I Will Not Fear

by Melba Pattillo Beals

  As time passed, Kay McCabe became someone I could talk to. She listened quietly without judgment—never criticizing me or making me feel less valuable. I began to feel she honestly liked me. When I came home complaining that my unfashionable Southern clothes made me stand out, she took money from the cookie jar to buy me a decent skirt and sweater.

  Ultimately, as time passed, George determined there were no African Americans nearby for me to date. So he launched a campaign to find one. He went to several junior colleges and colleges to interview their basketball teams. I was so embarrassed, besides which, I felt I was sinning as Grandma had said I couldn’t date until I was eighteen. Nevertheless, I felt his compassion and willingness to do whatever necessary to keep me from being alone and without a social life.

  With time, I would learn that God is everywhere, especially in California. His love exists without limitations of color or race. He certainly was present in the love-filled McCabe home. The love and care given me by George and Kay McCabe, and each and every member of their family, never wavered or caused me one moment of physical or mental pain. Their attitudes toward me expanded my horizons and taught me about unprejudiced white people outside of Little Rock and the meaning of unconditional love.

  Their very special acceptance and love would become a life-changing experience for me. They would remain my primary family throughout my life until this very moment. Living with the McCabes and being welcomed so completely by them also would initiate a major shift in my perception of my place in the world and my sense of humanity.

  The comfort and sense of freedom they provided gave me a sense of domain and self-confidence in the public arena. Being with them took away the power and sway white people had held over me for all of my life spent in Arkansas. Now I understood the Constitution—we are all equal and born entitled to equal rights. Only sometimes it does not work out. Folks of color aren’t granted privilege and rights—they have to fight for them and claim them deep inside.

  Until that moment, I had always accorded freedom with being white—only white people were truly free, I had thought while living in Arkansas. Now the McCabes taught me that white, a word I had often substituted for freedom, was a state of mind, and freedom was mine to choose. It was my decision to choose to be free and to not be limited by negative behavior and the attitudes of racists.

  George and Kay McCabe became parents to me. I would later come to understand that even before I arrived, they had been activists. It was Mom McCabe who had helped to create the local branch of the NAACP, the Quaker church, and the local PBS television station; marched for voters’ rights; and created preschools and a widely acclaimed, statewide Russian River project celebrated for seven days each year. She served her community based on her belief that everyone is equal with strength, courage, faith, and the freedom to dream. She endowed me with some of that same spirit.

  The McCabes helped me transition to college—first Santa Rosa Junior College and then San Francisco State University. It was the experience of living with them that allowed me to seek jobs where none of my people worked and climb other uncharted professional mountains without the primal fear of whites that I had lived with all my life. Now they were just people—people like me, like Mom and Dad McCabe.

  Since my first consciousness of being African American, of being alive, I had struggled with the notion of being equal, feeling equal. After interacting with the McCabes, much of that was erased or put into context. They were white, educated, brilliant, and kind, but they were just people, just like the African American people I knew. Never for an instant had they caused me to feel less valuable, less than equal in any way. To the contrary, they treated me as though I were precious royalty—one of their own children to be cherished.

  Life’s lessons come from unexpected places. We cannot afford to allow prejudices to shut out God’s blessings. Being equal is based on seeing equal. It is seated in each individual’s willingness to claim their own equality despite all evidence to the contrary and all talk by others who dare to question their value.

  Eight

  I Didn’t Expect It to Happen This Way

  When I was growing up in the 1950s in Little Rock, Arkansas, no one talked to me about romantic love relationships of any description. The only thing I could see in front of me was that my father and mother never got along, and it made for a very explosive lifestyle, particularly amid the threats and oppression of the Klan and all the whites around me. There was disagreement in my family. By the time I was five, they were divorcing. When I was nine, they were still in court bickering over custody of my brother and me.

  When I visited some of my friends, I could see that they had mothers and fathers who loved each other. They had fathers they could count on to hold their hand, take them to the park, and sit with them in church. For most of my life, I had only my grandmother and my mother.

  While living in California with the McCabes, I became accustomed to being in the presence of white people. I knew that, unlike the awful racists in Little Rock, there were some kind white people.

  Seldom did I think about dating or having a boyfriend. When I did, I heard the voices of my mother and grandmother admonishing me that I shouldn’t have those thoughts until age eighteen.

  At age nineteen and living on my own in an apartment with a roommate while attending San Francisco State University, I was at a loss to understand all of the new Northern lifestyle I had been cast into. Still, I knew there was no dating across the lines, and I never had a longing for a date with a white man. When friends brought home a date for my roommate, and he started talking to me instead, the only thing I noticed about him was that he was white and a soldier wearing a green uniform. He resembled one of the 101st Airborne soldiers who had guarded me in Little Rock.

  This man, whom I will call Jay, was more persistent with each visit. At the time, my roommate was dating someone else and said to me, “Go ahead, go out with him. What difference does it make?” I said it was something I absolutely couldn’t do, simply because it just wasn’t appropriate according to my Southern upbringing. I knew my grandmother and mother would have a fit.

