She walked away then, still sniffing the roses, to the cash register to wait on another customer.
“Your mother makes a lot of sense,” Sylvia said thoughtfully. “Speaking of boys, you know that Reggie Birmingham I told you about?”
“Yeah?”
“He calls me almost every night, he sits with me at lunch, and we're going to a basketball game on Friday!”
Rachel squealed with delight. “A real date! How peachy keen! How did you get your mother to agree? More important, what are you gonna wear?”
Sylvia scratched her head. “I hadn't really thought about it yet, but my friend Lou Ann says it should be something red. And it's not an official date, since he's too young to drive. I'm just meeting him at the game and we're going to sit together.”
“That counts as a real date in my book!” Rachel stood up, stretched, and twirled around in excitement.
“All of a sudden I've gone from Sylvia the old maid to Sylvia the girlfriend. It's kinda hard to get used to,” Sylvia admitted.
“So you're complaining?” Rachel asked with a giggle as she plopped back down.
Sylvia grinned. “Not likely! He's like taking a new subject in schoolâwith lots of homework to figure it all out.”
“Now that's the kind of homework I like!” Rachel replied as she placed another can on the shelf. “A course in the anatomy and physiology of the teenage male!”
Sylvia felt herself blush. “Girl, stop.”
Rachel stood up and picked up both plates and forks. “I can't wait to get out of ninth grade and go to Central in the fall! That's where all the cute boys are!” she added enthusiastically. She was suddenly quiet then, realizing she had entered a danger zone.
“I may go to Central, too,” Sylvia told her casually. She knew she probably shouldn't have said anything yet, since nothing was even close to official, but she just had to tell Rachel.
“Really? That's neat,” Rachel said, a little too enthusiastically. Neither of them said anything for a moment. “Seriously, Sylvia Faye,” Rachel said finally. “I don't know if I could do what you might have to do. But know thisâyou will always have a friend at Central High School.”
Sylvia embraced Rachel again and thanked her. Then she quickly found the items her mother had asked her to pick up, and hurried home, carrying soup, flour, salt, a bouquet of flowers, half a cake, and the memory of a genuine hug from her friend.
Thursday, January 17, 1957
Miss Washington didn't waste any time
assigning our research papers for this semester, so I'm glad I didn't bring her that last piece of Mrs. Zucker's cake. I decided to give it to Reggie instead. He loved it, of course, and licked the waxed paper it had been wrapped in. Miss Washington is big enough-she doesn't need more baked goods!
I don't know why teachers make kids do homework like thisâI guess she has nothing better to do than read stacks of student papers. She says the process is supposed to teach us something. Well, I've certainly learned something, but it wasn't what I expected.
Last year Daddy bought a set of World Book encyclopedias from a door-to-door salesman who was a friend of Mr. Zucker. I know it's sometimes a squeeze for Daddy to make the weekly payments on the books, but he believes that education is the key to success. Maybe it will be for me and Donna Jean. I worry about Gary though. I can't see him sitting still long enough to get through college.
I curled up on the sofa with the volume Non my lap. I love the smell of a new book. The maroon binding was still tight and almost squeaked as I opened it to reveal thousands of pages of small print and really neat photos. I wanted to look up information on the Negro for my research paper. I saw a picture of Napoleon, looking surprisingly baby-faced, articles on navigation and nature, and a map of Nebraska.
Finally I came to the article entitled “Negro.” I was excited at first, but then I couldn't believe what I was seeing! First I looked at the picturesâa frowning little brown boy, obviously on a farm, holding a basket of vegetables. Jackie Robinsonâthe first Negro to play major league baseball. A dentist, with a caption below that said, “A Negro dentist in a well-equipped office treats a patient of his own race.” A smiling Pullman porter in uniform, with the caption “Pullman porters are known in all parts of the United Stated for their smiling courtesy and efficient service on trains.” I felt a funny pang in my stomach.
