My Mother the Cheerleader

by Robert Sharenow

  The group’s leader, Ada Munson, always stood at the front and led the chant: “Two, four, six, eight, We don’t want to integrate!” Every morning the ladies brought articles from local newspapers in which they were mentioned. They’d begin the day by reading the articles aloud like a bunch of actresses poring over reviews of a stage performance.

  On that morning Ada Munson held a copy of the Jackson Daily News, a newspaper from Mississippi featuring an article with the headline “Woman Throws Egg.” She read highlights aloud to the group. “A Negro truck driver stopped at a traffic light in front of the William Frantz School in New Orleans on Friday, and a white woman threw an egg at him.” A few of the ladies laughed. “The egg missed the Negro’s head and smashed against the roof of the cab. The Negro man glared and drove away. The egg thrower was one of the Cheerleaders, Mrs. Antoinette Lawrence.” A few of the ladies gave a small round of applause for Antoinette, a petite brunette who giggled, gave a little wave, and said, “Oh, stop.” Ada Munson continued reading. “‘I don’t think the niggers are equal to whites,’ said Mrs. Lawrence. ‘Their heads are too hard to learn what our children can. We are going to win this fight. Let them niggers try to keep coming. I’ve got plenty of eggs.’”

  My mother stood in the back of the group, not really listening. I overheard a snippet of her conversation with Nitty Babcock.

  “And I’ll give you just one guess where he’s taking me for dinner tonight,” my mother said.

  “Hell, I don’t know, Pauline, just tell me,” Nitty replied.

  “It’s no fun if you don’t guess.”

  “Pauline, you are acting like a twelve-year-old child. Just spit it out.”

  My mother allowed for a dramatic pause and then blurted it out.

  “Commander’s Palace.”

  “You’re lying.” Nitty giggled.

  “Honest,” my mother replied, holding up her hand as if swearing an oath.

  “I’ve always wanted to go dere.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t.”

  “What are you gonna wear, sweetheart?”

  “That is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night trying to decide between my little blue cocktail dress and my orange number with the floral print. You know, the one that has the nice sloping neckline.”

  “You’ve gotta go wid da cocktail dress.”

  “You think so?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s real nice.”

  “I’ll bring the bag with the baby pearls along the handle.”

  “That’s perfect. Do you think he’s really met John Steinbeck?”

  “He hasn’t just met him,” my mother corrected. “He’s his friend, for Christ’s sake. They’re practically best friends. He’s had dinner at the man’s house with Mrs. Steinbeck on many occasions, just like regular people.”

  “Lord, I wonder what people like dat say to each other.”

  “Why, they’re just people, Nitty. He had a regular conversation with me, just like he was talking to anyone. I mean, he’s obviously more refined than most people around here, but it’s not like he’s from Mars or something.”

  “How you gonna do your hair?”

  “I haven’t a clue. I was just starting to go through my magazine collection this morning to get some new ideas when I had to rush on down here like a fool. I just hope Corrine can come up with something sophisticated for me. Last time I asked for ‘sophisticated,’ she made me look like Mamie Eisenhower. I swear I came out of there looking like a cocker spaniel…”

  Suddenly my mother stopped talking as something caught her eye in the distance. I followed her gaze to see Morgan’s Bel Air pull to a stop and park not too far down the street.

  CHAPTER 14

  Morgan got out of his car, locked the door, put on a pair of sunglasses, and walked toward the front of the school. At first I thought he might just walk up the front steps and go inside. Instead he took a position on the sidewalk directly across from the Cheerleaders and gazed around at the crowd. His face revealed nothing; he just seemed to be observing. I’m not sure why, but my mother instinctively drew back and quickly slipped on a pair of sunglasses.

  Outsiders always drew everyone’s attention, and Morgan was no exception. Royce Burke nudged one of his friends with an elbow and gestured toward Morgan with his chin. They whispered to each other. Two FBI men also took notice of Morgan and made notations in their little black books. A third FBI man wrote down the number of Morgan’s license plate.

