Warriors Don't Cry (25 page)

 

On Tuesday, October 15, my friends entered Central with only one soldier from the 101st as an escort. Once inside the school, only twenty-one National Guardsmen and nine 101st Airborne soldiers guarded them in the hallways.

A story in the Wednesday
Arkansas Gazette
was headlined: TWO NEGROES ILL. I thought it was funny to read about myself and Terry Roberts being out of Central High with the flu. By the time the paper printed the story, I was already back in class. According to that same article, Terry had said that things had been so bad for him the week before that he had almost decided to quit Central and go back to Horace Mann.

By the time I returned to school on Wednesday, things had deteriorated. The headlines that day read:

 

Until that time, when soldiers were taken away it was only to Camp Robinson—a stone’s throw away. The announcement of their departure to Kentucky gave segregationists reason to celebrate, and it was evident in the students who bragged about their renewed hope of getting rid of us.

As I stepped into the hallway, just for an instant the thought of fewer troops terrified me. But the warrior growing inside me squared my shoulders and put my mind on alert to do whatever was necessary to survive. I tried hard to remember everything Danny had taught me. I discovered I wasn’t frightened in the old way anymore. Instead, I felt my body muscles turn steely and my mind strain to focus. I had to take care of myself. I could really depend only on myself for protection.

A new voice in my head spoke to me with military-like discipline: Discover ink sprayed on the contents of your locker—don’t fret about it, deal with it. Get another locker assigned, find new books, get going—don’t waste time brooding or taking the hurt so deep inside. Kicked in the shin, tripped on the marble floor—assess the damage and do whatever is necessary to remain mobile. Move out! Warriors keep moving. They don’t stop to lick their wounds or cry.
DURING early morning classes that day several students heckled me about Minnijean, saying that if she tried to take part in their school activities there would be a big retaliation. Word had gotten around school and to the Central High Mothers’ League that Minnijean would be participating in a student talent show. Segregationists demanded that we not be allowed to participate in any extracurricular activities.

“That nigger ain’t gonna sing on our stage. My daddy says he’ll see her dead first.” The boy shouting this ran past me, knocking my books out of my arms. When I bent over to pick them up, someone kicked me from behind and pushed me over. I landed hard on my wrist. It felt broken.

“Okay. Get yourself up, and I’ll get the books.” It was a voice I didn’t recognize, speaking to me while students rushed past, laughing and pointing as I lay in pain. An Arkansas National Guard soldier was standing beside me, gathering my books and speaking in a gentle tone.

“Can you get up? Try to get up on your feet as fast as you can.”

I tried to get to my feet, but my head was pounding and my body ached.

“What the hell, gal, take my hand. You’re gonna get us both killed if you don’t move. We ain’t got no help.” He took my hand and boosted me upright. It hurt to stand on my ankle. “Let’s move outta here, right now!” He was pushing me faster than my body wanted to go, but I knew he was right, I had to move.

When we finally got to a safe spot, I thanked him, blinking back hot tears. That soldier, whoever he was, stayed within full sight of me for the rest of the day. He didn’t say anything, but whenever I looked for him, he was there. As I was leaving school, he was standing in the hallway, slouching against the wall like his buddies. But he had been kind to me, and I would remember that not all members of the Arkansas National Guard were of the same character.

That evening, during the meeting at Mrs. Bates’s house, we were told that within a few days we would no longer have the jeep and station wagon to take us back and forth to school. We would have to set up car pools. I tossed and turned all night, wondering whether or not we could survive without our 101st guards and the station wagon escort.

By mid-October, there were fewer and fewer 101st guards and fewer Arkansas National Guardsmen. We quickly learned that the presence of the 101st had lulled us into a false sense of security. The segregationist students were just biding their time until they could make their move. As the guards were reduced in number, our attackers revved up a full campaign against us. The less visible the 101st, the more we suffered physical and verbal abuse.

 

That lawsuit had been filed by Margaret Jackson and the Central High Mothers’ League. Segregationists continued to apply whatever pressure they could to get the troops reduced. Governor Faubus continued to bargain with President Eisenhower for our withdrawal from school and for an extension to begin integration sometime in the far distant future. Faubus’s declarations provided a glimmer of hope that made segregationists feel their oats. We were suffering increased harassment inside the hallways and classrooms, and still the troops were dwindling day by day.

Although I saw some 101st soldiers around the school, Danny didn’t seem to be there any longer. At first I looked for him in every corner, but finally I was so busy defending myself that looking for him was no longer the first thing on my mind.
IN the days that followed, I neither understood nor controlled the warrior growing inside me. I couldn’t even talk to Grandma India about the way I was feeling. It was a secret. As Samson had been weakened by a haircut, I thought I might lose my power if I spoke of it. I stopped complaining as much to my eight friends about the awful things segregationists were doing to me. I stopped trying to figure out what might happen the next moment, the next hour, the next day and focused intensely on right now.

I thought a lot about how to appear as strong as I could as I walked the halls: how not to wince or frown when somebody hit me or kicked me in the shin. I practiced quieting fear as quickly as I could. When a passerby called me nigger, or lashed out at me using nasty words, I worked at not letting my heart feel sad because they didn’t like me. I began to see that to allow their words to pierce my soul was to do exactly what they wanted.

My conversations with my eight friends began to change, too. We joked less with each other, and there was considerably less talk about our hopes that the students might immediately begin to accept us. Instead, we exchanged information about how to cope: “Don’t go down this hallway to get to the cafeteria, that’s where the hit-and-run trippers wait for you.” “Stay out of the third-floor doorway; boys with knives hang out there.” “Don’t exit that set of stairs; that’s where the boys with the dynamite sticks always wait.”

