That evening, I thanked God for what was a miracle day. The presence of the soldiers did not totally convince the bullies to back off, but it was evident they were compelled to abandon some of their vicious activity. With personal bodyguards at our side—two soldiers each—and hallways full of uniformed men, I hoped that students would have a period to get to know us and to see that we meant them no harm but were there solely to get a good education just as they were.
However, after two days, we nine came to realize that the presence of the soldiers was not viewed by the segregationists’ camp as a call for peace but instead as a declaration of war. The white Mothers’ Citizen Council, an arm of the Klan, set up a training school to teach Central High students how to torture us.
Only a few of the vast number of soldiers of the 101st whom we saw were men of color, and none of these men guarded us. Our guards were always white. There was also the incredible realization that we were being guarded by some young men the exact same age as the Central High seniors. According to the local press, at night when they weren’t guarding us, some of them were dating the female Central High students.
Although this was worrisome information, Grandmother said I must continue to have faith. “The very presence of the soldiers is a real miracle. Rarely has any president in United States history sent soldiers to intervene in city or state business.” She called them “angels in combat boots” and promised that they were in this country’s uniform and therefore would abide by the rules and regulations that governed their being chosen as a part of the Special Forces.
Indeed, those soldiers did live up to their commitment and their reputation as a disciplined unit. Despite trials and tribulations, acid in my eyes that would compromise my sight to this day, raw egg on my head, flag points piercing my back, and an array of torturous acts perpetrated on all nine of us, eight of us made it through, by the grace of God. To endure their behavior, I was able to build a wealth of faith and hone my practice of trusting God. The daily activities that frightened and discouraged me also compelled me to trust God. As it turned out, that Central High process would be my primer on faith and trust, providing the foundation for the rest of my life.
With gratitude for having gotten inside Central, I realized from the beginning that nothing about attendance resembled my former life in our old high school. My life changed so completely that I hardly recognized it. At first, there was excitement, astonishment, and delight at all the media attention I was getting. My pictures were on national television; President Eisenhower had written me a letter promising that if I returned to Central High, I would be protected by the troops. But it wasn’t quite that easy. The segregationists did not accept the authority of the soldiers. Attending school became a daily dose of agony that I strained to endure.
Then the realization hit me. The pain and torture were continuous during time spent inside the school. That was minimally seven hours each day. Add to that travel time, exit and entry times, and time spent in meetings, and I concluded my entire life was now wrapped around the word integration. I wasn’t at all certain I had understood how huge the task would be.
“Why me, God?” I asked over and over. “Why me?” I woke up with that question on my mind each day and heard it repeated in my head whenever there was a space between the stressful activities filling my day. It was puzzling to me that the white students were not one iota more accepting as time passed, and I prayed harder and harder. Why had there been no effort on their part to quell their bullying behavior? Why did they not see that we were humans with innocent tasks to perform?
The students remained violent and unwelcoming, with few exceptions. Of the nineteen-hundred-plus students, some seemed willing to step forward and speak up against the primitive behavior. Those who did also suffered at the hands of their fellow students. Where were the adults, Christians, ministers from their community meant to civilize them? Their uncivilized behavior was true one week later and one month later. I felt their violent wrath grow bigger and bigger, energized by even more hatred each and every day.
After a few days, I became obsessed with trying to anticipate what awful atrocity they would launch next, especially in bathrooms, during gym class, and in the classroom because no soldiers were present there. I became obsessed with questions: How would I be injured? Where would I be injured? When would I be injured? Where on my body would I feel pain? When would I die? I felt my thoughts spinning out of control, but I had no one to speak to about my feelings.
One of the major weights I felt on my mind was the expectations adults had of us—not just our parents but NAACP attorneys who had dedicated their lives to working on ending segregation, people who read newspapers, lots of people we had never met. How could I disappoint them? I was becoming sadder each day. I was more uncertain of why I was so determined to attend that school and if all that I hoped to accomplish was equal to enduring so much suffering.
Was my graduation from that top-rated high school and the opportunity it offered to fulfill my dream of getting into a highly rated California university worth all the punishment I was suffering? I’d heard from friends how much different things were in California, how things were freer and happier there. To say that I was often very unhappy was an understatement. I held my breath, waiting for the weekends, hoping I could have fun with other African American friends who were leading normal lives. I was shocked to find that, after a few weeks, most African American students from our old high school began to shut us out.
Their parents were concerned about their safety. They too were being threatened because we were integrating Central, so they questioned integration itself. We had little time for normal teenaged socializing. What with homework, talking with the press, and meeting the NAACP obligations, I found myself exhausted from activity I did not find entertaining. I was not certain that I could generate the strength it took to make it through another hour, another day, or another week, let alone through two semesters.
