I tried to protest, but having a teacher think you’re being disagreeable is never a good idea. I didn’t want to sass Mrs. Elmer. I just wanted to make sure I was not the one making the mistake.
“But—you said—you wrote —” was all I could manage.
“I said the test is today, Dawnie.”
Other kids were beginning to write their test answers.
Mrs. Elmer came over to me. I did my best to whisper. “Back when we started class, you wrote on the blackboard: ‘FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 19 — MIDTERM TEST.’ That’s what I recorded in my assignment ledger.”
“Are you back-talking me, Dawnie?”
“No, ma’am.”
Mrs. Elmer explained, “The test date change was announced last week before everyone lined up for recess.”
“That’s when I clap erasers,” I told Mrs. Elmer. I wasn’t whispering anymore. “I never heard about the change.” I’m no crybaby, but my voice had a whine to it.
Mrs. Elmer said, “It’s your responsibility to stay up on assignments, Dawnie. Besides, your lab partner was supposed to apprise you of the new test date.”
The time for taking the test was sliding away quickly. I was already behind. I needed to get started, or I wouldn’t finish the test.
I set my pencil to work, but was it ever hard to concentrate! This was worse than being shoved into a cold pond when you’re not expecting it, and landing face-first with a smack.
I was writing my answers fast and furious. I couldn’t think about the answers, though. I’d studied for the test, but getting ready for a test takes more than just knowing the facts. I need the warm-up in my mind — spending a minute picturing myself taking the test and doing good on it. And holding that picture in my thoughts till it’s all I see in front of me.
I didn’t have a minute, though. By the time I’d begun, I had less than twenty minutes to take a half-hour test.
The only warm-up in my mind was the thud of a headache starting as I tried to see the test questions clearly.
Then something changed.
Somewhere between filling in the blanks about the nervous system and respiration, the thud in my head turned to punching in my chest. At first, I thought it was my heart pounding past my ribs. But it was more than that — it was my intention. Then came the same voice I’d heard when Mama and I first set eyes on the papers that explained what my science lessons would be.
You can do this? You can do this?
The voice grew louder. My intention, simpler.
You can.
I raced through my answers, filling in the last question one second before Mrs. Elmer announced our time was up. The punching, pounding intention in me said, You did.
Wednesday, November 17, 1954
Diary Book,
When Mr. Dunphey, my History teacher, sees me in the hallway, he says hello. At dismissal, Mr. Dunphey says good-bye to all the students. He doesn’t leave me out, like some of the other teachers do. Mr. Dunphey is a person with manners.
Today in class, Mr. Dunphey called on me. He asked me to describe the three branches of government. I was startled by the question. Not because I didn’t know the answer, but because he asked the question so frankly. I could tell by the kindness in Mr. Dunphey’s way of talking that he wouldn’t twist my answer, like Mrs. Ruth does in her English class.
I said my answer to Mr. Dunphey’s question clearly. “Legislative, judicial, executive.”
Mr. Dunphey nodded. “Good,” he said. “Now, stand up, Dahhhnie, and repeat your answer so that we can all hear it,” he encouraged.
I did what Mr. Dunphey said, plain and simple. This teacher made me feel like a regular student. It was almost as good as sliding into home base.
Friday, November 19, 1954
Diary Book,
Every Friday I ask myself how I made it through another week at Prettyman. Mrs. Elmer gave back our graded test today. I got every answer right, but didn’t get a 100% on the test.
Mrs. Elmer handed back everyone’s test but mine. With one test paper left from her pile, she asked me, “Is this yours?”
In glancing quickly at the page, I could see that every question was marked as correct with a check mark. I looked closer, and soon saw why my paper said “98%” on top. Mrs. Elmer had spelled it out in red:
MISSING NAME
MISSING DATE
I’d been so rushed, I’d forgotten to fill in my paper’s very top line. That cost me two points.
I admit — it’s not good to forget your name. But as far as the date goes, I sure as heck do not want to remember the day of that surprise test!