As I continued to read the article, I felt downright sick. Words started jumping off the page and slapping me in my face. I wrote them down so I could copy them in my diary. “Such Negroid physical traits as dark skin, kinky hair, and long arms ... and “Negroes as well as whites have generally disapproved of intermarriage of the two groups,” “and ”Social conditions for the Negroes are gradually improving, but many still live under slum conditions in overcrowded houses without bathrooms, running water, electric lights, or refrigerators.” In a million years when somebody finds this diary, they won't believe that such mean stuff could be printed in America in 1957.
Yes, the article mentioned the accomplishments of Negroes like Harry Belafonte and Ralph Bunche and George Washington Carver, but it was obviously written by a white person who was describing my people the same way I would do a report on bugs! “In recent years, some progress has been made in improving the life of the African Negro, but his position is still far from desirable.”
If I need to know about frogs or stars or blood vessels, I'll know where to look. But for information about Negroes, I've got to look elsewhere. I wonder if the textbooks at Central High are all like this.
TUESDAY, JANUARY 22, 1957
So, when will I start going to school with white children?” Donna Jean asked as she and Sylvia got ready for bed.
Sylvia, wrapping her hair onto brown paper rollers, looked at her sister with surprise. “Do you really want to, DJ?”
“No, I don'tâthat's the point. I like my school. I just want to know how long I have before grown-ups mess everything up.” She was glancing through the pages of one of their mother's Life magazines.
“I don't think you have anything to worry about for a while,” Sylvia told her with a smile. “Adults who change laws work unbelievably slow.”
“That's good to know. My friend Vanessa says white people rule the whole world, that they control everything and everybody. Is that true?”
“Well, sort of, I guess. But that doesn't mean it's right, or that it will last forever.”
Donna Jean brushed her hair while she talked. “When we watched the inauguration tonight, I was wondering what you have to do to become president. Eisenhower doesn't look so special to meâjust another bald-headed white man in a nice suit.”
“You're pretty deep, kid,” Sylvia said with genuine admiration. “I think the requirement is to be able to give long, boring speeches!”
“Then Daddy can be president for sure!” Donna Jean said with a grin. “Except he's colored.” She stopped smiling. “Look at this,” she said then, still looking at the magazine. “The new âMiss America TV.'”
Sylvia glanced down at the page. Miss America stood there next to the television set with her shimmering gold crown, blond hair, and lovely flowing gown. Both girls simply sighed. “Wow.”
Donna Jean said, “Miss America looks so beautifulâlike one of those fairy princesses in my storybooks at school.”
“None of that stuff is real, Donna Jean,” Sylvia reminded her.
“I know that. But Miss America is real, isn't she?”
Sylvia sighed and shook her head. “She may as well be a fairy tale, as far as we're concerned.”
Donna Jean asked, “Don't you ever think about growing up to be Miss America?”
Sylvia laughed. “Not likely, little sister.”
“Why not?” Donna Faye continued. “You're pretty.”
Sylvia looked at her, surprised. “There's no way they'd ever let a Negro be Miss America,” she told her sister. “Never in a million years.”
Gary popped his head in the door then. “Hey, Miss Roller-Head,” he said, teasing Sylvia.
“Hey, yourself.”
“Shouldn't midgets be asleep by now?” he asked DJ, walking over to her bed and tickling her. She giggled and hid under the covers.
“So, you ready to become a freedom fighter?” Gary asked Sylvia casually.
“You'd be much better at this than me, Gary,” she told him honestly.
He sighed. “I know. But you've got the brains and the personality to make it work. I'd end up burning the place down.”
“Or getting burned up yourself,” Sylvia added.
“I'm a little scared for you, little sis,” he said gently.
“Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” she asked him. “It would be so much easier to stay with my friends and go on to Horace Mann, and only have to worry about whether Reggie likes my new dress.”
“Don't worry,” Gary said, laughing. “I've seen how Reggie acts around you. At the game Friday he was acting like a puppy with a new toy.”