  My mother silently watched him. Nitty noticed my mother’s unsettled expression.

  “Pauline, what’s wrong?” she asked.

  “N-nothing,” my mother stammered.

  Just at that moment the crowd noise swelled as a black Pontiac sedan carrying Ruby Bridges pulled up in front of the school. Morgan and everyone else turned their attention to the car. The Cheerleaders brandished their signs and, like a mad conductor, Ada Munson started to lead the furious chanting.

  Two, four, six, eight.

  We don’t want to integrate!

  Two, four, six, eight.

  We don’t want to integrate!

  Four tall federal marshals wearing white arm-bands took up positions beside the back door of the car, and six-year-old Ruby Bridges emerged from inside. She was a little black speck of a thing dressed in a blindingly white cotton dress. I could never understand why they let her wear those white dresses. With everyone so upset about her brown skin, it just made her skin look that much darker.

  Once all four men were in position around her, the group moved toward the school in unison. The crowd grew louder and more unruly the closer she got to the building. I was always amazed at how Ruby managed to maintain her composure. She never cried or even flinched. She just walked right into the school beside her bodyguards and didn’t give any indication that she heard or saw all the commotion swirling around her. How do you train yourself not to turn around when everyone’s screaming at you? Maybe she was partially deaf, I reasoned.

  At the time I wondered how and why she got picked to be the sole Negro student at our school. I assumed she must’ve been the unluckiest little Negro girl on the planet. I later learned that the plan to integrate the New Orleans public schools was very carefully orchestrated to minimize public outrage. The Ninth Ward was chosen because it had political advantages for the pro-integration forces. Because our neighborhood was one of the poorest sections of town, it consisted of citizens with the least political clout and therefore the least ability to fight the decision to integrate. The Cheerleaders were well aware of this fact. I had heard my mother grumbling, “Of course they wouldn’t dare integrate a school in one of the uptown wards.”

  The integration plan called for students to enter the first grade, and then new first graders would be added each year until the entire school system was integrated. Only girls were selected in the first year, to stave off hysteria that the Negro boys might try to kiss the white girls (or worse). In an effort to block or slow down the integration process, the state insisted that Negro children take an extremely difficult entrance exam to qualify to go to a white school. Ruby Bridges was one of the few who passed.

  News reports at the time were too polite to record the ugliest moments outside William Frantz. And it did get ugly. High school boys snarled at her, “Here, nigger, nigger, nigger. Here, nigger, nigger, nigger,” like they were calling out to a cat. One of Royce Burke’s cohorts, Clem Deneen, liked to throw paper bags filled with dog poop at her. Royce Burke favored verbal threats. “Tell your mama and daddy we’re throwing a party for dem,” he’d say. “A lynching party.”

  Perhaps the most hateful piece of heckling came from the relatively soft voice of Antoinette Lawrence. Every single morning she would lean in close as Ruby passed by and whisper death threats at her, saying she was going to poison her food. I later learned that because of Antoinette’s threats, Ruby had secretly skipped lunch every day for more than a month. Her teacher eventually found out what was g
oing on when she discovered a huge stash of uneaten sandwiches rotting in a cabinet in the back of the classroom.

  Typically, my mother was just one of the pack, a rank-and-file Cheerleader. She didn’t have a unique brand of taunting. She’d usually just join in with whatever chorus Ada would lead. She never carried a sign, cross, or flag. I think she avoided these props because she feared they’d take attention away from one of her matching parasols, handbags, or bracelets. But she always participated. I’d seen her throw eggs and tomatoes and cheer with the same intensity as the others, but not on this day. On this day she just stood in the back with her eyes locked on Morgan.

  Ruby and her escorts made their way up the steps amid the chants, threats, and thrown objects. Morgan just watched with a hard expression on his face. After one final crescendo of howls, the front door of the school closed and they were inside the building.

