Warriors Don't Cry (11 page)

And so it went as they scurried about. Grandma was mostly silent, with the kind of expression that let me know she was about to burst from holding in what she really thought. She was polite but firm in explaining we had lots of chores to do and couldn’t tarry. They headed for the front door.

“Well,” said Mrs. Floyd indignantly, “none of this would be necessary if you’d stayed out of that white school where you’re not wanted.” I wanted to say something and then remembered what an awful sin Grandma said it was to show disrespect to an adult. I knew for certain I shouldn’t be talking back to one of the ladies in our church, whom I would have to see every Sunday for the rest of my life. I walked back into the house without saying a word, feeling as if I had been surrounded by enemies even in my own neighborhood.
“IT’S like opening day at the rodeo here,” Grandma said an hour later, breathlessly racing through the living room to answer the front door once more. I was under strict orders never to answer the door by myself. When the bell rang, I was to move to the center of the house. If the visitor was friendly, I could relax. If it were someone up to no good, I had to hide in the closet, or better still, run for the back door and escape.

“It’s your father. Brace yourself. He’s not in a great mood,” Grandma whispered, hurrying back to the kitchen.

Daddy came storming in, huffing and puffing his anger. “I’m not the kind of man that takes on over his I-told-you-so’s, but the fact is, I told you it would be this way!” He shouted loud enough to be heard as far away as Texas. Grandma came rushing back from the kitchen to stand in the doorway. He looked at her with angry eyes, pointing his finger at me and shouting in harsh tones that made my knees shake.

“Sacrificing this child’s life and endangering the lives and jobs of kinfolks ain’t got nothing to do with freedom! We ain’t free if we’re hungry, or worse yet, hanging from a tree.”

“Shut your mouth, Will Pattillo! Don’t make this child doubt her good deed,” Grandma shouted back. That was just the beginning of an awful string of mean words Papa and Grandma exchanged about me and the integration. The only good thing about his visit was that he hugged me good-bye.

“You know, don’t you, that I’m only thinking of what’s best for you? You’re too young to be in this kind of mess.” He squeezed me hard, pressing my head against his chest with his huge, warm hand. He hadn’t hugged me for more years than I could remember. I stayed in his arms for what seemed like a long time, savoring his strength. I wanted him to come back home—to stay with us the way he did before the divorce. I needed him to help make the shooters go away.

“I love you, baby,” he said as he walked out the front door. And when I asked if he’d come back later that evening to help us, he answered, “Maybe if you’all get scared enough you’ll quit this nonsense.” He turned and walked away. I slammed the front door hard, but I stared after him through the window for a long, long time.
THE home of the NAACP president, Mrs. Bates, stood amid a pristine row of elegant residences in one of our community’s nicer neighborhoods. This meeting marked the first time all nine of us had come together since soldiers and the mob turned us away from Central High. As we drove up to the house, I told Mother I was curious about whether the others had been shot at, but she said, “Don’t you dare mention one word about the men chasing, or the shooting in our window, do you hear me, girl?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, locking the car door.

“Is this a drag or what?” Minnijean said as she joined us on the walkway to the front door. I liked her feisty way of putting things. She always said just exactly what she was thinking as though she weren’t afraid of anything or anybody.

“Are you under lock and key the way I am?”

“Every minute of every day. I feel like a prisoner in my own house,” I said. Mother walked ahead of us, ignoring our gripes.

Mrs. Bates’s home, a long, rambling ranch-style house, was set on the side of a hill. It appeared to be one story high, but there were rooms snaking down the back of the hill to a second level. What made it so beautiful was its spaciousness and its modern decor, the likes of which I had only seen in magazines or movies before. But despite its grandeur, the huge bay window in the living room made me fret about her safety at night.
THE living room was crowded with all kinds of people, most of them strangers. They were laughing and chatting as though there were a big celebration going on. It was the first time I’d seen people of that many different colors and types in the same room.

