Of course, as a stubbornly determined teenager, I couldn’t fully understand why all of my relatives weren’t just thrilled that I was preparing to attend one of the top high schools in America. Hadn’t they always preached to me about the value of education? Hadn’t they always encouraged me and shown by example that I should open myself to opportunities for advancement? So the concern and reluctance among a few of them to embrace my decision fully didn’t sit too well with me back then. It smacked of hypocrisy. With maturity, I would come to understand the gray that sometimes sits between right and wrong, and I would come to appreciate that their concern was more out of love than anything else.
But at the time, I just tuned them out. Thankfully, Mother and Daddy would not be influenced, either. So as registration day grew closer, I called Gloria Ray, a classmate at Dunbar. We had taken typing together and were members of the Honor Society. She was a serious student—she wanted to be an atomic scientist, for goodness’ sake. I suspected that if anyone else was considering Central, she was on the list. I was right. Gloria told me that she was indeed planning to attend and had received the same card about registration day. She agreed to pick me up.
As planned, Gloria and I rode together to Central for the first time. We considered the day so routine that we went without our parents. Our parents were very protective and would have demanded to go along if they’d had any inkling of trouble, particularly Gloria’s father. Harvey Ray was much older than my parents and had already retired from the U.S. Department of Agriculture. There, he’d founded the Arkansas Agricultural Extension Service for Negroes. He had received a degree in horticulture under Booker T. Washington at Tuskegee Institute and worked as Washington’s assistant. Her mother, Julia, worked as a sociologist for the state of Arkansas. Gloria’s siblings, an older brother and sister, were already grown. Gloria was the baby of the family.
She parked the car about a block away from Central, and we made our way to the front of the school. It was a clear, sunny day, and as we moved closer, I was filled with awe. I had never been this close to the front of Central before, and the yellowish brick and white concrete building was even bigger and more elegant than I had imagined. As I stood ground level and stared up at that great entrance, I felt tiny. Concrete stairs flowed up from two sides and seemed to go on forever. The building seemed at least five stories high, and I wondered if there were elevators inside. Gloria and I climbed the steps, headed for the main entrance on the second floor. At the top, we passed beneath four white, life-size statues of Greek gods and goddesses. Each bore an inscription that seemed to carry a message about the place: “Ambition,” “Personality,” “Opportunity,” “Preparation.”
At first, when Gloria and I stepped inside the school, we didn’t know which way to go. The closed doors of the auditorium faced us just a few steps away, and signs pointed toward the main office to our left. We followed the signs to the office. We had barely made it inside the office door when a woman behind the counter quickly rose from her seat and approached us. I announced that we were there to register for the fall semester. She introduced herself as Miss Opie, the registrar. She smiled and handed each of us a card that said we had to attend a special meeting at Superintendent Blossom’s office with our parents before we could register. Gloria and I looked at each other, completely baffled. Miss Opie was firm, not the warm and fuzzy type, but pleasant enough as she explained that everything would be okay; the superintendent just needed to meet with us before the opening of school. None of the other administrative workers even looked our way. Gloria and I thanked her, then turned and walked back out of the office and down the steps, headed for her car.
The two of us weren’t quite sure what to make of what had just happened. It was silly, we agreed, for school officials to instruct us to show up for registration, only to give us another card requiring us to attend another meeting. Why did we need to meet with the superintendent, anyway? Why was it necessary to bring our parents? And who else would be at the meeting? Gloria and I grumbled all the way to the car. As we got closer, we noticed a car parking just behind Gloria’s car. An attractive, honey-colored woman wearing a dress and heels hopped out and began hailing us over to her. I recognized her right away. It was Daisy Bates, president of the Arkansas State Conference of NAACP branches. She and her husband, L. C. Bates, co-owned and -operated the Arkansas State Press, the black newspaper I had delivered on my paper route in elementary and junior high school. Mother worked occasionally as an NAACP volunteer from a space at the newspaper’s 9th Street office, where she sold memberships and collected poll taxes. Mrs. Bates and Mother got along well. In some ways, they were cut from the same cloth—both pretty, ladylike southern women who placed great value in their manner and appearance. But where Mother was soft-spoken and quiet, Mrs. Bates was outspoken and opinionated. And in L. C. Bates, a longtime newspaperman, Daisy Bates had found a partner and kindred spirit willing to use the editorial pages of their newspaper to take a stand for civil rights and to rally against police brutality, the mistreatment of black war veterans in the city, and other injustices against black residents.
