“Yes, sir,” said Miss Loomis. “I will stay the course.”
Mrs. Parker drove Lisa and Harold home after their first day of school. While Ozella made snacks for the children, Mrs. Parker waited for Lisa in the den. Mrs. Parker was wearing her typical luncheon fare—a short-sleeved black sheath with pearls. Her black high-heeled sling-backs had been strewn across the floor, and she was barefoot.
Mrs. Parker peppered her daughter with questions:
“Do you have a Negress teacher?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lisa answered.
“Did you understand her?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How did she look?”
“She was tiny.”
“What was she wearing?”
“A white dress with flowers on it.”
“Was she light- or dark-skinned?”
“Light-skinned.”
“Did she have kinky hair?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Was she mean to you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Was she stupid and lazy?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did she smell bad?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did she talk like Ozella?”
“No, ma’am.”
Although Lisa’s father was a lawyer, Lisa’s mother had many lawyerly skills. Although Lisa’s father believed in the equality of coloreds and whites, Lisa’s mother did not.
Throughout this interrogation Mrs. Parker fluffed her brown pixie-style hair. Then she opened a tube of lipstick and painted her lips the color of a red Aston Martin.
Throughout this interrogation Lisa answered the questions as quietly and as briefly as possible so that Ozella could not hear from her perch in the kitchen.
“Ozella,” Mrs. Parker called, “the baby’s crying.”
Ozella smiled at Lisa as she carried a baby bottle through the den to the nursery.
“Now, Lisa,” Mrs. Parker stated, “I need specifics on your teacher so that I can move you out of her class.”
Lisa’s heart skipped a beat. The highlight of her school day was Miss Loomis’s class. How could her mother be so mean?
“No, Mama, no!” Lisa pleaded. “Please don’t move me. Miss Loomis is a great teacher. We are going to read some great books. Please don’t move me, Mama!”
“Well, don’t fret, Sissy,” said Mrs. Parker. “I was just trying to help—I won’t change you now, but if you start having problems, I will yank you out of that Negress’s class in a heartbeat. And not a word of this to your father.”
Lisa hated it when her mother kept secrets from her father. Usually, the secrets revolved around clothing or shoe purchases. But secrets about the new Negro teacher—that was something new. Why, Lisa’s father had Negro clients, and he always taught Lisa to treat Negroes with respect. Lisa was confused.
“Oh, Sissy,” Mrs. Parker added, “I know why the school board chose a light-skinned Negress. That mulatto, or ‘high yellow,’ teacher of yours is part white and is smarter than dark-skinned Negroes.”
“Mother,” Lisa smarted, “that’s not true. Ozella is just as smart as Miss Loomis in her own way.”
“Well, I never heard such poppycock,” snorted Mrs. Parker, who took her shoes and purse and marched out of the room.
Lisa ran to the nursery to see her baby sister and Ozella. Ozella knew about the mean boys, and Ozella’s lemon drop hugs comforted Lisa like no other hugs could. Lisa thought that Ozella smelled like lemon drops, Lisa’s favorite candy. When Lisa would pop a lemon drop into her mouth, the sour flavor would cause her mouth to pucker. The sweet flavor that followed would soften the sourness. When Ozella hugged Lisa, Lisa grasped a perfect world where sweet and sour coexisted in harmony.
Ozella was a heavyset woman with wiry gray hair put up neatly in a bun. She had big moles sprouting from her shiny black skin. Ozella had extra-large feet, and her shoes had slits to accommodate her bunions.
Ozella never made fun of the way Lisa looked. Whenever the mean boys made fun of Lisa, Lisa would come home to her gray-haired friend’s big hugs. Lisa would turn her face into Ozella’s stocky, wide legs, which would protect her, and Lisa would cry, cry, cry, cry, cry.
After giving the baby a bottle, Ozella put her in her playpen. It was time for Ozella to go home on the bus, and Lisa walked her to the end of the Parkers’ driveway. As she was saying good-bye to Ozella, Lisa saw her father pull into the driveway. Mr. Parker stepped from his car and into his daughter’s arms.