  CHAPTER 15

  The morning show on North Galvez did not end once Ruby Bridges was inside the school. By December there was a handful of white students back at William Frantz Elementary. These kids were not granted federal bodyguards, so their parents had to walk them to school every day themselves. As it turned out, the white kids may have needed more protection than the Negroes. The ugliest displays of hate were reserved for the white parents who dared to cross the picket lines. To the Cheerleaders, good old boys, and rednecks, nothing was worse than a race traitor. Ada Munson put it this way: “Da niggers are too stupid to know any better. Dey’re just being manipulated. But if you’re white, you ain’t got no excuses.”

  For the most part, the few parents who sent their kids were already considered outsiders in some regard. Herman and Maria Letterman sent their daughter Sophia. But Mrs. Letterman was from Spain, so she was not considered one hundred percent American, despite being a fully naturalized U.S. citizen. Her foreign birth explained her confused racial attitudes. The Reverend and Mrs. Eleanor Jenks sent their son, Timothy. At his church the Reverend Jenks had been preaching about how the Bible taught us to be color-blind and that Jesus would definitely have been in favor of integration. Everyone thought he had a perverted reading of Scripture, and he had lost many of his congregants. Father Bryson, one of the local Catholic priests, also used his pulpit to preach in favor of desegregating the schools. “Easy enough for a priest to say,” my mother sneered. “They never have kids of their own to worry about.”

  Morgan did not stay to watch any more of the show. After Ruby Bridges entered the building, he returned to his car. He arrived to discover Royce Burke and Clem Deneen leaning against the driver’s-side door of his Bel Air with their arms folded. Most outsiders and tourists simply avoided the area like it was a war zone. Curious observers who wanted to catch a glimpse of the spectacle were usually careful to be as discreet as possible. For instance, when Mr. John Steinbeck paid a visit to watch the Cheerleaders, he disguised himself as a tourist from Liverpool, England, for fear of being accosted by the crowd if they suspected he was a fellow American. Morgan had prepared no such ruse. When he approached his car, Royce and Clem made no move to clear out of the way. They straightened up and tightened their arms across their chests.

  “Excuse me,” Morgan said.

  “You want us to move?” Royce asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Now?” Clem responded.

  “Yes,” Morgan replied. “Now.”

  “We’re happy to oblige you, sir.”

  “No problem at all,” Clem nodded.

  Clem and Royce switched places so that they were still blocking the door. They giggled like they were the cleverest duo this side of Abbott and Costello. Morgan didn’t laugh. My mother watched from the back of the pack of Cheerleaders.

  “Please move,” Morgan said firmly.

  “Why you leaving?” Royce asked. “Don’t you want to see da whole show?”

  “I’ve seen enough, thank you.”

  “You drove all da way down here from New York and dat’s all you’re gonna stay for? Dat’s a shame, ain’t it, Clem?”

  “A dirty shame.” Clem nodded.

  “I’ll ask you again,” Morgan said. “Please move out of my way.”

  “Please move. We got ourselves a real gentleman, Clem.”

  “Where you from, boy?” Clem asked.

  “New Orleans, if you must know.”

  “Well, your car and your voice sound like dey’re from Jew York…I mean, New York City,” Royce replied.

  “I was born here,” Morgan answered.

  “Oh, really,” said Royce. “Den I’m sure you understand da way we like things down here, right?”

  Morgan stared at him for a long moment and then sighed. “Are you going to let me get into my car?”

  “Why, sure,” said Royce.

  Royce and Clem separated just enough to expose the handle of the car door. Morgan hesitated but then stepped forward with his key. He placed the key in the door and unlocked it. He turned the handle, but because Clem and Royce were still in the way, he couldn’t really open it.

  “Excuse me,” Morgan said.

  Clem refused to budge.

  “I said excuse me,” he said more firmly. Morgan opened the door so it brushed the back of Clem’s legs ever so slightly.

  “What da hell are you doing, boy?” Clem snarled.

