Minnijean’s suspension was only mentioned in passing. Despite that worry, we nine enjoyed each other as friends, once outside the pressure we shared at Central High. We compared our gifts, of course. My favorite was a carved mahogany jewelry box. I’ll keep this forever and give it to my grandchildren, I thought to myself as I carefully placed it on the nightstand beside my bed later that evening. In my diary I wrote:
Tonight I feel love from my own people. Everybody tried to make us happy. There is the tiniest flicker of hope and joy inside me. Maybe things will work out. Please, God, won’t you allow Minnijean to come back to school just this once. I promise I’ll help her be stronger.
“I SEE where Mr. Bennett is applying pressure to that interracial human rights group, bugging them to give up their membership records again,” Grandma said over breakfast the next morning, as she folded the newspaper. “You know he and that law he got passed are becoming more than just a nuisance. He’s doing some real damage.”
As Grandma read snippets of information from the paper and discussed it with Mother, we noted alarming and increasing examples of segregationists applying pressure to our people in new and different ways. They were systematically attacking on all sides anyone who might support us in any fashion.
However, I wasn’t going to let it bother me today. This was one of my favorite times of all—the family’s annual last-minute Christmas shopping spree in downtown Little Rock. We had avoided going there for a long time, afraid I might be attacked. But I wasn’t about to let the integration steal my Christmas shopping trip. I argued with all my might. I could wear a disguise, stores couldn’t afford to invite trouble that might interfere with sales—on and on I went.
Thank God I’d won, I whispered, as we all piled out of the car. Looking around, I was absolutely awestruck by the holiday decorations and music that surrounded us. Inside, the stores were filled with Christmas magic and all the delightful things I had seen in magazines that I so desperately wanted but seldom could afford. On this one very special day of the year, as a Christmas treat, Mother Lois gave us each twenty-five dollars to shop. She asked that we remain within shouting distance of her and Grandma while we browsed.
As always, the white clerks gave me dirty looks whenever I touched the merchandise. They had only recently allowed my people to try on clothes in a few of their stores. They behaved as though they begrudged our being there, even though we were going to hand our money over to them. Having all that shopping fun enabled me to ignore their disapproval.
“Hey, a nigger without a soldier guard.” It was the boy who had threatened to kill me ever since I kicked him in the crotch. My first thoughts were to shout for help, to run away, but I couldn’t let him think I was a coward.
“We’ve only got eight niggers in our school now.” He spoke very loud to the boy standing beside him. “We’re getting rid of the others, too. But this one here, she’s not gonna live to go anywhere.”
“Yeah, Andy, if you get her out, you get that big prize money everybody’s talking about.”
“Ain’t no money gonna make me feel as good as killing her,” Andy said, glaring at me.
Frantically I searched for a way to get us all safely out of the store. Trying to behave as though I were not alarmed, I casually examined items that lay on the counter nearest me. When I had moved a short distance away from Andy, I quickened my pace. Just then Conrad approached me. Grabbing him by the collar, I tried to signal him that something was wrong, but he didn’t understand.
“Hey, Melba, let’s put our money together and buy this new game. Look, it’s got . . .” The thud of my heart racing in my ears drowned out his words. I hoped his excited voice would attract Mother and Grandma, but it was Andy who responded to him.
“Two niggers . . . I wonder what I’ll get for both of them.” Andy moved toward us.
“Don’t you call my sister a nigger,” Conrad was yelling back at him. I hoped their voices wouldn’t cause a storewide fracas.
“This way,” Grandmother India said, shoving us ahead.
“Hurry!” Mother said.
Conrad protested in a loud voice as we quickly hustled to I didn’t know where.
“This isn’t the way to the front door,” I protested.
“Move it, girl.” Grandma whispered.
All at once I realized where she was going—the rest room. Great, I thought, we’ll be temporarily safe there, but then they’ll call the police and we’ll be trapped.
Once inside, I had to catch my breath and bring up a polite smile to greet three ladies from our church, who stood preening themselves in front of the mirror.
“Gracious, Lois, that boy is old enough to do his business with the men,” said Sister Floyd, annoyance on her face.
“My baby is just a little ill. I’ll have to tend him.”
Grandma shoved Conrad into a stall, beckoning Mother to come closer as she whispered to her. I imagined a big ugly scene where policemen arrested us as Andy and a crowd of hecklers cheered.
Mother didn’t seem as frightened as she ambled up to Mrs. Floyd and started a conversation about the Christmas social. As the ladies headed for the door, Grandma ushered Conrad and me to follow close on their heels.
Sure enough, Andy and his friend stood just outside the door looking like angry lions waiting to devour prey. Grandma glared at them as she said, “Why, my goodness, I guess you two gentleman are forced to make a pathway so’s the seven of us can squeeze past.”
The scowls on their faces melted into sour frustration as they eyeballed the church ladies and slowly backed off. Sister Floyd weighed at least 250 pounds. Sister Lanie probably weighed a tad more, and Sister Bell was no slouch, what with her sleek, athletic six-foot body. After we had traveled some distance, I looked back to see Andy and his friend following us but not up close.