  On Saturday morning a week later, when my roommate was out of town, Jay knocked on my door. I told him that Mary wasn’t home, and he said, “I didn’t come to see Mary. I came to see you. Come on, let’s grab some breakfast and go to the park.”

  “No, thank you,” I replied. “Mary will be back tomorrow.”

  “I’m not waiting for Mary. I’m waiting for you.”

  “I don’t date white men. It’s early, and I’m going back to bed,” I said as I began pushing the door closed.

  “I didn’t say anything about dating. I just said I want to have a bite of breakfast and go for a walk in the park.”

  “As I said, I don’t date white men. Sorry, I have to go back to bed. Saturday is my only day to sleep in.” I shut the door hoping he would go away.

  As I laid my head on the pillow, the only thing I thought was that he had the most interesting opal-green eyes, almost the same color as his uniform. Was he anything like the 101st soldiers who had guarded me, and what would it be like to talk to him about ordinary things?

  The blast of the alarm awakened me at 10:00 a.m. I circled around the apartment, putting on the teapot and looking for cornflakes. Once again, the doorbell rang. I answered the door and, sure enough, there he was with the same green eyes, the same smile, the same freckles and red hair.

  “Okay,” he said. “Nap over. Ready to get going?”

  “I don’t date white men.”

  “I didn’t say anything about a date. You have to eat somewhere. Why not come eat with me?” he said. “Do what you like. I’ll be waiting here for you. If we can’t have breakfast, maybe we can have dinner.”

  He sat down on the floor, picked up a magazine, and began to read. I stood there in my robe staring at him, thinking this white soldier would get me into trouble. I had such a difficult time renting the apartment because I was black. I was
the only black person I had ever seen living on Sutter Street in downtown San Francisco. Even the neighborhood grocer asked where I came from, who I was, living in that neighborhood. The other people of color I saw were either sweeping the streets or cleaning the hotel across the street. So I thought to myself, I need to do something to get rid of this guy before the landlady sees him hanging around the hall. I quickly got dressed and pointed my way to the front door.

  As we walked down the steep Sutter Street hill toward the center of downtown San Francisco, he grabbed my arm. “Okay now, be careful,” he whispered in a caring tone. Whenever he spoke to me, the tone in his compassionate voice echoed in my head. We were silent for a block. He let go of my arm when we reached level ground. And I said, “We’re going to get in trouble, you know. Where I come from, white men don’t walk with black women.”

  “Where I come from, they do,” he said. “Why can’t you see me as a man? Why not stop thinking of the color of my skin?”

  I didn’t have another word to say because I didn’t have an answer. The only thing I did know for certain was that I was so comfortable with him that I didn’t want to leave. I knew somehow that he wasn’t going to hurt me.

  As we entered the restaurant, he told me it was a world-famous breakfast restaurant and asked if I’d ever had eggs Benedict.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Let me show you.”

  I was so nervous I could hear my heart pounding in my ear because I wondered if the waiter would seat us together. I had been away from Little Rock for almost two years now, but I still couldn’t get rid of the notion that I was separate from white people and that there were Southern rules of behavior that would rear their ugly heads at some time or another. Jay held the chair for me as we were seated comfortably at a table. Jay put in the order for both of us: “Eggs Benedict.”

  His steely eyes caught mine over the table, and for a time I felt hypnotized, unable to look away.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Down South, Little Rock, Arkansas.”

  “You’re a long way from home.”

  “I guess so.”

  “How did you get out here?”

  All of a sudden, I heard words just pouring out of me like a gushing waterfall. Before I knew it, I had told him about my life in Little Rock, the explanation of my past, my fears, and the sorrow and sadness carried deep inside that weighed down my day. I talked to him about many things I hadn’t told anyone, feelings I hadn’t even known existed that were buried deep down inside. Perhaps it was the sympathetic look on his face or the way he occasionally stroked the back of my hand with his finger or his saying, “That’s all over. You will never have to live that way again.” Or maybe it was the tears that filled his huge eyes as I talked of Central High. Whatever the reason, I could not stop myself—even though I sounded out of control. Thankfully, midway through the meal, I had to make my way to the ladies’ room. That silenced me.

  I had waited as long as I could because I was frightened patrons would call me a name or disrespect me. Jay asked the waiter where the ladies’ room was. My destination meant I had to squeeze through the tables and past lots of people. Oh, how I dreaded it.

  “Fill this water pitcher please, and also I’d like more orange juice,” a stranger’s voice shouted at me. I didn’t know what to do.

  I said, “I’m not the waitress.”

  “Listen here, nigger, I said fill this pitcher and get me more orange juice,” the man screeched aloud.

  I looked at Jay across the room. His startled expression radiated real anger. He moved toward me with a swift thrust. Before he got there, the man said again even louder, “Didn’t you hear me? Don’t you speak English? Fill this pitcher and get me more orange juice now.”

  “Did you hear her? She’s not the waitress,” Jay said with anger in his voice and posture.

  “Then what is she doing in here?” the other man shouted.

  The man stood up with anger on his face, and he was all of the six feet two that Jay stood. Jay lunged at him and grabbed the front of his throat with an iron-firm claw. “Sorry that you have to leave.” Then Jay began backing him toward the front door. “Don’t worry about your bill. I’ll take care of it.” The woman who sat beside him looked aghast and followed him out the door.

