With the Might of Angels
Page 4
If I wrote my own dictionary, I would call it The Dictionary of Dawnie.
Here are my definitions:
Segregation: Negro kids go to Bethune. White kids go to Prettyman Coburn. Colored people can’t try on clothes or shoes they want to buy to see if they fit. We can pay for the clothes and shoes, but once we leave the store, we own the stuff whether it fits or not. Negroes can be hungrier than hungry, but we can’t sit down at the food counter to eat at Woolworth’s. We can be thirstier than sand in the desert, but we can’t drink water from a fountain if that fountain’s wearing a sign that says “Whites Only.”
The same is true for swimming pools, restaurants, and the Hadley Motor Hotel. They’re all segregated.
Here is one more definition of segregation from The Dictionary of Dawnie:
Segregation: Stupid.
Integration: Pie-in-the-sky.
Sunday, June 13, 1954
Diary Book,
After church today, a strange lady came to our house. She had two men with her. I know most folks in Hadley, and most folks know me and my family. But I had never seen the likes of these people. The men were Negroes, but the lady was white. I could tell by the looks of them they were not from around here.
I have never in all my whole life seen a white person come into our house with so much ease! She had a weird way of talking, too. Or, maybe I should say tawlking. Every other word out of her mouth had a saw behind it. She asked Daddy if it was okay that she’d parked their caw in our driveway. And she didn’t tawlk about her ideas — she was full of idears.
Even her clothes were not right. I’m smart for book learning, but I am no expert on girly fashion-y stuff. I do know, though, that wearing a black dress in the middle of the afternoon is what people do only for funerals. And I have never seen lipstick that dark on a real live person.
The Negro men wore suits, but the suit jackets had wide lapels and cuffed pants. Definitely not something I’ve ever seen in Hadley.
The not-from-around-here people spent near to a whole hour sitting in our living room. Drinking lemonade from our glasses, and tawlking, tawlking, tawlking to Mama and Daddy about their idears.
I was outside near an open window, so I caught snatches of what they were saying. I heard something about my Stepping Up speech.
Goober must have sensed something weird, too. He was very restless. He kept snatching my pogo stick and trying to slam his feet on it, and singing and screeching, “Dawnie can fly! Dawnie can fly!”
Finally, the people left. On the porch, Mama and Daddy shook their hands, even.
The white lady in the black dress gave Mama a hug! Right outside where everybody could see.
Goober and I were in the side yard. I’d given up my pogo stick to Goober. It was the only way to keep him quiet. We watched the not-from-around-here people drive away in their caw.
As soon as they were out of sight, I raced inside.
“Did somebody die?”
Saturday, June 19, 1954
Diary Book,
Here’s a secret I’m embarrassed to admit out loud, because it seems like a pie-in-the-sky wish that can’t ever come true.
When I grow up, I want to be a doctor. I want people to call me “Dr. Dawnie Rae Johnson.”
Other than studying hard, I’m not real sure on how I could get to become a doctor. I do know that I would have to first learn enough to be smart enough to somehow go to college, then doctor school.
What I don’t know is how you get the learning you need that puts you into college so you can go to doctor school after that.
What I also do know is that whatever books and supplies a kid needs to learn the stuff to go to college, and then to doctor school, are not at Bethune. And what I also don’t know is anyone who’s ever gone to college.
That’s why Dr. Dawnie Rae Johnson is as far away as Mars.
Tuesday, June 22, 1954
Diary Book,
Daddy brought me a present — a new Jackie Robinson baseball card! I have now read the stats on the card at least a hundred times. I’m tucking the card in my diary’s safe gutter to mark today’s date as the day the card got to be mine. The stuff about Jackie is sure nifty. Here are some Jackie facts:
* Jack Roosevelt “Jackie” Robinson
* Major League Baseball Debut: April 15, 1947, for the Brooklyn Dodgers
* Received the Major League Baseball Rookie of the Year Award in 1947
* The first Negro player to win the National League Most Valuable Player Award in 1949
* Bats: Right
* Throws: Right
I want to add one more fact about Jackie:
* Bravest player on the field.
