The bullying continued. Some students called me ugly, stupid, and many other names that conjured up negative images in my mind. I had to adopt a sizable program in self-talk in order to rescue myself. My decision was to be in touch with my growing warrior deep inside. First I had to turn my cheek. I had to find a practical way of deflecting the names hurled toward me—a shield that would insulate my soul and keep me practicing peace and nonviolence. Above all else, I had to resist any response to the violence.
When someone called me stupid, my inner voice whispered, Melba, they are strangers. What do they really know about you? You are brilliant. Look at your great grades throughout elementary and high school—always A’s. Your grandma reads Shakespeare to you, and your mom has already earned a master’s degree. She is studying for a doctorate. What do the bullies know of your family or what they have taught you? Slowly, I could feel my determination to finish another day inside Central. I could feel my warrior deep inside me preparing to fight for what I deserved, to conquer the bullies and claim Central High as my own. All I needed was to be left in peace to learn so that I could graduate.
“You are so ugly, an ugly black nigger,” the bullies would often shout. I looked up the word nigger in the dictionary and wrote that definition on paper. I found that no part of it fit my truth. My inner voice replied, You have a great ponytail and a cute smile. You’re beautiful, Melba. God has your picture on His fridge, remember. He celebrates your beauty each day. He celebrates your smart brain.
Withstanding the day-to-day torture over the months was a tedious task. We could see little improvement; the bullies instead got more sophisticated—more skilled at their torturous acts. The sameness of the days and the rigors of repeated insults became a major hurdle. They seemed never ending. On some day, only long, deep, and continuous prayers helped me survive. The imprisonment over the weekends added to my sadness. It became hard to imagine that the year would end and I would again be free to be me.
For every insulting name I was called, I repeated the 23rd Psalm and spoke five positive compliments to myself. I discovered that the notion of self-talk requires surrender to the idea that God is a just God and that, inevitably, you will receive the very reward you seek or one even better than you might be striving for. Patience is the answer. I was learning to “wait on the Lord.”
I sustained an inhuman number of mental and physical injuries from bullies surrounding me. Often I would respond by saying the Lord’s Prayer aloud. But time after time, I reached for the inner voice that comforted me: If I surrender to bullying torture, then they will use it as a tool against me and my community over and over again to hold on to their traditions of prejudice. They will deny me the vote, education, jobs, or housing. I will overcome their efforts by not falling victim to bullying. At that point, my warrior roared inside. I felt totally determined to remain in Central High. It was my place as much as it was theirs. God had called me to this task to be present at Central High for a reason, and I could not give in to “sticks and stones.”
As November turned into Thanksgiving, the 101st soldiers left us to our own devices. There was no official announcement. They were simply gone, replaced by the sloppy, dirty, giggling Arkansas state troopers. This change frightened me at first, but I was so much stronger now, having witnessed the discipline of the 101st and listened to Grandmother and my bodyguard. I was certain that I could count on God to give me the stamina to survive.
It became a bit more difficult to sustain myself after one of our nine was expelled from school for retaliation. Minnijean had been expelled after five months for dumping soup on a predator’s head, even as he was in the midst of torturing her. The shouts in the hallways during class change became, “One down, eight to go.” The more they shouted, the more determined I became to stay. Observing the bullies’ joyous behavior at our mishap caused me to remember what Grandmother had said. They would be even more overjoyed if I committed suicide. From that point on, the more hostile their behavior, the more my warrior locked in my will to outwit and overcome their wrath. I did just that. With God’s help, I completed the year.
Year after year as I grew older and witnessed the toppling of the walls of segregation at Little Rock and schools across the South, I began to understand the impact of my decision to remain at Central. Just as Dr. King had said, integrating Central wasn’t all about me. It was about the opportunities future generations could claim based on my job. As Grandmother had said, “It was God’s assignment.” I became more and more grateful for not only my growing faith in God but also my trust that He would see me through all the challenges of my life, as He did that year in Central High.
Christ was never a wimp. The Bible records His actions as purposeful, determined, energetic, and accountable.
Six
Keeping My Faith in My Darkest Hour
At age sixteen, during the summer of 1958, my adventures took me far beyond my imagination. On a tour sponsored by the NAACP, we nine spoke in eleven cities across the country. We toured state capitals and landmarks, including the United Nations, the White House, and all the Capitol buildings. We even went to a Johnny Mathis concert as his personal guests with VIP seats. All the while, we stayed in fancy hotels with outrageous room service, rode in shiny limousines, appeared on television and radio, and did newspaper interviews.
Integrating Central High had been a nightmare, but this tour was like a big dream, especially when the white doorman in front of the fancy New York hotel opened the door of the shiny limousine and said, “Won’t you please step in, Miss,” and bowed to me. I had to ask myself, “Was this Melba, with people standing in line for her autograph?”
Once I returned home, however, reality hit me with a shower of dark clouds. Governor Faubus had built a private high school for all the white students who once attended Central High School and closed all the public high schools across the city, including the African American high schools. But while others worried that the closing of Central High would bring integration to a screeching halt, I was distressed by Grandma’s fast deterioration.
