Warriors Don't Cry (15 page)

“Come Monday morning you’ll be a genuine Central High student. How do you feel about that?” one reporter shouted his question above all others.

“Monday morning,” I whispered, “I’m gonna be a Central High student—Monday morning!”
AT 6:20 P.M. Friday evening, Governor Faubus made a big deal of removing the Arkansas National Guard from Central High. He appeared on television saying that he would appeal Judge Davies’s ruling. He gave a long and impassioned speech, predicting once again that if integration took place, blood would run in the streets of Little Rock.

“You know he’s smart like a fox,” Grandma said. “He’s got something in mind, suddenly moving those troops that way.”

“Naw, I think he’s just following the judge’s orders. Anyhow, he’s a defeated man. Let’s celebrate.” Mother raised her glass of lemonade. Grandma frowned. She disliked any one of us to do with milk or a cola what sinners did with liquor.

“To integration with peace and joy and harmony,” Mother said, smiling, and took a sip of her lemonade.

“All right,” Grandma said, lifting an imaginary glass into the air. “To life without all this ugliness. Maybe now things will quiet down and get back to normal.”

That night I wrote in my diary:

Okay, God, so Grandma is right it’s my turn to carry the banner. Please help me do thy will.

 

OVER the weekend, Little Rock became an eerie city. Only those with urgent business walked the streets, with quick nervous strides. People from my community did not gather and visit as they usually would. Like me, they must have been frightened by the news reports that continued to describe roving gangs of segregationists crisscrossing the city, looking to do harm to any of our people they could find. Rumors persisted that various people we knew had been beaten or chased.

 

It felt awful not to have authorities to turn to in the midst of all the violence. I could see fear in the faces of the adults around me. I could hear it in their whispered conversations. All my life I had felt unprotected by city officials. If some major crisis took place, like a fire in our community, white firemen had always taken their time coming to help. They didn’t fight to save our lives and property, as if neither had any value to them, so we had set up our own systems of summoning each other for help.

The integration dispute made me feel as though we were much more vulnerable. Whites had control of the police, the firemen, and the ambulances. They could decide who got help and who didn’t. Even if the Ku Klux Klan ravaged one of our homes, we wouldn’t call the police for help. None of us was certain which of our city officials wore civic uniforms by day and white sheets at night.

News reports described Governor Faubus as unruffled by all the turmoil. He was living his life and doing business as usual in the face of this crisis. One article said that through the two previous hectic weeks the governor had been sleeping soundly, eating regularly, chatting with his son in college, enjoying his fan mail, and relaxing as he read about his favorite president, Abraham Lincoln. He didn’t sound to me like a man who was remorseful or planning to mend his ways, or a man who was suffering the inconvenience of having his normal way of life shattered, as were we.

On Sunday, I thought the news of more violence in the streets might cause Grandma and Mama to forget about church. I should have known better. It was cloudy, with thunderstorms expected, as we cautiously drove our regular route to church. It upset us to see that sidewalks usually filled with families on their way to Sunday service were empty. We heard the church bells toll, their echoing clang a protest to the silence that blanketed our community.

However, a hopeful mood was evident in the church service. The judge’s positive decision for integration was God’s will, Reverend Young said. And God would give us the strength to go forth. He said we needed to pray and work to heal our divided community.

He spoke of the many God-fearing, reasonable white people who supported our activities and of the white ministers joining forces to help stop the violence. He expressed gratitude and prayed for Mayor Woodrow Mann, who continued to defy Governor Faubus, accusing him of being wrong in opposing integration and the federal government. Our minister urged support for the nine of us who were integrating Central, mentioning the three of us who sat in church, Gloria, Ernie, and me.

Mumbles of “Yes, Lord” and “Amen” made me hope some people had changed their minds and that now most of my church family thought that I was doing the right thing. But nevertheless there were those who disagreed and were willing to show their feelings at every turn. One woman snagged me in the ladies’ bathroom, saying, “The nice white lady I work for treated me like family up till now. These days she treats me like I’m just the colored help.”

