With the Might of Angels

by Andrea Davis Pinkney

  Everybody got quiet. Bobby looked like he’d swallowed a baseball. He could have thrown a dozen eggs at me right then. I would have caught each and every one of them, and hard-boiled all twelve with the heat rising up in me.

  But not one egg flew in my direction. Not even a word came from the other students. Everybody was too busy listening.

  Whether those other kids would admit it or not, I had given them their first Negro History lesson. Gertie was smiling big.

  When I was finished, I said, “That’s all Dawnie Rae has to say.”

  Thursday, February 24, 1955

  Dear Mr. Jackie Robinson,

  I told my History class about you. Since then, something’s changed in that class. The air seems different in Mr. Dunphey’s room. Better somehow. Maybe I’m different. And better.

  Yours,

  Dawnie

  Saturday, February 26, 1955

  Diary Book,

  Boy, the editor of the Hadley Register must have a very full mailbox.

  Tonight Daddy pointed out another letter in the paper. This letter is not anonymous, or filled with wrong ideas. This letter is brave. And smart. And true. I have pasted it here.

  To the Editor:

  I became a History teacher because I believe that the past provides a vital key to the future. The founding fathers of our nation spent long days in the Philadelphia heat of summer authoring a document that would serve as the definitive statement on all that America stands for. This document became the Declaration of Independence, a road-map, if you will, for how we are to conduct ourselves within the auspices of all that America holds dear. The Declaration of Independence also makes it clear that under the laws of nature and of nature’s God, all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

  By denying Negro children entry into any school they wish to attend, we slap the faces of our founding fathers. We trash their intentions. We soil what it means to be American.

  When I moved to Virginia from Boston last summer and was offered the chance to teach at Prettyman Coburn School, I came expecting Southern charm. I looked forward to small-town life and to the courtesies afforded those who call the South their home. It was my hope, too, that I could someday share my passion for American history with young people of all races, sitting side by side in the same classroom.

  Segregation is an evil and corroding thread. If we allow segregation to continue, if we give power to its iniquity, we risk the immoral.

  If we are to live comfortably within our own skins, we must push past the prejudices of skin color. If we’re to create a future for ourselves and our children that promises life, liberty, and happiness, then we must turn our backs on segregation. We must, as it says in the concluding sentences of the Declaration of Independence, “pledge our sacred honor” to embrace the promise that integration offers.

  Among those who made this pledge on July 4, 1776, and who signed their names to America’s most prevailing document, seven were Virginians, including Thomas Jefferson.

  Let us now follow their example. Let us now turn our backs on the scourge of racial hatred. We, the residents of Hadley, have a tremendous opportunity. That is, to show America that the state of Virginia is a great beacon of democracy.

  Very truly yours,

  Andrew Dunphey,

  History teacher,

  Prettyman Coburn School

  It’s late. I should be asleep. But this letter has made me squirrely. My History teacher sure can write!

  I have read Mr. Dunphey’s letter six times.

  I have looked up words from the letter.

  Iniquity: Lack of justice, wicked.

  Immoral: Violating principals of right and wrong.

  Scourge: A source of criticism. A whip used to inflict punishment.

  Sunday, February 27, 1955

  Diary Book,

  The evil words from Mr. Dunphey’s letter have come to pass. And more words, too — H words.

  Some bad.

  Some good.

  This was a day of Hatred. Horror. Help. Hope.

  Morning light came slow. Had the sun forgotten it was time to rise? Had she slept past the in-between? Where was dawn?

  The sky was an iron blanket. Dark. Cold.

  It was black outside when we prepared to leave for church. And so quiet.

  Mama and Daddy drank dark coffee. Goober had grown used to oatmeal with cider instead of milk. For me, toast with Crisco and salt, not butter.

  Goober was first on the porch. First to see the Horror.

  The streetlamp’s light had brought the ugly sight into view.

  Goober spotted the pail set at the edge of our porch, near the post by the porch steps.

  “A bucket of milk, Dawnie. A big bucket,” he observed.

  With the way morning was still so dark, something inside held me back from wanting to see what was in that pail. But Goober was too fast. He’d already peered down in.

  Goober’s face was a little moon of light under the streetlamp’s white. With urgency rising in him, he shouted, “Dawnie, come see!”

  He was wincing. He started to cry, then wail. “Dawnie, Daddy, Mama!”

  We all came at once. I was quick to see the Horror for myself.

  A dead raccoon. Bloated. Belly floating up. Drowning in a bath of milk.

  There was a note that said:

  KILL INTEGRATION!

  STOP THE DAIRY BOYCOTT!

  NOW!

  Daddy and Mama stood over Goober and me, blocking the streetlight, but still able to see enough to tell us to come away from the bucket.

  This was the work of that strange voice calling on our telephone—anonymous.

  This was Hatred.

  My insides fought to keep down the Crisco toast. Some of it came up, but not out.

  I shook and shook.

  And thought of Waddle.

  And worried about her being next.

  I held Mama around her waist.

  Buried my face in the lavender smell of Mama’s church coat. Goober was shaking, too, and he buried himself into my coat, wetting its wool with all his crying.