Saturday, June 26, 1954
Diary Book,
Today I told Yolanda about my dream of being a doctor. Why in the world did I do that? I might as well have been telling her that hogs can dance the Hokey Pokey.
Yolanda laughed so hard.
She asked me, “Have you ever seen a colored doctor in Hadley?”
Well, no, I have never seen a colored doctor. Or a colored nurse, either. I’ve seen plenty of colored teachers and preachers, but no Negroes working in medicine.
Before I could answer, Yolanda told me, “My pa says there are only colored doctors in places like New York City, and not many of them.”
What I didn’t tell Yolanda was that I saw a colored lawyer once — I actually saw three colored lawyers.
I didn’t see them for real, in person, walking around and talking. I saw their picture in the New York paper, along with the article about integration. I have un-pasted and re-pasted the picture part of that article here. The words under the picture say:
LEADERS IN SEGREGATION FIGHT:
Lawyers who led battle before U. S. Supreme Court for abolition of segregation in public schools congratulate one another as they leave court after announcement of decision. Left to right: George E. C. Hayes, Thurgood Marshall and James M. Nabrit.
Those lawyers are sure smiling. They look real happy.
If there are Negro lawyers, there must be colored doctors and nurses, too.
Tuesday, June 29, 1954
Diary Book,
I just had to write two letters today, one to Jackie Robinson, and one to some other people I probably won’t ever meet, but who I admire.
LETTER NUMBER 1
Dear Mr. Jackie Robinson,
My friend Yolanda squashed my dream of becoming a doctor before the dream even had a chance to grow. Her words hit me hard. Real hard.
Mr. Jackie Robinson, what did your best friend say when you told him you wanted to play baseball in the major leagues? Did he laugh hard and ask, “Have you ever seen a colored baseball player in the major leagues?”
I bet you’re laughing now.
Signed,
Wanting to be Dr. Dawnie Rae Johnson
LETTER NUMBER 2
Dear George E. C. Hayes, Thurgood Marshall, and James M. Nabrit,
If you’ve ever seen a heel stomping on a wildflower, that’s what it was like when I told my best friend that I wanted to be a doctor. Yolanda just smushed my wish. It hurt when she did that.
Dear lawyers, now that I have seen your picture and read about you, I know what’s possible. But I have to ask—What did your friends say when you said you were going to be a lawyer? Did they smush your dream? Did it hurt?
Now that you’ve shown them what having a dream can mean, are they smiling as much as you are in that New York newspaper photograph?
Sunday, July 4, 1954
Diary Book,
Everybody and their brother comes to Linden Park for a picnic on the Fourth of July.
I don’t know who decided to call Linden a park. The park is really just the back lot of Clem Linden’s Barbershop, a place rusty cars and dandelions call home. It’s home to us, too, one of the places in Hadley where white people won’t go. We can be free to do whatever we want, how we want. Clem’s got a small patch of collards growing next to his t
omato plants, and a mess of pole beans coming out of the land like the legs of a giant.
Reverend Collier and his wife showed up at the same time we did. The reverend has the biggest car in all of Lee County. It’s a Pontiac, with fenders so shiny, you can look into them and clean the corn kernels from your teeth.
Somebody had already set up tables of food. There were heaps of coleslaw and mac-and-cheese. And I had to wonder if there was a chicken left alive within twenty miles of Hadley. The tables were covered with drumsticks and thighs.
Yolanda’s pa and Daddy played horseshoes with Clem Linden and Reverend Collier. All they talked about was this integration business.
Daddy said, “It’s about time. But this is not going to be an easy fight.”
Yolanda’s pa said, “If integration means whites and blacks are supposed to go to school together, white children can come to Bethune. Let us teach them a thing or two. Let us show them how the other half lives.”