As I approached the downstairs rumpus room, I could hear Ernest Green and Terrence Roberts mimicking the prejudiced newscasters who’d used the word “negra” for “Negro.”

“Well, I understand you folks are going to a new school,” Ernest quipped.

“I hear the welcoming committee was dressed a little odd. Did you say they were wearing helmets? All of them, wearing uniforms and carrying rifles? I wonder why. Did they offer you a cool lemonade and say they’d carry your books?”

What a relief I felt to laugh aloud, a real deep rumbling belly laugh. I felt my insides loosen up as the two boys continued doing a parody of our dilemma.

Jefferson joined the other boys in their skit, making more fun of our predicament. We girls could not match the boys’ humor. They were like three seasoned comics performing at their peak on a nightclub stage.

As we made fun of ourselves and our situation, Elizabeth Eckford, silent and obviously still shaken by her ordeal, arrived with Thelma Mothershed. Down the steps came Gloria Ray, followed by the always good-natured Carlotta. Our giggles got louder and more prolonged. We were happy to see each other, and in no time we were all talking at once. Just for that moment, we were snatching a tiny slice of normalcy for ourselves, although it was apparent all of us had questions about what would come next.

For the first time in many days, I felt my whole self relax. I took a seat and sipped my Grapette cola. Someone turned the music up, and it sounded to me like we had a party going. The sounds coming from the adults upstairs were just as festive. I was feeling okay—safe and very normal—until I noticed that a man with a shotgun resting on his shoulder was strolling back and forth outside the rumpus room window. The fear knot in my stomach tightened. For me, the party was over.

Not long after that, Mrs. Bates called us to come upstairs. “We’ll get started now, if you kids will quiet down and take a seat,” said the slender, stylishly dressed NAACP president. Two very dignified and important-looking men sat at the center of the room. I recognized one of them as Arkansas NAACP attorney Wiley Branton, a man of average height with milky skin, hazel eyes, and auburn hair. He could easily have been mistaken for one of the white men who opposed us.

He explained that we were smack dab in the middle of what was fast becoming a major historical fight involving the governor of Arkansas, the U.S. courts, and President Eisenhower. “What we’re in now is a waiting game,” he said, “waiting while everybody squares off and chooses up sides. We’re all rooting for Judge Davies and the federal law to prevail.”

He went on to say that Central High was off limits to us, but not for long. He advised us to keep close to home and let someone know where we were at all times. Two women from our community had been pulled out of their cars the night before and beaten. Several of our people had been attacked in broad daylight. He warned us that this was not the time for socializing, and especially not for being out at night.

We also learned that one of us might be required to testify in a federal court hearing about what happened on the day we tried to enter Central High.

“All that means is telling the truth,” he said.

“Truth?” I whispered. But I had sworn to Grandma and Mama not to tell the whole truth. I’d have to put my hand on the Bible. I hoped and prayed I wouldn’t be the one chosen to testify. I also wondered if I should tell him about Mama and me being chased that day at Central, and about the gunshots into our windows. Maybe if he knew about that he wouldn’t call on me to testify. But I could hear Grandma India’s voice in my head saying if we made a big thing of it and our names got in the papers, those segregationists might feel compelled to come back and finish the job, just to prove a point. I kept my mouth shut.

“It appears that the segregationists are prepared to resist our school registration harder than we’d anticipated,” Branton said. “But we’re doing everything we can to get you into the school. We need your cooperation. It’s going to take time and energy.” He asked us not to register at another school and to make sure we kept up with our classwork until the issue was resolved in the court.

“For how long?” I asked. All nine of us were good students. I was worrying about measuring up to those white kids in Central who’d had better books and equipment all through school. Central was supposed to be one of the top high schools in the nation. “How long can we afford to stay out of school?” a chorus of voices chimed.

“For as long as it takes,” Branton replied.

