Warriors Don't Cry (18 page)

I sat perfectly still, my attention riveted on the television screen, where the most wonderful pictures moved before my eyes. Silhouetted against the slate gray sky, jeep headlights cast halos in the evening light as the mighty 101st Airborne Division rolled across the Broadway Bridge into Little Rock. It was a caravan of army vehicles that seemed to go on forever.

“More of God’s handiwork,” Grandma said, her eyes brimming with tears. “Who’d a thought Mr. Faubus’s mistreatment of our nine little children would bring the President and the 101st down on his head.”

The arrival of the troops made me feel hopeful that I had protection from the mob. But it also made me feel even more frightened because President Eisenhower hadn’t chosen to send just any old military unit. The men of the 101st were famous heroes, combat specialists, the newsman said. If we needed such brave soldiers, the President and those powerful men in his cabinet must have agreed that the integration was as dangerous as a hostile enemy in war.

It felt to me as though the nine of us were expected to wage some kind of war to make integration happen. The thought upset me. I knew Mother was alarmed as well when she suggested I leave the next day for Cincinnati to live with Uncle Clancey and attend school there. I didn’t want to go away because I knew it would get printed in the newspapers and the segregationists would think I was afraid. They would think they had won. Why couldn’t she have made this offer earlier? It would have been so much easier then.

For the first time ever, Grandma placed dinner on trays in front of the television so we could hear President Eisenhower speak to the nation. “Let’s put things into perspective. He is our President, and he happens to be talking about us. The whole world’s watching, why shouldn’t we,” she said.

Speaking from the White House, President Eisenhower said he sent troops because “Mob rule in Little Rock menaces the very safety of the United States and the free world.” This was so, he said, because gloating communists abroad were using school integration riots to misrepresent the United States and undermine its prestige and influence around the globe. And then he looked straight into the camera and said, “Mob rule cannot be allowed to override the decision of the courts.”

Later Governor Faubus came on television to give what one reporter described as a pleading speech. “We are now an occupied territory. In the name of God, whom we all revere, in the name of liberty we hold so dear, in the name of decency which we all cherish, what’s happening in America?”

“I can help you figure this out, Mr. Faubus,” Mother Lois shouted at the screen. “The President has called your bluff.”

Later that night as my head was swimming with news reports and questions about whether or not to go back to Central High, I wrote in my diary:

Everything in my life is so new. Could I please do some of the old things that I know how to do again. I don’t know how to go to school with soldiers. Please show me.
P.S. Please help the soldiers to keep the mobs away from me.

Instead of going to sleep in my clothing, as I had for several nights before, I put on my pajamas. With the soldiers in town, I felt safe enough to have a deep sleep, something I hadn’t done for a long time. I figured the segregationists wouldn’t dare do their late-night raids on our house with the President watching so closely.

It was very quiet as I turned out the light. With the 101st in town, we didn’t hear as many sirens going off. Later, when I woke up thirsty and went to get water, I found Grandma snoring with the rifle lying across her lap. Maybe she felt safer, too.

I don’t know how long I’d been asleep when I was jolted awake. I sat straight up in bed. The doorbell was ringing, and I heard voices on the front porch. Mama was standing over me. She put her hand over my mouth and motioned me to get up. The doorbell kept ringing over and over again. We moved toward the living room. Sleepy-eyed, Conrad met us in the hallway with a confused expression, asking, “Is somebody shooting at us again?”

“Who is it?” Grandma yelled through the door as she peeked through the covered glass inset. “White men. It’s white men wearing black hats. What are they doing on our front porch at this time of night?” Grandma said as she picked up the shotgun.

Then she shouted through the door again: “State your business, gentlemen, or I’ll be forced to do mine.”

“We’re from the Office of the President of the United States; please open your door,” they called back. “We have a message from your President.”

Grandma opened the door ever so slightly and demanded that they show proof of who they were. They passed their identification through the half-opened door. Mother Lois examined the writing closely and nodded a yes.