Mrs. Bates greeted Gloria and me and immediately began asking questions. She wanted to know all of the details—whom we saw, what had been said, how we were treated, whether we were allowed to register. We told her about the meeting with Superintendent Blossom and showed her the card. That was the beginning of my almost daily contact with the woman who soon would become my adviser, mentor, and biggest public defender. I didn’t question why Mrs. Bates had come to meet us at the school or even how she knew Gloria and I would be there. It would have been impolite to ask. The way I was raised, children stayed in their place, and it was not my place to ask a woman of her authority why she was there and whether she was expecting trouble. At fourteen, I was old enough to understand the historical significance of my enrollment in Central and the NAACP’s interest in it. It was the NAACP and its brilliant attorneys, after all, that had fought for the ruling in the Brown v. Board of Education case in the first place. I also knew some white folks wouldn’t like the idea of black students going to Central. But I really believed that what the U.S. Supreme Court said should happen would indeed happen because it was now the law of the land and because the law was just. I believed, too, that my presence at Central would allow my white peers to see that beyond the color of our skin, we all wanted the same thing: a fun and unforgettable high school experience, the best education possible, a jump start for our futures. I had no clue that while I was counting down the days until I started my new school, enraged white parents and other citizens—including the Arkansas governor, who had gotten my parents’ vote in the last election—were organizing to keep me away.
I’d been too caught up with the events of summer to pay much attention to the local newspapers, which were full of stories about the activities of the Capital Citizens Council and the Mothers League, which were organizing to stop the integration of Central. Both groups had begun holding meetings and even lobbying Governor Orval Faubus for a delay in implementing the Blossom Plan. The groups must have been emboldened by a poll indicating that 85 percent of the white population in Little Rock opposed school integration. Telephone calls poured into the offices of Blossom and Faubus from white callers who threatened violence if black students were allowed to enter Central. One of the most vocal segregationists was Reverend James Wesley Pruden, the founding pastor of Broadmoor Baptist Church and an active member of the Citizens Council. He ran newspaper ads to help whip up the public frenzy. The ads asked questions that seemed to reveal the underlying source of all the fear: Would black boys and white girls be allowed to dance together at school dances? Would black boys and white girls be paired in romantic love scenes in school plays? The mere thought that their white daughters would be in such proximity to black boys petrified white mothers and fathers throughout Little Rock. Superintendent Blossom obviously was feeling the pressure because he would raise that overtly sexual issue when he met with us stu
dents and our parents face-to-face at the August meeting.
Mother and I left home early that August evening to make sure we made it to the meeting in Blossom’s downtown office on time. Punctuality was always important to Mother and Daddy. Even now, I try to arrive at least fifteen minutes early for appointments. That practice paid off when we arrived at the school administration building that day, because we were among the few who got seats. Several folding chairs had been lined up facing Blossom’s desk, but most of the crowd behind us was forced to stand. By the time the meeting began, about thirty-nine students and our parents were crammed shoulder to shoulder in that small space. It didn’t take long to feel the temperature rising, as though all of those bodies sucked up every bit of fresh air.
I felt a bit anxious, unsure why we were all there. What was there to discuss? Hadn’t the Supreme Court said that black students should have the same educational opportunities as our white peers? Central was my neighborhood school, and I’d made my choice. I knew I was a good enough student to make it there, but I wondered whether the purpose of this meeting was to discuss our qualifications. I looked at Superintendent Blossom, who sat stoically behind a large wooden desk. He was a big white man, about six feet three inches tall and at least 250 pounds. His dark hair was slicked back lightly, and a pair of black glasses framed his serious eyes. His large hands rested atop his desk. Blossom’s serious expression didn’t change when he started to speak. He had called us there to go over the rules, he explained. Black students would be allowed to attend Central, as expected, he said, but it would take time on both sides to adjust. We might hear some name-calling, he said, but we were not to retaliate in any way. For our own safety, he added, we had to leave the school grounds as soon as our classes ended. That meant we would not be allowed to participate in any extracurricular activities—no varsity sports, clubs, chorus, band, or even the Student Government Association. We also could not attend any after-school parties or sporting events. Central had a championship team whose winning streak had lasted over a year, and I’d been looking forward to attending the games. I could just imagine myself with my classmates in the stands in Central’s college-size football stadium, cheering and chanting for the Tigers, bursting with school spirit and pride. It had always been that way for me at Dunbar, which didn’t have a football stadium and had to play at Central.
