Warriors Don't Cry (13 page)

Realizing that the dilemma of integration wasn’t going to be resolved quickly, everybody seemed to be concerned about our falling behind in our schoolwork. Teachers from our community along with other professionals were offering to give us books and to tutor us. Dr. Lorch and his wife, Grace, the couple who had helped Elizabeth escape the mob, organized tutoring sessions and structured them along the lines of regular classes. It felt good to dress in school clothes and go to Philander Smith, our community’s college. For part of each day, I studied schoolwork and spent time with my eight friends, enjoying a thimbleful of normality.

Being together in those classes, the nine of us were developing a true friendship—becoming closer knit than we might have been under other circumstances. We talked about our fears, what we missed at our old school, and our hopes that the integration issues would soon be resolved. While I regretted the friendships I was losing, I cherished the growing ties to the eight.

Just before the court hearing where Governor Faubus would be called to account, the nine of us were summoned to Mrs. Bates’s house to meet with the press. Nothing had changed since our last meeting. The troops were still in place around the school, and every morning the crowd of segregationists grew larger. Governor Faubus was still predicting violence.

Several very dignified and important-looking men sat in her living room. One was the NAACP attorney, Wiley Branton. I recognized another man whose picture I’d seen in the newspapers: the famous lawyer Thurgood Marshall, the man who had delivered the argument that resulted in the Supreme Court’s 1954 school integration ruling.

Judging by my father’s height, I figured Mr. Marshall was more than six feet tall, with a commanding presence, fair skin, and brown hair and mustache. He spoke like somebody on television, his sharp, quick New York accent overlaying a slight Southern drawl. “At the same time we are petitioning for a court order to force your governor to move his troops away from Central’s front door, we’ll be planning other options. Meanwhile we are asking that you be patient. Justice will prevail.” He spoke confidently, in a way that made me feel that I deserved to be admitted to Central High.

I looked at this man who seemed to have none of the fears and hesitation of my parents or the other adults around us. Instead he had a self-assured air about him as though he had seen the promised land and knew for certain we could get there. We had only heard rumors of freedom, but he had lived it, and it showed in his every word, his every movement, in the way he sat tall in his seat.

He urged us to prepare ourselves to testify in federal court, if need be. Right then and there I began to fret about the truth I couldn’t tell. If I testified in court about what really happened to me, it would get printed in the newspapers, and those men would come after us again. But now I knew that, worst of all, it would give the governor yet another excuse to keep us out of school. The very basis of his argument against our integrating was that it would cause so much violence that blood would run in the streets. If I told the judge about the men chasing us and shooting through our windows, the governor could use my words as weapons against us.

But as I listened to Mr. Marshall speak, I felt much better. His positive attitude gave me hope that even if I couldn’t speak my truth, the scales of justice were weighted on our side. I had read that he had faced up to other Southern segregationists and forced them to let my people run for public office. He had also fought for equal rights for women. I felt honored that he would take the time and energy to fight for our rights. There was no doubt in my mind that if any soul on this earth could get us into Central High, this great man, Mr. Thurgood Marshall, was the one.

During the meeting, the upstairs had filled with a throng of news people, most of them white, with just a sprinkling of our people. We students were directed to take our seats and to answer questions as clearly and briefly as possible. For the first time, we were introduced as the “Little Rock Nine.”

Cameras flashed, bright lights stung my eyes, and reporters asked lots of questions for the next half hour. Many of the reporters asked the attorneys what they planned to do to get rid of the troops. And questions were directed to Elizabeth. She seemed shy about answering, but with Mrs. Bates’s help, she forced herself to say a few words. Eventually, however, questions were directed to all of us. My heart raced with fear and anticipation as I observed the process. I was almost hypnotized by the wonder of it all.

“Miss Pattillo, how do you feel about going back to Central High?”

“Miss,” I whispered as my hands perspired and my knees shook. Thoughts buzzed inside my head like bees disturbed in their hive. It was the first time anybody white had ever called me Miss. They cared what I thought. I struggled to find a suitable answer.

“We have a right to go to that school, and I’m certain our governor, who was elected to govern all the people, will decide to do what is just.” I felt myself speak aloud before I was ready. Who said that? It sounded like me, but the words . . . where had they come from? The white reporters wrote my words down and behaved as if what I said was very important. Pride welled up inside me, and for the first time, I knew that working for integration was the right thing for me to be doing.

“Mrs. Pattillo, how does a mother decide to send her daughter into such a dangerous situation?” Mother Lois was sitting, shy and quiet, in a shadowed corner of the room. I could tell she was startled by the question; nevertheless she stood and said, “Indeed it is a hard decision—but we are a Christian family, with absolute faith that God will protect her, no matter what.”

After the main session, reporters pulled each one of us students aside for what they called one-on-one interviews. Listening to all the talk about our being heroes and heroines made me proud of Mama and Grandma and all of us. I wished Grandma could tell the reporters how she stood guard and made the shooters go away. Then they would know she was a heroine, too.

When the conference broke up, I lingered in a quiet corner, soaking up the sights and sounds around me. I was fascinated by the way the reporters wrote so fast in their narrow notebooks and spoke into their hand-held tape recorders. Their confident way of moving about and their quick, sharp talk made them appear as though they knew they were free—at the very least they were in charge of their own lives.