“Hey, Daddy,” Lisa said. “You’re home early.”
“Well, it’s been a big day for you, and I want to hear all about it,” Lisa’s father said.
“I’m in Mrs. Duke’s homeroom with Cathy. And Daddy, I met the new Negro teacher—her name is Miss Loomis. She’s really nice, and we are going to read some great books!” Lisa exclaimed.
“That’s wonderful, Sissy,” Lisa’s father said. “See, all of your worrying was for nothing.”
“But, Daddy, I noticed that the other students in my class, even Cathy, wouldn’t look at or talk to Miss Loomis,” Lisa reported. “Why, Daddy, why?”
“I was afraid something like this would happen,” Lisa’s father stated. “Ignorance, pure ignorance! You see, Sissy, about a week ago the sixth-grade fathers had a meeting at Coach Stewart’s house. The meeting was supposed to be about this year’s field trips, but it was really about the new Negro teacher. Many of the fathers were worried about the new teacher, and a plan was devised so that the students would not make eye contact with or speak to her in hopes that she would quit. I disagreed with the plan and stormed out of the meeting.”
“Well, I sure hope Miss Loomis doesn’t quit,” Lisa said.
“So do I, Sissy. So do I.”
Chapter Seven
The Assassination
Keeping secrets about Negroes became a problem for Lisa at school as well as at home. The school secrets took the form of an essay the class had to write in social studies.
Miss Newell presided over the social studies class like a medium presides over a séance. Miss Newell had long blonde hair and looked like the character Carolyn Stoddard on the spooky soap opera Dark Shadows. And spooky Miss Newell was.
She dressed only in black. She wore black clothes and black shoes. She accented her black ensemble with pink makeup and pink accessories. She said that black was her favorite color because it offset her fair hair and very fair skin. She said that pink was her favorite accent color because it complemented her fair hair and very fair skin.
Like a medium, Miss Newell had more than one voice. When she was in a good mood, she would use her sickeningly sweet voice and say, “Sweet, sweet children,” over and over again. This voice was so sweet that Lisa thought that pink cotton candy was going to come out of Miss Newell’s little pink mouth.
But when Miss Newell was in a bad mood, her voice would become scarily mean, and her pink lips no longer complemented her words. Lisa thought that Miss Newell’s mean voice was like the voices of the mean boys. When Miss Newell was in a bad mood, Lisa would get a stomachache.
It was on the second day of school that Lisa became acquainted with Miss Newell’s two voices. Class began with Miss Newell’s sweet voice.
“Class,” Miss Newell whispered, “sweet, sweet children, we are going to write essays today.”
“Oh, no,” moaned Will Harris.
“Don’t blame me,” said Miss Newell, switching to her mean voice. “The school board is making me give this assignment. I’m sure you know that Martin Luther King Jr. died this spring. Well, because of integration and all of that nonsense, the school board is making every public-school sixth grader write a one-page essay on Mr. King.”
“That sounds hard,” said Becky Owens.
“Well, sugar,” said the sickeningly sweet Miss Newell, “I’m making this assignment really easy. All you have to do is write about how Mr. King’s death was for the best.”
“I don’t understand,�
�� said Lisa.
“Of course you don’t understand,” said mean Miss Newell, “what with your father representing Negroes and all of that.”
“But my father is a good lawyer,” replied Lisa defensively. “And isn’t it Dr. King, not Mr. King?” Lisa asked timidly.
“In my classroom, young lady,” said mean Miss Newell, “it’s Mr. King—the man was not a medical doctor.”
Miss Newell took a deep breath, put a smile on her mean face, and continued.
“Now, class,” said sweet Miss Newell, “all I mean is that Mr. King stirred up trouble in the Negro quarter while scaring the willies out of innocent white people. And that is why his death is for the best. Every cloud has a silver lining.”
Lisa felt the very black pupils in her very blue eyes turn to stone.
“I hope Miss Loomis didn’t hear any of this,” thought Lisa.
“Now let’s take out our pencils and paper and write these short essays,” said the sickeningly sweet Miss Newell. “Why, I just gave you the answer,” she said while laughing to herself.