“How can we help you?” Grandma lowered the gun to her side, keeping it hidden as she opened the front door a bit more. Mother Lois stood beside her. I thought it was funny as I looked around and noticed we were all wearing our nightgowns and pajamas to greet the messengers from the President of the United States.

“Let your daughter go back to school, and she will be protected,” one of the men said, handing Mother Lois an envelope.
THE next morning, Wednesday, September 25, at 8 A.M. as we turned the corner near the Bates’s home, I saw them, about fifty uniformed soldiers of the 101st. Some stood tall with their rifles at their sides, while others manned the jeeps parked at the curb. Still other troops walked about holding walkie-talkies to their ears. As I drew nearer to them I was fascinated by their well-shined boots. Grandma had always said that well-kept shoes were the mark of a disciplined individual. Their guns were also glistening as though they had been polished, and the creases were sharp in the pant legs of their uniforms.

I had heard all those newsmen say “Screaming Eagle Division of the 101st,” but those were just words. I was seeing human beings, flesh-and-blood men with eyes that looked back at me. They resembled the men I’d seen in army pictures on TV and on the movie screen. Their faces were white, their expressions blank.

There were lots of people of both races standing around, talking to each other in whispers. I recognized some of the ministers from our churches. Several of them nodded or smiled at me. I was a little concerned because many people, even those who knew me well, were staring as though I were different from them.

Thelma and Minnijean stood together inspecting the soldiers close up while the other students milled about. I wondered what we were waiting for. I was told there was an assembly at Central with the military briefing the students.

Reporters hung from trees, perched on fences, stood on cars, and darted about with their usual urgency. Cameras were flashing on all sides. There was an eerie hush over the crowd, not unlike the way I’d seen folks behave outside the home of the deceased just before a funeral.

From time to time, as we walked about, we nine students acknowledged each other with nods and smiles. Like the others, I felt compelled to stare at the uniformed men. Walking up close to them, I saw that some weren’t much older than I was. I had been told that only white soldiers would be allowed at Central, because the presence of nonwhites would inflame segregationists. Nonwhites were sent to the Armory, where they would be used as support teams or to guard our homes in case of a dire emergency.

There were tears in Mother’s eyes as she whispered goodbye. “Make this day the best you can,” she said.

“Let’s bow our heads for a word of prayer.” One of our ministers stepped from among the others and began to say comforting words. I noticed tears were streaming down the faces of many of the adults. I wondered why they were crying just at that moment when I had more hope of staying alive and keeping safe than I had since the integration began.

“Protect these youngsters and bring them home. Flood the Holy Spirit into the hearts and minds of those who would attack our children.”

“Yes, Lord,” several voices echoed.

One of the soldiers stepped forward and beckoned the driver of a station wagon to move it closer to the driveway. Two jeeps moved forward, one in front of the station wagon, one behind. Guns were mounted on the hoods of the jeeps.

We were already a half hour late for school when we heard the order “Move out,” and the leader motioned us to get into the station wagon. As we collected ourselves and walked toward the caravan, many of the adults were crying openly. When I turned to wave to Mother Lois, I saw tears in her eyes. I couldn’t go back to comfort her.

Suddenly, all the soldiers went into action, moving about with precise steps. I hoped I would be allowed to ride in the jeep, although it occurred to me that it didn’t have a top so it wouldn’t be as safe. Sure enough, all nine of us were directed to sit in the station wagon.

Sarge, our driver, was friendly and pleasant. He had a Southern accent, different from ours, different even from the one Arkansas whites had. We rolled away from the curb lined with people waving to us. Mama looked even more distraught. I remembered I hadn’t kissed her good-bye.

The driver explained that we were not riding in a caravan but a jeep convoy. I could hear helicopters roaring in the distance. Sarge said they were following us to keep watch. We nine said very little to each other, we were too busy asking Sarge about the soldiers. At times the car was so silent I could hear my stomach growl. It was particularly loud because nervousness had caused me to get rid of my breakfast only moments after I’d eaten it.