The way they responded to me made me feel equal to the white reporters. They looked me directly in the eye. I never saw any sign they were thinking of calling me a “nigger.” Some of them looked at me with admiring eyes and answered all my questions about their work without making me feel silly for asking. They also behaved as though they were genuine friends with the people of color among their ranks, sharing work and laughter.

I felt a new fountain of hope rise up inside me. Just maybe, I thought to myself, just maybe this is what I want to be when I grow up. If I were a news reporter, I could be in charge of a few things.

That night I wrote in my diary:

Today is the first time in my life I felt equal to white people. I want more of that feeling. I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep feeling equal all the time.
I apologize, God, for thinking you had taken away all my normal life. Maybe you’re just exchanging it for a new life.

The town was crowded with journalists from around the world. Their frantic phone calls asking for interviews before the hearing only added to the anxiety we felt because hecklers continued ringing our phones off the hook. I was relieved when we were told to refer all requests to the NAACP office.

The federal court hearing would be one of the most significant in history—a precedent-setting decision could be made that affected the whole country. That’s what all the newspaper reporters and radio announcers said over and over again. States’-rights advocates from surrounding Southern towns were up in arms. They were headed for Little Rock to add to the incendiary feelings in our town.

The segregationists were doing a lot of newspaper advertising to get people to participate in their rallies. The Arkansas National Guard remained at Central High, and hooligans rampaged through the streets. In particular they preyed on our people walking alone in isolated areas or at night. A new level of tension crept into our own household, nearly overwhelming me. I found it difficult to study, difficult to concentrate. Some days, it was as though someone had put me in Grandma’s cake mixer, but I was struggling to be still, not to spin or shudder or shake.

During those rare moments when I sat alone in my room among my stuffed animals, I daydreamed about Vince and what it would be like to be his ordinary girlfriend and have real dates. I had finally gathered the nerve to ask Mother and Grandma for permission to date. After giving me what amounted to a thorough exam with really hard questions about Vince’s intentions and character, Mother Lois said, “Have him come to the house.” Her expression saddened as she went on: “Now understand, this is not really dating, and you can only see this boy in the presence of another adult. I’m allowing you to do this because integration has taken away so much of your social life.”

I had a hard time containing my hallelujah shouts as I started to leave the room. But just as I reached the door, she said, “Of course, you’ll wait to exercise this privilege until after the court hearing tomorrow.”

On the night before the hearing, I took Grandma’s advice and let God worry about what was going to happen in that courtroom.

I wrote in my diary:

Dear God, We can’t get along without you. Governor Faubus has lots of attorneys and the paper says they have more than two hundred witnesses. I’m counting on you once and for all to make it clear whether you want me in that school. Thy will be done.

The first clash between the federal government and a state over school integration will reach a crucial stage at 10 A.M. today in Federal District Court at Little Rock. The immediate issue will be whether Governor Faubus and the Arkansas National Guard should be enjoined from further interference with integration at Little Rock Central High School.
The overriding historic issue will be whether the federal government has the constitutional authority to check a state governor when he uses the powers of his office to defy the federal court.

This is the day I hope to meet Governor Faubus face to face. I can’t decide what to say to him. If only he will listen to me one minute, I know I can make him understand there is nothing so bad about me that he shouldn’t allow white children to go to school with me.
The weatherman says it’s going to be 85 and up this afternoon. I’ll regret wearing my cotton blouse and quilted skirt, but they’re new and pretty. I want to look just right so the governor will know who I really am.

The nine of us walked up the sidewalk toward the Federal Building at a brisk pace. Our group included Mrs. Bates, attorneys Thurgood Marshall and Wiley Branton, and a number of people I did not know. I was told they were community ministers and lawyers, coming along to protect us. Between awkward scraps of conversation, I could hear our footsteps on the sidewalk as we moved toward the official-looking building. I had never paid much attention to it before.

It was a muggy day, rather like the inside of a steam room. As we grew closer to our destination, there were more people and more chatter, but my mind was flooded with important things I wanted to say to the governor. One voice inside me said he didn’t care what I thought, but the other said I should be prepared just in case.

I was a bit on edge. A small part of me was becoming accustomed to the fact that since the integration had begun, both my people and whites stared at me. Some of the faces lining the streets on that morning had welcome smiles, others were indifferent, while still others were undeniably angry. I wore dark glasses, which allowed me to peer out wherever I wanted without anybody being able to see how fearful I was.

I had never been in court before. I’d only seen pictures of judges. I felt frightened—frightened of the Federal Court, but mostly frightened of all those powerful government men, the governor’s lawyers, who could make things happen just as they wanted.

I had read in the newspaper that attorneys for the federal government would be arguing that there was no evidence of the kind of violence that made it necessary to call out troops. Since the governor claimed our going to Central was what caused the trouble, we nine students were subpoenaed to tell what we had seen and experienced on that first day at Central High School. I was afraid of what would happen if we lost. Would that mean we could be sued or arrested? Would the news reporters make fun of us? What would my friends say?

“We’re going to have to take the kids in through the side door,” a man’s voice said. My pace quickened as we were ushered past all the people milling about, through a very narrow, dimly lit marble hall, where our voices and footsteps echoed. We were led to the elevator, walking fast as if we were being chased. The door slid shut, and I stared straight ahead. My knees were trembling, and every inch of my body was perspiring. That elevator was so full that I could hear its guts grinding as it struggled to deliver us to the fourth-floor courtroom.