Warriors Don't Cry (20 page)
Read Warriors Don't Cry Online
Authors: Melba Pattillo Beals
The whirring sound of the helicopter overhead drowned out some of the shouted insults as I made my way out of the study hall. Danny and I headed to the principal’s office, where I was to connect with the other students and soldiers for the trip home. I had made it through my first day at Central High.
“Readin’, writin’, and riotin’.” The comedic dialogue of our group had already begun before we left the building. What I needed most was the kind of laughter that would take my headache away. There we were, the nine of us, smiling, chatting, and behaving as though we were normal teenagers ending a normal school day. At the same time, uniformed and armed soldiers with bayonets held high were gathering around us for the trip out of the building. Nestled within the same protective cocoon that had enveloped us on our way into school, we made our exit through the front door. I looked back to see a group of white students trailing behind us, their hostile feelings painted on their faces.
The engine of the helicopter roared louder as we descended the stairs. Protected by the mighty power of the Screaming Eagles, we walked to the army staff car waiting at the curb. Once again, a group of soldiers was galloping back and forth. Even the chants of “Two, four, six, eight, we ain’t gonna integrate!” could not dispel my joy. I was going home. As I stepped into the car, a wave of peace washed over me.
“Relax, we’re on the move,” Sarge, our driver, said as we snuggled down into our seats. The convoy was the same as it had been that morning; in front, the open jeep filled with soldiers, a machine gun mounted on its hood, with a similar vehicle behind us. As we pulled away from Central High, I looked back to see students gathered on the school lawn, staring at us as though they were watching a parade they hadn’t known was coming their way. For just one tiny instant, I even felt a twinge of sympathy for them.
“You’all have a good day, did you?” Sarge said, making polite conversation. We all gave our different versions of the same answer:
“Good isn’t exactly the word to describe my day.”
“All right.”
“Depends on what you mean by good.”
“My mama never told me there’d be days like this one.”
That was the beginning of a funny round-robin to see who could describe their experience in the most colorful language. The ride home brought the joyful relief I had awaited all day. At times, our stories halted all laughter as we noticed someone’s eyes filled with tears. There were tales of flying books and pencils and words that pierce the soul. But there were also descriptions of polite students who volunteered to sit beside us or offered to lend back homework assignments or flashed a warm smile just when we needed it most.
Our respite was over all too soon. As we approached Mrs. Bates’s home, I saw news reporters. My headache started up again. The cameras began to flash even before Sarge could get the car parked. We said our “thank-you’s” to him and turned to face the bombardment of questions as we made our way to Mrs. Bates’s front door.
“What was it like inside the school? Were you frightened? How were you treated? Did anybody hit you? Did they call you names? What classes are you taking?” Over and over again the same questions. Then there was one that stuck in my mind and made me tighten my jaw. “Are you going back tomorrow?”
I wasn’t ready to think of another tomorrow at Central High. I sat quietly and pondered the question as I glanced out the front window at the few soldiers standing at attention. But they were there for only a brief moment before they climbed into the jeeps and the station wagon and rolled away. And then my attention was quickly brought inside by the rude question being asked.
“Would you like to be white?” I scowled at the reporter, and he must have understood my irritation. “Uh, I mean, does all this trouble make you’all wish you were white instead of Negro?” he amended his question.
“Do you wish you were Negro?” I heard the angry words roll out of my mouth. “I’m proud of who I am. My color is inconvenient right now, but it won’t always be like this.” I’d said what I felt, despite the fear that it would be considered talking back to an adult.
“Can you write as well as you can speak?” a slender dark-haired man asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Why don’t you try it? I’m Stan Opotowiski of the
New York Post
, and this is Ted Posten. Here’s my card. I would like you to write what you’re thinking, and I’ll see to it that it’s printed.” I looked at them. Posten was the same race as me.
