Warriors Don't Cry (27 page)

 

The segregationists’ leaders were celebrating their victories, and the students at school were letting us know about their triumph. At the same time, Governor Faubus was saying in print and on the air that “the withdrawal of federal troops is distasteful because the Arkansas Guard will be left with the distasteful task of enforcing the integration.”

He said he “would not take any state police forces or National Guardsmen to transport anybody to school or guard them while they were there. For Arkansas Guardsmen to do what the federal government ordered would be unfair because they didn’t enlist to enforce integration but to defend their country in a time of need.”

At school that day, Minnijean and I talked about how frightened we were because, even though the harassment was getting worse, we were seeing fewer and fewer uniformed guards of any description. There were always rumors about FBI men being all over the place. Sure enough, we would occasionally see men who fit our fantasies of what FBI men should look like, but they never stopped to help us.

To add to our distress, on that same day two state courts demanded that the NAACP’s records be made public, and six men who were arrested for rioting during our first days at Central High School were cleared of all charges. On November 23, an article described how Judge Harry Robinson suspended fines of two men found guilty of rioting.

And even as our problems with segregationists multiplied yet again, Minnijean focused on her audition for the glee club and Christmas show. She had worked herself up into a real dither. Time and time again, Thelma and I had tried to talk her out of participating, but she wouldn’t listen. Moments before the tryouts got underway, I stood in the doorway of the auditorium nervously wringing my hands as Minnijean tried to register.

Mrs. Huckaby wore a pleasant smile as she explained to Minnijean that the day to register for the tryouts had long since passed, and they couldn’t violate the rules for her. We knew at once that she had been tricked. Had school officials been sincere about offering Minnijean the opportunity, they would have been clear about the terms for participating. Blinking back tears, Minnijean turned to us, then walked away. Thelma and I trailed behind trying our best to console her.

 

SIX reporters had been dispatched to talk to anyone connected with the school. What they found was what we already knew: as the reporter said, it was a time of tension and testing. There was widespread talk of gangs dedicated to making trouble for us when the troops left.

 

Those interviewed said they already made as much trouble for us as they could. However, we were described as students who studied and moved about most of the time in almost total isolation from our two thousand white classmates, because the whites who once tried to befriend us had been intimidated either by social ostracism or by threats.

Reading the article made me shudder, but it also helped me know we weren’t imagining things. It was indeed getting more and more difficult to survive inside Central. We now had it confirmed from the most reliable source—hard-core segregationists themselves. And as far as I could tell, there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.
ON Monday, November 25, I prepared myself to speak to 250 students gathered for Central High’s early morning chapel service. As I walked toward the front of the room and faced those white students, all staring at me, my knees felt weak and the back of my neck was tight. I stood at a podium in a room filled with people who didn’t relish my speaking to them.

Taking a deep breath, I began the talk I had practiced in front of the mirror and in front of Grandma and Mama. The light from the window at the back of the room was my focus. Mother Lois had said never to look any single member of the audience in the eye when you’re speaking. At first, I garbled some of the words, and then, as I remembered Grandma India’s advice, I calmed down. She had said, “God’s speaking. You’re merely the instrument he chooses at this time. God is a wonderful speaker, so you have absolutely nothing to be nervous about.” I didn’t speak about integration or say things about us or them—I just talked about God and how he cares for each of us.

At first I could tell by the students’ expressions that they didn’t like what I was saying. Some frowned while others contorted their faces to show their contempt. Many had perfectly blank looks, but a few listened intently and nodded their heads in agreement. Afterward, two people came up to congratulate me and ask why I had a Northern accent and used such correct English.

“Northern accent, did they really ask you about that?” Mother Lois grinned as I described my speaking. “You tell them your mama’s an English teacher, and in this house we speak only the King’s English.”

We were discussing my day, sitting in our robes at the dining room table, after dinner and baths, playing Monopoly. The house was festive, and we were surrounded by the aroma of mincemeat and sweet potato pies cooking in the oven.

“Any flying objects?”

“Actually, some of them were very nice. You were right, Grandma.” She didn’t look up. She was preoccupied with examining her next move on the board. We were already resigned to the fact that she would skunk us all once again.

“Right, how so?” she mumbled, not taking her attention off the game for even one instant.

“Well, for just that moment, I felt we had something in common, our love of the Lord. I think they felt it, too, because some of them smiled and spoke to me.”

“Someday they’ll have the courage to be nice to you outside that room of worship.”

“I don’t think so, Grandma, because they would have to take so much criticism from their friends and families.”

“This year is different, it won’t always be this way.” She rolled the dice, bought the last available property, and once again we’d all been trounced by our sweet Grandma, the Monopoly Champ.
WHEN Mrs. Bates telephoned to say the nine of us would be gathering for an “official” Thanksgiving dinner to be held at her house Tuesday evening, before the holiday, she mentioned that there would be a news conference.

I cringed at the thought. Whenever there was special press coverage on us, the abuse we later suffered at Central was in direct proportion to the size and quality of the story printed or aired.

When Mother and I arrived at Mrs. Bates’s home for the Thanksgiving dinner, I knew even more people than usual were there, because we couldn’t find a place to park. When I entered the spacious living room, there was standing room only. I had never seen so many people, most of them reporters, squeezed into that space under hot glaring lights.

At the center of the room, some of the other nine students, dressed in Sunday best, were sitting at a table set with the same care Grandma used on holidays: linen and lace and silver and a beautifully prepared bird. Mrs. Bates directed me to a seat, and I squeezed past Jeff and Gloria to get to my place.