  I managed to tell Mama and Daddy about the man’s voice on the phone, about the “milk bath” warning.

  “I should have told,” I cried. “We could have stopped this somehow.”

  Mama just hugged me tighter. She said, “Evil is powerful, Dawnie. Even with those phone calls, we had no way of knowing this was on the minds of evil-hearted people.”

  Daddy put the creature’s remains in a sack. Cleaned the bucket off our porch. He somehow got rid of it all quickly, and eased us into his truck for church. We rode through the dark-as-night morning, with Mama praying silently. Where was sunrise?

  Daddy greeted Reverend Collier right away, told him about the raccoon in the pail. Word spread through our congregation before Miss Eloise even had a chance to start the choir on their opening hymn.

  Rather than services, our church became a stew pot of debate. People all talking at once about nonviolence, and boycotting, and integration.

  Some agreeing. Some arguing. All of us angry.

  I was so rattled, I couldn’t hardly breathe. I couldn’t hardly see, either. Even with the lights on overhead, our church seemed darker than usual. And there was so much wet blurring anything in front of my eyes.

  Daylight finally came. Gray as lint.

  Lady Sun had taken the day off. Maybe she was too scared to come out. Too sad to show.

  Reverend Collier said, “Now is the time to act for our greatest good. The Lord has given us this day to come together.”

  Some people wanted to hurt Mr. Sutter and his team of milkmen. Others said we should storm his dairy.

  There were people who recalled the words of Martin Luther King, Jr. They wanted only peace.

  There was so much arguing. It made my stomach more queasy.

  Reverend Collier had to work har
d to settle his parishioners. “We must act as brothers and sisters,” he said.

  When the congregation had quieted down, there was one thing everyone in that church agreed on — this was a time for light and prayer.

  And Help. And Healing for me and my family.

  Miss Nora handed out candles. She lit hers first, then touched its tiny flame to Roger’s candle, who put his to Yolanda’s. It went from there, flicker to flicker, bright to brighter, until our church glowed on this gray morning.

  Everyone gathered in a circle around me, Mama, Goober, and Daddy.

  Miss Eloise took it from there. She didn’t need her organ. She just started singing:

  Believe in the light of the Lord

  Feel his goodness

  Know his strength

  Let him lead us on this day

  Faith, strong, faith

  Is the shepherd’s way.

  That music was as warm and as bright as the shine of so many candles. The power of our voices filled our rickety church.

  Filled me, too.

  With Hope.

  Monday, February 28, 1955

  Diary Book,

  Mr. Dunphey is gone!

  We were told today that he’s chosen to go back to Boston. But how could he choose that so fast?

  I don’t think Mr. Dunphey chose that. I think it was chosen for him. In the lunchroom, I heard some of the other kids calling Mr. Dunphey “Mr. Dummy.” They say he cooked his own goose. They say our new teacher, Mrs. Harris, has been teaching at Prettyman forever, and that she knows the real truth about American history.

  At supper when I told Mama and Daddy about all of this, Daddy shook his head. “A shame,” he said.

  Goober repeated, “Shame, shame, shame.”

  Dear Mr. Dunphey,

  I hope wherever you are, it is far away from the scourge of racial hatred. I hope there are no iniquities in Boston. I miss you.

  Yours truly,

  Dawnie Rae Johnson,

  Prettyman Coburn, 7th Grade

  Tuesday, March 1, 1955

  Diary Book,

  Can’t write long. I’ve fallen very behind on my schoolwork. Mrs. Elmer’s letting me make up the Biology test tomorrow. (Well — at least she says it’ll be tomorrow. I learned my lesson from last time — Mrs. Elmer has a tricky memory.)

  I also missed Math and English.

  Unless some miracle happens, I have no chance of earning my way to being Bell Ringer.

  If I were allowed to attend Study Hall, I’d be able to catch up. Today I banged the erasers harder than hard. Stomped my feet, too.

  Later

  There was one good thing about today. Spring training has begun for Major League Baseball. That means Jackie’s got his bat hiked high, getting ready to play. Yay, Jackie, yay!

  Wednesday, March 2, 1955

  Diary Book,

  I took the Biology test today. At least Mrs. Elmer gave the test when she said she’d give the test. But man sakes, that test tripped me up. I got confused about the parts of a cell — nucleus, cell wall, flagella. Which is the outer layer? I couldn’t remember, even though I’d studied hard. The stuff about bacteria came to me a little easier.

  We got a story assigned for English class — “The Three Questions” by Leo Tolstoy.

  Here are three questions by Dawnie Rae Johnson:

  1. Why is school so hard for me now?

  2. When will my eraser-clapping torture end?

  3. What really happened to Mr. Dunphey?

  Later

  Mama and Daddy were glued to the radio tonight. They’d turned the volume up, which always means there’s something they especially want to hear.

  I listened close when I heard the man on the radio say, “It’s yet to be determined if the child has sustained injuries.”

  There was a news report about a Negro girl named Claudette Colvin. Today she refused to give up her seat on a bus in Montgomery, Alabama, to a white woman after the driver demanded it.

  Claudette was carried off the bus backward, while being kicked and handcuffed on her way to the police station.