“Yeah, sure, I can try.” I took the card from him. I had always written. It was the first thing I remembered about life, writing my thoughts down in letters to God on the pages of the orange-covered tablet with the black ink drawing of an Indian head on the cover. Besides, I was very flattered that he would ask me. I told myself I owed him a favor. If reporters hadn’t been covering our story, we might have been hanged. News of our demise would be a three-line notation buried on the back page of a white newspaper were it not for the Northern reporters’ nosy persistence in getting the facts and dogging the trail of segregationists.
“WE’RE off to the Dunbar Community Center for another news conference.” I couldn’t believe my ears, but off we went—once more answering questions in a more formal setting. It was quite a while after dark before we called Thelma’s father to pick us up. It felt as if the news conference had gone on forever. Reporters from all the major periodicals I’d read in the library were there asking questions.
As we rode home I looked forward to shedding my day like soiled clothing. But the first thing I saw as I rounded the corner to my house was reporters sitting in the green lawn chairs on my front porch holding cameras and notebooks, and a few neighbors gathered in front of my house talking to them. I can’t face them, I thought to myself. But I did—I got through it. I smiled, I said the right things, I pretended to be interested in the questions.
By 9 P.M., I was so tired that I only wanted my pillow and dreams—sweet, happy dreams with no white people and no Central High. The next thing I heard was the song on my radio as the alarm went off, waking me out of a cold, sweaty dream. “Peggy . . . Peggy Sue-ue-ue . . .” Buddy Holly was singing. It took me a minute to realize where I was and what I had to do. How I hated that song, hated, hated it! They played it over and over every morning at that time. I picked up my diary and started to write:
It’s Thursday, September 26, 1957. Now I have a bodyguard. I know very well that the President didn’t send those soldiers just to protect me but to show support for an idea—the idea that a governor can’t ignore federal laws. Still, I feel specially cared about because the guard is there. If he wasn’t there, I’d hear more of the voices of those people who say I’m a nigger . . . that I’m not valuable, that I have no right to be alive.14
Thank you, Danny.
I asked Sarge if our escorts in the jeeps felt as odd as we did about being propped up there with those big guns mounted in front of them just to take us to school.
“Nope,” he said. “We do what we’re told.”
I couldn’t help thinking about the
Gazette
morning headlines, which read: “TROOPS ROUT MOB; IKE TO SEE GOVERNORS, TALK OF REMOVING ARMY.” Already Southern governors were joining forces to press for the withdrawal of the 101st soldiers from Central High. They were to meet the following week.
“Whatcha wanna bet we’ll be making this trip alone, come next week,” Ernie said with his usual grin. Even though he was laughing and teasing, I knew his words held a very painful truth. But I couldn’t even think of the troops leaving.
“School days, school days, dear old Golden Rule days.” To block any thoughts of the troops leaving, I began to sing. The others were chiming in as we pulled up to the curb to join the soldiers for our walk to class. I was rather dismayed to see that a complement of only six soldiers surrounded us as we ascended the stairs to the front door. The helicopter hovered, while perhaps two hundred soldiers stood at attention in clusters nearby.
This time as we moved forward I was frightened because classes had not yet begun and students hovered all around us. About three hundred refused to clear a path to the front door. As they stood their ground, it was obvious that they must be part of a planned protest against us. Finally, when the soldiers bristled, they moved away. But as we climbed to the top of the middle staircase, a boy cried out “Boooooooo,” holding the sound for longer than I thought humanly possible. He sounded the way a crowd does when visiting players beat the home team. Enthusiastic applause and laughter followed. I felt embarrassed and very unwelcome.
I glanced back over my shoulder to see whether any of the mob was left across the street and whether any of those persistent reporters were standing by. Sure enough, both groups were manning their posts. We could hear the muffled voices chanting in the distance: “Two, four, six, eight. We ain’t gonna integrate.”
“Four, six, eight, ten, we’re already in,” Terry whispered.