“You could tell?” Sylvia asked, blushing a little.
“Oh, yeah! You've got that one tied up!” Gary replied with a grin.
Donna Jean poked her head out from under the covers and chanted in a singsong voice, “Sylvie and Reggie, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” She repeated the rhyme several times until Gary started tickling her again.
When she quieted down, Sylvia said, “Reggie says it's cool I got picked, but I know he wants me to stay at Mann. He's sending me mixed messages.”
“That's because both sides of this issue are so strong. Either way, you'll win and you'll lose. No matter what happens.”
“I'm all mixed up, Gary.”
“Well, since it looks like it's not gonna be me, I can't think of anyone better than you to do this,” Gary said as he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “I'm proud of you, Sylvie.”
Sylvia's eyes filled with tears as Gary gently closed her door.
Tuesday, January 22, 1957
When Donna Jean told me she thought I was pretty, I was really shocked. First of all, she had never given me a compliment before-most of the time we tease each other, using names like “hunchback” and “beady ball.” But more than that, I have never in my life thought of myself as pretty. I guess I'm fair looking, maybe, but certainly not pretty. I don't even know what the definition of pretty is. Is it what I see in the mirror, or what I see in Mama's magazines? And what does Reggie see? That is, if he's still looking at me.
In
Life
magazine, like DJ said, all the women in the ads are white. They have pale skin and silky hair and they look sophisticated and in control. But is that what makes them attractive? Is it the blond hair? That couldn't be, because many of them have hair as black as mine, and red hair, and brown, and every other combination as well. So is it their small lips? Their tiny noses? I've got full lips and a large nose. Does that make me ugly? I have no idea.
Reggie seems to think I look okay, but I know he thinks Candy looks better. Where did she get those hips and those D-cups? I can't compete with equipment like that. Most of the boys at school, including Reggie, are attracted to Candy Castle like bees to honey, but it's not just because of her body. She has some other quality that makes them hover around her all the time. I don't know what it is, and I don't know how to get it.
In
Ebony
magazine, most of the women in the ads are Negro, but very few of them have dark skin like mine. Actually, most of them look more like the white women in Life magazine than they look like me. I wonder what colored men think of those models. What about white men? What attracts them? Does race make a difference? And how does all this fit in with the integration stuff?
When I was little I had a doll called Tiny Tears. I never gave her a real nameâI simply called her Tiny. I loved that doll more than life. I still have her, and every once in a while I go to the top of my closet, get her out of the box I keep her in, and unwrap her carefully. I keep her wrapped in one of Donna Jean's old baby blankets. When I take Tiny Tears out and hold her in my arms, the smell of her, almost like baby powder, still makes me smile. Her eyes really blink in her sculpted face. When you squeeze the doll's tummy, she coos. That sound, the feel of her soft, rubber body, even her slightly scratched, painted-on hair take me back to a time of safety and happiness and real joy. I still love that doll and she is the most beautiful thing I own. And she's a little white baby. They don't make Negro dolls.
WEDNESDAY JANUARY 30, 1957
Hi, Reggie.” Sylvia flopped down on the floor and twisted the long black telephone cord in her fingers. She still couldn't get used to him calling every day, but she sure didn't want it to stop!
“Hey, Sylvie. Let me ask you somethingâdo you think snowballs fly farther when the weather is colder?”
Sylvia laughed. “You're silly. When I throw them, they just kinda land not far from my feet.”
“Sounds like I need to give you throwing lessons,” Reggie said softly on the other end of the line. “I'll put my arms around you, then take your arm in my hand, and help you toss that snowball to the next county!”
Sylvia gasped, but managed to say in a squeak, “I just might let you do that!” Most of the time Reggie didn't make her feel nervous at all anymore. She used to feel sweaty, but gradually she had relaxed enough to talk to him without feeling like she couldn't swallow. But he always managed to say something that curled her socks!