“Well, young lady, from now on, you can just give me your list, and I’ll take care of it. I don’t know what we would have done without the sisters,” Mama said as we piled into the car and looked all around us, taking deep breaths.
“It was the Christmas spirit that lulled us into letting our guard down,” Grandma grumbled on the way home.
Going downtown, seeing all the people shopping and the decorations, had always been one of the best parts of my holiday celebration. The segregationists had stolen yet another important piece of my life—they had taken away my Christmas shopping fun.
THE day before Christmas the Gazette carried two major local stories: “WHITE CHRISTMAS” BANNED AT CHS? and 13 LAWSUITS PENDING OVER INTEGRATION. I was reading the articles as Conrad and Mother Lois prepared to go shopping without me. The first story about “White Christmas” embarrassed me. How could they assume we didn’t know the difference between white snow and white folks.
The second article said the federal courts were deluged by new filings and a backlog of cases on the racial integration issue. They would all be settled in the next months before the start of the new school year. Some of the issues to be ruled on applied to our case. If the judge ruled against integration, our surviving all the brutal punishment at Central would be in vain because they would use those rulings to kick us out of their school.
When Mother Lois and Conrad left for downtown, I told myself being left behind didn’t matter anymore. At least I was grateful that I didn’t have to go to Central that day. Besides, nothing could make me sad with Christmas so close and Grandma rattling paper and hiding gifts while I felt safe and snuggled warm, watching television as I dusted the living room.
Christmas Eve was delightful as we sat sipping hot chocolate and wrapping gifts to place under the tree. Each of us traded a personal gift. If during the year one of us coveted something that belonged to another, we might get the temporary loan of that item for January of the new year. We especially looked forward to those gift notes in our stockings. For example, I was thinking about granting Conrad the privilege of using my stereo twice a day for one month, but I wasn’t certain I could be that gener
ous so I wrote “maybe” on my note to him.
Vince called to say he would come by on Christmas, with Mother’s permission. The thought of our being together near the tree on that special day, listening to carols, really sparked romantic daydreams. But as always my daydreams were so much better than the reality of being with him because we now had very little in common. He still spent most of his time questioning me about Central and teasing me about being a celebrity.
Of course, like lots of young people and adults, he teased me about Minnijean’s chili incident. It made me feel uneasy about continuing to like him so much. If he really understood what I was going through, he should realize that the chili incident was a big crisis in my life, one that worried me every moment of every day. I began to wonder whether I was better off just being with Vince in my daydreams.
Each day of vacation, Minnijean and I spent time on the phone or on visits, talking at length about what might happen to her. The more we talked, the more we realized it was something we could do little about. The final word rested with Superintendent Blossom.
Later that evening, Papa Will came by to bring his presents. I hadn’t seen much of my father since the integration began, but this time he was in a good mood. He didn’t bother to say “I told you so,” even though his awful predictions about integration causing trouble had for the most part come true. He was pleasant and genuinely concerned. The best part was the surprise he had hidden on the front porch, a brand-new television set with a big screen. He had chosen a special small gift for each of us. The fact that he put lots of time and thought into the gift selection made me feel that despite the way he had behaved, maybe he really did love me.
He and Mama looked at each other fondly for just an instant, and it felt as though we were a family again. I sometimes prayed they would get back together. At first Conrad and I had hoped against hope. As the years passed, we watched them grow apart in odd ways that made us sad. Rumors around church were that Papa even had a girlfriend now. But just for an instant, Conrad and I eyed each other, both thinking how nice it would be if he stayed. Maybe they would go with us to the family dinner and announce they were getting back together. But then Papa looked at his watch, cleared his throat, and off he went as though he had an important thing or person to get back to.
As Mother walked him to the door, I heard her invite him to our family Christmas dinner the next day at Aunt Mae Dell’s house, but he said he didn’t feel comfortable there.
Dear Diary,
It’s Christmas Eve and Papa’s not coming home to stay. For nine Christmases now I’ve prayed he would be with us. Maybe it’s not gonna happen. Could I please have a nice, new stepfather. Thy will be done. By next Christmas either I want things to be a lot better at Central or I want to be somewhere else, please God. Merry Christmas.
Christmas dinner with the family was the biggest occasion of the year, a time when we spent the day catching up on family love and bloodline gossip, as Grandma called it. We were twenty-seven laughing, chatting people. I had waited all year to see all the relatives who weren’t at Thanksgiving.
Even though all of them had definite opinions about my adventures at Central High, I had vowed not to talk about it. No matter what it took, I wanted to pretend life was normal again. I wanted the feeling of Christmas before integration. By late evening, as we sat in front of the fire singing Christmas carols, I realized maybe I had my wish. I hadn’t felt that content since the summer before in Cincinnati.
