Warriors Don't Cry

by Melba Pattillo

  Later Governor Faubus came on television to give what one reporter described as a pleading speech. “We are now an occupied territory. In the name of God, whom we all revere, in the name of liberty we hold so dear, in the name of decency which we all cherish, what’s happening in America?”

  “I can help you figure this out, Mr. Faubus,” Mother Lois shouted at the screen. “The President has called your bluff.”

  Later that night as my head was swimming with news reports and questions about whether or not to go back to Central High, I wrote in my diary:

  Everything in my life is so new. Could I please do some of the old things that I know how to do again. I don’t know how to go to school with soldiers. Please show me.

  P.S. Please help the soldiers to keep the mobs away from me.

  Instead of going to sleep in my clothing, as I had for several nights before, I put on my pajamas. With the soldiers in town, I felt safe enough to have a deep sleep, something I hadn’t done for a long time. I figured the segregationists wouldn’t dare do their late-night raids on our house with the President watching so closely.

  It was very quiet as I turned out the light. With the 101st in town, we didn’t hear as many sirens going off. Later, when I woke up thirsty and went to get water, I found Grandma snoring with the rifle lying across her lap. Maybe she felt safer, too.

  I don’t know how long I’d been asleep when I was jolted awake. I sat straight up in bed. The doorbell was ringing, and I heard voices on the front porch. Mama was standing over me. She put her hand over my mouth and motioned me to get up. The doorbell kept ringing over and over again. We moved toward the living room. Sleepy-eyed, Conrad met us in the hallway with a confused expression, asking, “Is somebody shooting at us again?”

  “Who is it?” Grandma yelled through the door as she peeked through the covered glass inset. “White men. It’s white men wearing black hats. What are they doing on our front porch at this time of night?” Grandma said as she picked up the shotgun.

  Then she shouted through the door again: “State your business, gentlemen, or I’ll be forced to do mine.”

  “We’re from the Office of the President of the United States; please open your door,” they called back. “We have a message from your President.”

  Grandma opened the door ever so slightly and demanded that they show proof of who they were. They passed their identification through the half-opened door. Mother Lois examined the writing closely and nodded a yes.

  “How can we help you?” Grandma lowered the gun to her side, keeping it hidden as she opened the front door a bit more. Mother Lois stood beside her. I thought it was funny as I looked around and noticed we were all wearing our nightgowns and pajamas to greet the messengers from the President of the United States.

  “Let your daughter go back to school, and she will be protected,” one of the men said, handing Mother Lois an envelope.

  THE next morning, Wednesday, September 25, at 8 A.M. as we turned the corner near the Bates’s home, I saw them, about fifty uniformed soldiers of the 101st. Some stood tall with their rifles at their sides, while others manned the jeeps parked at the curb. Still other troops walked about holding walkie-talkies to their ears. As I drew nearer to them I was fascinated by their well-shined boots. Grandma had always said that well-kept shoes were the mark of a disciplined individual. Their guns were also glistening as though they had been polished, and the creases were sharp in the pant legs of their uniforms.

  I had heard all those newsmen say “Screaming Eagle Division of the 101st,” but those were just words. I was seeing human beings, flesh-and-blood men with eyes that looked back at me. They resembled the men I’d seen in army pictures on TV and on the movie screen. Their faces were white, their expressions blank.

  There were lots of people of both races standing around, talking to each other in whispers. I recognized some of the ministers from our churches. Several of them nodded or smiled at me. I was a little concerned because many people, even those who knew me well, were staring as though I were different from them.

  Thelma and Minnijean stood together inspecting the soldiers close up while the other students milled about. I wondered what we were waiting for. I was told there was an assembly at Central with the military briefing the students.

  Reporters hung from trees, perched on fences, stood on cars, and darted about with their usual urgency. Cameras were flashing on all sides. There was an eerie hush over the crowd, not unlike the way I’d seen folks behave outside the home of the deceased just before a funeral.

  From time to time, as we walked about, we nine students acknowledged each other with nods and smiles. Like the others, I felt compelled to stare at the uniformed men. Walking up close to them, I saw that some weren’t much older than I was. I had been told that only white soldiers would be allowed at Central, because the presence of nonwhites would inflame segregationists. Nonwhites were sent to the Armory, where they would be used as support teams or to guard our homes in case of a dire emergency.

  There were tears in Mother’s eyes as she whispered goodbye. “Make this day the best you can,” she said.

  “Let’s bow our heads for a word of prayer.” One of our ministers stepped from among the others and began to say comforting words. I noticed tears were streaming down the faces of many of the adults. I wondered why they were crying just at that moment when I had more hope of staying alive and keeping safe than I had since the integration began.

  “Protect these youngsters and bring them home. Flood the Holy Spirit into the hearts and minds of those who would attack our children.”

