Mrs. Hughes repeated the question. “Can anyone give an example of an integer?”
Nobody said anything.
“Do I have any volunteers?” asked Mrs. Hughes.
Do I have any chance of getting called on? I wondered.
The room had fallen silent. No one wanted to take a chance with the answer. They all saw my hand up. I think they were hoping Mrs. Hughes would call on me so that she wouldn’t call on one of them.
Bobby Hatch burped, and everyone giggled.
We were nearing the end of the period. Mrs. Hughes went on to a new question. An easy one that even the stupidest kid could answer.
Mrs. Hughes asked, “What is a real number?”
This sent ten hands flying up. I didn’t bother raising mine. It was clear I was not getting called on, even though I know that a real number is the kind of number people normally use, such as 1, 89, –37. I stayed quiet.
Here’s what else I know — I have now figured out the answer to the real problem in Mrs. Hughes’s Math class.
It all adds up to this:
1 white teacher + 1 Negro student + 28 white kids = 1 invisible Dawnie Rae Johnson.
Or, here’s another answer to a Math class problem:
1 teacher – 1 iota of kindness = makes me feel less than zero.
P.S. This being Columbus Day, I’d have thought we’d have had the day off. But it was probably Mrs. Hughes who said, “Let’s keep school open so I can make Dawnie feel smaller than a baby ant.”
Tuesday, October 12, 1954
Diary Book,
In Mrs. Ruth’s English class I am far from invisible. Mrs. Ruth loves to call on me, even when my hand is not raised. But it seems my understanding of English is different than Mrs. Ruth’s understanding.
I mean, we’re both saying the same thing — at least that’s how I see it. But to Mrs. Ruth’s way of thinking, every answer I give is wrong.
Today, with how Mrs. Ruth was treating me, I wondered if I was even speaking English. She asked me to name the parts of speech. Easy.
“Verb, noun, adjective, adverb, pronoun,” I said. I thought for a moment. There were more, but I couldn’t remember them all. “And preposition,” I added.
“That’s wrong, Dawnie,” Mrs. Ruth said. “There are eight parts of speech — verb, noun, adjective, adverb, pronoun, preposition, and conjunction, and interjection.”
Mrs. Ruth was right. There are eight parts of speech. I’d forgotten two. But did that make my whole answer wrong?
For the next question, Mrs. Ruth singled me out again. She didn’t seem to call much on other kids. Some of them even wanted to answer, but I’m the one who got all the attention. And I’m the one who got slapped down every time I spoke.
“Dawnie, what is a synonym?”
Another easy question, but I thought carefully before answering. I asked myself, Are there eight parts to a synonym?
I said, “A synonym is a word or a way of saying something that means the same thing as another word or another way of saying something.”
That was the right answer. I just knew it.
“Wrong, Dawnie,” said Mrs. Ruth. She looked pleased to be saying those two words together. Wrong Dawnie.
“A synonym is a word or expression that has the same meaning as another word or expression,” Mrs. Ruth proclaimed.
Alls I could think was, Isn’t that what I just said?
Mrs. Ruth asked, “Dawnie, are you paying attention?”
Mrs. Ruth, are YOU paying attention? This is English class, right? Are WE speaking the same language? Because I am SAYING the exact same thing you’re saying, but saying it different, and forgetting just one small part. But—like a synonym—we MEAN the same thing.
Are YOU paying attention, Mrs. Ruth? Are YOU? How about if I call you Wrong Mrs. Ruth?
You are wrong for ridiculing me in front of everyone when my answer is mostly right.
I said, “Yes, ma’am, I’m paying attention.”
Dear Mrs. Ruth,
I have a gift for you—a present. (In case you are not paying attention, gift and present are synonyms.)
Here are a bunch, a bundle, a heap of synonyms for how I feel about your English class:
Aggravated.
Enraged.
Furious.
Hotter than Tabasco sauce.
Mad as a hornet.
Angry as a rattler.
