Read Warriors Don't Cry Online
Authors: Melba Pattillo Beals
The repeated recitation by Governor Faubus that our voluntary withdrawal and the departure of all troops was the only way to bring peace was reflected by a change in the students’ attitudes. It was as though they counted on our getting kicked out at any moment. Those few who had earlier tried to reach out had obviously been pressured to turn away. One girl who happened to meet me alone in a rest room said that she and the other moderate white students were being harassed with telephoned threats and were being ostracized. It was evident that school officials and teachers were under more and more pressure from segregationists to help them get rid of us.
For me the most frightening events at school were the increased number of pep rallies and assemblies that came with the football season and the beginning of the holidays. At those times, I was surrounded by a sea of hostile faces and a chorus of hurtful words. There weren’t enough teachers or guards on earth to corral the out-of-control students. We came to refer to the auditorium as the torture chamber.
I had grown to expect being elbowed, poked, and kicked, to have my hair pulled, to be punched in the back or trampled as I was entering or leaving the auditorium. But having glue doused on the back of my neck and in my ponytail was more unpleasant.
I was at first paralyzed by the terror I felt when during one assembly a boy thrust a knife at me. As I sat in a shadowy corner beneath the balcony overhang, he placed the blade against the right side of my face and whispered obscene threats. I surprised myself by biting down hard on his wrist, and then springing up out of my seat to find a teacher. But she wouldn’t listen to my complaint.
“Both of you sit down right now. You’re disturbing the others,” she hissed, directing me back to my seat and returning her attention to the stage.
No sooner had she turned to leave when out of the corner of my eye I saw the flash of the steel blade as the boy thrust it at me once again. Only this time he gripped me even tighter. I felt the sharp blade shave the side of my cheek. No matter how I struggled, I couldn’t break his hold. Once again, I bit down as hard as I could into his forearm, drawing blood. He quickly pulled back his arm, muffling his outcry. “A rabies shot, I’ll need a rabies shot now,” he growled at me.
The teacher listened impatiently to my second report and then said, “These children have tolerated a lot of upheaval.” Even though she ignored me, I felt better because at least I wasn’t a whining wimp anymore.
Bennett had, a few months before in August, filed a civil suit against the NAACP saying the organization had been doing business in Arkansas for seven years although it had only recently registered as a foreign corporation. He had early on begun to badger Mrs. Bates for information about all the members and contributors of the state’s twenty-seven branches. It frightened us to see our allies being abused.
In my diary I wrote:
What will become of us if the NAACP is not strong. It feels as though segregationists are attacking from all sides. They know very well we count on Mrs. Bates and the local NAACP people as well as Mr. Marshall. If they’re busy defending themselves, who will see after us?
During those first days of November, we found ourselves coping with yet another crisis brought on by insensitive Central High School officials. The tiger was their school mascot, and the Tiger Directory was a list of all the students’ names, addresses, and telephone numbers. Despite our requests that our names and numbers not be listed and despite the fact that school officials had overwhelming evidence that our lives were in jeopardy, our information was nevertheless included. Yes, newspapers had printed the information before, but they had stopped. This new release summoned into action passive students who might up until then have thought twice about calling us. So of course we got more and more phone calls. Whether they were threats and vicious language or mere hang-ups, those calls took our time and energy.
I continued to yearn for the return of the 101st full-time. We were told that a couple of hundred soldiers remained at nearby Camp Robinson. Somehow, I figured that maybe, since things were so bad, they would come back to be with us every day—guarding us up close as they had in the beginning, but it wasn’t happening. The next time I saw Danny, he said he didn’t think they would return on a regular basis because the powers that be wanted us to stand alone. Those times when we were lucky enough to get our 101st guards were wonderful. We treasured their presence, as infrequent as it had become.
Sometimes we were guarded by the Arkansas National slobs, as we called the federalized soldiers, who, by then, had shown us in every way that they loathed the responsibility and didn’t take it seriously. They had become visibly hostile toward us, sometimes whispering threats and taunting and teasing us when they got us alone. Segregationists were publicly urging them to abandon their duty stations rather than guard us.
ON one of the first days of November, Minnijean arrived at my house after school to show me
Life
magazine. It had a full-page picture of my back in it. There I was, ponytail and all, saluting the flag. It wasn’t the first time we’d seen ourselves in print or on television, but we giggled at the wonder of it all—Miss Minnijean and Miss Melba could now be seen on the pages of
Life
,
Look
, or
The New York Times
.
We did, however, begin to notice there was a price to be paid whenever we appeared in periodicals or on television; the next day the harassment inside Central would always increase.
As Minnijean and I spent time together that evening, I could tell she was beginning to be deeply affected by what was being done to her at Central High. She seemed especially vulnerable to the isolation we were all struggling to cope with. She had decided she would be accepted by white students if she could just show them how beautifully she sang. She was almost obsessed with finding an opportunity to perform her music on stage. She said she was definitely going to participate in a school program and had in fact already made inquiries about it.
