Warriors Don't Cry (7 page)

After a moment for contemplation and prayer, she stretched her embroidery work tightly over its hoop. With her needles and threads, she settled down for the night with Mr. Higgenbottom across her lap. She sat as erect as those heroic soldiers I’d seen in magazine pictures.

When Mother offered to spell her, she told her to get a good night’s sleep so she could be fresh for her teaching job. As I tried to fall asleep, I could hear Grandma rocking back and forth in her chair, singing hymns that must have given her the strength to stay alert all night.

That night in my diary I wrote to God:

Maybe going to Central High isn’t such a good idea after all. It is costing my family a lot of agony and energy, and I haven’t even attended one day yet. Will Grandma always have to sit up guarding us. She can’t go on sitting there forever. What will become of us. Maybe I should start my plan for moving to Cincinnati. Please give me some sign of what I am to do.

Late Monday evening, the shrill ring of the phone awakened me. Mother took the call from the NAACP telling us not to attend school the next day, Tuesday. We were to wait until we were notified before going to Central. Early the next morning I caught Grandmother nodding at her guard post as I went out to pick up the newspaper. The headlines told the story:

I wondered why some news reports said Faubus called the troops to keep us away from school. He had said in his speech they weren’t there to enforce segregation. Nevertheless, the word came once more that under no circumstances were we to go near Central High. The governor had officially forbidden us to go to Central, and whites were forbidden to go to Horace Mann, our school. Both places were officially off limits.

At breakfast, Grandma India said she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why he’d make our school off limits to whites, but it was an intriguing thing to do. I could see the relief in her weary face when we knew I wouldn’t be going to school. She said it was a perfectly good idea to pause and take stock. We were in no rush to get into that school.

So all day Tuesday we did just that—we took stock. Lots of people in our community figured they should get a word in, and they did, by telephone and in person. A few even had the nerve to drop over without calling to give us their opinions.

My father dropped by and caused quite an uproar. He stormed into the house demanding that I stay away from Central because his boss was threatening to take his job away. Grandma India quieted him. “Maybe our children getting a good education is much more important than your job.” He rolled his eyes at her but left after that. On the way out he was shouting he’d be back to take me away from Mother Lois if there was any trouble.

I guess Grandma saw I had hurt feelings because she put her arms around my shoulders and said, “I figure the vote is running half and half. But you’re in luck—God’s voting on your side—so march forward, girl, and don’t look back.”

Tuesday afternoon, School Superintendent Virgil Blossom called a meeting of the nine of us students and our folks. During that meeting, the tall, stocky, grim-faced Blossom breathlessly instructed our parents not to come with us to school the next day. “It will be easier to protect the children if adults aren’t there,” he said.

The looks on the faces of the adults told me they all were frightened. Not one among them seemed certain of what they were doing.

As we arrived home, the man on the radio explained Federal Judge Ronald Davies’s ruling, ordering integrated classes to begin on Wednesday. The phone was ringing off the hook. Our minister said some of the church members were forming a group made up of people from several churches. They would pray and work for peace in the city. At the same time, he said, they would be ready to help us if we needed it.

The call just after midnight from the NAACP didn’t really disturb us because we were already receiving a series of late night calls from segregationists who were loud and vulgar in their views. Mrs. Bates said we would meet at Twelfth and Park. The school was between Fourteenth and Sixteenth on Park. Perhaps we would be accompanied by several ministers; some of them would be white. She named Reverend Dunbar Ogden, Jr., the white president of the interracial Ministerial Alliance, and two of our ministers, Reverend Z. Z. Driver of the African Methodist Episcopal Church and Reverend Harry Bass of the Methodist Episcopal Church.
BY Wednesday morning, September 4, I could hardly believe it was really happening—I was going to Central High School. As I prepared breakfast before leaving home on that first morning, Grandmother India stood over my shoulder watching while I cracked the breakfast eggs for poaching.

Every radio in the house was tuned to the stations that gave frequent news reports. The urgent voices grabbed our attention whether we wanted them to or not. I’d never heard the news read that often, except when there was a tornado.

Hundreds of Little Rock citizens are gathered in front of Central High School awaiting the arrival of the Negro children. We’re told people have come from as far away as Mississippi, Louisiana, and Georgia to join forces to halt integration.
Governor Faubus continues to predict that blood will run in the streets if Negroes force integration in this peaceful capital city of just over a hundred thousand citizens.

Grandma India said seeing as how Federal Judge Davies had ruled for integration, the governor was forced to listen. She was certain Governor Faubus was a God-fearing man who would not defy federal law. I smiled agreement, nodding my head, but I wasn’t as confident as she was that Governor Faubus was going to follow the rules. She always saw the good in everybody. It made me feel so proud when people said I behaved and looked like her. There were happy lines around her mouth that made her face always appear as though she were about to break into a sweet smile, even when her words told me she was displeased with my behavior. “You’re not gonna let white people make you nervous, are you? They’re the same as us, God’s children.”

“It’s not only being with the whites. Central isn’t just any school, you know, Grandma.” I wondered what it would be like to attend school inside that gigantic brick building that looked so much like a big Eastern university. Rumor had it that Central students enjoyed several fancy kitchens set up just for home economics class, as well as the latest projectors for showing movies and all sorts of science laboratory equipment. The newspaper said it had the highest ranking given by the North Central Association of Colleges and Secondary Schools. I had read that two of its graduates had become Rhodes scholars.

The building was seven stories high, stretching along two extra-long city blocks. It must have been eight times the size of Horace Mann, my old high school. It was surrounded by manicured lawns and trees, with a pond in front. It had the kind of look I had only seen in movies, the kind that tells you folks have budgeted lots of money to keep things nice.