Sincerely,
Truly,
Honestly,
(These are more synonyms, Mrs. Ruth.)
Dawnie Johnson
Wednesday, October 13, 1954
Diary Book,
I like my History teacher, Mr. Dunphey. He’s different than the other teachers at Prettyman. For one thing, he’s young and wears sweaters, not a jacket and tie like every other man teacher at school. Mr. Dunphey is definitely not from Hadley. He is no-doubt from north of here.
He greets everyone with a handshake as we enter his classroom, even me. And he addresses each of us by name, while shaking hands.
Mr. Dunphey talks funny, though. Not the same kind of funny as that lady in the black dress. He stretches my name like he’s pulling a long rubber band—Dahhhnie.
He tells the class to pay attention so that later we can go out into the school yaaad. I think he means school yard.
I don’t care what it’s called, because I won’t be going there any time soon.
And I don’t care that Mr. Dunphey puts a Northern spin on my Southern name.
Thursday, October 14, 1954
Diary Book,
This evening just past supper, Mr. Sutter, from the dairy, came calling on Daddy.
Daddy stepped onto the porch. Mr. Sutter kept a distance between them. He was holding a lantern. While Daddy and Mr. Sutter spoke quietly, Mama and Goober washed dishes in the kitchen.
I went out on the porch.
Daddy said, “Go back inside, Dawnie.” He was holding a lantern, too, close to his face.
I disobeyed Daddy, though he didn’t know it. I went inside, but stayed near to the door screen, where I watched and listened to the two men talking.
“Evening, Curtis,” Mr. Sutter said. He never once took his eyes off Daddy.
Daddy was cordial, but careful, too. “Something you need from me, Mr. Sutter?”
“How’s your family?” Mr. Sutter asked.
Daddy raised his lantern. “We’re getting on fine.”
“You find work yet?” Mr. Sutter wanted to know.
Daddy shook his head. “I’m looking.”
Mr. Sutter’s lantern lit the hollows of his face.
Daddy asked his question again. “Something you need from me?”
Mr. Sutter’s voice got low. “These are uncertain times, Curtis,” he said quietly. “Keep an eye on your wife and young’uns.”
Daddy wiped the top of his lip with the back of his hand. “Always do,” he said.
Goober called me then. “Dawnie, come dry the plates.”
Mr. Sutter said good night.
“Night,” said Daddy.
Friday, October 15, 1954
Diary Book,
Yolanda visited today after school. She had her domino box under one arm. “Dawnie, wanna do dominoes?”
“Can’t,” I said. “I gotta study. I’m taking History in Context and Algebraic Reasoning and Biology now.”
I showed Yolanda the paper that listed my class lessons, and I let her see my science book. “Wanna touch it? It’s different from what we had at Bethune — it’s new.”
Yolanda gave me the stink eye. She looked at me like I smelled bad.
She said, “You’re different from what we had at Bethune.”
Sunday, October 17, 1954
Diary Book,
After church today, Daddy spent much of the afternoon buried in the want ads, looking for jobs. I heard him tell Mama, “All this man wants to do is support his family.”
Tuesday, October 19, 1954
Diary Book,
The
best part of this day was seeing Waddle, my raccoon friend, when Daddy and I walked to school. She seemed to be waiting for us when we got to Mrs. Thompson’s garden. I think that raccoon’s smarter than most. Her eye rings are sure beautiful.
At school, I put up with more not being called on in Math class, being picked on in English class, and being stared at everyplace else.
By the time I got home, my tree mop had never looked so good. As soon as I was done with my homework, I got my bat and swung! The mop did a wild dance on its rope. I batted righty, then lefty. Then righty again, twice as fast. I didn’t think that mop could get any more raggedy. But I beat the strings out of that thing.
Saturday, October 23, 1954
Diary Book,
Goober disappeared today. I was helping Mama hang the wash. Goober had been hitting at the tree mop, but then he was gone. Just like that.
Mama noticed first. “Where’d your brother get to?”