Blossom could not be serious, I thought. Sure, I was a serious student, but I’d always maintained a full roster of extracurricular activities, too. That was the fun part of school. My family encouraged my getting involved in school. It helped to make me well-rounded, they said. Now I was expected to give up all of it? What about baseball? And basketball? What about cheerleading, the student council, and the National Honor Society? Weren’t those the rewards of working hard in school? Wouldn’t those kinds of activities give black and white students with equal talents and interests a chance to work together and get to know one another? The superintendent had no idea how involved I had been at my old school or how good I was at sports, I thought. When my white classmates got to know me, when they saw me play, they would want me to join their organizations and athletic teams. I was sure of it. So part of me just tuned Superintendent Blossom out. In my mind, this was just formality. Blossom was saying what he believed he had to say. But I was certain things would be much different when I got to Central.
As I sat in that room taking it all in, I was still under the impression that the decision to attend Central High School had been all mine, that I’d sealed the deal when I signed the sheet of paper in my homeroom class at Dunbar. I had no idea that Little Rock school officials had been given the biggest say, that they had approved me. I would learn decades later that by the time we black students showed up at Blossom’s office with our parents that day, every one of us had been thoroughly vetted. So Blossom indeed knew exactly what kind of student I had been at Dunbar. I imagine that I, as well as all the others in the room that day, had been put through a kind of Jackie Robinson test. Baseball historians say that Jackie Robinson, though clearly talented, was not the best player in the Negro Leagues. But he became the Dodgers’ top choice for his historical role because he also possessed the kind of character and temperament that would enable him to withstand the racist attacks sure to come. Likewise, the black students in that room were not just the best and brightest students academically, but we were student leaders from working-and middle-class families whose backgrounds had been deemed acceptable by the school system’s white leaders for the moment at hand.
I snapped out of my own little world when I heard Blossom specifically address the boys in the room. The room was full of black teenage boys, listening intently as the superintendent put them on notice:
“You are not to date—or even look at—our girls,” he said.
I distinctly remember his using the word our. The girls weren’t just white; they were his. They were special. I was stunned. What did that have to do with anything? I thought about my friend Ernie. I also thought for a moment about Emmett Till. I wondered how Ernie and the other guys in the room must have felt. What if they accidentally bumped a white girl? Or, God forbid, smiled at one? Would it be misinterpreted? Would they be reprimanded? Or worse?
Everyone else must have been shocked, too, because no one said a word. The room was so still, it felt as though no one even breathed. The tension was as thick as the heat and humidity. Sweat rolled down faces like so many tears. This came at the close of a meeting that lasted about forty-five minutes. There were no questions or discussion. Even as parents and their children filed out of the room, there was silence, uneasiness.
Mother and I walked quietly to the car. When we stepped outside, an uncharacteristic breeze was blowing. It wasn’t exactly cool, but it was fresh air nonetheless. The sweat on my face and hands began to dry. I slowed my stride. Mother wouldn’t dare let me know if she was concerned about what she had just heard. She would wait and talk it over with Daddy behind closed doors. I knew that if they felt too worried, they could just put their foot down and say I couldn’t go to Central after all. As independent as I was, I had no illusions about who was in charge. But I was pretty confident in my abilities to sway them. I wasn’t a crier; I’d learned in elementary school that crying didn’t work with Daddy. When I got in trouble back then, it always seemed Mother waited until just before Daddy came home to spank me. A time or two, I was still red-faced, heaving with sobs, when Daddy walked through the door. I looked at him with my most pitiful wet eyes. He leaned close, as if he felt sorry for me, and then he said:
“Young lady, why are you whipping your mother this evening?”