LITTLE ROCK STORY SECOND ON AP’S BEST LIST
—Arkansas Gazette, Sunday, December 29, 1957
THE stories ranged from number one, the launching of Sputnik, to Nikita Khrushchev emerging at the top of the Kremlin, the Teamsters Union hearings, Hurricane Audrey, President Eisenhower’s stroke, Asian flu, and the passage of the Civil Rights bill.
How strange, I thought, to be involved in something that the whole nation considers among its ten most important stories. If it’s that important, you’d think somebody would be able to do something to make the Central High students behave themselves. Is it that nobody cares, or nobody knows what to do?
BY New Year’s Eve, I only thought about Central High perhaps every other hour. Vince had invited me to a party, but of course Grandma and Mama said no. Besides, our famous shadows, Mutt and Jeff, were parked across the street, faithful as hound dogs in their vigilance. Although we discussed reporting them to the police, we knew full well that might bring on more trouble. So we simply lived with their being there, watching us. Mother didn’t like my coming and going at night even when the party was in my neighborhood. Only on rare occasions did any of us go out after dark. Once dusk came, we locked all the doors and windows and closed the curtains.
So on New Year’s Eve, I sat home completing my list of New Year’s resolutions:
To do my best to stay alive until May 29.
To pray daily for the strength not to fight back.
To keep faith and understand more of how Gandhi behaved when his life was really hard.
To behave in a way that pleases Mother and Grandma.
To maintain the best attitude I can at school.
To help Grandma India with her work.
To help Minnijean remain in school—to be a better friend to her.
22
THOSE first school days of the new year were frightening without Minnijean because it made us realize any one or all of us could be next. Posters and cards reading “One nigger down and eight to go” were everywhere. Segregationists left no doubt that they were seizing Minnijean’s suspension as an opportunity to fire up their campaign.
Governor Faubus was adding to our insecurity and revving up segregationists’ hopes by publicly announcing that the school board should file a petition asking the courts to delay integration. He cited a recent order to that effect in Dallas, Texas, as evidence that Little Rock could do the same. He also constantly threatened to call a special session of the legislature to enact segregation laws unless the feds would immediately take us out of school and halt integration.
Once we got back into our daily routine, it was evident that segregationists must have spent their holidays thinking up ways to make us miserable. I could feel their electrifying hope of victory all around me: they walked differently, talked differently, and didn’t hesitate to shower us with angry words and deeds, letting us know we were short-timers.
I had by then withdrawn from French class because I wasn’t able to concentrate with the combined pressure of the extremely hostile students and coping with everything else. I was also concerned that I couldn’t do my best in my English, shorthand, and typing classes, all of which would have been a breeze under any other circumstances.
Even before lunch on our first day back, we had all begun to experience a hell we could not have imagined. The rumor was that the White Citizens Council would pay reward money to the person who could incite us to misbehave and get ourselves expelled. It was apparent that many students were going for that reward.
Boys on motorcycles threw an iron pipe at the car in which Gloria and Carlotta rode to school. Inside school, the group of students whose talent was walking on my heels until they bled met me after each and every class to escort me to the next. I would speed up, they would speed up. I couldn’t escape no matter what I did. Ernie and Jeff were bombarded with wet towels, and boys overheated their showers. Gloria and Elizabeth were shoved and kicked. Carlotta was tripped in the hall, and I was knocked face forward onto the floor. Thelma was spared some of the physical abuse during that period because of her petite stature and fragility, but even she was jostled.
One of the ever-present and most annoying pastimes was spraying ink or some foul-smelling, staining yellow substance on our clothes, on our books, in our lockers, on our seats, or on whatever of ours they could get their hands on. We complained long and hard to the NAACP.
TOUGHS AT CHS DRAW NAACP FIRE
—Arkansas Gazette, Friday, January 10, 1958
Thurgoo
d Marshall, Chief Counsel for the NAACP, said Little Rock officials should get tough with the forty or fifty hard-core white students causing trouble at Central. “The toughs are still pushing our kids around, spitting on them and cursing them,” he said.
On Monday, January 6, Minnijean and her parents met with Superintendent Blossom. She was allowed to return to school Monday, January 13, with the proviso that she not respond to her attackers in any way.
I drew a deep sigh of relief as we discussed the good news by telephone that evening. “Fine,” I said to her. “You can do it.” I tried to explain to her what Grandma India had said about freedom being a state of mind. I tried to impress upon her that our being able to make it through the year was the biggest talk-back and fight-back we could give them.
A short time after Minnijean’s return, a boy doused her with what appeared to be a bucket of soup. She froze in her tracks and did not respond, even as the greasy liquid trickled down her chest and horror painted her face. Afterward, a group of perhaps fifty students gathered outside the principal’s office to shout cheers for the douser, saying he had paid her back. He was suspended, but we were frightened that he had set in motion an all-out soup war that could lead to the drenching of each one of us and guarantee a real brawl if we tried to fight back.
Warriors Don't Cry Page 25