“And, class, if you want to pass this class, not a word of this essay to anyone, particularly your parents,” said Miss Newell in her mean voice while she glared at Lisa.
“Another secret about Negroes,” thought Lisa, who had not told her father about her mother’s questions about Miss Loomis.
Lisa was confused. She and her father had watched Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech on television. Her father had told her what a great leader Dr. King was, and how terrible his assassination was for colored and white people alike. Her father had also told her how terrible the assassination of Bobby Kennedy was for colored and white people alike.
Lisa was at a crossroads. She believed that her father was right and Miss Newell was wrong. If she wrote the essay Miss Newell’s way, then she would be telling a lie. If she wrote the essay her father’s way, then she might receive a failing grade. A compromise was in order.
“If I ask for Miss Newell’s permission to write the essay my father’s way,” thought Lisa, “then I might receive a passing grade.”
Lisa took a deep breath and raised her hand. Miss Newell nodded at her.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Lisa while trembling. “May I write my essay on why killing Dr. King was for the worst?”
“Oh, my God, you are color-blind, aren’t you? You are too blind to see what color separation really is,” screamed the mean Miss Newell. “Why, you just love Negroes, don’t you? I should send you to the principal’s office!”
“Not the principal’s office,” thought Lisa while remembering the song the students sang about the dreaded Mr. Breen:
Over land, over sea
Over Mr. Breen’s knee
Comes the paddle
Awaitin’ for you!
“On second thought,” mean Miss Newell said, “you may write it your way, but you will have a hard time filling up a whole page. Why, you and your father are nothing more than colored cuddlers.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lisa replied.
Lisa was horrified! She wasn’t sure what being “color-blind” or a “colored cuddler” was, but she was too scared to ask her father. Miss Newell’s threat of not passing her class made Lisa keep the classroom essay and Miss Newell’s mean words a secret.
But Miss Newell knew what these words meant. She knew that the phrases “color-blind” and “colored cuddler” were code for the racially offensive phrase “nigger lover.” And she knew that the scientific phrase “color separation” was code for the dreaded word “segregation.”
Lisa couldn’t wait to get out of Miss Newell’s class. She wrote her essay on how the killing of Dr. King was for the worst and handed it in to Miss Newell. The essays would be sent to the school board, and an award for the best essay would be given at the end of the school year.
“My father would be proud of me,” thought Lisa as she beamed.
Chapter Eight
The Midget
When Lisa got home from school that day, she couldn’t wait to go see her friend Katie. Katie was a grown woman who just happened to be a midget. Katie ran a one-room country store that was located at the end of Lisa’s street. The store carried beef jerky, pickles, cheese, and cigarettes for adults. But most importantly, the store carried rows and rows of candy for the children.
Katie stood on a wooden platform behind the counters so that she could reach to give the customers their purchases and their change. Lisa and Harold went to visit Katie as often as they could.
“Come on, Bubba,” yelled Lisa. “Let’s go to Katie’s.”
Harold slipped off the barstool in the den and grinned.
“Let me get a penny out of my piggy bank, Sissy.”
“Don’t bother, Bubba,” said Lisa. “I’ve got two pennies in my coin purse.”
Candy at Katie’s cost a penny apiece, and the Parker children were allowed to buy one piece of candy each.
“Let’s go,” said Harold as the two went outside to their bikes.
Lisa had a green girl’s bike with wire baskets flanking the back tire. Harold had a Schwinn Stingray boy’s bicycle in lemon yellow with monkey handlebars and a yellow banana seat. The two mounted their bikes and began the slow climb up the steep hill to Katie’s.
Like Lisa, Harold had blonde hair and blue eyes. Unlike Lisa, Harold was not in a hurry to do anything—even to buy candy. While Lisa was hurriedly pedaling her bike to make it up the hill, Harold was taking his sweet time, looking at the neighbors’ houses and fussing at the neighbors’ dogs.
“Hurry up, Bubba, you’ll never make it up the hill,” yelled Lisa. “Stand up and pedal hard!”