He always took Mother’s side. That used to upset me, so I stopped playing the crying bit. But unlike some members of my family who believed to the core in the old edict that “children should be seen, not heard,” Daddy would hear me out if I objected to his decision. Sometimes, just a certain look on my face would do it. But after the meeting with Superintendent Blossom, I knew that I would just have to wait to find out where my parents stood. This was grown-folks business, and Cartelyou and Juanita Walls weren’t apt to discuss grown-folks business with children. As usual, Mother put on her best June Cleaver face after the meeting. She always wore that composed look, even in the midst of trouble. But from the time I was a child, I’ve always been able to see right through her. I learned early to read her eyes. They always told me the truth, even when her demeanor or her words did not. And that evening, her eyes told me something was wrong. She was worried.
This was not going to be an ordinary school year. Blossom certainly had made that clear. But even then, I wasn’t particularly worried. The advantage—or disadvantage—of youth is that you don’t know how much you don’t know; you can barely conceptualize those things you’ve never seen. Youth can give you an unfailing faith that the world will give you back what you give to it, what you expect. Youth can give you untainted hope. So I walked out of that meeting undeterred. If Blossom had intended to change my
mind, it didn’t work. Even the worry in Mother’s eyes didn’t give me a second thought about my decision. I was as determined as ever to go to Central.
Come September, I would be a Central Tiger.
CHAPTER 4
Wait and See
Just before Labor Day, my great-uncle Emerald Holloway stopped by the house with a surprise gift for me: cash to buy a brand-new dress for my first day at Central. Everybody in the family knew that Mother was a fastidious seamstress who usually made all of my clothes. But this was no ordinary first day of school, Uncle Em said. The integration of the finest high school in Arkansas would happen just once in our lifetime, and I had to have a dress to match the occasion. Even one of Mother’s perfectly tailored creations would not do. I had to have a store-bought dress.
Mother and I took the bus downtown and searched our favorite department stores until we found the perfect outfit: a black skirt set with small, bluish green letters and numbers spread in a random pattern. The blouse had short sleeves, just right for the hot and humid early days of September. The skirt was pleated at the waist, with enough fabric to flow over my crinoline slip. The outfit looked sophisticated and smart, not too dainty. I wasn’t a dainty kind of girl. I hung the skirt set in my closet to wait for the big day: September 3, the Tuesday after Labor Day.
Labor Day marked the end of summer vacation, and my family spent the afternoon at Gilliam Park. The pool was the main draw, and it was always so full of people that you could barely swim a clear path from one side to the other. My family cooked hot dogs and hamburgers on a cast-iron pit in the grassy picnic area. Between pool breaks, the teenagers danced to the rhythm and blues and rock and roll blaring from the intercom. About midday, I heard a rumor that Governor Faubus would appear on late-night television news to make a speech about Central, but I was having too much fun to give it much thought. Later that afternoon, though, I checked the newspapers—the Arkansas Gazette, the morning paper that we received daily at home, and the Arkansas Democrat, the afternoon paper that we sometimes picked up from the newsstand. Neither of them had any information about the speech. My parents didn’t seem worried. They liked Faubus. They had voted for him twice before in previous elections. He was a man of the people, I’d heard them say. And unlike his past opponents, he was not a strident segregationist. He certainly was no John Patterson, the Alabama governor who had banned the NAACP from operating in his state and welcomed the support of the Ku Klux Klan. And neither was Faubus a Marvin Griffin, the brash Georgia governor who promised to keep the schools in his state segregated “come hell or high water.” Three small school districts in rural Arkansas already had been integrated peacefully in the previous two years with little notice. Faubus had even refused to intervene when white residents in one of the towns—Hoxie, a community with fewer than two thousand residents in northeastern Arkansas—protested the desegregation of their schools and asked the state to step in. My parents and I had no clue that Faubus had made an about-face and was moments away from announcing a bold move that would help to write Little Rock’s civil rights history.
A Mighty Long Way Page 7