Clem was quick to point out, “They’re going to make our lives miserable. White folks can’t stand knowing we’re getting something they have. I’m not throwing my kids into that hornets’ nest. My children are staying at Bethune.”
The reverend said, “This is a time of hope for our children. The best way to make that hope into something real is to rise and meet it. ”
Soon it seemed everybody was discussing integration. If collards could talk, they would have been debating with Clem’s tomatoes.
I was sick of it all. I’m glad I’d brought my baseball bat. I was able to rustle a game together.
Reverend Collier volunteered to be the ump.
Freddy Melvin was the pitcher. Freddy’s got more hot air than a wind balloon with a basket underneath it. He makes my gift of gab sound like mumbling.
I was the first batter up. Freddy Melvin shouted, “Hey, grandma, you ready to play ball?”
“Just pitch it, will you?” I said.
Freddy pitched underhand, slowly. He was treating me like a girl player. When the ball loped at me, I caught it, didn’t even try to swing.
I walked the ball back to Freddy. “Pitch it regular,” I told him. “I’m ready to bat — and to run.”
“Don’t you need a cane for runnin’, little old lady?” Freddy said.
Freddy knew I could bat the pants off anybody. He was just wisecracking.
His next pitch came fast, overhand.
Yeah, Freddy can call me “grandma” all he wants. But this granny hit a triple.
“Here’s your ball back, gramps!” I called to Freddy. “I hear there’s a sale on canes down at Millerton’s. You might want to get one,” I hollered from third base.
Roger Wilkes was up next. If I’m grandma and Freddy’s gramps, Roger’s great-grandpa. He moves slower than slow, and can’t bat worth a dime. “Bring me home, Roger!” I yelled.
I sure wish Freddy had pitched Roger a slowpoke-y underhand girly pitch. Roger’s the one who needed it, not me.
Freddy was making it worse by winding up his arm to show Roger he meant business. The pitch came—shwoop! Roger jumped back, out of its way.
“Strike one!” called Reverend Collier.
Freddy’s next pitch was faster than the first. It tore past Roger.
“Strike two!”
“I wanna go home, Roger! Home, you hear?” I shouted.
Roger adjusted his eyeglasses. “Home, Dawnie.” He nodded.
Schwooooop! Freddy’s third pitch was a smear of white.
Roger leaned in, and managed a good hit!
He worked his way to first base.
I hauled it home.
Freddy came at me with the ball, trying to get me out before my feet landed on the base. But I was too fast for gramps.
“Safe!” called Reverend Collier.
It was sure true. Today in Linden Park, I was as safe as could be.
Man, that baserunning felt good. As summer’s heat hugged its warmth around me, integration flew far out of my mind.
Sunset’s light had called every mosquito in Hadley, inviting them to leave a dotty map on my arms and legs.
Then came dusk. And fireworks dancing in the night sky.
Saturday, July 10, 1954
Diary Book,
Today was Goober’s ninth birthday, and my turn to give him a special gift. I decided to take Goober to Ruttledge Street, where Mr. Albert sells bags of roasted peanuts with salt. He peddles peanuts from a cart, along with squash, peaches, rhubarb, and cukes. Mr. Albert is a member at Shepherd’s Way Baptist Church, and he told me to bring Goober by for the peanuts, for free, since it’s his birthday.
Goober ate the peanuts fast. There was a film of salt left at the corners of his lips when he was done. He licked at the salt. “I’m thirsty,” he said.
Every Negro child in Lee County knows that when you’re thirsty, and there’s no colored drinking fountain, you drink your own spit till you get home.
But Goober, he doesn’t know nothing about colored water fountains, or those marked “Whites Only.”
He kept whining, “I’m thirsty. I’m thirsty.” And before I could stop him, he was running fast to get water from a “Whites Only” fountain.
I know a water fountain doesn’t care who drinks its water. But white people care. They really care.