It was the kind of information warriors exchange to wage the battles they must win, or die. My energies were devoted to one goal—planning for my own safety and shielding myself from hurt. Even though I wasn’t totally satisfied with the grades on my report card of October 17, I decided I had to make staying alive my priority.

October 20’s newspaper carried an article saying that Clarence Laws, Southwest Regional Field Secretary for the NAACP, denied rumors that we nine were being paid to go to Central, or had been imported from the North to integrate Little Rock schools, or that our parents were planning to take us out of school.

On October 23, we left school without a guard and walked to the station wagon alone. On the morning of October 24, we walked to the front door once more without an escort. The evening headlines read:

 

My brother, Conrad, complained that I wouldn’t play games with him—not even our favorite Monopoly. I realized he was right. Lately I had no time for play. Vince was complaining as well because I wasn’t available to speak on the phone or to go out with him. My after-school time was filled with meetings and news people and sometimes just sitting silent in my room to ponder what would become of me. Central High integration was slowly destroying my life.

During one late October after-school meeting, we discussed the fact that President Eisenhower would not stop withdrawing 101st troops even though our parents and Mrs. Bates had sent a telegram informing him that opposition against us was more violent with each passing day. We discussed trying yet another approach to change the attitudes of school officials so they would take control of the hooligans.

The next day was a living hell. In addition to increased heckling in the hallways, it was the beginning of a series of experiences in my gym class I would not soon forget. It all started with a verbal barrage I tried to ignore.

“You’re already black meat, and what is black meat? It’s burned meat,” said the lanky brunette, with a devilish gleam in her eyes, as she stood outside my shower space. I stood stark naked, my privacy invaded, while others joined her, leering and spouting insults. I was racking my brain, wondering what she was talking about, and then it came, the scalding water. I felt myself cry aloud as the sheet of steaming water spread pain across my shoulders and back. I was stunned, paralyzed by the cruelty of their act. Two other girls appeared just at that moment to shove me directly beneath the spray and hold me there.

I suddenly felt surging inside of me a strength that matched my determination. I grabbed my attackers’ arms and pulled them in with me as close as I could. I let them feel my anger with my elbows, my feet, and with words that would take me to brimstone and hellfire later, but at least I’d have time to prepare. I was using some of the same language they used on me.

As the girls backed away, I emerged to find they had removed my clothing and books. There I was, scrambling about wearing only a towel and a bad attitude. When finally I found my outer clothing, it was stuffed in a corner, but my underwear was on the floor of another shower, soaking wet. I would freeze all day. I could look forward to damp spots seeping through to my outer garments. As I got dressed, my clothes irritated my scalded skin. It hurt to move.

Later in the day I encountered the “heel-walking committee.” Groups of students would walk close up behind me and step on my heels, generating the most excruciating pain. I would walk faster, but they would catch up and continue doing it. After a while my heels were bleeding through my socks. When I went to the office for Band-Aids, the woman on duty turned up her nose and sneered. “If you can’t stand an occasional tap on the heel, why don’t you leave.”

By the end of the day, I was exhausted from defending myself and trying to figure out what would come next. And I was beginning to have an uncontrollable urge to fight back.

On Monday, October 28, Mrs. Huckaby notified us in writing that we were to contact our parents to come to a meeting in School Superintendent Blossom’s office, downtown, at 4:45 P.M. That last-minute request meant Mother Lois had to rush over from her teaching job in North Little Rock. But it was necessary, because we all hoped that meeting would signal the beginning of the school officials’ willingness to do something about the incredible increase in attacks against us. I couldn’t imagine what else they’d want to discuss.

18

 

AS we climbed the stairs with our parents to the meeting in Superintendent Blossom’s office, it was clear that we all had one thing on our minds—that school officials provide a concrete plan to stop the abuse by Central High’s hard-core segregationist students.

 

“I’m angry enough to hunt bear without my shotgun,” said one of the fathers. “These folks had best do something really big to show me they wanna make this integration work.”

“I’m tired of them counting on us to make all the sacrifices,” said another parent. “We need to know what they’re willing to sacrifice.”

Thirty minutes into that meeting, neither Blossom nor any of his people had addressed the issue we had told him we were anxious to discuss. Instead, all the school officials present were giving us the same song and dance about our not responding to our attackers in order to maintain peace. They were lecturing us on “the proper attitude” and the responsibility of our parents. There were no words from them about how they were going to take any responsibility for keeping students from abusing us.

“Excuse me,” Mother Lois said, suddenly rising to her feet, interrupting Superintendent Blossom midsentence. I was frightened to see her standing there so tiny, wringing her hands nervously. “What I want to know is whether or not you have any specific plans for protecting our children.”

“That’s none of your business,” Blossom replied in a rude tone.

“Oh, I’d say it’s very much my business.” Mother’s words came rapid-fire. Still he ignored her, continuing his rhetoric as before. Silence fell over the room. She interrupted him once more. “As parents we have a right to know how you will protect our children.” He gave her neither an answer nor any acknowledgment that she had a right to ask such a question.

Instead, he continued his meaningless comments, ignoring her as she stood there for several minutes expecting him to answer her. Finally she took her seat. Her face was red with anger and embarrassment. I felt that by disrespecting Mother that way, the superintendent was disrespecting all of us seated in that room. I was very angry with the others, especially the fathers, who did not stand up and defend my mother. The humiliation and fear I felt so upset me that I couldn’t consider anything that was said during the remainder of the meeting. Nevertheless, it was clear by the time we left for home that nothing had been resolved.

 

ON Wednesday, with no sign of our military escorts, we decided to avoid the hecklers who were starting to greet us each morning. We arrived early and entered the Fourteenth and Park Street entrance, a block to the right of the front entry. We had determined that going in the front door presented more risks than it was worth.