Danny was waiting for me near the front door. We nodded to each other as I began the long trip up to my homeroom. The early-morning hecklers were full of energy. One girl walked up close behind me, getting between Danny and me. I didn’t look back; instead I quickened my pace. She started walking on my heels, and when I turned to face her, she spit at me. I ducked and scampered out of her way. To keep my focus, I began saying the Lord’s Prayer. I continued to whisper the words under my breath as I approached the door to my homeroom at the top of the third-floor stairs.
“Hey, Melba, pay attention to what you’re doing. Watch out!” Danny shouted as a group of boys bumped straight into me.
One of them kicked me in the shins so hard I fell to the floor. A second kick was delivered to my stomach. Danny stood over me, motioning them to move away. Other soldiers made their presence known, although they kept their distance. I struggled to my feet. More white students gathered around and taunted me, applauding and cheering: “The nigger’s down.”
“Stand tall,” Danny whispered. “Let’s move out.”
“Why didn’t you do something?” I asked him.
“I’m here for one thing,” he said impatiently. “To keep you alive. I’m not allowed to get into verbal or physical battles with these students.”
As some of the students continued their catcalls, I fought back tears and headed down the stairs to the principal’s office.
“Did any adult witness this incident?” the woman clerk behind the desk asked in an unsympathetic tone. “I mean, did any teacher see these people do what you said?”
“Yes, ma’am, the soldiers.”
“They don’t count. Besides, they can’t identify the people you’re accusing.”
“No. I didn’t see any adults other than the soldiers,” I answered, feeling the pain in my shin and my stomach.
“Well, in order to do anything, we need an adult witness.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Those were the words my mouth said because that’s what I had been told was appropriate to say. But another part of me wanted to shout at her and ask why she didn’t believe me or care enough to ask whether or not I needed medical help.
“I think you’d better get to class, unless you want us to call an ambulance,” she said in a sarcastic tone.
I turned to walk out the door. It had hurt my feelings as much to report the incident to her as to live through it. I could see Danny’s face, his expression was blank. But his posture was so erect and his stance so commanding that no one would dare to challenge him. Seeing that made me think about my own posture. I had to appear confident and alert. I squared my shoulders, trying not to show how frightened and timid I really felt. I told myself I had to be like a soldier in battle. I couldn’t imagine a 101st trooper crying or moping when he got hurt.
As I approached my homeroom class, I could hear the students yelling football cheers. Their loud voices, the pounding, their enthusiasm frightened me. It could so easily be a cover for whatever they wanted to do to me. I didn’t know any of the cheers. There was no one to teach me. All around me they were laughing and talking of things I had no part in. I felt invisible, excluded, and once again as though there were no space for me.
For a while I sat perfectly still in the middle of all the fuss, and then, feeling awkward, I decided to try and join in. I clapped my hands and swayed back and forth to the rhythm, even though what was their fun was my terror. I felt a haunting aloneness; I yearned for someone, anyone, to say a friendly word to me. I kept a smile on my face and my posture erect. Afterward, I realized that the prospect of their attacking me had coiled my stomach into knots. Ideas in my mind were frightening me—rather than any reality. I would have to take control of my mind as Grandma said Gandhi had done.
I made my way to my next class, where Danny stood patiently outside the glass peephole in the door, watching boys throw pencils at me. Every time the teacher looked the other way, I was the target of yet another airborne object. But I was trapped. If I raised my hand to report their behavior, I might have to endure even worse treatment. The teacher wouldn’t do anything to protect me. I already knew that. So I decided the best plan was simply to ignore them. If they got no satisfaction from their activities, perhaps they would stop. Partway through the class they stopped throwing things at me, but they didn’t stop hurling whispered insults.
During the rest of the day, I forced myself to endure annoying little pranks that distracted me and made me nervous but did not really hurt me. After the ride home in the convoy with a fun game of verbal Ping-Pong with my friends, the usual group of news reporters once again greeted us at Mrs. Bates’s house. That night I wrote in my diary:
