I knew where everything was in the store, and I liked walking up and down the aisles pretending I was the boss and I pretended it was up to me to keep the merchandise looking neat. It was also up to me to count all the money at the end of the day. I pretended I had a big box of money and got someone to carry it to the bank for me. Sometimes I even looked through the cloth myself with an eye for something that would look good on my Barbie doll. Grandma had been helping me make clothes for her.
On late weekday afternoons, there weren’t many people in the stores downtown. One day, Momma and I got off the bus in front of Green’s. A clerk had told her there was going to be a new shipment of cloth coming in that morning, and Momma wanted to get into it before it was all picked over. I knew she was going to be busy for a while, so I decided to walk around the store. I walked up and down the aisles, but nothing looked special to me.
Then I saw the water fountains. All three of them sat there looking back at me. A shiny large one with a big “White Only” sign over it. Next to it was a smaller fountain with a wooden step in front. And, a few feet away, a broken-down, sad fountain with the water running all the time. The handle on the faucet was broken, and the sign above it looked just as bad. A black sign with white letters read, “Colored.” The whole thing was dingy, and somebody would have to be very thirsty to take a drink from it.
I’d seen the fountains many times, but this was the first time I’d been around them when no one was watching. No clerks or shoppers were anywhere near. It was a perfect time to finally see exactly what the white folks were hiding. I would finally get to drink some water from the “White Only” fountain. My knees shook. I knew I was taking a big step. Would white people’s water kill me? Worst of all, maybe I’d turn white and colored people wouldn’t like me anymore. I had to take the chance anyway. If anyone saw me, I would just say I was thirsty and made a mistake. Most of the clerks knew my face from being in the store so much. They would go to the cloth department and get Momma. She would probably just tell me not to try that again, I reasoned.
I quickly ran to the smaller fountain, climbed onto the wooden step and looked behind me to make sure I was still alone. The beige knob on the spigot turned easily. The water ran into the basin. It looked like regular water.
My heart was pounding fast, and my hands were so sweaty I could hardly hold onto the knob. I took a deep breath and waited for my life to flash before my eyes. I knew the water could kill me, but the only thing I saw in my mind was me sitting at my piano recital, trying to remember my piece, “Turkey in the Straw.” Maybe I hadn’t been alive long enough and what should have been a flash was just a drop. I closed my eyes, leaned down and took a big mouthful. I hopped off the step and raced to the end of one of the aisles. My mouth was filled with water, but my throat wasn’t working at all. Try as hard as I could, I couldn’t swallow!
My cheeks puffed out, filled with water, and I figured I’d better go and get help. Momma was busy digging in a box of cloth pieces. I pulled at her skirt, and without turning around, she told me we would get a hot dog before we left the store. I couldn’t talk with the water in my mouth, so I tugged again. I moaned through the mouthful of water. Thinking I was playing some kind of game, Momma turned away from the cloth long enough to place both hands on my face, smile and squeeze my cheeks. I fought the urge to spit because it would have sprayed all over Momma. I wouldn’t have had to worry about the white people’s water killing me because she would have finished me off, right on the spot! I gave one big gulp and felt the water go down my throat all at once. Momma went back to her cloth box, and I headed toward my favorite aisle in the toy department to die or turn white, whichever came first.
I carefully looked at my hands to see if I was changing color. I stopped and stared in a mirror on the cosmetics aisle. My eyes were as brown as ever. I felt the same as always, just a bit scared. Finally, Momma came to the toy department and said it was time to get a hot dog. I was happy she still recognized me.
The lunch counter at H. L. Green’s was my favorite of all places downtown—the one in the back, of course, the one up front was for white people. The stools were uncomfortable, but the hot dogs, fries and drinks made up for everything.
I was afraid to tell Momma I’d taken a drink from the white fountain because I didn’t want her to worry in case I didn’t make it. I decided it was best not to say anything.
After we got home, I checked in the bathroom mirror all evening to see if I’d changed. My heart didn’t feel weak, but I wasn’t sure how a dying person was supposed to feel. No one had to argue with me to go to bed that night.
I put on my best nightgown and took my favorite pink teddy bear to bed with me. I thought maybe I would fall asleep and wake up the next morning white as snow. Granddad would wonder where the little white girl in my bed had come from. Grandma would fall down on her knees in prayer, and I didn’t know what Momma would do. Maybe dying in my sleep would make things easier for everyone. I lay there waiting for something to happen. I was afraid to close my eyes.
The next morning, I was happy to hear the rooster crowing! I had all my parts and was still breathing. I rushed into the bathroom to look at myself. I was the same color as always and everything was in the right places. Colored people who drank from forbidden fountains didn’t turn white or die!
The next time I went into H. L. Green’s Store and saw the drinking fountains with the “For Whites Only” signs, I giggled, That’s what you think!
Jayme Washington Smalley
Funtown
Some people dream of great accomplishments, while others stay awake and do them.
Constance Newman
Since my mother taught me to read at the age of four, she thought it best to enroll me in school to take advantage of my eagerness to learn. I was not old enough for public school, so it was necessary to enroll me in a private one.
Now, when I say private, I do not mean affluent. This was the segregated South, back in the early 1960s. My school was actually a house with the first, second and third grades combined in one room. It was a bare-bones classroom, but it truly was a home. My ability to read earned me the respect of my teacher, and I had friends. I was liked, I was comfortable and school was fun!
But what I really wanted to do was to go to Funtown. I can remember seeing the commercials on television. I didn’t know exactly what an amusement park was, but it looked like people had a good time going there, and I couldn’t wait to go there too! I remember bothering my parents about taking a trip there, and asking, “When can we go?” What I didn’t know at the time was that Funtown was for whites only.
Daddy was always leaving, it seemed, to go somewhere and to help someone, and it was Mother who had the lion’s share of taking care of the family. She was the one who tried to explain words like “racism” and “segregation” when I asked, again and again, why I couldn’t go to Funtown. We took many trips to the airport as a family, to drop Daddy off, and we would drive right by Funtown going both ways. I could see Funtown. Why couldn’t I go in?
I don’t remember how Daddy finally explained to me I couldn’t go. I know that he wrote and spoke about the fact that it was very difficult for him. Although he was a powerful orator, this time he was at a loss for words. How could he tell his beautiful little daughter that she could NOT go to Funtown, because she was a child of color? My father stated that event “caused the first dark cloud of inferiority to float over my little mental sky.” I guess it did. But there was worse to come.
When I was in third grade, I was transferred into the local public school. Although this school was still segregated, the majority of students were the children of middle-class African Americans, or “Negroes,” as we were called at that time. These parents were the doctors, lawyers, teachers and other professionals in the community. Many of the teachers at this school came with degrees earned from some of the best historically black colleges of the day.
Unfortunately, school there was no longer fun. I was
taunted and teased unmercifully by the children of these middle-class professional families. I came home crying to my mother, and telling her the mean things the children said to me. They called my father a “jailbird”! Jailbirds were bad people. Only bad people went to jail. Why were they saying my daddy, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., was that kind of person?
Oh, I cried many tears over those comments. My mother spent hours talking to me and trying to explain my father’s work. She tried to teach me about hatred, laws and equal access. She told me there were many people who didn’t have enough food or proper housing, and how my daddy was working hard to help everyone. She told me about Africa and slavery, and how our people were forced to come over to America in slave ships, and after all of these years there was still much suffering and so much work that had to be done. Yes, my mother laid it all out for me, but I really didn’t get it. I could not grasp what all that had to do with my daddy not being home and having to go to jail. What did that have to do with my world and what was happening to me?
I don’t know if it was divine wisdom or sheer frustration over my tears, but finally Mother told me that the reason Daddy had to go to jail was so that I could go to Funtown. That was it! I got that. I thought, If my daddy is going to jail so I can go to Funtown, well great! He can stay as long as he needs to. After that, nobody could tell me my daddy was a bad man.
My daddy was a good man. A great man. A man who was not only helping the world, but knew the value of the little things that mattered to me, too.
My daddy finally did take me to Funtown. It was a big deal, with media and cameras everywhere, but do you know what? Funtown wasn’t all that great after all. What was wonderful, and important, was the rare opportunity to spend time with my daddy.
Yolanda King, daughter of
Martin Luther King Jr., with Elodia Tate
The Day I Walked and Walked
The greatest inspiration is often born of desperation.
Comer Cotrell
I remember getting ready to go downtown with my mom. The day was really pretty. The sun was out, the flowers were in full bloom, and I was so happy. My mom and I were going shopping to buy me a new Sunday dress for church. We always wore our best clothes for church. Church was a very special place. It was the place that we went to say “thank you” to God. As I sat down on the bus and looked out of the window, I thought to myself how lucky I was. I felt good and special and loved. I had a lot to be thankful for.
When we got off the bus, my mom took my hand like she always did and we started walking toward the store. As we passed a giant building, we saw hundreds and hundreds of people. They didn’t look happy at all. Some people were crying, some were talking in loud angry voices, and some were just staring. They all looked so sad. We stopped and watched. All of the people were black and they were all grown-ups. I didn’t see any children at all. To the side of us there was a really big group of people, and they were walking very slowly.
My mom questioned a woman standing nearby. I couldn’t hear what she said, but I felt her grip tighten on my hand as she led us into the group walking. After a short while I realized that we were actually walking around the big building. Because I was so little I could only see feet and legs and even those looked sad. Their dragging feet made a squishing sound as they walked.
Well, we walked and we walked, and it seemed like we walked around that building for a long time. And now I was feeling sad, too; something just wasn’t right.
I tugged at my mom’s hand, “Can we go now? I’m tired and I want to get my dress.”
“In a little while we’ll go.”
And we walked some more. Then I got really tired and I had to go to the bathroom. “Can we go now? I wanna go.”
I will never forget the look on my mother’s face as she looked down at me. Her eyes filled with tears, and she gently pulled me out of the line and squatted to look me in the eyes. She put both her hands on my shoulders, and I could see the pain on her face as she searched for words to explain why we were walking—why, we weren’t going to get my dress today, after all.
She wiped away her tears like she was trying to push her emotions out of the way so she could speak.
“Last Sunday, some very bad people set a bomb that blew up four little black girls just like you while they were at Sunday school. We are walking in this line because we want those bad people to know that it is not okay that they killed those little girls.”
As I looked at my mom, I could see tears rolling down her face and hurt and sadness in her eyes. All I could think about was how much I loved my Sunday school class and my church. I thought about those little girls and how they probably loved their church, too. And then it hit me. It could have been me in that church. I stood frozen in time and space.
When we moved back into the line I was completely changed. I was not just a little girl walking with her mother. I was a little girl walking for justice. I stood up as straight as I could, threw back my head, and I made a promise to myself. I will walk and I will walk and I will not stop walking. Everyone has to know that no more little girls will ever be blown up again. That day I walked and I never looked back. I never put my head down, and I never got tired. I felt good, and then I felt happy again.
I was walking to show the world those four little black girls mattered. They were more important than getting a new dress, they were more important than me getting tired. That day, they were the most important things in my world, and I was walking to show it.
Ahmon’dra (Brenda) McClendon
Ripples in the Pond
It’s not what you take but what you leave behind that defines greatness.
Edward Gardner
There have been times in my life when I’ve felt insignificant. Sometimes it was because I felt stuck in unfulfilling jobs or empty relationships. Sometimes I felt as though I wasn’t connecting with other people and that I didn’t make much difference on the planet. Sometimes it seemed I had no real effect on the rest of the world, as though my coming and going didn’t matter to anyone. When I start to buy into that feeling, I remember a story that was told to me by a stranger over a decade ago at a wake for my grandfather George.
As I stood in the center of the room, mourning his passing, I noticed someone who seemed out of place. He looked like an old weathered farmer, rumpled and wearing a suit coat that hadn’t been in style for many years. His shoes were old and worn, but I could see that he had taken the time to polish them. His unkempt hair was as white as snow, and he had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen.
He noticed my stares and approached me and told me his name was Paul. He had met my grandfather more than sixty years ago, but never knew his name nor ever exchanged a word with him. Grinning at the curious expression on my face, and in a voice that sounded as worn and as old as he looked, Paul told me the most compelling story.
“I was just a little boy. Me and Momma and my little sister were on our way home from visiting my momma’s people. It was a hot August morning. The Chevy broke down in the middle of nowhere. Momma tried to tinker with it, but she didn’t know about cars. I was just a little boy and I knew even less. Me and my baby sister were hot and thirsty. Seems like we’d been there for days off on the side of the road.
“Finally around noontime, we heard a car. We felt great relief, believing that help was coming. ’Course that was until the car got closer and we could see it was a colored man in it, your granddaddy. See, in those days we didn’t have much exchange with colored people. They stayed on their side and we stayed on ours, no mixing. He pulled his car right up to us and asked if he could help. I knew Momma didn’t want any part of that, but God, it was so hot that day and she had her babies to think about. She had no choice but to accept help from him.
“As he approached our car I was so scared I memorized every line on his face. I figured the time would come when I’d have to identify him since I just knew he meant to do us harm. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to do, but I was ready t
o fight to protect my momma and baby sister. I tried to keep my eyes on him while he was under our hood. It had to be 120 degrees under there. Well, he worked for what seemed like hours but he couldn’t bring the old Chevy back to life.
“Finally he says, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t fix your car, ma’am, but why don’t you let me ride you and your children home?’
“We were terrified at the thought of getting into that colored man’s car. Momma agonized over it, but it was so hot and her babies so thirsty, she decided she had no better choice. She piled us all into the backseat of his car, trying to stay as far away from him as possible. It must have been a good forty miles out of his way, but he didn’t even ask for money. He drove us all the way home, then just dropped us off as sure as you please. He never even tried nothing.
“Later that night when Daddy heard about it, he nearly beat Momma to death for getting into a car with a colored man. We were forbidden to ever talk about it again. Your granddaddy was an angel that day. Imagine, an angel that looked just like a colored man.”
Paul smiled and continued, “You know, when you get to be my age, you start to read the obituaries ’cause that’s where all your friends are. Just two days ago, I saw your granddaddy’s face staring back at me after all those years. It came back to me all at once. I never even knew his name, but I’d never forgotten his face. The way he just smiled at us even when we never even thanked him for all he did that day. I had to come here to pay my respects because it turned out to be more than just a ride home on a hot August day. Something about that day changed the way I saw the world despite what my daddy said.
“Today, I got two grown boys I’m proud of. They’re good boys. Both became civil rights lawyers. They work in Chicago, and they have a partner who’s a black man. My daddy would turn over in his grave if he saw that. I’m old and sick. It won’t be too long before I’m laying there just like your granddaddy. You know, when my time to cross comes, I’m gonna find your granddaddy and thank him for that ride, put my arms around him and tell him all about my boys.”
Chicken Soup for the African American Soul Page 4