Goober got to the “Whites Only” fountain, and started slurping the water. Then he dipped his face down into the basin to cool off! I have never been more scared for Goober than when I saw three white boys coming up on him from behind. I knew those kids. They were the Hatch brothers, Bobby, Cecil, and Jeb. Their daddy owns Hatch Hardware.
“Goober, get back!” I shouted.
Goober startled, then lifted his face, which was glistening from the water.
The boys had circled around Goober, who was offering them a drink from the fountain.
Bobby, the oldest Hatch brother, is my same age, but much taller. He said, “Well, if it ain’t a Negro retard!”
My heart was a fast pitch inside my chest, making its way to my throat.
The Panic Monster had sharpened his claws, and did they ever pinch!
“My brother can’t read good,” I managed to say. “He was thirsty. He made a mistake. But we’re leaving now.”
Jeb Hatch said, “Look, is that a colored girl, or a colored boy? Can’t tell by the dungarees.”
Mr. Albert had left his cart and come over. He looked just as scared as I felt inside. “Goober, Dawnie, get on now. Go home, you hear me?”
But Goober said, “Want some water, Mr. Albert?”
I didn’t want to holler at Goober. That would scare him. He didn’t know what was happening.
Mr. Albert folded one arm around Goober and one around me and backed us away slowly.
“Get outta here, and take that Negro retard with you!” Cecil called.
All three Hatch boys started to chant. “Negro retard! Negro retard!”
Then came sticks.
And spitting, too.
Daddy and Mama have told us to always tell them when we have a run-in with white folks. But telling about run-ins always leads to more trouble somehow.
It is late night as I write this. Goober has been rocking in his sleep.
And singing very quietly, “Happy birthday to me,” as he dreams.
And whispering “Negro retard” into his pillow.
Monday, July 12, 1954
Diary Book,
It’s the in-between. Not night, not morning. I’m folded into my bedroom’s tiny closet with a flashlight, writing.
It’s hot as blazes in here, and the only good air is what’s slicing through the crack of my partway open door. I’ve come to my closet because what I’m about to tell you feels supersecret. And, Mama has some kind of special power that lets her know when I’m awake, or when I’ve got my flashlight on under my covers. I don’t want to beckon whatever that thing is in Mama.
Yolanda told me that same white lady and the two Negro men in city suits came to her house.
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“Did they sit in your living room?” I asked.
Yolanda nodded.
“How long did they stay for?”
“My daddy showed them to the door soon after they started talking,” she said.
I told Yolanda how the lady hugged Mama.
Yolanda’s eyes went wide. “Hugged for real — like, touching each other?”
“For real,” I said.
That’s when Yolanda fished a crumpled sheet of paper from her pocket. It was a mimeograph copy of a flyer with lines for people to sign their names.
“This is what the two men and that lady gave my ma and daddy before they left.”
I have the steadiest hand in Lee County, on account of how firm I can hold a baseball bat. But my hand, all on its own, has a little quiver to it right this minute. And I’m doing something I hate when others do it, especially at school — I’m chewing on the pencil Goober gave me.
The paper Yolanda showed me has Mama’s and Daddy’s signatures on it.
I am pasting it here, just to make sure it’s real, and that this is not one of those dreams like when a Martian comes and takes you to someplace green.
NATIONAL ASSOCIATION FOR THE
ADVANCEMENT OF COLORED PEOPLE (NAACP)
TAPS TOP STUDENTS TO START
INTEGRATION PROCESS.
Parental Consent Required.
Right off, I recognized Mama’s curly signature and Daddy’s blocky way of forming letters. They’d signed me up to attend Prettyman Coburn, come September!!
Later–Full Morning
Diary Book,
Is what I pasted during the in-between really here? Or is it part of a Martian dream?
I’m going to flip your thick pages back, one … two … three …
NATIONAL ASSOCIATION FOR THE
ADVANCEMENT OF COLORED PEOPLE (NAACP)