She called out, but there was no answer. “Goober—come, child!”
I helped. “Goob!”
When Mama called a second time and there was no answer, she dropped her laundry basket. There was worry yanking at Mama’s face. “Goober!”
Daddy hurried from inside, calling Goober through cupped hands.
“He was playing over there, by the tree,” I told Daddy.
The tree mop swung slowly.
“Our front gate is still closed, so Goober can’t be far off,” Daddy said. But he didn’t look so sure.
All three of us called after Goober. We looked for him in the cellar and underneath the porch, and behind Mama’s porch rocker.
My pogo stick was where I’d last left it at the fence post, so I knew Goober had not been playing with it.
Mama’s hand was pressed to her cheek. She was praying, “Lord, God … Lord, God …”
Daddy told us to all be quiet for a moment. “Stay on the porch,” he said to Mama and me.
Daddy stood very still, like when he watches a cardinal or a bullfinch settle at the top of our yard’s tree.
Mama sat at the edge of the porch steps. She was rocking and praying silently.
I stood by the porch post, holding on.
A ladybug could have whispered then, and we would have heard every word. That’s why the rustle pushing out from the pile of leaves in the corner of our yard drew each of us to it.
And that’s why I was the first to spot Goober hiding in the bundle of brown. He’d buried himself in the leaf pile!
“Goob!” I shouted. “Oh, Goob!”
Goober flung himself free of the leaves. “Surprise!”
There were crisp patches of brown and yellow hanging on to Goober’s sweater by their stems. Dirt spots marked his elbows. He was blowing leaf pieces from his lips, and he was all full of giggles. His arms stretched high above his head. “I’m a tree!”
Mama rushed to Goober. Daddy was right behind. Me, too.
To Goober, this was all so funny.
But not to us.
Tuesday, October 26, 1954
Diary Book,
Sometimes when a special news story catches Daddy’s eye, he likes to read it out loud. This morning was one of those times. He’d plunged himself into the Hadley Register.
He said to Mama, “Loretta, listen to this mess.”
Mama filled Daddy’s coffee cup before he continued. He gulped once, then he read.
First came the headline.
“‘State Corporation Commission Certifies Defenders of State Sovereignty and Individual Liberties.’” Daddy took in more coffee.
He read the article next.
“‘The Defenders of State Sovereignty and Individual Liberties, a grassroots political organization dedicated to preserving strict racial segregation in Virginia’s public schools, has been formed in Petersburg. Robert B. Crawford, of Farmville, has been named president of the organization.
“‘Several prominent Southside Virginia leaders, including state senators Charles Moses and Garland Gray, U.S. congressmen Watkins Abbitt and William Tuck, and newspaper editor J. Barrye Wall of the Farmville Herald, have begun to hold meetings at a Petersburg firehouse to devise ways of fighting the threat of public school integration.’”
Mama brought Daddy more cream for his coffee. She stirred it in while he read.
“‘It is the hope of these men to build a segregationist organization that will advocate for whites the way the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) has advocated for blacks.
“‘The formation of this group comes just months after the landmark Supreme Court ruling in the Brown v. Board of Education case, citing segregated schools as unconstitutional.’”
Daddy set down his newspaper. He asked Mama, “What about our individual liberties?”
Saturday, October 30, 1954
Diary Book,
I helped Mama shell peas all morning. We sat on our porch. Our street was quiet for a Saturday. With the weather cooling, less folks stroll on weekends. Mama’s raw-skinned fingers worked quickly.
Separating peas from their pods is harder than working open a shoelace knot. Peas can be stubborn. They like to hang on. I stuck with it, alongside Mama, till every pea was free. Mama hummed quietly. It was a song I knew. “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.”
Sunday, October 31, 1954
Diary Book,
You can’t see clouds in the dark, but you can sure feel them. I knew from the heavy smell in the air that it would rain this Halloween night. There was no moon.
Mama made Goober and me wear our raincoats. That messed up our costumes.