Little did we know that even while we were discussing her performing in school programs, the Central High Mothers’ League was preparing to make a bigger fuss than ever before to exclude her. With each passing day the furor about her wanting to participate was building. But their threats did not stop Minnijean. She was already waging yet another campaign to sing on stage. This time it was to sing “Tammy” in the talent show. It was as though these objections fueled her need to do what wasn’t wanted.
I wondered whether or not she had considered that the audience would boo her off the stage. Did she figure they would be enraptured by her performance? I shuddered at the thought of what the students would say or do to her if she made it. But I could tell that her anxiety over the constant abuse we endured and sadness over being left out was clouding her view. She delighted in planning for the performance, announcing and displaying a joyful glee about the possibility of singing in front of the white kids.
When I talked to Ernie about my concerns, he brushed them aside. As usual, he was taking the situation in stride. Even when he was punched with punishing blows or was kicked to the floor, he kept a positive attitude. I liked his attitude even when I didn’t agree with his view.
Like me, Thelma was very concerned about Minnijean. We talked about how we could convince her to stop pushing to participate. Each of us was hearing increasingly negative responses to her desire to do so. It was clear to us that both students and outsiders would take the opportunity to make a huge issue of her request.
Terry was philosophical about it: Let her try and she’ll learn her lesson, once and for all. I could see Terry becoming more fatalistic about our predicament. His hopes that we could change people’s minds were visibly reduced. He was nervous, not as cheerful, not humming his funny tunes.
Stress was beginning to tell on Gloria, too. She was clamming up, becoming solemn. I could almost see her mind working to try to set things right so she could keep going in her meticulous way.
Elizabeth had never fully regained her composure following her awful encounter with the mob. Continued harassment was also taking its toll of her. She reacted by becoming silent and withdrawn. When I discussed Minnijean’s predicament with Elizabeth, she appeared alarmed and agreed that we ought not attract unnecessary attention to ourselves.
Carlotta strained to keep smiling. Although she often took a lot of heat, especially in gym class, she tried to make the best of it, as did Jeff. Like the two other boys, Jeff was taking a lot of brutal physical punishment. He was quick on his feet, but he often got trapped in gym class or in corners of the hall, where he was kicked and punched.
Whenever we compared notes, we all agreed: the students’ attitudes had become polarized. We felt it would be best for Minnijean to back off, but none of us could talk her out of it. She was adamant. The more we pleaded, the more determined she seemed to become.
Only during fleeting moments did I allow myself to have fantasies of what it might be like to sing with the chorus or perform in the Thanksgiving program. My hopes of being a part of normal activities had long since faded. I refused to set myself up for disappointment. I simply wanted to make it through the year alive and uninjured. I resigned myself to devoting all my energy to that goal.
I was surprised when I was invited to speak to the students who attended chapel, a fairly safe corner of the school. It had been the one place where I had found brief moments of peace on those days when I arrived early enough to go there. I agonized over the invitation, but finally Grandma made it easy for me. “This is your opportunity to witness.”
“But what if they throw things?”
“In the house of the Lord? Surely not. These white folks aren’t heathens. While you speak, they will come to understand you are all worshipping the same Lord.” So I prepared my talk, but I kept my invitation to myself. I didn’t want to hurt Minnijean’s feelings, given the heroic effort she was making to convince school officials to allow her to sing on stage.
“Put that paper down girl, it’s time.” We had begun our holiday ritual. Grandma was desperately trying to wrestle Conrad’s old train set away from him to give to the poor.
“Thanksgiving, son, that’s time to our count blessings. We’ve gotta give deep this year because those benevolent white people who gave to our folks in years past are holding out on us to make us give up the integration.”
White charity groups were breaking traditions by taking away their Thanksgiving gifts and threatening to take away Christmas as well. To make matters more difficult, they were taking away as many jobs from my people as they could and cutting credit at the local stores.
It was our tradition each year to sort through our toys and clothing at Thanksgiving and give away all the things we didn’t need or use, as well as two things dear to us that we would especially like to keep. “Conrad, have you got that train boxed yet?”
“Not yet, Grandma.”
“When, Conrad?” Mother said as she dried the dinner dishes and handed them to me to put away. She and Grandma had been trying all day to get Conrad to see things their way.
“Melba’s giving away her favorite blouse,” Grandma said. “And she’s donating her favorite cord skirt and a pair of shoes.” She glanced at Conrad to see whether or not her prodding was affecting his stingy attitude.
“Melba likes suffering and doing without; that’s why she goes to Central. But why do I have to?”
“Where did you get a notion like that about your sister?”
“Clark said that’s what his folks say because Sis stays in that white school being mistreated every day.”
“Her staying there means she has made a promise that she intends to keep, because she told God she would and she doesn’t want to let herself and God down,” Mother Lois said, walking over to look Conrad in the eye. “So you must explain that to Clark the next time he inquires about your sister’s motives.”
“Yes, ma’am. But I’m not giving up the train. It’s mine.”
“Let’s get down to basics, boy. If you don’t ante up, you won’t get any Thanksgiving dinner, and nobody will play Monopoly with you for a full week.” Conrad’s eyes got large and his forehead wrinkled as he let go of the train’s engine and Grandma placed it in the gift box with our other contributions.