My Mother the Cheerleader (14 page)

I
followed her out the door and trailed her at a discreet distance. I think she knew I was following her, but she never turned back to look my way. When we arrived at William Frantz Elementary School, everything looked the same and everything looked different. To my eye the entire scene seemed more menacing, like I could feel the violence pulsing under everyone's skin, ready to burst out. The typical gathering of good old boys, journalists, FBI agents, police officers, neighborhood kids, random spectators, and of course the Cheerleaders—all were in position around the
school, awaiting the arrival of Ruby Bridges. I half expected, or hoped, to see Morgan drive up in the Bel Air and take his position opposite the Cheerleaders, but he didn't.

There may have been a few more people than usual because CBS News had in fact sent a crew to do a story on the protests. A CBS reporter and cameraman were set up on the sidewalk near the pack of Cheerleaders, interviewing Ada Munson. “Dis is our school,” she said into the microphone. “And we're gonna be out here as long as it takes to get da niggers out.”

Most of the rest of the Cheerleaders were gathered around Antoinette Lawrence, who held a copy of the morning edition of
The Times-Picayune
, which featured an article titled “Cheerleaders Plan Fund-Raising Trip to Ole Miss.” Antoinette read highlights to the group: “‘The ladies of the Ninth Ward say dey are not giving in to integration without a fight. Dis weekend dey intend to spread their fund-raising efforts to pay for a new segregated school in Mississippi….'”

My mother didn't appear to be paying any attention to what anyone was saying. She just seemed to be looking around, taking it all in. Perhaps she, too, was hoping that Morgan would drive up in the Bel Air. Nitty Babcock caught sight of her and approached.

“Pauline, you missed da crowd shot.”

“Huh?” she replied.

“Da crowd shot. Da CBS cameraman lined us all up and got a shot of everyone holding their signs and yelling…. What happened to your eye?”

“Had an accident,” she replied.

“Well, try to turn to favor your left eye if da camera swings our way again. Dis is a national broadcast….”

While Nitty prattled on, something gave my mother pause. I saw her eyes narrow as she focused on the back of the newspaper Antoinette Lawrence was holding. Something about a black-and-white photograph on the bottom of the page caught her eye. I saw it too and felt my stomach instantly tense into a dozen knots. Nitty Babcock had a copy of the same paper tucked under her arm.
My mother plucked it from her without asking.

“Hey, dat's mine,” she said.

“Hush up,” my mother snapped.

“Just let me have it back when you're done. I want de article for my scrapbook, okay, Pauline? Pauline?”

She ignored Nitty and flipped open to the page with the photograph. The stark black-and-white image depicted a car engulfed in flames sitting next to a burning cross on the side of a road at night. A small group of state police and firefighters watched from a distance, their faces alive in the fire. One of the policeman looked like he might have been smiling. The color ran out of her face as my mother read the article to herself. I didn't get to read the full article until later that day.

Royce crept up behind my mother while she was reading. “It's too bad you didn't come,” he snarled quietly in her ear. She jumped slightly at the sound of his voice. “You could've brought da marshmallows.” She turned to face him. He winked and walked back to stand with Clem and some of the other good old boys who were leaning on a row of cars parked nearby.

Just then, the crowd noise swelled and the CBS camera was repositioned as the sedan carrying Ruby Bridges approached the school. Ada Munson began leading the chanting. “Two, four, six, eight, We don't want to integrate!” Bea Williams positioned
her Negro baby doll in its coffin. The car pulled to a stop, and Ruby Bridges emerged wearing one of those blindingly white dresses with a white bow in her hair. Once her bodyguards were in place, they marched up toward the front entrance of the school, and the howling escalated. A few rotten eggs landed near Ruby's feet, and the yolk splattered her neatly polished shoes. She barely flinched and never broke stride.

Charlotte's words echoed in my head—“That's what hell looks like, Louise. Hell right here in the Ninth Ward”—until they were drowned out by the rush of all of the voices from the crowd mixed together.