When Grandmother India first became ill, although she said it was nothing but a sore throat, I knew it was worse, much worse because she began to take naps during the day. She never took naps unless she was not feeling well at all. She had always said, “A body shouldn’t take rest during daylight when there’s God’s work left to be done.” Grandma refused to see the doctor for sniffling. “Just getting a little sniffle—no need to disturb the doc.” After two weeks, Mother sent for our family doctor, who came and went away telling Mother that Grandma needed a specialist. We were all puzzled. He said he would send back a specialist to confirm and explain the diagnosis.
I grew even more nervous while waiting the few days it took for the white specialist from the University of Arkansas to come to the house to tell us what was really wrong with Grandma. Finally, one afternoon as she lay taking a nap, a white doctor, a throat specialist sent by our doctor, knocked on the door. He smiled as he entered the living room greeting all three of us, Mother, Conrad, and me. He introduced himself as Dr. Roth. I was impressed with the respect he showed to us.
Mother explained about Grandma’s throat and how listless she seemed to be. He entered her room to examine her. I peeked through the crack in the door as he introduced himself to her, saying he’d heard about her stubborn cold and that he came to halt it before she infected all of us. I was pleased that he took a moment to tease Grandma, because that meant he saw her as a person. He smiled at her as he examined her body thoroughly and asked questions. He laughed with her, and when he laughed, he had kind eyes. And he also called her Miss India, not Aintee or by her first name as most white people did when they wanted to show disrespect for her age.
The doctor continued chitchatting with Grandma, charming her into allowing his examination. I satisfied myself that he seemed to be a nice man and would care for her, so I stepped into the living room to wait with Mother and Conrad. None of us spoke. I could hea
r the clock ticking the minutes away. After a long while, my stomach grew queasy, and my heart started pounding in my ears. I could almost hear the anxiousness that was overtaking us. I headed out the back door to sit awhile in the yard. But I couldn’t sit still, so back and forth I paced—waiting and praying.
When Dr. Roth called Mother into the front hall, I rushed to stand by her side. The expression on his face was so serious, I couldn’t make myself stay to hear what he had to say. Instead, I ran out the back door in tears and seated myself on the bottom step.
“You better get inside,” my little brother, Conrad, said when he came out to get me after what felt like an eternity. “Something’s wrong. Mother’s crying out loud.”
Mother Lois appeared pale and drawn. Her hands were shaking as she entered the living room. She was silent as she slumped down into the big, green velvet chair, tears streaming down her face.
“How long will it take her to get well?” Conrad asked.
“What’s the matter with her?” I asked.
“It is leukemia,” Mother whispered and stared at me with the most awful look in her eyes. Conrad suddenly left the room, not knowing what that was but knowing it was awful. Maybe he was too young to hear the truth. I did not call him back.
A week later, Grandma completely lost her sweet, gentle voice that had so many times whispered “I love you” as she tucked me into bed or served me lunch or walked with me to church. She could only write notes to me on paper. “Smile,” she would write. “Smile because God is loving you and me both at this very moment.” I would smile and then take a break outside to cry.
Day after day, I sat at the end of her bed reading the 23rd and 91st Psalms to her. On October 17, the ambulance carried her off to the hospital. We walked those shadowy, stark white halls as nurses in starched uniforms rustled back and forth. Whenever I entered her room, she forced a smile and pulled the headscarf down over the undyed gray hair that framed her weary face. The light in her eyes was dimming. On October 24, just before dawn the shriek of the ringing telephone awakened us all at once; we were called to the hospital. An unfamiliar, stoic-faced white doctor gathered us into a sterile, shiny, and windowless room to say the words—Grandmother India had expired.
“Expired—what does that mean?” Conrad asked.
“Died,” the doctor said with no emotion in his voice.
Suddenly, Conrad broke away and ran down the hallway toward her room, shouting her name at the top of his lungs.
At that moment, I felt all life drain out of my body. I stood frozen. It felt like the walls, the floor, Mother, the doctor standing in front of me all caved into me. I could neither hear, see, nor feel anything around me. I couldn’t catch my breath. It was utterly silent in the room. Had I died with her? Would she please let me die with her? I couldn’t stand the thought of her leaving me.
I don’t remember how we gathered up Conrad and got home, but I found myself sitting on the back stairs later that morning. There was nothing inside me telling me what I should do next. Grandma had been with me all my life. She was my playmate as a toddler, my home teacher as a preschooler, and always my friend whenever I needed her. She had taught me to read using the Bible, to grow plants, to clean toilets, to iron shirt collars, and always to be certain of God’s love and to share it with others.
Grandma India had tucked me into bed almost every night of my sixteen years on earth. She had gotten down on her knees beside me to help me pray and make God my friend. Each morning, she had opened my bedroom drapes and welcomed the light to start my day. She was the safety in my darkness. She was music and sunlight, all my Sunday picnics, my Christmases, Easters, and birthdays. She was everything right and good that I knew of life.
Without her beside me, I would not have made it through the year at Central High to achieve the goal of integration. I was certain the sky would fall and there would be no tomorrow. Surely the sun would cease to shine. She was the hope and strength that had carried me. How could I go on without her?