Saturday, November 20, 1954
Diary Book,
If leaves were pennies, I’d be on my way to the rich man’s bank. I raked more leaves today than I knew could even live on a tree. I saved two of the prettiest ones, a yellow leaf with red veins, and a red leaf with a yellow stem. They’re opposites, but the same. While Mama pressed sheets and shirts for her customers, she let me iron each leaf into a square of waxed paper. I looped a string of yarn through the top of each leaf and hung them in my bedroom window. When the light hits them just right, those leaves are as bright as the stained-glass windows at Shepherd’s Way Baptist Church on a sunny day.
As much as I hate raking, there is one more good thing that came out of today’s leaf pile. I found a frog.
I’ve never seen a frog smile, but this frog looked glad when I scooped him up, then set him down in the shoe box where my Vaselines once lived.
I felt it was only fair to warn the frog that he wouldn’t be in the shoe box for long, and that he would be devoting his life to a higher purpose.
I’ve never seen a frog cry, either, but I would have bet all the pennies I’d put in that rich man’s bank that this little rust-colored critter was shedding some froggy tears when I told him the news.
Tuesday, November 23, 1954
Diary Book,
If I ever do become a doctor for people, I will tell my veterinarian friends to treat frogs kindly. Frogs have sure paid their dues for the sake of science. Today we dissected frogs as part of our Biology lesson. Nowhere on the school paper about what lessons we’d be learning did it say that the school would be giving us frogs to pull apart. I’d brought my frog from the leaf pile to school, and kept him in his shoe box all morning.
When we arrived in the Science laboratory, each of us had a frog at our place — an already-dead frog. The ugliest frogs ever! My own frog must have smelled his dead cousins. He’d been quiet and still all morning, but was now bumping the sides of the shoe box.
When Mrs. Elmer asked about the shoe box, I explained that I’d brought a frog from home for the Science lesson on frog dissection. The other kids tittered, and even I thought it was funny. Mrs. Elmer put my shoe box on her desk during our lesson. She shook her head, looking not-too-pleased.
The already-dead frogs were the palest pink, and scrawny. By the looks of them, they’d been fed some bad flies, and had died of amphibian indigestion.
Those frogs had had a hard life, it seemed. They could not have been from the pond near Orem’s Pasture, or Hadley even. And, those already-dead frogs were the stinkiest things. Hoo-boy. Stink-eee.
Each frog was on its back, arms spread, eyes open, mouth wide. And, man sakes, the frogs had already been sliced open, down the belly! The way those frogs’ eyes were rolled upward, I was certain each one of them had been praying to heaven before being killed in the name of Biology.
Mrs. Elmer instructed us to first wash our hands, then to put on the safety goggles. Then she walked us through our lesson. She kept calling the frogs “specimens.”
We had to look at a large frog line drawing at the front of the room, and identify our frogs’ stomachs, livers, and hearts. I think my frog from the leaf pile was watching out one of the holes I’d cut into the sides of his shoe box. He was tap-tapping during the entire class. Nobody seemed to notice but me.
As sorry as I felt for those already-dead frogs,
I liked poking around their innards. My frog’s stomach swelled out from him like a little balloon. Now I know where all those flies go. And by looking real close at the belly of my already-dead frog, I could see how fried pickles work their way through my own tummy. I like this thing called “biology.”
After class, Mrs. Elmer gave me back my shoe box, which I kept under my desk until the school day ended. As soon as I got home, I let my frog free into the pile of leaves. There is no doubt he was wearing a frog grin.
“Get on, now,” I warned. “Prettyman’s on the lookout for specimens!”
Later
At supper, I told my family about the already-dead frog, and the frog’s pinky innards. I even drew a picture on my napkin, just like the picture in our classroom.
Mama said, “No drawing at the table.”
Daddy said, “Let the child show off how much she knows.”
Goober asked, “Do frogs eat peanuts?”