“Look,” Mother said, “there’s a price to be paid for freedom; we pay it now or we’re in ‘ball and chain’ forever.”

“Easy for you to talk, Mrs. Pattillo. You’re an educated woman. I ain’t got no sheepskin on my wall.”

The church service seemed to last longer than usual. Afterward there was so much talk of integration that I felt wrung out. The only bright spot in my Sunday was Vince’s offer to drive me home from church. Mother frowned at the suggestion. When I pleaded, she demanded that she trail us in her car. So we formed a two-car caravan, Vince in his brand-new square-back, red-and-white Chevy, and Grandma, Mama, and Conrad following close behind in our car.

“I guess I’d better not speed,” he said, grinning that handsome smile. I was craning my neck to look back every now and then. “Yep, they’re there,” he said. I was embarrassed that Mother was following us so closely. To make things worse, Vince had one thing on his mind—integration, finding out about what we nine were doing, when we got together, how we studied, and what the NAACP said to us in meetings. I began feeling as though I were giving a news report.

“How does it feel to see your name in the paper, to be a celebrity that everybody’s talking about?” I glanced at him in his Eisenhower jacket and slick shoes. He was sharp and wonderful. Why couldn’t it be another place and time?

“Uncomfortable,” I grumbled.

“Hey, there’s got to be some good things in all the fuss they’re making over you.”

“It’s all so new that I can’t figure it out yet. Right now I’d give anything for just one day of normal school with old friends.”

“Too late for that, you’re a Central High student.”

I had counted on our date as one last opportunity to feel normal joy before Monday came. Our conversation and his cute charms were supposed to stoke my daydreams so I’d have something to smile about when things went wrong at Central. No such luck. In less than twenty-four hours, I would face my first day inside Central High without this protective veil.

10

 

 

AS I read the morning newspaper that Monday, what with all the changes, I thought maybe the headline would read, INTEGRATION HALTED AGAIN. At least this time it seemed everybody was expecting us to arrive at Central High School and go inside for classes.

 

As I walked back to the kitchen, I decided I would begin to mark off my days at Central High on the big wall calendar that belonged to Grandma. I longed to see all the cross marks fill the days that would become weeks and then months. I glanced at the month of September and picked the spot where I would put the first cross mark, if I completed the first day. Lord, please let me be strong enough to fill in this day and all the school days that follow, I whispered.

It was not yet eight o’clock when Mama and I parked at the curb, just outside Mrs. Bates’s home. I was surprised to see so many people milling about the yard. There was double the usual throng of news reporters. Everybody spoke in whispers. We greeted each other as though there were a compelling reason not to talk in ordinary tones. I was ushered through the crowd and into the living room, where radio and news reports held everyone’s attention.

Hundreds are gathered at Central High to await the arrival of nine Negro students who will begin the court-ordered integration. Some believe the governor should have instructed the soldiers to remain at the school to keep order. Assistant Police Chief Gene Smith and a group of officers arrived at 7 A.M. to patrol the area. Fifty state police have joined them.

 

We nine acknowledged each other with nervous smiles and a very few whispered words. Adults nodded to each other with the kind of glances that seemed to carry secret messages as they periodically looked at their watches. The nervousness grew worse with each passing moment. People were pacing, pretending to smile, sitting a moment, then rising to pace again. After a while, I became one of those people. We were going to be late for school, no doubt—late on the first day. What would everybody think? The phone rang. It was time to be on our way.

Mother Lois looked as though she were on the brink of tears. As we filed silently out of the house, I waved good-bye to her. I wanted to hug her, but I didn’t want everyone to think I was a baby. Other parents milled about, looking as if we were being carted off to be hanged. As we started to walk to the cars, they clutched at us as though they weren’t completely certain we’d be coming back.