“Two, four, six, eight, We don't want to integrate!”

“We're gonna lynch your daddy!”

“Go home, pickaninny!”

“Don't eat your lunch today, unless you want a poison sandwich.”

“God hates integration!”

“Here, nigger, nigger, nigger, nigger…”

“Da righteous will prevail!”

My mother didn't join in the chanting. She just stared, her eyes trained on Ruby Bridges as if she were really looking at her for the first time. Her gaze followed Ruby up the steps leading to the school, and then she turned back and scanned the howling protestors. Her eyes came to rest on me, standing on the outskirts of the crowd. We stared at each other for a long moment.

Finally she came over to me and took my hand, and we walked away.

And she never went back.

Acts of courage come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes what seems like a small moment to one person constitutes an unprecedented act of bravery for another. What my mother did may have looked small and ordinary to some people. But I knew that it was a true act of courage.

As we moved away from the school, the noise of the crowd receded. I couldn't recall the last time she had held my hand. Her fingers were soft and yet strong. I felt her grip tighten, and it struck me
that I was gently being pulled away, that she was actually leading me somewhere. My heart rose up in my chest, and for a few moments it felt as if I were actually floating just a few inches off the sidewalk. I gripped her hand tightly the entire walk home, and for the first time in my life I was proud of her.

Morgan's body was never found. Over the years I've tried my best not to imagine where it must've ended up. I've managed to keep one specific image of him trapped in my memory. It was the very first moment I laid eyes on him, stepping out of his car, stretching his arms over his head and letting the sun fall on his face, like he didn't have a care in the world.

I'd like to say that my mother did a complete reversal and joined the pro-integration forces and marched for civil rights, but she didn't. I guess sometimes small steps matter just as much as grand gestures. She was one less voice shouting down the winds of change, and that felt important—at least it did to me.

From that day onward, she still drank her lime juleps. She was still short-tempered, vain, and a bit of a loudmouth. But she was no longer a Cheerleader. And she was my mother. She was my mother.

B
y the spring of 1961 several white students, including me, returned to class at William Frantz Elementary School. Gradually the protests diminished. The following September Ruby Bridges and several other Negro students entered an integrated second-grade class. And there were no Cheerleaders or any other protestors outside the school.

Although this is a work of fiction, many of the situations depicted are based on actual historical events. All the characters are fictional with the exception of John Steinbeck and Ruby Bridges. In writing this book, I relied upon the work of many historians. Yet I am most deeply indebted to Dr. Juliette Landphair, whose doctoral thesis on the Ninth Ward of New Orleans provided invaluable insights into the neighborhood, its people, and their reactions to the integration of their public schools. Dr. Landphair also shared with me hundreds of
pages of previously classified FBI reports on the Cheerleaders and the anti-integration movement. I thank her for both her outstanding scholarship and her personal generosity.

I want to thank my editor and publisher, Laura Geringer, who believed in the book from the very beginning and has been an incredible creative partner every step of the way. My agent, Maria Massie, is an invaluable advisor, champion, friend, and therapist.

 

I would also like to thank those who served as readers, critics, and spiritual supporters throughout my writing process, particularly Martin Curland, Alexandra Tolk, Christine Gomez, Nancy Dubuc, Scott Brody, David Lawrence, Sam Mettler, Louise
Maxwell, Scott Klass, Steven Nathanson, Dan Miller, Jill Santopolo, and Lindsey Alexander. I'm also deeply indebted to Bob Miller, Elizabeth Beier, and my lawyer, Lisa Davis, who explained the facts of publishing life to me.

 

My daughters, Annabelle and Olivia, inspire me every day with their love, humor, and fresh insights into the world. They also proved to me that we are truly born color-blind. Most of all, I want to thank my wife, Stacey. In addition to being my soul mate, Stacey is a brilliantly insightful editor and writer. She is always my first and most important reader.

Cover art © 2007 by Jonathan Cavendish/Corbis and Santokh Kochar/Getty Images

Cover design by Neil Swaab