  “Yes, Lord,” several voices echoed.

  One of the soldiers stepped forward and beckoned the driver of a station wagon to move it closer to the driveway. Two jeeps moved forward, one in front of the station wagon, one behind. Guns were mounted on the hoods of the jeeps.

  We were already a half hour late for school when we heard the order “Move out,” and the leader motioned us to get into the station wagon. As we collected ourselves and walked toward the caravan, many of the adults were crying openly. When I turned to wave to Mother Lois, I saw tears in her eyes. I couldn’t go back to comfort her.

  Suddenly, all the soldiers went into action, moving about with precise steps. I hoped I would be allowed to ride in the jeep, although it occurred to me that it didn’t have a top so it wouldn’t be as safe. Sure enough, all nine of us were directed to sit in the station wagon.

  Sarge, our driver, was friendly and pleasant. He had a Southern accent, different from ours, different even from the one Arkansas whites had. We rolled away from the curb lined with people waving to us. Mama looked even more distraught. I remembered I hadn’t kissed her good-bye.

  The driver explained that we were not riding in a caravan but a jeep convoy. I could hear helicopters roaring in the distance. Sarge said they were following us to keep watch. We nine said very little to each other, we were too busy asking Sarge about the soldiers. At times the car was so silent I could hear my stomach growl. It was particularly loud because nervousness had caused me to get rid of my breakfast only moments after I’d eaten it.

  Our convoy moved through streets lined with people on both sides, who stood as though they were waiting for a parade. A few friendly folks from our community waved as we passed by. Some of the white people looked totally horrified, while others raised their fists to us. Others shouted ugly words.

  As we neared the school, I could hear the roar of a helicopter directly overhead. Our convoy was joined by more jeeps. I could see that armed soldiers and jeeps had already blocked off certain intersections approaching the school. Closer to the school, we saw more soldiers and many more hostile white people with scowls on their faces, lining the sidewalk and shaking their fists. But for the first time I wasn’t afraid of them.

  We pulled up to the front of the school. Groups of soldiers on guard were lined at intervals several feet apart. A group of twenty or more was running at breakneck speed up a
nd down the street in front of Central High School, their rifles with bayonets pointed straight ahead. Sarge said they were doing crowd control—keeping the mob away from us.

  Sarge said we should wait in the station wagon because the soldiers would come for us. As I looked around, I saw a group of uniformed men walking toward us, their bayonets pointed straight up. Their leader beckoned to us as one of them held open the car door. As I stepped outside the car, I heard a noise behind me. In the distance, there was that chillingly familiar but now muffled chant, “Two, four, six, eight. We ain’t gonna integrate.” I turned to see reporters swarming about across the street from the school. I looked up to see the helicopters hovering overhead, hanging in midair with their blades whirring. The military leader motioned us to stand still.

  About twenty soldiers moved toward us, forming an olive-drab square with one end open. I glanced at the faces of my friends. Like me, they appeared to be impressed by the imposing sight of military power. There was so much to see, and everything was happening so quickly. We walked through the open end of the square. Erect, rifles at their sides, their faces stern, the soldiers did not make eye contact as they surrounded us in a protective cocoon. After a long moment, the leader motioned us to move forward.

  Hundreds of Central High students milled about. I could see their astonishment. Some were peering out of windows high above us, some were watching from the yard, others were on the landing. Some were tearful, others angry.

  I felt proud and sad at the same time. Proud that I lived in a country that would go this far to bring justice to a Little Rock girl like me, but sad that they had to go to such great lengths. Yes, this is the United States, I thought to myself. There is a reason that I salute the flag. If these guys just go with us this first time, everything’s going to be okay.

  We began moving forward. The eerie silence of that moment would forever be etched in my memory. All I could hear was my own heartbeat and the sound of boots clicking on the stone.

  Everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion as I peered past the raised bayonets of the 101st soldiers. I walked on the concrete path toward the front door of the school, the same path the Arkansas National Guard had blocked us from days before. We approached the stairs, our feet moving in unison to the rhythm of the marching click-clack sound of the Screaming Eagles. Step by step we climbed upward—where none of my people had ever before walked as a student. We stepped up to the front door of Central High School and crossed the threshold into that place where angry segregationist mobs had forbidden us to go.

  13

  THE Screaming Eagles had delivered us safely inside the front door of Central High School. The soldiers, we nine students, white school officials—all of us were standing absolutely still as though under a spell. It seemed no one knew what to do next.

  Without any warning, a uniformed soldier stepped out of nowhere with an enormous old-fashioned camera. He pointed it toward us and snapped a picture.

  The commander of the troops spoke a few words, and our military protectors fell into formation and marched away. I felt naked without that blanket of safety. An alarm warning surged through my body.