Wednesday, November 24, 1954
Diary Book,
At school, I broke Daddy’s rule about keeping my hands to myself.
I couldn’t help it. That Jackie Robinson baseball card in the janitor’s closet has been looking at me every day for weeks. And every day, I’ve been asking myself, Why would somebody just leave a Jackie Robinson baseball card out like that? Seems the card wanted me to touch it. As soon as my hand was on the card’s corner, peeling it out from its crevice, I found out why it had been put there.
Today I met Mr. Williams, our school janitor. “Jackie keeps me going” was his way of introducing himself when he came into the closet and caught me holding his card. We shook hands. I told him my name.
Aside from the lunchroom ladies, Miss Cora and Miss Billie, Mr. Williams is the only other Negro I’ve seen at Prettyman. “You make the fourth to ever set foot in this building,” Mr. Williams said.
And he told me something else, too. “Dawnie, you and Jackie Robinson have a lot in common.”
Thursday, November 25, 1954
Diary Book,
Thanksgiving break. I’m grateful for our tree mop, fried pickles, and my pogo stick. Today, when I bowed my head for Daddy’s Thanksgiving prayer, I whispered a quiet gratitude, “Lord, I am most thankful for four days of freedom from chalk dust and murky eraser water!”
Friday, November 26, 1954
Diary Book,
Mama wastes no time bringing on Christmas. Our tree goes up the day after Thanksgiving. Tonight we decorated that tree from its pointy top to the lowest branches. Goober ate half the popcorn meant for stringing. But we still had plenty of balls and bows to cover every limb.
This year Mama made decorations to represent each of us. For Goober, she created a wreath made of peanut shells. For me, a strand of felt-cut bells that we looped along our banister. Daddy’s decorations were shredded newspaper strips pulled into pom-poms.
“Where’s your decoration?” I asked Mama. “What did you make to show who you are?”
“Come see.” Mama led us to the porch, where she’d built a miniature Christmas village, constructed with clothespins. There were even clothespin reindeer and a clothespin sleigh.
We spent the rest of the evening eating Thanksgiving leftovers. Tonight when Mama came to my room to kiss me before bed, she held me for a time, and sang, “Dawnie, Dawnie, sweet potato pie.”
Saturday, November 27, 1954
Diary Book,
Reverend Collier called a special meeting this evening at church. Shepherd’s Way was filled with lots of people I didn’t know. They’d come from congregations throughout Lee County, and were eager to fill our pews. There were Negroes, white folks, boys and girls, and babies bundled tight. I spotted people from Calvary Baptist, the church whose team we whipped last summer in baseball at Orem’s Pasture. That boy Lonnie gave me a quick wave.
Daddy explained that the white folks were all from the NAACP. I recognized the lady and the men who’d come to our house.
Somebody needs to tell the NAACP lady to stop wearing mud-colored lipstick. At least her dress wasn’t black. Tonight she was wearing a suit the same color as peas. There were other white ladies, too, all dressed like her. And men with big-collared suits.
Mama made me wear the Peach Melba dress and the Vaselines. Since she’d worked so hard on giving me Christmas bell decorations, I didn’t make a stink about the dress and shoes. At least the dress fits now, and I didn’t have to do much walking in the Vaselines.
Reverend Collier asked our family to sit in the first-row pew. We were one pew up from the NAACP people. The NAACP lady put a gentle hand on Mama’s shoulder when we got to our seats. A man I didn’t know shook hands with Daddy.
Reverend Collier said, “This will be a night to remember at Shepherd’s Way. We have a very special guest here this evening.”
People clapped. The man who’d shaken Daddy’s hand rose and made his way to the pulpit. He stood next to Reverend Collier, who introduced him. “I am very pleased to welcome a young preacher from the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama. He has just been named the pastor at Dexter, and has come to address us this evening. Please welcome young Brother Martin Luther King, Jr.”