Grandma reassured me that although Central High was a special place, I deserved to be there as much as anyone. She said I would not have been chosen if school officials didn’t think I could measure up to the course work. But there were lots of my own people giving me the kind of advice that made me think they didn’t have faith in me. They didn’t think my brain or my manners were good enough to be with white people.

My friend Marsha, for one. She had lectured me on the evils of perspiration. She said white people didn’t perspire, so I had to be certain I didn’t let them see me perspire. I was petrified on that first morning I was to go to school, because standing over the kitchen stove, helping Grandma with breakfast, was making me perspire. I was also afraid of ruining the blouse Mother Lois had sewn for me to wear. But Grandma consoled me by saying there was nothing wrong with perspiration. No matter what, I had to be myself, she chided. I shouldn’t ever change myself to try and become like the white people.

The ring of the phone jarred us both. The furrow in Grandma’s brow showed her annoyance; nevertheless, she padded down the hall to answer once more. The hecklers should be tired by now, I thought. After all, they had been up all night calling me.

“God hears you talking this way,” Grandma shouted into the receiver before she slammed it down. Charging back to the kitchen, she was wearing a pretend smile so I wouldn’t know how upset she was. I busied myself basting the eggs, hoping she wouldn’t see I’d overcooked them. There was a long silence before either of us spoke.

I said that maybe we ought to change our phone number. But Grandma said she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Pulling out the special pocket watch given her by Grandpa, who had been a railroad man, she paused for a moment to be certain of the time. It was on time to the tenth of a second. She directed me to pay attention to what I was doing, reminding me that I was supposed to meet the others at eight. The last thing I wanted was to face the 1,950 white students at Central High all by myself. That was three times as many students as attended Horace Mann.

“Don’t look ’em in the eye, Sis,” my younger brother, Conrad, said. Tossing his satchel on the table, he continued. “Remember what happened to Emmitt Till?” His expression changed as his eyes lit up with monstrous delight. I thought about Mr. Till, who had been hanged and tossed in the Mississippi River because he looked white folks in the eye. Grandma must have noticed how upset I was getting because she said that was in Mississippi and Little Rock’s white people were more civilized. She grabbed Conrad and chastised him for not being more loving when I most needed it. When Mother Lois entered the room smiling her good mornings, I noticed she seemed deep in her own thoughts. I couldn’t help thinking if I were as beautiful as she I’d be a real hit at Central High.

Grandma took my hand as she started the blessing, asking the Lord to protect me. I closed my eyes, but not even the breakfast blessing could halt the thoughts buzzing through my mind. As we ate, I hoped no one noticed that I pushed my food about my plate because my stomach didn’t want breakfast. Mother spoke my name softly, and I looked up at her. “You don’t have to integrate this school. Your grandmother and I will love you, no matter what you decide.”

“But I have no choice if we’re gonna stay in Little Rock,” I said. I couldn’t stop hoping that integrating Central High School was the first step to making Little Rock just like Cincinnati, Ohio. Besides, we had been told students of Little Rock’s richest and most important white families attended there. They were also probably very smart. As soon as those students got to know us, I had total faith they would realize how wrong they had been about our people.

“A lot has changed in the two years since you signed up to go to Central. You were younger then,” Mother said with a frown on her face. “Maybe it was a hasty decision—a decision we’ll all regret.”

“I have to go,” I said. “I’ve given my word to the others. They’ll be waiting for me.”

“You have my permission to change your mind at any time. This has got to be your decision. No one can go into that school each day for you. You’re on your own.”

Before Mama Lois could say another word, the phone rang. Conrad raced to answer, but Mother was there first. “Keep your seat, young man.” As she held the phone to her ear, she stood motionless and silent and her face grew ashen and drawn. Then she slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle and said, “It’s time to go!”

Dear Diary,
It’s happening today. What I’m afraid of most is that they won’t like me and integration won’t work and Little Rock won’t become like Cincinnati, Ohio.

Trailing behind Mother, I made my way down the concrete path as she climbed into the driver’s seat behind the wheel of our green Pontiac. I don’t know why I veered off the sidewalk, taking the shortcut through the wet grass that would make damp stains on my saddle shoes. Perhaps I wanted some reason not to go to the integration. I knew if Grandma noticed, she would force me to go back and polish my shoes all over again. But she was so preoccupied she didn’t say a word. As I climbed into the passenger’s seat, I looked back to see her leaning against the porch column, her face weary, her eyes filled with tears.

Mother pressed the gas pedal, and we gained speed. I always watched closely because I wanted my license by my sixteenth birthday—only three months away. I knew the process well by now. She had guided me through practice sessions in the parking lot next to the grocery store often enough.

We moved through the streets in silence, listening to the newsman’s descriptions of the crowds gathering at Central High. I noticed some of our neighbors standing on the sidewalk, many more than were usually out this time of day.

“That’s strange,” Mama mumbled as she waved to people who didn’t bother waving back. “No matter, maybe they didn’t see me.” Our neighbors had always been so friendly, but now they peered at us without their usual smiles. Then I saw Kathy and Ronda, two of my school friends, standing with their mothers. Anxious to catch their attention, I waved out the window with a loud “Hi.” Their disapproving glances matched those of the adults.

“I didn’t do anything to them,” I said, not understanding their reason.

“Then you don’t have anything to be concerned about.” Mother Lois maneuvered through the unusually heavy traffic. “I don’t know where all the cars could have come from,” she said. We both craned our necks, curious about all the unfamiliar cars and people. Certainly there had never before been so many white people driving down the streets of our quiet, tree-lined neighborhood.