Even more reporters with more cameras and equipment packed into the room as we tried to give the impression of having a normal meal. Some of the others were reviewing speeches they had prepared. I hadn’t prepared anything, because by now the art of giving an interview was second nature, or at least that’s what I thought. Once the cameras were rolling and the microphones recording, the questions began to fly.

When Mrs. Bates asked, “Do you kids want white meat or dark meat?” I spoke without thinking: “This is an integrated turkey.” The annoyed expression on her face matched the one on Mother’s, letting me know that maybe I should have prepared a speech. The reporters began snickering as they posed a series of questions on turkeys and integration, calling on me by name to answer. My palms began sweating, and my mouth turned dry. I hadn’t meant to put my foot in my mouth. I didn’t want the others to think I was trying to steal the spotlight, but once I had spoken out of turn, “integrated turkey” became the theme.

“You’ll live to regret that statement, Melba,” Mother said as we were driving home. I knew she was agonizing over the consequences of my frivolity. She was right. I would suffer.
THERE came a day just before Thanksgiving break, when Danny broke the rules again and came close up to talk to me. He wouldn’t say whether or not he was leaving for good, but he behaved in a strange way—saying over and over again, “Take care of yourself, you hear me. Don’t bend over to pick up any books or walk in dark corners.” He winked and smiled as he backed away, giving me a military salute. I stood frozen in my tracks, holding back the tears.

Over and over again, I asked him if he were going away for good, but he wouldn’t tell me. “Just mind your p’s and q’s.” He turned on his heels. I couldn’t admit to myself it was really true. I turned away and ran in the opposite direction, never looking back—never turning to let him see the tears in my eyes.

From that moment on, whenever I thought about Danny and the 101st being gone for good, I pushed the idea out of my mind because I couldn’t bear to deal with it. I just had to pretend it wasn’t so, even though some part of me kept saying I truly had to fend for myself now.
MY real Thanksgiving at home was a special day of peace and joy. It was wonderful being with all my relatives, and I was able to convince them not to talk about Central High. For just that day, I felt normal, and I hoped that my life could be that way soon. I came face to face with reality later that evening as I read the
Gazette
headlines: LAST OF 225 GI’S LEAVE SCHOOL; ARKANSAS NATIONAL GUARD IN CHARGE. The article said the 101st troops had left the day before.

Thanksgiving night I wrote in my diary:

Danny and the others have truly gone. He didn’t even say goodbye. I will always remember this man. How could I forget his name? I will never know if he only behaved that kindly because he was a great soldier or a good person or both.
It doesn’t matter. He was wonderful.
I want to remember the names of the other nice 101st soldiers as well—Jody, Marty, Mex, and Goggles.
I wish Danny had told me he was leaving forever. Although I don’t know how I could have thanked him in words. I might have cried, and he wouldn’t have liked that. I never thought I would have tears in my eyes over some white man. I don’t think I’ll ever see him again. Thank you, Danny.

 

On Friday, November 29, the
Gazette
headline brought more bad news, especially for Minnijean:

 

The Mothers’ League of Central High School has issued a protest on behalf of their organization against a Negro girl’s participation in a talent program sponsored by Central High School.

 

The article went on to name Minnijean Brown specifically and to say that we should not be allowed to participate in any extracurricular activities. That night, Grandmother added to my worry list. “President Eisenhower’s had a slight stroke,” she said. “We gotta pray for him quick.”

I knew the President was important in my life. If things got rough inside Central, I needed him to be alive and well so he could send the troops back. Mother said we should send him a telegram of hope and prayer, and so we did.

I spent much of the day agonizing over how much worse things could get on Monday, what with the paper’s printing my “integrated turkey” line and announcing the final departure of the 101st.

19

 

 

WE wondered how the
Gazette
editors had come to that conclusion since they didn’t have anyone inside the school to see us being kicked or inked or spat upon or scalded in the showers. They were like so many of the adults around us, content to pretend for the moment that all was well as we began classes at Central High on December 2. But we knew better. Our day-to-day experience showed us that the situation was worsening.

 

On that day, Minnijean, Thelma, and I rode in a car pool to school. Once again, Minnijean talked enthusiastically about her hopes of appearing on stage in yet another Central High program. Sometimes her enthusiasm even sparked a flickering hope in me that we could be included in the holiday festivities springing up all around us.

We heard only bits and pieces of what was going on, but still it all seemed to be so much bigger and more exciting than anything we’d seen at our old school. At Central there was money for costumed plays and lavish stage productions and parties in fancy hotels. They were doing all the things I’d seen in magazines or on television.

When on a rare occasion someone ventured to explain to us what was going on, students nearby would draw them aside and chastise them. I felt like a child peeking in the window of the candy store. I hungered for more details of the activities I was excluded from. I put together snippets of conversation as one does a puzzle, anxious to see the final picture. I would forever have an empty spot in my heart when I thought about Christmas of my junior year.

We nine had been very active in our former school—choral groups, honor society activities, Scouts, sports, and especially Christmas pageants. I felt the loss of that participation deeply, and I could tell the others did as well. And now we weren’t even invited to holiday parties with our old school friends. Some of them feared for their safety when we were around—others didn’t agree with what we were doing and refused to have anything to do with us. Still others didn’t mean us any harm; it was a case of “out of sight, out of mind.”

I consoled myself by believing it was probably for the best that I was so preoccupied with staying alive at Central. That meant I didn’t have as much time to think about how lonely I was.

When I heard Minnijean talking about joining in, I wished her well, but underneath it all I knew she had gotten her hopes up too high. She was being targeted because of her persistence. And thanks to my Thanksgiving comment, so was I.