8

 

Dear Diary,
The two days since I first went to Central felt like I was living in some stranger’s life. Today I won’t think of integration, I won’t think of Central High, and I won’t think of the white people. I will spend the whole day finding the perfect disguise to wear to the wrestling matches.
No matter what, I’m gonna be a regular person. I’m gonna have my usual date with Grandma and my secret, pretend date with Vince at the matches.

 

AS hard as I tried not to care, I couldn’t start my morning without knowing what the governor, his National Guard, and the school board were up to. I had to face the awful truth. Grandma was right, I was letting those people determine how I felt, and how I lived a great part of my day. I brushed my hair back into a ponytail and headed for the front porch. As I picked up the newspaper, headlines leaped out at me.

 

 

 

The Little Rock School Board was asking Judge Davies to suspend temporarily the plan for integrating Central High. He would be holding a hearing on their petition on Friday, September 6, today.

I took a deep breath, preparing myself to digest the words I didn’t want to see. School Superintendent Blossom was wimping out. After several years of selling his integration plan to the public, he was now asking the courts to suspend integration. He didn’t say for how long. But even if it was for only a month, his asking would make segregationists think they were winning. They would surely know the next step would be to stop it altogether. I felt betrayed.

The article reported that the board filed the delay petition after a meeting on Thursday morning where a crowd of four hundred circulated a petition demanding the resignation of Blossom and other school board members.

As I read on, I wondered whether my eight friends had seen this same article and gotten as discouraged as I was. Would they abandon ship and go back to our old high school where life was at least tolerable? I was sinking deeper into a dreary mood, when I saw the good news.

 

 “The federal Constitution will be upheld by every legal means at my command,” President Eisenhower had told Governor Faubus. The President had sent a telegram to Governor Faubus saying he was sure the governor, the National Guard, and other state officials would give full cooperation to the United States Supreme Court. The President also reassured the governor that rumors of federal authorities waiting to arrest him were untrue.

“I think the school board’s backing off having the integration,” I told my mother as she prepared to leave for school. “Besides, the fight between the President and the governor is getting worse.”

“Your faith is sagging. We live in a country where the law and the Constitution prevail.” She smiled at me as she tossed her papers into her briefcase.

“Now, if only somebody would tell Mr. Faubus that.”

“Be patient,” Mother said, heading toward the car. “By the way, I’m counting on you to give your grandmother extra special help today. She’s a bit weary.”

Oh, no, I especially didn’t want Grandmother India to be weary. I was counting on her to take me to the wrestling matches. For the rest of the day, I devoted myself to doing more than my share of the chores. I would do anything to keep her able-bodied and fit.

As Friday evening descended upon me, I noticed the phone wasn’t ringing. I had no invitations from school friends, no talk of what the boys were doing, no talk of meeting at the Community Center. I began feeling sad and lonely. Mother must have noticed because she said, “Why don’t you call some of your other friends and make a date for a little fun? I’ll drive you.”

“Can I make fun plans, too?” Conrad asked. “I’m tired of this integration thing. Integration is no fun.”

“I know it seems that way, son, but you’ll see, soon things will be back to normal,” Grandma told him.

As I dialed my friend Marsha on the phone, I tried to remember how it felt to be normal. By this time of the year, had I been in my own school, my friends would have begun to form cliques. I counted myself in the middle-of-the-road, good-girl group. We made good grades and behaved like ladies. We didn’t meet with boys alone. We invested endless hours in planning for the time when we would date or listening to details from those who already were. Every now and then, we sneaked an “accidental” group date. That meant we happened to go to the same place at the same time as a group of boys we knew.

The music and laughter in the background almost drowned out the sound of Marsha’s voice as she answered the phone. Her voice was a little strange as she explained that several of our old friends were having dinner, and they were going to have a pajama party. I waited for her to invite me, to say she’d forgotten and I should come right over. Instead, she explained that they didn’t want me there because they feared segregationists would attack or bomb their homes to get at me.