And even though Mr. Lloyd was hard-pressed to direct me toward my homeroom, as far as I know, I do not smell like a skunk.
By most counts, I’m a normal girl. But with the way those kids were staring at me today, you’da thought I was a bearded lady at the Lee County Carnival. From morning to afternoon, there was all kinds of ogling at me in the hallways. And people got all quiet.
And stepped away to let me pass.
And whispered.
And watched.
And wondered if I was gonna bite them.
Balancing all my schoolbooks on my head would have been an easier weight to carry.
Just as heavy was meeting my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Taylor. She looks like a turtle with pearls, and glasses on a chain around her neck. Mrs. Taylor was not too happy to see me come into her classroom. Neither were the kids in that class. There was more silence than in a graveyard at midnight. I spotted Bobby Hatch right away. He stuck his tongue out at me when Mrs. Taylor had her back turned.
After that, I didn’t look left, right, and especially not behind.
I kept my eyes up front, where I found my seat, and an uneasy peace.
The rest of the day was like walking through a field of fog. I somehow found all my classes, where silence and more staring met me.
When I got home from school, our small living room was filled with people — Reverend Collier, Mama, and of course, Goober. Those people from the NAACP were there, too. Daddy had left for work. They were all waiting for me. Their heads were down. They were holding hands, praying.
Soon as I saw everybody, I asked, “What’d I do?”
“We wanted to make sure you got here in one piece,” said Mama.
One of the NAACP men said, “We’re here to guide your transition into Prettyman.”
“And to offer support to you and your family,” said the NAACP lady.
Reverend Collier said, “While waiting for you to return from school, we were pausing for a prayer.”
Goober spoke next. “Amen for Dawnie. No broken pieces on Dawnie.”
I couldn’t get my Keds on fast enough. I spent the rest of the afternoon in our yard, batting at the tree mop.
Goober sang, “Amen for Dawnie … Dawnie amen!”
Thursday, September 30, 1954
Diary Book,
Today I remembered what hard wanting is. Mrs. Taylor presented each of us with our class jobs for the school year. With the naming of each job came some kind of reaction.
It went like this:
Job: Line Monitor: The student who helps us line up.
Reaction: Two eager volunteers stood.
Job: Office Messenger: The person who takes notes to the school office.
Reaction: Boys mostly, saying, “Me, Mrs. Taylor.”
Job: Morning Salutation: The student who reads the day’s date in front of the class.
Reaction: Girls mostly, saying, “Please, Mrs. Taylor.”
Job: Blackboard/Erasers: The kid who sponges the blackboard and claps dirty erasers.
Reaction: Silence. Let’s not all jump at once. Not a me or please within fifty miles of Hadley.
Job: Bell Ringer: The one who rings the school bell mornings and afternoons.
Reaction: Every hand, including mine, up high. Me and please back so fast.
I didn’t speak out like the other kids, but me and please were fighting each other all over my insides.
Mrs. Taylor explained that Melanie, the girl whose job it was to ring the school bell, would no longer be attending Prettyman. Her parents have sent her to a private school.
Later I overheard another girl tell her friend that Melanie’s parents did not want their daughter going to school with a colored child, so they took her out.
Mrs. Taylor told us that Bell Ringer is a popular role among students, and requires what she said is “a level of responsibility.”
I listened carefully when she explained that each year a student from one grade gets the Bell Ringer job. Last year’s Bell Ringer was a sixth grader. This year, Bell Ringer is reserved for seventh-grade students.
Mrs. Taylor said, “Bell Ringer is a duty that’s to be earned. It’s a privilege. The student who will take on this role is the one who can best master all subjects during this school year.”
At Bethune, that was me.
Mrs. Taylor told us that the decision for who would get to ring the bell is made at the end of the school year for the school year coming up. Bell Ringer is a job that starts in May, then begins again in September. Since Melanie’s gone, Mr. Lloyd, the school principal, will be the Bell Ringer for now.