We settled ourselves into two cars. Mrs. Bates was in the first car with four of the nine, and a man introduced as C. C. Mercer. Another NAACP official, Frank Smith, was driving the car I rode in with the remaining four students. We watched the news reporters run to their vehicles and rev their engines. The nonwhite reporters seemed hesitant about getting started. They hovered together. That’s when I realized it must be difficult, even dangerous, for our people to cover a story like this.

We seemed at first to be driving in circles. Our driver explained that the police advised we not take the usual route because segregationists might lie in wait for us. I looked at my watch. It was after eight-thirty. We’d be very late arriving—even later than I had feared.

Central High was located on Park Street, stretching a two-block distance between Fourteenth and Sixteenth streets. But the route we took confused my sense of direction. I was surprised when suddenly we pulled up to the side entrance at Sixteenth Street, just beyond Park. Amid noise and confusion, the driver urged us to get out quickly. The white hand of a uniformed officer reached out toward the car, opening the door and pulling me toward him as his urgent voice ordered us to hurry. The roar coming from the front of the building made me glance to my right. Only a half block away, I saw hundreds of white people, their bodies in motion, their mouths wide open as they shouted their anger.

“Get along,” the voice beside me said. But I couldn’t move; I was frozen by what I saw and heard. Policemen stood in front of wooden sawhorse barricades holding the people back. The rumble of the crowd was like that at a football game when the hero runs the ball to the end zone for a touchdown—only this time, none of the voices were cheering.

“The niggers! Keep the niggers out!” The shouts came closer. The roar swelled, as though their frenzy had been fired up by something. It took a moment to digest the fact that it was the sight of us.

Hustled along, we walked up the few concrete stairs, through the heavy double doors that led inside the school, and then up a few more stairs. It was like entering a darkened movie theater—amid the rush of a crowd eager to get seated before the picture begins. I was barely able to see where we were rushing to. There were blurred images all around me as we moved up more stairs. The sounds of footsteps, ugly words, insulting shouts, and whispered commands formed an echoing clamor.

“Niggers, niggers, the niggers are in.” They were talking about me. The shouting wouldn’t stop; it got louder as more joined in.

“They’re in here! Oh, God, the niggers are in here!” one girl shouted, running ahead of us down the hallway.

“They got in. I smell something. . . .”

“You niggers better turn around and go home.”

I was racing to keep pace with a woman who shouted orders over her shoulders to us. Nobody had yet told us she was someone we could trust, someone we should be following. I tried to move among the angry voices, blinking, struggling to accustom my eyes to the very dim light. The unfamiliar surroundings reminded me of the inside of a museum—marble floors and stone walls and long winding hallways that seemed to go on forever. It was a huge, cavernous building, the largest I’d ever been in. Breathless, I made my legs carry me quickly past angry white faces, dodging fists that struck out at me.

“The principal’s office is this way,” whispered a petite woman with dark hair and glasses. “Hurry, now, hurry.” I was walking as fast as I could. Then we were shoved into an office where there was more light. Directly in front of us, behind a long counter, a row of white people, mostly women, stood staring at us as though we were the world’s eighth wonder.

In the daylight, I recognized Mrs. Huckaby, Central High’s vice-principal for girls, who had been present at several of our earlier meetings with the school board.

“This is Jess Matthews, the principal,” she said. “You remember him.”

No, I didn’t remember. He peered at us with an acknowledging frown and nod, then quickly walked away.

“Here are your class schedules and homeroom assignments. Wait for your guides,” Mrs. Huckaby said.

That’s when I noticed that just beyond the glass panels in the upper part of the door that led to the office clusters of students stood glaring at us. One boy opened the door and walked in, yelling, “You’re not gonna let those niggers stay in here, are you?”

All at once, Thelma Mothershed slumped down on the wooden bench just inside the door of the office. Mrs. Huckaby hustled the boy out and turned her attention to Thelma, as we all did. She was pale, her lips and fingertips blue. Breathless as she was, she mustered a faint smile and tried to reassure us.