The applause grew. I’d heard of Martin Luther King. He was just starting out as a preacher. Folks had been talking about him. He had a powerful way of speaking.
Martin encouraged us to become active members of the NAACP, and to vote in government elections. He spoke about the importance of peace and his belief in something he called “nonviolence.” There was brass and thunder in his delivery. I could not take my eyes off this man. His strong-strong way of speaking scooped me up and held on.
“Praises be!” somebody shouted.
Another voice rang out. “Amen, Brother Martin.”
But people also expressed doubts about Martin’s ideas of nonviolence. Yolanda’s father said, “With all due respect, I’m not one for standing by and letting white people hurt us.”
“Praises be to that!” came a voice from the back of the church. It was Mr. Albert, who sells peanuts from his cart.
Martin told us that love and unity will move Negro people forward. And that fighting for justice and equality can be done quietly, without weapons, or hatred.
“Tell it, young brother!” someone called out. “Tell it!”
Others protested loudly, and soon our church became a swarm of debate, with people taking sides. Goober covered his ears from all the yelling. Martin raised a hand to quiet the noise.
Reverend Collier spoke next. That’s when I saw why we were sitting in the first row. He pointed at Daddy. “This is a man whose livelihood has been threatened because he has taken a stand against segregation by allowing his daughter to attend this town’s white school.”
More applause rose up. Martin Luther King clapped, too.
Reverend Collier said, “Brothers and sisters, I return to a question I asked in this church months ago — who among us steps back in the face of a threat?”
The reverend talked more about threats. And he spoke about Daddy. And about me.
“Mr. Sutter, who owns Sutter’s Dairy, is a man who has stepped back. His customers had threatened to boycott, to take their business elsewhere because Brother Curtis and his daughter, Dawnie, and the Johnson family, have been brave enough to step forward toward progress.”
Applause, louder this time.
“When Mr. Sutter let Curtis go, his white customers stayed loyal. But what Mr. Sutter must have forgot is that Negroes buy as much butter as whites, and that a good chunk of his business comes from our side of Hadley and Negroes living in nearby towns, and throughout Lee County.”
Reverend Collier’s delivery now came on as strong and as booming as a drum. He was truly sermonizing. “We know what it means to boycott, too! We have what it takes to pull our business away from Sutter’s — to step forward peacefully, but powerfully.”
Goober had not taken his hands away from his ears. And it was a good thing, too. There was all kinds o
f yelling going on.
“How’s boycotting Sutter’s gonna do anything?” Miss Nora, Roger’s ma, wanted to know. “Why should I have to give up cream for my tea, on account of that too-good-for-the-rest-of-us child sittin’ up at Prettyman, not staying with her own for schoolin’?”
I’m good at lots of things, but I’m not a too-good-for-the-rest-of-us child!
“She started this mess.” Miss Nora was pointing at me. “Let her miss out on some milk.”
Somebody else shouted, “We need to take a bold step! Boycotting butter ain’t bold!”
With the help of Martin, Reverend Collier quieted everyone.
Our reverend tried to reason with the doubters. “Boycotting is nonviolent, but it’ll hurt Sutter — in a quiet way. We’ll be putting a hard pinch on his wallet. After a while he’ll feel the pain.”
Some of the NAACP people and Reverend Collier gave us very simple but perfectly direct instructions.
“Starting Monday, when the milkman comes, refuse to take his bottles. If he leaves them on your porch, don’t use the milk. Let it spoil.”
People listened.
“Don’t purchase any butter, cream, or cheese,” the reverend instructed.
I was all for nonviolence and for helping Daddy, but no milk, butter, cheese, or cream?
That sure was a pinch — just thinking about it hurt as much as sleeping in curlers. Martin led us in a prayer. Miss Eloise, our choir director, stood. She played on a tambourine, and started to sing “I’m on My Way.”
The congregation joined her. The song swelled, rising through the church with the tambourine’s rattle.
With the Might of Angels Page 11
