro girl entered Prettyman Coburn School. With courage and determination, the child faced hundreds of angry protesters who assembled in an effort to keep Prettyman Coburn segregated, and to prevent the child from enrolling.
Many parents have refused to let their children attend Prettyman Coburn School. By midmorning yesterday, several had come to the school to remove their children. In a statement, Spencer Lloyd, the principal at Prettyman Coburn, said, “Allowing Negroes to attend our school poses a hazard to the safety and well-being of our institution.”
Local officials and members of the state legislature are in continued talks with Virginia governor Thomas B. Stanley about next steps in the process. Until further notice, school integration remains the la
w. Any Negro wishing to attend Prettyman Coburn School, or any white student wishing to attend Hadley’s other public school, the Mary McLeod Bethune School, is free to do so under the laws set forth in the recent Brown v. Board of Education Supreme Court ruling banning segregation.
Even though the paper never printed my name, there were photographs of me going into Prettyman.
Looking at the newspaper pictures, I don’t recognize myself. My hair is all muffin-y. My Vaselines are catching glints of light from every which way. And my face — What is that eyes-looking-straight expression?
Under my picture the caption says: “A Soldier for Justice.”
Wednesday, September 29, 1954
Diary Book,
Today Daddy and I walked to school at a clip. We said our good-byes at the same corner, Waverly and Vine.
I saw the police cars up ahead, but very few other people. Seems the angriest folks had stayed home. It was quiet, too. Like a fever that flares one day, then cools the next. I sure didn’t miss all that hollering, but I noticed right off there was no school bell. I did miss that.
I went around to the back of the building, where I’d left Prettyman yesterday, and got in that way. It was easy. The policemen didn’t even see me. I came in on my own.
Walking two miles to school with Daddy is a long way, but today, moving through the corridors of Prettyman felt like a road that never ends. Even though the floors in that school glisten — somebody sure has a good mop — there is no pretty scenery along Prettyman’s halls.
This morning Mr. Lloyd gave me my class schedule and pointed me toward my homeroom. He wore the same pained expression as someone who was being forced to clean a skunk’s den. He did not want to be doing this.
I walked with my eyes and feet forward.
Oh, did I get some ugly stares.
I know for sure that I look like a regular person. I have two arms and both my legs. I have one head on top of my neck. It’s a round head like everybody else’s. Even though my hair is still muffin-y from Mama’s curlers, as far as I can tell, there are no trees or corn stalks growing out the top of my head.
With the Might of Angels Page 7
