Death of Innocence : The Story of the Hate Crime That Changed America (9781588363244) (40 page)

In my second year of college, I would get my first chance, and I would learn so much more than the instructor ever could have taught me. It was a speech course, and that instructor was giving me such a hard time. Now, his speech was—well, his speech was letter perfect. It was as if he were holding a basket in one hand and picking out words with the other. He would regard each word he held there, sizing it up, giving it full measure. Every syllable. Every sound. Every single letter would get his complete attention and respect. And I would hang on to those words. And he would hang me on mine.

Between Mama and Aunt Rose Taliafero, and all their attention, I had always spoken very distinctly. Mama would compliment me on my diction. But I guess I had gotten a little more relaxed in my years away from school. Well, this instructor made me feel anything but relaxed in his classroom. He pointed out every mistake, the smallest ones, when I spoke. He even criticized my Southern accent. I saw nothing wrong with that. After all, my whole family came from the South. Oh, I was determined to
prove something to that man. We had to deliver a number of speeches in class for our grade. We came to one assignment that had special meaning to me. It was a eulogy.

I talked about Emmett to the point where I think I took up most of that class period. I connected so much in his life from those first steps as a little boy to the time he climbed the steps onto that train platform. I talked about how he never let anything stand in his way, how nothing could stop him from moving forward. There was meaning in his life and I tried to draw it all together for the class. I brought props, pictures, playthings. By the time I finished, the class was completely silent. Some people were tearing up. Finally, someone asked the instructor what grade I was going to get. He had to admit that it was not possible to grade my speech. To grade it would be to diminish it.

Gene was spending more and more time at my place, mostly looking out for me, but often just looking at television. Relaxing. I had bought Emmett a red lounging chair. It was a model that had just come out. I bought one with a separate ottoman and placed it in front of the television where Emmett liked to sit. That wound up being the place where Gene liked to sit, after coming from the barbershop, before going home for the night. I remember one evening he came over and he was sitting in Bobo’s red chair. Just stretched out right there, feet up, snoozing like, well, like he lived there. He was in another world, perfectly relaxed.

Finally, I had to say something. “Gene, I think you’re kind of hanging around here a little too much. I mean, you really don’t have a legal right to hang around here like this. What will the neighbors think?” He was half-asleep and he looked so surprised, but I kept going. “I think it’s time for us to go downtown and get you a license to be here.”

Well, he straightened up in that chair and just started smiling. The following Monday when he got off from work, he went home to take his bath, as usual, but he didn’t make his usual run to the barbershop. He picked me up and we went downtown to apply for a marriage license. That following Sunday, June 24, 1957, we went with my mother to the home of Bishop Isaiah Roberts, the host pastor for Emmett’s funeral, and Gene and I were married.

At one point, Gene looked at me, remembering how he and Emmett used to play with each other about this event. “Do you think Bo would think we’re ready yet?”

I closed my eyes. A blink, really, but just enough to consider it all in a flash. How my son had looked at me before he left for Mississippi. “Don’t you and GeGe run off and get married before I get back,” he had said. I
looked up at Gene again, a tear in my eye, but so much joy in my heart. “I think he’s given us his blessing,” I said. And Gene agreed.

As Bishop Roberts led us in prayer, we were asked to pull together in faith. We did, and I bowed my head believing that my life with Gene would be as blessed as that moment.

By September, another cotton crop, another school term. There was a crisis in Little Rock, Arkansas. Nine children would integrate Central High School, but not before President Eisenhower reluctantly federalized the National Guard and sent in paratroopers from Ft. Campbell, Kentucky, where my cousin, Crosby Smith, Jr., had been stationed and where he had made his one last qualifying jump right after Emmett’s funeral. L. Alex Wilson was there in Little Rock, and so was Jimmy Hicks. They were in a group of black reporters who were chased by an angry white mob. Alex Wilson was hit in the head with a brick.

Those poor children were threatened and harassed, too, just for doing what the law and what the courts finally said they could do, attend school with white children. Such anguish, such pain. Oh, who can forget the sight of little Elizabeth Eckford, who got separated from the other eight black kids that first day? How she was made to suffer so much emotional torture. How she kept her dignity. How she never let them see her cry.