  Dear Claudette Colvin,

  I know how scared you were on that segregated bus. I know how you felt when the driver demanded that you move, and all of a sudden you were carried backward.

  You wanted to kick those people back, didn’t you? I know.

  Love,

  Dawnie Rae

  Thursday, March 3, 1955

  Diary Book,

  Less than two months till May. If anybody asks who’s counting, I will be quick to tell them — I’ve got ten fingers and ten toes, and I have used each and every one five times over to tick off the days till I can break free on my pogo.

  Friday, March 4, 1955

  Diary Book,

  My report card came today. My grades have slipped. Being sick and missing school set me back. I got all Bs. Not a single A!

  I did not make the honor roll. My name will not be in the newspapers near Gertie’s, whose name will be at the top of the list of students with last names beginning with the letter F.

  Saturday, March 5, 1955

  Diary Book,

  There’s one thing integration has not put a halt to, and that’s Mama’s laundry business. I guess no matter who goes to school with who, people still like their collars and cuffs done right. Daddy was right. People know a good thing when it’s good. And Mama’s way of doing laundry is the best.

  It seems the more laundry Mama takes in, the more requests she gets. Her reputation is growing. Daddy’s put together a system for getting it all done.

  Mama washes and presses. Daddy folds, then wraps the clean items in their brown delivery paper. I label the packages with the names of each one’s owner. Goober stacks them. This is how we spend Saturdays, and many weekday evenings after homework and supper.

  Daddy’s taken to making the laundry deliveries in his truck. Something’s changed in Daddy. He’s stopped calling laundry women’s work.

  Today Daddy told Mama, “You oughta hang out a shingle, Loretta.”

  “What kind of shingle?” Mama was only paying attention partway. She was pressing a collar tip with the nose of her iron.

  “You need a sign outside that says ‘Loretta’s Laundry.’” Daddy seemed to be thinking hard on his suggestion.

  Mama didn’t look up from her ironing board. “Who’ll see my shingle?”

  “Your customers,” Daddy said.

  “My customers are all from Ivoryton. They won’t come close to this neighborhood. I go to them, remember?”

  Daddy was lining up the corners on a pillowcase, preparing to fold it.

  Steam rose from Mama’s iron. Her face glistened from its heat. She said, “There is not a single one of those people who will come to this neighborhood, Curtis, not even to drop off or pick up their own clothes. Expecting them to come to me is expecting cats to play peacefully with dogs. It’ll never happen.”

  Daddy didn’t press the issue, but I could tell by the determined way he was folding the pillowcase that the discussion wasn’t over.

  Mama didn’t let it go. She shook her head. “It’ll be a long day off before anybody from Ivoryton comes to see my shingle.”

  Sunday, March 6, 1955

  Diary Book,

  March is coming in with a roar. It snowed today, then turned to rain, then got icy. This is not like Virginia. Hurry up, spring! My pogo stick’s waiting.

  Monday, March 7, 1955

  Diary Book,

  I’ve thought of a way to make the clapping of erasers go faster, and that’s to sing while clapping them.

  But what song goes well with erasers? I need something with a sure rhythm.

  When I told Mr. Williams my idea, he said, “Singing does make unpleasant work tolerable.” He told me to sing “This Little Light of Mine,” one of my favorite songs from church.

  The clapping did go faster, but it’s very hard to shine though a cloud of chalk dust. And that white stuff still clings to my cl
othes and hair, and the insides of my nose.

  Tuesday, March 8, 1955

  Diary Book,

  Do teachers even talk to each other? Don’t they know they’re each assigning a bundle of homework to the same students at the same time? I can do the work, but it’s getting all the work done on time that’s twisting me up.

  Everything’s due next Friday! Everything!

  Tonight I read and read and read Leo Tolstoy’s “The Three Questions” for English class. Then, for Biology, I read and read and read about something called “cell division.” History has not been the same since Mr. Dunphey left. We don’t talk about things in class. We read, Mrs. Harris tells us what she thinks about what we’ve read, then there’s a quiz.

  So, tonight, I read and read and read about the Virginia Plan of 1787, and memorized stuff about how this plan helped develop the branches of government.

  Then on a Math worksheet I wrote and wrote and wrote answers to a whole mess of questions about exponents.

  When my eyes broke free from crossing, I went back to my Biology book, and read, for fun, about froggy innards.

  Thursday, March 10, 1955

  Diary Book,

  There was an assembly at school today. Mr. Lloyd, the principal, announced the arrival of what will be called “The Prettyman Bell.” He held up a picture of The Prettyman Bell, which is set to be delivered to our school in May.

  Mr. Lloyd said the new Bell Ringer will be announced at that time.

  This afternoon, as I clapped and clapped those erasers clean, I heard that bell sounding in my thoughts.

  Saturday, March 12, 1955

  Diary Book,

  Mr. Sutter came calling again. It was morning this time. He was holding a small crate in both his arms. Daddy greeted him. I was in our side yard, working on my batter’s swing, slicing through this cold day with the weight of my bat’s wood. Daddy didn’t see me, but I had a good view of him from behind.