Mrs. Taylor called each name in her roll book, and assigned us our jobs. Far as I could tell, the roll book names were listed alphabetically. But when Mrs. Taylor got to the Js, Dawnie Rae Johnson was nowhere. Finally, after somebody named Mary Anne Young, Mrs. Taylor called out my name.
Now, this is what makes no sense. Every kid sitting in that room is in seventh grade. Some of them didn’t look too awake. But even the most slowpoke sleepyheaded seventh grader, even the dumbest worm in the can, knows that the letter J does not come after the letter Y. And I would bet all the dimes I’ve saved from my Christmas money that Mrs. Taylor knows this, too.
I was sure not going to head to the front of that classroom, snatch the roll book, and point out the right way to list names in alphabetical order.
So from now until June, Dawnie Rae Johnson will be wiping the blackboard and clapping dirty erasers every afternoon.
Friday, October 1, 1954
Diary Book,
Mama took one look at my new textbooks and said, “This is serious business, Dawnie. This school does not mess around.”
I told Mama about Prettyman’s baseball diamond, and clapping erasers, and how badly I want to be Bell Ringer. She listened, but was most interested in my studies.
We laid out each of the textbooks and school papers on our kitchen table and studied them carefully. The papers told us what we’d be learning all year, in every subject, each month. It listed the school principal and our teachers:
School Principal — Mr. Spencer Lloyd
Homeroom — Mrs. Vera Taylor
Math — Mrs. Barbara Hughes
English — Mrs. Jane Ruth
History — Mr. Andrew Dunphey
Science — Mrs. Polly Elmer
Gym — Mrs. Gail Remsen
And so on.
I’ve never seen anything like these papers. Not ever.
The papers said things like Algebraic Reasoning and Expository Writing and History in Context. There was one word I knew for sure —frog. Under Biology, the paper said: Frog Dissection.
“What’s that?” I asked Mama.
“Pulling apart a frog.”
“Why in the world would anybody want to pull apart a frog?”
“Biology is science, Dawnie. Seeing the parts of a frog will help you learn about innards.”
The closest I’ve come to pulling apart a frog is pulling a frog from the pond down near Orem’s Pasture, and pulling a frog back from the start line while waiting for the whistle to blow at a frog jumping contest, and pulling frog legs with gravy from a platter at a picnic.
I looked real good at that paper, then at the thick, shiny books with covers that cracked open and gave off a smell that said new.
And, oh, those book pages. Smoother than silk cleat socks.
This was why I wanted to go to Prettyman so badly. There had to be something in one or all of those silky books about how you get to be a doctor. But, Lord, did those lessons look hard, even for me.
My palms went warm. Itchy, too. It was just like before a baseball game, or when I first taught myself how to work a pogo stick.
I can do this. I can do this.
Saturday, October 2, 1954
Diary Book,
Daddy got very quiet after he finished reading today’s paper. He folded it into a small, hard square, and set it on top of Mama’s sewing basket for her to read. I got to th
e paper first, when Mama was busy with laundry.
I saw it right away—an advertisement from the owner of Sutter’s Dairy, where Daddy works.
It said:
Sutter’s Dairy
Supports Segregation
Join us in our pursuit
for what is right in God’s eyes.
Sunday, October 3, 1954
Diary Book,
Reverend Collier gave a sermon today about the Sutter’s Dairy advertisement that was in the paper.
He asked all of us at Shepherd’s Way Baptist, “What is right in God’s eyes?”
Every eye in the place was on me and my family.
Monday, October 4, 1954
Diary Book,
I have kissed my molasses lunch tin good-bye! Prettyman has a cafeteria. With hot food. And varnished floors. And windows big enough to show off the trees that wave hello from outside.
And buttered corn nibblets.
And mashed potatoes.
And meat loaf.
And Jell-O!