“I’ll get there when I get there,” said Harold matter-of-factly.
“I’ll wait for you at the top,” said Lisa.
Harold was busy fussing with the Thompson’s standard schnauzer.
“Stay, Trixie, stay,” said Harold. “Bad dog, Trixie.”
The very large salt-and-pepper colored dog had blocked Harold in the middle of the street. The dog had her front paws straddling Harold’s handlebars. Harold began to cry, and Mrs. Thompson came into the street and fetched Trixie.
“Sorry, Harold,” said Mrs. Thompson. “I’m putting Trixie inside—she won’t bother you again.”
“Thank you,” said Harold meekly.
Harold began to climb the hill on his bike. He stood up and pedaled hard, like Lisa said. When he made it to the top, there was Lisa waiting for him.
“You did it, Bubba, you did it!” praised Lisa.
“I’m ready for my candy now, Sissy,” said Harold.
“Follow me—we’re almost there,” said Lisa.
The two made the short journey to Katie’s, parked their bikes, and went inside.
Katie’s was crowded this afternoon. A man bought some beef jerky; a lady bought some cigarettes; and the Boswell twins bought two pieces of sour apple bubble gum.
Katie was holding court atop her platform. She was no more than three feet tall. Her small head was that of a young woman. Her girlish torso boasted a woman’s bosom, and elfin arms sprouted a woman’s hands and polished fingernails.
Lisa and Harold could not reach the top of the counter, and Katie could not reach the bottom of the counter. They transacted business somewhere in the middle.
Lisa always felt safe at Katie’s. Lisa would never make fun of Katie’s small size, and Katie would never make fun of Lisa’s face. They understood each other very well.
“Hi, Lisa; hi, Harold,” said Katie. “Did you ride all the way up the hill just to see me?”
“Yes, ma’am, we did,” said Lisa.
“I almost got bit by the Thompson’s dog, Trixie,” announced Harold.
“Goodness gracious, Harold,” said Katie. “That dog is almost as big as you!”
“I know,” said Harold. “There ought to be a law or something.”
Everyone in the store chuckled. Harold loved to sound like his lawyer-father.
&nbs
p; Harold and Lisa began eyeing the candy.
“Oh, what’s the use, Bubba? We always get the same thing,” said Lisa.
“Banana taffy for Lisa and an Atomic FireBall for Harold,” said Katie proudly.
Lisa and Harold picked out their two pieces of candy from the bins in front of them.
“That’ll be two cents,” said Katie.
Lisa retrieved two pennies from the coin purse around her neck and gave them to Katie.
The pennies looked large in Katie’s short fingers.
“Thank you, children, and come again! And Harold, be careful out there!” said Katie.
The two children carried their prized confections outside. They unwrapped their pieces of candy and put them in their mouths. Lisa began to chew her piece of taffy while Harold began to suck his Atomic FireBall. They kicked up their kickstands and got back on their bikes for the oh-so-much easier downhill ride home. No more dragons to slay or mean dogs to tame. Just little brother and baby sister to play with at home.
Chapter Nine
The Mimic
Lisa’s teacher troubles continued in math class with Mrs. Darren. Mrs. Darren was a tall, slender woman with red hair and green eyes. Lisa thought that Mrs. Darren looked like Wilma Flintstone. And Stone Age she might have been.
Mrs. Darren was from a small town in south Alabama. She was intimidated by the “city children” at Wyatt, and she did everything possible to make the Wyatt students like her. For example, Mrs. Darren made her classes “easy” by focusing on addition and subtraction, multiplication and division. She did not even use the sixth-grade math books in her classes.
Mrs. Darren, moreover, did not assign homework to her students. And her students liked her. Yet Mrs. Darren’s “easy” class came at a price. And that price took the form of another teacher secret.
“Class,” Mrs. Darren would say, “if you want a good grade, then you must not tell your parents what we study every day. And for goodness sakes, don’t tell them that I don’t give homework.”
“Not another teacher secret,” thought Lisa. “Why, I’ve got so many secrets to keep that I can hardly concentrate on my schoolwork.”
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