I have learned the importance of theme in writing and in public speaking. Taking an image that you can use to create a feeling, a reaction, to get across a message. Threading that imagery through all the words. The same thing applies to great social events in a way. I was a grieving mother. That was a universal theme the media could present, and the public could understand during the trial of my son’s murderers. Motherhood, children, would come to symbolize so many aspects of the movement that was growing out of our suffering. Children and the mothers of children would be there. They would be there on the line, marching. They would be there at the lunch counters, sitting-in. So many people have told me over the years how they were affected by the news of Emmett’s death or the sight of his body. But it seemed to affect children the most. Children who were Emmett’s age when he was murdered, and at a legal age when it came time to for them to act.

A new generation of leaders ultimately would point our way. But it was their mothers who would nurture the movement. Mothers also would guide and they would lead. Too often, though, they would lead us in mourning.

 F
amily has always been important. It was important to Mama. She believed in keeping her family close to her, and she had done a great deal over the years to help so many of our folks get out of Mississippi to start a new life in the North. Family was important to Gene and me, too. He was always close to his four brothers. But the closest in every respect was his older brother Wealthy, who also worked at Ford. Wealthy and Gene were right next to each other in age, but they had a closeness that went beyond just the family head count. They were like twins, really, that kind of close. There would come a time when both Gene and Wealthy would have to be hospitalized at the same time for the same surgery. Wealthy was to be released first, while Gene would have to stay in for a second procedure. Wealthy insisted on staying in as well. If his brother was going to be in the hospital, then Wealthy would be there with him. That’s how close they were. Wealthy had also been part of Emmett’s life. He went along with Gene and Bo to a lot of those ball games they all loved so much. And it was always such a joy to have Wealthy come by to visit us after we got married.

One day in particular was kind of, well, sweet. I was taking a break from my studies and baking a cake. Now, with all the things Gene was doing for me, there were two things I always tried to do whenever I could. One was the laundry. Now, Gene was
too
clean. I thought Emmett was meticulous about his looks, but Gene always wanted to have his clothes just right. So I tried to give him a break from doing the laundry. I mean, I didn’t want dirty clothes in my house, either. I kept all the whites bleached and sparkling. I would tie his socks together at the top because he was color blind; as fussy as he was, I couldn’t have him put on a black sock and a
blue sock or a brown sock. He was very, very pleased with the way I kept him dressed, kept him clean.

The second thing I tried to do was bake. Gene was cooking all the time; it was the least I could do. So, one day, there I was in the kitchen, cake in the oven, and in walked Wealthy, who let the door slam. I just stood there for a moment. I really didn’t have to open the oven door to know what I would find.

“Oh, look at that,” I said, as I gazed down at the fallen chocolate cake. “I can’t give this to my husband.”

Wealthy looked at the cake, too. He wanted to know what I planned to do with it.

“Throw it away,” I said. I mean, what else?

He convinced me to give it to him and, don’t you know, he took that flat cake home, sliced it up, and carried it up to the Ford plant to share with all the boys. They must have had a good time, too, because he came back and told me they wanted him to slam the door every time he walked in our place. They just might get lucky again. We had a lot of fun together. Wealthy was so much like the brother I never had. That’s why he understood why I was going to start all over again to make a brand-new cake for Gene that day. Maybe the boys at the plant were right. Maybe even the bad ones I made were good. But good was not quite good enough. I wanted to give Gene the very best, because he always gave me the best. Of everything. I called him “Daddy.” He called me “Baby.” And that pretty much says it all.

There was another special part of Gene’s family I accepted as my own. For some time, I enjoyed a very good rapport with Gene’s daughters, Lillian Gene and Yvonne, and was so happy to have had the chance to attend Lillian’s graduation from grade school the year Gene and I were married. In 1959, Gene’s ex-wife, Dorothy, came to see me. She wanted to ask a favor. It was very important to her. She was moving away from Chicago, farther south in Illinois. But she wanted her daughters to be able to complete the school year in Chicago, where they had started. Of course, they could, and they did. That was the start of what became a very close relationship for so many years to come. It added something quite special to my life at that time. When Lillian Gene and Yvonne came to stay with their daddy and me, just like that, we had a family household. At least for a while.