Our convoy moved through streets lined with people on both sides, who stood as though they were waiting for a parade. A few friendly folks from our community waved as we passed by. Some of the white people looked totally horrified, while others raised their fists to us. Others shouted ugly words.

As we neared the school, I could hear the roar of a helicopter directly overhead. Our convoy was joined by more jeeps. I could see that armed soldiers and jeeps had already blocked off certain intersections approaching the school. Closer to the school, we saw more soldiers and many more hostile white people with scowls on their faces, lining the sidewalk and shaking their fists. But for the first time I wasn’t afraid of them.

We pulled up to the front of the school. Groups of soldiers on guard were lined at intervals several feet apart. A group of twenty or more was running at breakneck speed up and down the street in front of Central High School, their rifles with bayonets pointed straight ahead. Sarge said they were doing crowd control—keeping the mob away from us.

Sarge said we should wait in the station wagon because the soldiers would come for us. As I looked around, I saw a group of uniformed men walking toward us, their bayonets pointed straight up. Their leader beckoned to us as one of them held open the car door. As I stepped outside the car, I heard a noise behind me. In the distance, there was that chillingly familiar but now muffled chant, “Two, four, six, eight. We ain’t gonna integrate.” I turned to see reporters swarming about across the street from the school. I looked up to see the helicopters hovering overhead, hanging in midair with their blades whirring. The military leader motioned us to stand still.

About twenty soldiers moved toward us, forming an olive-drab square with one end open. I glanced at the faces of my friends. Like me, they appeared to be impressed by the imposing sight of military power. There was so much to see, and everything was happening so quickly. We walked through the open end of the square. Erect, rifles at their sides, their faces stern, the soldiers did not make eye contact as they surrounded us in a protective cocoon. After a long moment, the leader motioned us to move forward.

Hundreds of Central High students milled about. I could see their astonishment. Some were peering out of windows high above us, some were watching from the yard, others were on the landing. Some were tearful, others angry.

I felt proud and sad at the same time. Proud that I lived in a country that would go this far to bring justice to a Little Rock girl like me, but sad that they had to go to such great lengths. Yes, this is the United States, I thought to myself. There is a reason that I salute the flag. If these guys just go with us this first time, everything’s going to be okay.

We began moving forward. The eerie silence of that moment would forever be etched in my memory. All I could hear was my own heartbeat and the sound of boots clicking on the stone.

Everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion as I peered past the raised bayonets of the 101st soldiers. I walked on the concrete path toward the front door of the school, the same path the Arkansas National Guard had blocked us from days before. We approached the stairs, our feet moving in unison to the rhythm of the marching click-clack sound of the Screaming Eagles. Step by step we climbed upward—where none of my people had ever before walked as a student. We stepped up to the front door of Central High School and crossed the threshold into that place where angry segregationist mobs had forbidden us to go.

Without any warning, a uniformed soldier stepped out of nowhere with an enormous old-fashioned camera. He pointed it toward us and snapped a picture.

The commander of the troops spoke a few words, and our military protectors fell into formation and marched away. I felt naked without that blanket of safety. An alarm warning surged through my body.

Principal Jess Matthews greeted us with a forced smile on his face and directed us to our classrooms. It was then that I saw the other group of soldiers. They were wearing a different uniform from the combat soldiers outside, but they carried the same hardware and had the same placid expressions. As the nine of us turned to go our separate ways, one by one a soldier followed each of us.

Along the winding hallway, near the door we had entered, I passed several clusters of students who stared at me, whispered obscenities, and pointed. They hurled insults at the soldier as well, but he seemed not to pay attention. My class was more than a block away from the front door, near the Fourteenth Street entry to the school. I saw other 101st soldiers standing at intervals along the hall. I turned back to make sure there really was a soldier following me. He was there, all right. As I approached the classroom, he speeded up, coming closer to me.