  “I believe he’s getting physical with you, Clem.”

  “I believe you’re right,” Clem replied.

  “Please just let me—” But before Morgan could complete his sentence, Clem gave him a quick, hard elbow in the ribs. Morgan gasped but then reacted quickly by pushing Clem, who lost his footing and stumbled back. Royce leaped forward and grabbed Morgan, pinning his arms behind his back. A few of the other good old boys and two local police officers took notice and gathered around the three men in a circle. The police officers wore small grins and made no move to break up the action.

  “All right!”

  “Let him have it, boys!”

  “Show him some tooth, Royce!”

  Real fistfights look kind of silly and strange when you see them up close. In movies and television shows, fights usually look orderly. In a typical Western or gangster picture one man punches another man, who falls back and then retaliates with his own punch. But when you really see grown men fighting, it looks sloppy, ugly, and unpredictable.

  While Royce struggled to hold Morgan’s arms twisted behind his back, Morgan kicked and flailed with his feet to keep Clem at a distance. Clem roared forward and managed to punch Morgan hard in the stomach. Morgan winced and his knees bent, but he didn’t fall. Part of me wanted to rush forward and throw myself in front of Morgan to protect him. Another part of me wanted to grab the police officers and shake them for not breaking things up. Still another part of me longed to just run away as fast and as far as I could. But the biggest part of me just froze up with a fear so powerful, I don’t think I could’ve willed my body to move at all. My eyes darted over to my mother, who also seemed to be frozen in place, staring in paralyzed disbelief.

  Clem landed a quick punch to Morgan’s gut that brought him down on one knee. He coughed and doubled over. The crowd of onlookers cheered their approval. Clem reared back to give him a kick in the face. Just before the blow landed, Morgan lunged forward and grabbed at Clem’s leg. He managed to catch and latch onto a piece of Clem’s ankle. Clem tumbled over and Morgan twisted on top of him. Both men rolled on the ground. Clem pressed Morgan’s face against the pavement. Royce jumped on top of them and punched Morgan a couple of times on the back before a few more police rushed over. A big crowd had gathered, hooting and cheering louder. Even the local police couldn’t ignore what had now turned into such an obvious public disturbance. Four new police officers came forward and separated the men.

  “All right boys, let’s break it up,” said a police sergeant as he pulled them apart.

  The three men got back on their feet and stared at one another. The crowd clapped and egged on Royce and Clem. Morgan dusted himself off. A small
trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth, which he wiped with the back of his hand. A few pebbles were embedded in the side of his cheek and on his forehead from when Clem had pressed his face against the ground. The inside of his mouth must have been bleeding, because I saw his front teeth stained pink as he ran his tongue over them to make sure they were still in place.

  “What da hell is going on here?” the sergeant asked.

  “I’m just trying to get into my car,” Morgan replied.

  “He was starting trouble, Officer,” Royce countered. “Clem and I was just standing here, and he gave Clem a shove.”

  Some of the good old boys nodded and shouted their agreement.

  “Dat’s right.”

  “He did!”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “A man’s gotta be able to defend himself, right, Sarge?” Clem added.

  More of the good old boys chimed in with their assent.

  “Dat’s right.”

  “Can’t let someone just shove you.”

  “Got dat right!”

  “What da hell’s da world coming to?” Royce asked. “We got niggers in da schools and New Yorkers coming down thinking dey can push people around.”

  “It ain’t right.”

  “No sir, it ain’t.”

  The sergeant stared at Morgan.

  “That’s not the way it happened,” Morgan said plainly.

  The crowd roared its disapproval. The police sergeant pointed at Morgan and jerked his thumb toward the street.

  “Just get outa here. I don’t want to see you round here again. You hear?”

  Morgan didn’t reply. He just walked toward his car. The good old boys laughed and whistled. Royce and Clem still stood in his path. After a moment’s pause they parted and let Morgan pass. Morgan got into the car and started the engine. Royce momentarily stepped in front of the car.