I prayed so hard, spending the weekend on my knees, in church, or with my face in the Bible. Grandma’s words began to stand out in my mind: “Wouldn’t the best revenge be to remain there the entire year, to compel them to open their schools to people of color in the future, to graduate from Central? Many more of our people would get that because you first opened that door. How would striking back, escaping, or being thrown out make you feel? It hurts now, but I promise you there will be a time in the future when you will have joy when you think of this time. You will be grateful for all you have endured. You will be a strong warrior and so much readier to deal with life as it comes after this event.”
Looking up into Grandmother’s eyes, I couldn’t imagine I could have joy when speaking of Central High School and my days there. None of what she promised made sense, but I trusted in the tone of her voice and the light in her eyes. In my heart, I knew she knew the truth, and I had to trust her. She gave me hope—hope that there could be a time when I felt normal again. There would be a time when the fear that was drowning me would turn into my ability to overcome fear in all my life. It was her tight, warm hug that gave me enough magic elixir to move forward.
Finally, she instructed me, “Faith is patience and trust that God knows exactly what He is doing, and since He cares about you and your future, you will eventually know that this was the right thing to do. It is God’s plan that prevails—not yours.” Grandmother pointed out passages in the Bible that said to be patient and wait on the Lord.
I couldn’t help speculating how the change in all the bullies and haters might come about. Would it simply happen over a weekend, or would it be the result of something major, like the president making a decree of some type? How could the white students of Central High—all nineteen hundred of them—be made to see us as equals? We didn’t want special treatment; we didn’t want them to be our best friends. They could simply stop calling us names and hitting and kicking us, simply leave us alone. The problem was, I was waiting for them to change. Then one day it dawned o
n me. If segregationists had gone on for ages without changing their hideous behavior, then why would they now, why for me?
Meanwhile, with each passing day I began to settle down a bit, which reduced the fear somewhat. We regularly held meetings with dignitaries of the NAACP or ministers from all over the United States. On one particular evening, it was Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. who joined us in the home of local NAACP president, Mrs. Daisy Bates. I had read about his work in freeing our people and teaching equality. I was very honored that this noted civil rights leader would come to see us. He was so stately, so calm, so centered in a generous, loving attitude. He was to me undoubtedly a fearless, chosen angel.
At this point we were three weeks into the semester at Central High, and I was exhausted, depressed, and disappointed. I was still in shock at the price integrating that high school was exacting from me. I was somehow convinced someone would change things in an instant, so I couldn’t stop myself from spilling my feelings about how much I was suffering to Dr. King. His quick answer was loud and clear as his huge eyes held mine with a commanding stare.
“Melba, don’t be selfish. You’re not doing this for yourself. You are doing this for generations yet unborn.” His voice was kind, his face empathetic. Still, as he spoke, I first felt embarrassed, ashamed, and guilty for expressing my feelings. But he went on to explain to me the nature of a God-assigned task and surrender and patience. I had been waiting for white students to change, extend kindness, and welcome me, when maybe it was my task to change.
His statement jolted my thought process. I had to think long and hard about other students of color—other African American and Asian and Hispanic students—who would benefit from attending Central High with its academic advantages and equipment, and new, clean books, and many opportunities. The questions hanging in the air were, how much had I thought about them and how much did I really care about their needs? Was I being selfish to focus only on my needs? Dr. King’s statement was life-changing.
As my days became tedious exercises in survival, my military bodyguard compared them to army warrior combat. He suggested I stop obsessing about what was going to happen and focus on surviving now. At first, it was very hard to do, but my 101st bodyguard helped me adapt my fears into survival techniques. Many times he reminded me that at no time during the day did I have time to ponder or to cry—I had to keep alert to my surroundings and keep moving. He told me I would have to develop specific techniques for coping with the day-to-day attacks.
A hymn Grandmother sang endlessly, “I Am on the Battlefield for My Lord,” began to provide fresh hope for my mind. I had heard her sing it over and over as long as I had been on this earth. She sang with a smile, and now I listened closely each time. Surviving was the best revenge. If I could learn to console myself, to elevate my thoughts to think of the bullies’ antics as a game—then I could win, and the winner takes all. Integration would begin officially after this year if I won, or the school would go back to segregation if they won. Integration couldn’t be just for me; it had to be for a lot of other people who suffered. Segregation took away opportunities for a decent education and good jobs, but most of all it took away self-confidence. I began seriously thinking about all the ways attending that school could improve the lives of many students now and maybe my younger cousins in the future.
I could feel something growing inside me that I had never felt before. I vowed I would make it until Christmas vacation when I would have two weeks off and time to think. During a prayer chat with God, I shared my promise with Him and myself aloud.