  “Okay, Ladybug, let’s go.” Jay took my hand and led me to the bathroom door, where he waited outside for me. By that time, I was in tears. When I stepped out of the ladies’ room, he took my hand and guided me through the tables and people back to our table at the front of the restaurant with our unfinished eggs Benedict. I felt people’s eyes on my back; I got nervous and wanted to quickly get out the door.

  Jay said, “Take your time. We’re not in a hurry.”

  He took out some money and paid our bill and asked about the other man’s bill. The waiter told him not to worry—“You and your lady have a nice day.”

  Jay said, “Let’s get some ice cream.”

  We stayed together for the rest of the day, walking the hills of downtown San Francisco, looking in shops, talking, and riding on cable cars. He spoke very little; I nervously talked a lot. His quiet voice, welcoming smile, and protective manner made me more comfortable and safer than I could ever remember being. I actually caught myself smiling.

  “So this is what safety feels like,” I whispered to God. “This must be what it’s like to know that You are with me all the time and to trust that You are with me and that my safety does not depend on another human being.”

  After a block of silence, I asked him what he did in the army. He said he was a Specialist, an expert in martial arts and the kind of soldier who was dropped from a helicopter to survey the terrain and risks and location of enemy soldiers before the other US soldiers arrived. His strength, muscular stature, self-confident movement, and kind manner made me feel content. By the time we arrived back at my apartment, it was dark. Jay attempted to kiss me good night, and I did not resist him. Instead, I stepped on tippy toes and held him close, hoping he would hold me forever.

  When I was alone in my apartment, I asked myself, “What am I doing? My Little Rock friends will hate me, my mother will think I had a nervous breakdown, and reporters will write a big, nasty news story about how one of the Little Rock Nine kissed a white guy who looked just like the men from the mob who chased her with hanging ropes.” I felt guilty and swore I would never go out with him again. But I couldn’t stop myself from spending time with him. I wanted more and more of the feeling he brought that warmed my insides, a feeling of safety and joy, a feeling of being wanted and of knowing that I was valuable to him.

  The thing Jay provided to me that no one other than Kay McCabe had before was an opportunity to talk with another human being who listened and gave me their full attention. He listened to me forever, never displaying a bored or disapproving expression. He responded by squeezing my hand, moving to sit beside me, or putting his arm around me.

  It was as though I had waited all my life to tell someone of my feelings of being afraid, of going to downtown Little Rock at Christmas with my five-year-old hopes to sit on Santa’s lap and being rejected, or of facing the trauma of Central High haters. I spilled the pain and sadness of all that had happened to me when Grandma died and how much I hurt inside from always trying to stretch and not be seen as less than.

  Jay always listened to me. In exchange, he told me of his almost-perfect life growing up on a perfect ranch in Washington with family all around and with perfect parents—a mother who canned, baked cakes and pies, and raised horses—and of being a boy whose life was filled with barrels of hope and joy. For the first time in my life, I was not lonely deep inside. Jay took me on a trip to Reno, Nevada, and suddenly before I knew what happened, we were married.

  Life with Jay was something I didn’t know how to define or accept. I had no experience with how to be a wife or how to be pregnant. Suddenly I had a stranger inside me who wanted to eat things I had never eaten before. I had no
idea what happened during pregnancy. Jay did know as he had been around sisters who were pregnant.

  Increasingly, I felt I was in a role on a movie screen, one I had not signed up for as I didn’t know what was required. I had no one to talk to about all the strange feelings in my body. Mother was barely talking to me, of course, because I had married a white man without her permission. I prayed hard for some answers. All that came back was the knowledge that God was with me, and I should keep trusting Him.

  I had to quickly learn how to cook. Day by day, I became more bored. My mother had been shocked when I told her what I had done. She told me I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. “You must go back and finish college; you must get your master’s degree and your doctorate and follow the road to become a teacher or a lawyer.”

  Mother called me every single Sunday to tell me how disappointed she was. She repeated the lines, “Anybody could get married and anybody could get pregnant. If you are a black woman in this country, you must be educated.” For the other six days of the week, as I washed the dishes or mopped the floors, I would be haunted by her words. Anybody can clean the house, make a bed, sweep the floor, or mop the kitchen, and someone would always come along and mess it up again. But read a book and get a degree, and it’s yours forever.

  To get out of the house, I took a job working for the federal government. When my white coworkers saw that my husband was white and I was carrying a baby, they asked, “How will this child grow up in the world? It will be mixed.” For weeks on end, I worried about this. When I finally spoke to Jay about it, he replied, “Toward the sky. She will grow up toward the sky. She will be tall and graceful like you, my chocolate angel.”

  From the beginning, my pregnancy was difficult. By month four, doctors urged me to leave work and to enter the Army Presidio Hospital in San Francisco, where I remained until the baby was born. My days and nights were even more boring now. I was confined to bed rest. At least there I didn’t feel so conspicuous because there were two other mixed couples, and we became acquainted with them.