Mother Lois and other arriving relatives called me to come inside, but only the chill of dusk drove me in. I heard people coming and going, footsteps echoing in the front of the house. Some of them brushed past or spoke to me, but I could not discern their words or speak back to them. I went directly to the bathroom, slammed the door, and stared into the mirror, wondering how my reflection could be there with Grandma India gone.
Later that evening, Mother Lois collapsed and the doctor had to be called to give her a sedative and put her to bed. Conrad whispered endlessly as though talking to Grandma could bring her back. I sat paralyzed and silent in the living room in the green chair that no longer felt like a cozy friend hugging me but instead a container for my rage—a collection of my doubts and calls for help from the Lord Jesus.
Church people came to take care of us. All their hot plates of food, tears, and talk about Grandma’s wonderful character did not make my hurt go away. I felt empty and cold inside even when I stood by the fire. I would never feel her hug or love again. When bedtime came those first nights without her, I lay down to sleep on top of the covers with all my clothes on and prayed that Grandma India would come roust me up, order me to get into my pj’s, and tuck me into bed. When she hadn’t come by dawn, I stood and went back to the green chair to sit. In my diary, I wrote:
India Anette Peyton, India Anette Peyton, India Anette Peyton, India Anette Peyton, India Anette Peyton . . .
over and over again, until I filled two pages. Then I wrote:
God, I’m so angry at you. How could you take away the person I love most on the earth? India Anette Peyton.
I didn’t move, not to eat or even to go to the bathroom, until late that afternoon when the pastor’s wife dragged me up to wash my face.
“Cleanliness is next to godliness,” she said sounding like Grandma India. That night, I went to bed in the same clothes and waited for Grandma to order me to change clothes and then tuck me in.
Early next morning, the third day without Grandma, Mother Lois, Conrad, and I found ourselves alone, sitting in the living room without the well-meaning friends. The house was in disarray, something Grandma India would never have tolerated. I stared at the mess, wondering who would come along and organize things. I could hear her melodic voice echo in my head: “Get off your ‘sit-down’ and show that you can get started doing His will. That’s all God requires of you, and He will do the rest.” I got up and started humming the spiritual I had heard her hum all my life, “I Am on the Battlefield for My Lord,” as I tidied up and put things away in the places she always had. In the bathroom, I opened the window and screamed, “How I do hate you, God. Where are you?”
I made breakfast the way I had seen her do a million mornings, with napkins and placemats and silverware sparkling. As the toaster purred, I was careful to follow Grandmother’s instructions about fallen egg yolks. Mine stood like soldiers on parade. She would have been proud of me, I thought, as I called Conrad and Mother Lois into the kitchen. They were surprised and pleased.
As we took our seats around the table, we all stared at the empty fourth chair—her chair. We couldn’t hold back the tears. I could just hear Grandma laughing as she teased us, “Tear-soaked eggs and toast, you ought to be ashamed.” Despite the fact that I didn’t remember ever having a family meal without her, we got through that first meal somehow. I couldn’t stop staring at her empty chair and the unused place setting, as though wishing it would bring her back.
The day of Grandma India’s funeral, I got up early to clean and scrub the house—even the toilets—to make certain everything was just as Grandma would have it. I was sweeping off the front steps when the long, black, shiny limousine, just like the ones I had ridden in while in New York, pulled up in front of the house. I didn’t want to ride in that long, black car to the church with all my crying relatives. I didn’t want to see them load up Grandma India at the church to go on her last ride to the cemetery. I ran inside and slammed the front door.
I knew I should be getting dressed to go to our church for Grandma India’s funeral, but something inside was holding me back. I couldn’t make myself go with Mother, Conrad, and the other relatives and church members to do that awful thing: to sit in church looking at Grandma India stiff and cold, lying so still in a wooden box, and then to bury her. How could I stand still watching strangers shovel dirt over her wooden box? While neighbors and friends arrived at our house in their Sunday clothing, I wore jeans and a loose shirt and had uncombed hair. People stared at me, but I said nothing.
I would leave my room to see what was going on, then duck back in and slam the door. Hard. Then I crept down the hall to Mama Lois’s bedroom to watch the sisters from Grandma’s church in North Little Rock help her put on the white wool dress she had for the funeral. I looked into her eyes and said nothing and walked back into my room.
Suddenly, my aunt Mae came and banged on the door to my room. “You better come out here, girl. You better get yourself together.” Miss Lela Brown from our church was with her shouting, “You look a might undone in them jeans.” I did not answer. I could hear the chatter in the living room where the minister was gathered with other people, starting to say a prayer aloud. I stepped down the hall to join them and paused.
At that moment, they hushed up and stared at me as if I were some awful criminal. Once again, several of the women came toward me with their hands outstretched, saying how much Grandma loved me—as if I didn’t already know that. “You can’t let her go alone—she needs you. If you really love someone, you go all the way with them, all the way to the grave.”
“I don’t know what you’re doing, Melba Joy, but you know you gotta get dressed. Now you hurry. You can’t hold up everything,” Aintee Mae said, standing there in her Sunday white, pointing her finger at me. “You’ve got to walk this last mile with your grandmother.”
I Will Not Fear Page 5