By the beginning of November, we nine no longer had 101st soldier bodyguards accompanying us throughout the day. Instead, they were left to observe us from afar. If a big dispute erupted, they would step in. By the end of November, the 101st soldiers had gone back to their base in Kentucky. This was a time when I learned I could soothe my fears and keep them from boiling over by simply repeating the 23rd Psalm with every breath. With the bodyguards gone, I was overcome once again with trying to figure out what the students were going to do to me. Instead, I needed to be focusing on my immediate needs.
While preparing Thanksgiving dinner, Grandmother introduced me to two more crucial elements, two more of what she called the lynchpins in trust—gratitude and forgiveness. She explained that no matter what happens, I need to express my gratitude, knowing that whatever takes place has some piece in the ultimate puzzle that is the plan for my life.
At first, I was very annoyed at the suggestion that I should be grateful for the hurtful things that occurred in my day, all day. What was there to be grateful for? Still, she insisted I find things to be grateful for each day. Perhaps the hardest part of Grandmother’s instruction was to forgive those who mistreated me at school.
It would take years for me to understand that the Central High experience put a core of steel in my spine—giving me strength, hope, and understanding far beyond my years. It was indeed an experience that would prepare me to go through the trials and tribulations of life with a unique perspective.
Forgiveness, she explained, is necessary to prevent one from living a life of chewing lemons. A failure to forgive leads to bitterness. While you are still holding on to a grudge, chewing a sour lemon and wincing from the bitter taste, the person you pinpoint for your wrath, believing your differences have been resolved, may well have forgotten all about it. Forgiveness opens your heart—and clears space to enjoy blessings.
Above all else, she instructed, “Keep your purposes in mind. You are there to help others as well as yourself!”
Our purpose must be clear. Purpose means doing God’s work. It can never be activity for selfish reasons alone. There must be some share of gifting and contributing.
Five
Finding My Inner Warrior
I was determined was to remain a Central High student to complete my task of integration. I focused on putting as much of my energy as possible into coping mechanisms for surviving the abuse of each day. Faith, trust, and hope became the reasons I could get up, get dressed, and return to school each day for a day of misery. I began to have faith that I was willing to take the awful punishment in order to do God’s work because it was what He wanted. I started to trust that God would certainly support me in an assignment He approved of, and therefore the situation would improve sooner rather than later.
I felt the emergence of my warrior, the inner voice that energized me and affirmed that I was doing God’s work amid the harsh name-calling and frequent blows. The most frightening time was when I needed to use the girls’ room, for the guards could only stand a few feet outside the door. Sitting in the cubicle, I was trapped. Some of the girls held the door closed. Then they stood on the toilet seats in the adjoining cubicles and threw bits of lighted notebook paper in on me. The most difficult thing is to go through the process of adjusting to what people will do to you. At first, I was frozen, sitting there wanting to cry and call for help. But there was no human help; my only help would come from God. I dug deep inside to find my well of energy and answers to get past the self-pity and turn it into action. I realized that God would rescue me, but I must act. I could not simply sit down and cry. I was no longer a child. I had to get past the fire and smoke that covered me. I had to put fear in its place. I returned the fire by throwing the paper back on my attackers.
Still, I was constantly bothered by name-calling and the anticipation of what brutal act was to come next. Even on those days when I was attacked many times during and between classes, I thought I must have the strength to complete the task. I pondered how to stop being the target, the wounded one. The Quakers had instructed us not to give our attackers the satisfaction of seeing the wounds they inflicted. I began to ignore my attackers, not weep inside when called names and sprayed with curse words. Instead, I got busy scheming how I could overcome them if given the chance, without risking my goal. I said a prayer that God would guide me in doing what was appropriate to defend myself.
Over and ove
r again, Grandmother would remind me that I was one with God and therefore part of His infinite plan. She promised that when I fully understood that concept, I would realize my own value. I would know for certain I was equal, no matter what other people thought.
Meanwhile, I had to face the fact that I was surrounded by hostility, even in my own community. Increasingly, my people were losing their jobs and the privileges they had, such as donations of Christmas toys, food, used clothing, and furniture. White supremacists were pressuring our people to insist we nine give up. African Americans did not fully realize what they stood to lose in the future if we gave up—future rights to better education and better jobs.
People in my own church began asking me, “Why go where you’re not welcome?” Stunned by the question, I would stop to ponder. Finally, I remembered the answer Grandmother had given me long ago when we both were listening on the radio to Jackie Robinson take his place on the baseball field in New York as the first African American to play in major league baseball. People booed, and I worried they would hurt him and asked Grandma why he wanted to be there where he was unwelcome. She replied, “If you go only where you are welcome, that’s where other people want you to go, not where you choose to go. You’re limited by their vision—not living your own dreams.”
Now I was going where I was not welcome. When I spoke to Grandma about it, she said, “No one has the right to keep any institution we pay for with our own tax money from you. Central High is your school as much as theirs. Both your parents pay taxes.”
I Will Not Fear Page 4