  Principal Jess Matthews greeted us with a forced smile on his face and directed us to our classrooms. It was then that I saw the other group of soldiers. They were wearing a different uniform from the combat soldiers outside, but they carried the same hardware and had the same placid expressions. As the nine of us turned to go our separate ways, one by one a soldier followed each of us.

  Along the winding hallway, near the door we had entered, I passed several clusters of students who stared at me, whispered obscenities, and pointed. They hurled insults at the soldier as well, but he seemed not to pay attention. My class was more than a block away from the front door, near the Fourteenth Street entry to the school. I saw other 101st soldiers standing at intervals along the hall. I turned back to make sure there really was a soldier following me. He was there, all right. As I approached the classroom, he speeded up, coming closer to me.

  “Melba, my name is Danny.” He looked me directly in the eye. He was slight of build, about five feet ten inches tall, with dark hair and deep-set brown eyes. “I’ll be waiting for you here. We’re not allowed to go inside the classrooms. If you need me, holler.”

  My heart skipped a beat as the classroom door closed behind me. I looked back once more and saw Danny’s eyes peering through the square glass inset in the door.

  The teacher beckoned me to take a seat near the door, where I was in full view of the soldier. I was one of about twenty students.

  “You’all just gonna sit still and let this nigger come in here like this? I’m leaving. Who’s coming with me?” A tall dark-haired boy paused for a moment, looking around the room. At first, there was silence, but no one left. I took my seat, hoping to settle down and focus on the classwork. Sunlight flooded into the room through a full bank of windows along the far wall. It was a beautiful morning. I tried hard to concentrate, tuning myself in to what the teacher was saying as she continued her discussion of diagramming sentences.

  What a stroke of luck. Mother had played a game with Conrad and me, teaching us diagramming at an early age. It’s convenient to have a mom who is an English teacher. I tried hard to ignore the boy, who had now begun a scathing dialogue with one of his companions. He carried on in a low tone, just above a whisper, which everyone could hear, but the teacher could legitimately ignore.

  “You ugly niggers think just because you got those army boys following you around you gonna stay here.”

  I swallowed a sadness lump in the back of my throat. I wondered whether or not I should press the teacher to stop him from treating me that way. I decided against it because I thought she must be well aware of what he was doing. Besides, we had been instructed not to make a big deal of reporting things in front of other students, lest we be labeled tattletales.

  The boy continued his taunting throughout the period. At the end of class, I spoke to the teacher to get a list of back assignments, and during the conversation, I asked if she could do something to calm people down.

  “I hope you don’t think we’re gonna browbeat our students to please you’all,” she said. I pushed down my anger and walked out.

  Danny followed, walking far enough behind so that some students got between him and me. As I walked through the crowded spaces, I felt almost singed by their hostile words and glares. Occasionally students moved in close to elbow me in my side or shove me. That’s when Danny would step closer to make certain they saw him. When one boy walked up to try to push me down the stairs, Danny stared him down. The boy backed away, but he shouted at Danny, “Are you proud of protecting a nigger?”

  When I entered Mrs. Pickwick’s shorthand class things improved decidedly. It was like being on a peaceful island. She remained ever in control. There were a few whispered nasty remarks but no outbursts. Her no-nonsense attitude didn’t leave room for unruly behavior.

  I had been there about thirty minutes when I realized I was feeling kind of normal, enjoying the classwork and learning the shorthand characters. My stomach muscles let go a little, and I drew a long, deep breath. I didn’t know Mrs. Pickwick, but I liked her and felt safe in her presence. I knew I would always be grateful to her for the moments of peace her class provided.

  En route to the next class, I had to use the rest room. I had put it off as long as I could. I had hoped I could put it off until I went home. It was what I dreaded most because the girls’ rest rooms were so isolated.

  Danny leaned against the wall, across from the bathroom door, quite a distance away. I hurried inside. The students appeared astonished at the sight of me.

  “There ain’t no sign marked ‘Colored’ on this door, girl,” one of them said as I whizzed past.

  I couldn’t respond or even stop to listen to her. I was desperate to find an empty stall. Once inside, with the door closed, I felt alarmed at their whispering and scrambling about, but I couldn’t make out ex
actly what they were saying.

  I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. I promised myself I would drink much less water so I wouldn’t have to take that risk so often. The scratching and giggling frightened me. Just as I started to step outside the stall, one of the chorus said, “Nigger. Ain’t no soldier in here. . . . We got you all to ourselves. You just wait.”

  I ran out like a shot, pausing only a second to get a few drops of water to clean my hands. That’s when I noticed it—written all over the mirror with lipstick was “Nigger, go home.”

  Midway through my next class the bells began ringing in a way I’d never heard before. “Fire drill!” students shouted as they rushed out of the classrooms, gleefully chattering. I was terrified. Waves and waves of white faces rushed toward me, some sneering, some smiling, some angry; still others took the opportunity to shower me with ugly words.