There was not a fried pickle in sight, but that didn’t matter. Mama’s fried pickles are the only ones worth eating.
Two ladies served the food, both Negroes. They smiled with quiet pride when I came through the line. They introduced themselves as Miss Cora and Miss Billie.
Thanks to Miss Cora and Miss Billie, my lunch plate was piled with more food than any other child’s plate in that cafeteria. I got two Jell-O squares — red and green.
But as sweet as Jell-O and a plate full of corn nibblets can be, food doesn’t taste good when you’re eating all alone.
Tuesday, October 5, 1954
Diary Book,
Daddy came home from work before Goober and me even went to bed. That’s usually when he’s at work. When he pulled up to the house in his truck, he didn’t come in right away. He stayed outside for a long while. “Is that Daddy’s truck?” I asked Mama. “Why’s he home?”
Mama only half answered. “He likes to let the motor run. Keeps the truck warm before turning it off.”
She hurried Goober into the bathtub.
In my bedroom, she brought me a clean nightgown. “Why’s Daddy home?” I asked again.
“It’s time for bed, Dawnie” was all Mama said.
Wednesday, October 6, 1954
Diary Book,
It’s bad enough having Bobby Hatch in my homeroom, but it’s triply bad having to go to school with all three Hatch brothers. Cecil Hatch is in the sixth grade. Jeb’s in fifth. Even with the grade differences between them, those boys seem to somehow travel in a pack.
They must have each been born under a full moon, ’cause goodness knows they are ugly as wolves, and just as mean.
The Hatches made today’s walk through Prettyman’s halls far from quiet. Those boys don’t know a thing about whispering. As I was coming into the building this morning, they were ready to make some noise.
I walked in hugging tight to my books. Jeb’s nose was running. He gave a hard sniff, rattled back some snot. Wiped his nose with his knuckles.
The boys let me pass with not a word from their mouths. But as soon as my back was to the three of them, they started howling after me.
“There goes Dawnie chicken lips,” Cecil called.
“Got a chicken head, too, that girl,” said Jeb.
Bobby said, “I’m still not sure she is a girl. With the way she handles a bat and runs bases, I think that chicken-lipped colored has got some boy in her.”
I wanted to ram a bat at Bobby’s head right then. He just wouldn’t shut up. “No real girl can play baseball like that,” he said.
Bobby’s too dumb to know he was paying me a compliment about my ball playing. And he’s too dim-witted to realize there was envy wrapped in his words. He was plain jealous of how good I am on the field.
Bobby’s mouthing off encouraged the other kids standing around to start clucking. Alls I heard were their chicken noises spurting up in back of me.
Daddy says smart feet are feet that walk away from trouble. But something made me turn around right then to get a good look at those clucking kids.
For a good long minute, I watched them at the other end of that long hallway, clucking and carrying on.
Maybe it was the same something that encouraged me to turn around that also put a serious tickle on my funny bone. I had to work hard to keep from laughing! The Hatch brothers and everyone with them looked stupider than stupid, acting like chickens! And did you know that raccoons eat chickens? I should have brought Waddle to school!
Anyway, they were supposed to be making fun of me, but, Lord, did they look funny. I spent the rest of the day with a bust-out laugh roaring up inside me, every time I thought about Prettyman’s chickens.
I couldn’t let that laugh free, though. I didn’t want to give the Hatches anything to get riled about. I kept my bust-out laugh trapped somewhere deep in my belly.
Later
Nothing to laugh about tonight.
Daddy’s lost his job.
“How come?” I asked Mama.
“Folks have threatened to boycott Mr. Sutter’s business if he keeps Daddy as a worker.”
I blinked.
“What’s wrong with Daddy’s work?”
“It’s not Daddy’s work that’s in question. Customers don’t want to support a business that employs a man whose daughter is integrating their school.”
“I made Daddy get fired?”
“You make your father proud. It’s the fear of ignorant people that’s pushing Mr. Sutter.”