I was dressed as Jackie Robinson. Mama had sewn Jackie’s number — 42 — onto one of Daddy’s old work shirts. But you couldn’t see Jackie’s number underneath my raincoat. Thankfully, Mama had embroidered “Brooklyn Dodgers” on my baseball cap.
Goober was dressed as a peanut, a costume Mama and I had built with chicken wire, brown butcher paper, and lots of flour–water paste. Mama had even made peanut shoes for Goober from old bedroom slippers she’d shined with shoe polish. Before tonight, I had never seen a peanut wearing a raincoat and slippers. Somehow Goober managed to get his slicker onto his arms. It pulled tight across the back of his costume, but had no chance of buttoning up around his front.
Yolanda was dressed as Lena Horne. In every picture I’ve ever seen of Lena Horne, not one of them shows her in a dress made from a bedsheet like the one Yolanda’s mother had decorated with buttons, made to look like rhinestones. Each of us carried a pillowcase for collecting candy.
“You scared of haints?” Yolanda asked as we set out down Marietta Street.
“Heck, no!” I said. “I don’t believe in haints, spooks, goblins, or ghosts even.” The only ghoul that scares me is the Panic Monster. I didn’t tell this to Yolanda.
Mama and Daddy had told us not to go past Crossland Avenue for trick-or-treating, and to make sure we went no place near Ivoryton.
When we got to the corner near Crossland, I told Yolanda it was time to turn back, time to head home. Ivoryton was right up ahead.
“I got two pennies in my treats bag,” Goober said. “Two shiny pennies.”
From behind us, we heard somebody making fun of Goober, repeating after him in a baby voice. “Two shiny pennies.”
It was the Hatch brothers, Bobby, Cecil, and Jeb. They came up on all sides of us. Bobby was dressed as a cowboy. Cecil was a scarecrow. Jeb’s Dracula cape stopped at his knees.
“What in the Sam Hill kind of costume is that?” Jeb was talking to Goober.
We tried to walk past the boys, but only got a few steps. They blocked us from going farther.
Bobby and Cecil bumped shoulders. They laughed. “Hey, Negro retard, what are you supposed to be?”
I prayed Goober would just not answer and keep walking, but of course he had to say something. “I’m not Sam Hill, I’m a peanut.”
The brothers laughed harder. “You’re a what?” they teased.
“A
peanut,” Goober said simply.
“You mean a blackie nut,” said Bobby.
Yolanda surprised me then. She dropped her pillowcase, hooked arms with me and Goober, and shoved us past the Hatches.
“Run!” she hollered, holding tight. Lena Horne sure can move! Yolanda’s dress flickered against the circles of light set down by the streetlamps.
Goober slowed us up. Peanuts made from butcher paper and wire can’t go fast.
The boys came after us, hurling eggs.
Me and Yolanda held firm on to Goober, who was between us. “Run, Goob, run!” I encouraged.
Jeb mimicked me. “Run, poop, run!”
The Panic Monster was out on Halloween, dressed as himself, shaboodle-shaking me all over.
Eggs flew, some just missing our feet, some smacking at our backs. Thunder came. Yolanda tripped on the hem of her sheet-dress, but kept going.
When we turned onto Maycomb Street, the Hatches stopped. “That’s the heart of Crow’s Nest,” I heard one of them say. “Pa says to never ever go there.”
At the steps of our porch, Goober fell forward, hard. He was nowhere near to being hurt. His peanut’s shell had protected him. His feet wiggled out the bottom of his costume. He’d lost a slipper.
Lena Horne checked the hem on her sheet.
Then it rained.
Monday, November 1, 1954
Diary Book,
I’m still shook up from what happened last night. I’m scared to tell Mama and Daddy about it. And scared not to tell Mama and Daddy. If I tell them, they’ll ask what we were doing so close to Ivoryton, and I’ll get the skin tanned off my behind. If I don’t tell them, and they find out, I’ll get the skin tanned off all of me.
With the Might of Angels Page 9