It hadn’t taken me long to adjust to the routine of college and I was doing quite well. I had close to an A average and had been told by Congressman Dawson’s office early in my second year that I no longer had to bring my
grade reports in to qualify for my stipend. They assumed I was a good student and I kept getting that money, which really came in handy.

Even though I was doing well, I never let up on my intensity. In fact, I worked so hard that I wound up graduating cum laude in January 1960. I had done it in only three and a half years.

In no time at all, I had a placement at Carter Elementary. I felt that I was ready. I knew when I started teaching that it was time to step up to the plate or sit on the bench. I had been out of work for nearly four years, and had left a pretty nice paying job before that. I couldn’t
afford
to sit on the bench. Besides, I was eager for this new experience.

The first thing I had to do was to take charge of the classroom. I made it clear to those kids that they were there to learn and I was there to make sure they did what they were there to do. If they didn’t do as they should, then the wind would begin to blow. I did not tolerate back talk or any kind of rude behavior. I was determined that, by the time those kids left my classroom, they would be better people as well as better students. So, first I had to show who was in charge. The affection would come later.

I developed a technique for getting the kids involved in their own learning, so they wouldn’t just sit there passively while I threw everything at them. I would identify the students who had the greatest skills and have them work with others who might need to strengthen theirs. One of the most important lessons a black child can learn is how to work together with others as a community. We were like a family in my classroom. Everyone knew where they stood, everyone knew what was expected. At the beginning of each day, I would put the objectives up. Before those kids were dismissed in the afternoon, we would review. And they were so excited every day to see exactly what they had learned. They were active participants in the process. We set goals, we met goals, and my kids walked away every day with a sense of accomplishment. I actually had students asking me for homework. That’s how driven they would become under my care. This was about more than lesson plans and grades and passing and failing tests. This was about developing an approach to life. That was important to me. So many of the students I would meet over the years had never been given that kind of guidance. It was my duty to provide it, to show them that they should let nothing stand in the way of their success. I knew how important this would be for them. I knew how important it had been for me.

I will never forget what I found the day I returned to school after being out ill so long. It was when I had the heart condition at twelve, after my father had moved away. I loved school so much and missed the experience while I was out, so I was overjoyed when I returned. Until I saw what I
saw in my classroom. What I saw was another pupil in my seat. The first chair. That was the place of honor for the very best student in the class.

From the time I had been in first grade, no one even thought about taking that first chair on the first day of school each year. That seat practically had my name on it. I was always the top student in the class and everyone knew that. But now things were different. The first chair and the second were taken by two students who had just transferred in. And they were very smart. I had to go to the end of the line. And I cried. After school, I asked my teacher how this could happen, and how I could regain my position. She explained that I would have to work my way back up. When she said that, I got an idea. I knew I would work very hard and get top grades. But the other two students were working hard, too. I had to do more to set myself apart. I had to do something special, something to earn extra points.

We had a sand table in our classroom, but nobody ever used it. It was just there for displays. I got the idea to work up a Thanksgiving display on that table, and asked permission to stay after school and come in thirty minutes early every day. I began crafting a scene depicting the first Thanksgiving. I started with a piece of broken mirror I got from my mother. I put that in the sand and banked the sand up around it to make it look like a lake. Then I made some little cutout ducks and geese and put them on the water. I made my benches out of little sticks, and my Pilgrims out of clothespins. I used thimbles for hats and put little black paper around their bodies and added white paper collars. The Indians were made out of clothespins, too, and had the most colorful feather headdresses. All of them had big headgear. Even Pocahontas. Then I made turkeys. White walnuts for the bodies, toothpicks for the legs. I had opened the shells just enough to force the toothpicks in, so the turkeys could stand. I used cardboard and colored paper to make the trees and placed the turkeys among the trees, where they were hiding out. I worked on that display for weeks, taking care to cover it up every day so no one could see it before I was ready for them to see it.