“I’ll go back to Bethune, then,” I said.
“Stop talking nonsense, Dawnie.” Mama was just short of snapping.
I shut up, but it was hard for me to not keep talking. I wanted to tell Mama I was serious about going back to Bethune. As much as I like all the pretty stuff at Prettyman, I’m messing things up for Daddy by being a student at that school.
Thursday, October 7, 1954
Diary Book,
I hate my school job! I hate it because it’s stupid. I hate it because it’s not fair. And I hate it because it means I miss recess, so I won’t ever get to play on Prettyman’s baseball field.
There are two parts to my job, which really means I have two jobs.
Part 1 — The Sponge:
I dip a spongy clump in the wash bucket and trail it, top-to-bottom, on the blackboard. That sponge is as big as Goober’s head, and it takes a lot of two-fisted wringing to keep it from dripping all over the place.
Out the window I watch kids pushing past each other to get to the school yard. While they run, I sponge, then take the bucket down the hall to the sink in the janitor’s closet, where I pour out the chalky water. That bucket is bigger than a Buick, and it bangs my leg when I walk with it. And hoisting it to the lip of the sink is no picnic.
Part 2 — Erasers:
I take them out back, near the school yard. This being my first day on the job, I started off slow. Every time the black pads slapped together, they sent out a soft thud, then a dust cloud of chalk.
Bam — pooof! Bam — pooof!
I don’t do anything halfway, so I was not going to let that swelling dust get to me. But soon the bam — pooof! was spreading more and more pooof into my nose and eyes, and all around my head. A white film dusted my hair. And eyelashes. And neck. And clothes. More dusty than Mama’s talcum powder.
Even though I can run a 50-yard dash without getting winded, I could hardly breathe. My coughing was louder than the hacking of a sick dog.
When I got back to class, the other kids were coming in from recess. They were shoving, and happy, and laughing from getting to be in so much fresh air.
And here’s what else isn’t fair. Because he’s a Negro, Daddy’s lost his job. Because I’m a Negro, I have to keep mine.
Friday, October 8, 1954
Diary Book,
Leave it to Mama to find a way to get chalk dust off my clothes and out of my hair. Her methods are always easy for her
, but hard on me. Today she came at me with a ribbon of flypaper and pressed its sticky strip all over my clothes.
That definitely pulled up the chalk dust, but snatched at the backs of my hands near the ends of my sleeves and any other skin I had showing. For my hair, Mama made me stand by our summer house fan to let the chalk dust blow off.
And, oh, did it blow.
And, oh, did I not like it.
Saturday, October 9, 1954
Diary Book,
Mama’s added something new to my Saturday chore list — raking leaves. I spend my school days beating erasers and emptying slop water, and my Saturdays doing yard work. Do kids have fun anymore?
Monday, October 11, 1954
Diary Book,
For all the staring — or clucking — kids do when I walk through the halls at school, in Math class I have the opposite problem. Mrs. Hughes, my Math teacher, ignores me.
In Mrs. Hughes’s class, I’m as invisible as a ghost.
I admit, Math is my hardest subject, but I try at least. Today, each time I raised my hand, Mrs. Hughes looked right past me. I can see that her glasses are as thick as the bottom of a pop bottle, but I know Mrs. Hughes is not blind.
During our Math lesson today, Mrs. Hughes asked us to give an example of an integer. Nobody raised their hand. Not one kid knew how to answer. I sort of knew how to answer, so I put my hand up, and I held it up.
The answer — I think — is that an integer is a whole number, not a fraction or a number that has a decimal. An integer can be positive, negative, or zero. The numbers 12, 3, –42, and a million are all integers. I think.
At first I thought Mrs. Hughes was giving some of the other students a chance to answer, but not one kid took the chance. I could feel the blood running from my hand. My arm started to get tired, but I was not putting it down till she called on me, or at least looked in my direction.
With the Might of Angels Page 8