We pressed our foreheads together. Neither one of us had shed a “lyin’ cryin’ dyin’” tear.
“Dawnie,” Yolanda said quietly, “I’m gonna tell you something that’s the truth, but you gotta promise to keep it between us.”
I said, “Cross my heart, hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye.”
Yolanda took a breath. She lowered her voice even more. “I wish I could go with you to Prettyman Coburn,” she admitted. “I want shiny books, and classes with names of things that sound like they make you smarter just by saying them. Most of all, I want to be in school together, Dawnie.”
Yolanda hooked her pinkie to mine. She said, “I know it’s hard being the only Negro student at that school. But if I was there with you, you wouldn’t be alone, and maybe we could help each other.”
I locked our pinkies even tighter. “Prettyman would be a lot nicer with you in it,” I said.
Yolanda said, “I’m sorry for calling you uppity, Dawnie.”
I asked, “Did you hear what Reverend Collier said this morning during his sermon?”
Yolanda shook her head. “I was too busy thinking about truth tellin’.”
I said, “Reverend Collier told us that Easter is about celebrating a new beginning that’s come out of a dark time.”
Yolanda nodded.
“Let’s go to the fellowship table and get us some colored eggs,” I said.
“Nice making up with you,” said Yolanda. She pressed her forehead to mine for the second time. “And that’s the truth.”
Monday, April 11, 1955
Diary Book,
Gertie knows everything there is to know about government and the Virginia Plan of 1787, and how a bill becomes a law, and what statutes are.
No doubt she will ace the questions about American history.
I asked Gertie, “How badly do you want to be Bell Ringer?”
“Not half as bad as you.”
“Are you worried about the exam?” I asked.
Gertie was at it again, giving the same answer for a different question. “Not half as bad as you.”
Then she added, “As long as they don’t make me sponge the blackboard and clap erasers.”
Like Gertie, I repeated the answer, but put the answer onto myself. I said, “As long as they don’t make me sponge the blackboard and clap erasers.”
Tuesday, April 12, 1955
Diary Book,
The afternoon’s drizzle is as thick as blackstrap, the same molasses that once filled my lunch tin.
I should be studying, but my mind is someplace far away, daydreaming about diamonds. Diamonds with bases for running and rounding, and pretending to be player number 42 — Jackie Robinson.
If I had more time to go out and play, I bet I could hit an A+ home run on the Seventh-Grade All Competency Exam.
Wednesday, April 13, 1955
Diary Book,
I thought the rain had stopped, but it’s back with an attitude.
As much as I love rain, I’ve now had enough of it.
Rain, rain, go away.
Come again some other day.
Stay all gone so I can play (after I get through seventh grade).
Thursday, April 21, 1955
Diary Book,
I’ve missed you! I thought you got lost somehow. But today I found out where you’ve been. Goober got his hands on you. He’s kept you from me, and for this whole week he’s made you his Diary Book. Eight full days without writing, eight days of wondering where you were, has been as hard as all these months with no pogo stick and a snowed-on, rained-on tree mop. There’s some stuff to catch up on, but I’m pressed for time. The Seventh-Grade All Competency Exam is next week. If I don’t write about what’s happened, though, I’m gonna pop.
Your pages are scribbled and drawn on, and a mess. Goober’s covered you with pictures of pogo sticks and peanuts, peanuts, peanuts!! Peanuts with faces and arms and legs.
And to make it worse, I’m now running out of pages for writing. I probably won’t make it till summer with the few pages left. Summer’s the best time for a diary, because I’ll have time to write.
I AM SO ANGRY AT GOOBER!! And I told him so, too. I hollered at him as soon as I found my scribbled-on Diary Book’s pages, where Goober’d left the book on my bed. I don’t care that my hollering made him cry and rock. I don’t care that Goober told me he didn’t mean to ruin my book’s pages, and that he just wanted to draw stuff! I don’t care one bit! Goober has broken Daddy’s rule about keeping your hands to yourself!! First my pogo stick, now this.
Goober ruins everything!
How come I got Goober for a brother?
How come Goober’s so … so … ugh!
How come Goober’s Goober?
I’m too angry for more catching up. If I write anything else, my pencil will snap. That’s how mad I am!
I’m going outside to slam my bat at the tree mop. I don’t care that it’s raining knives and forks. I’m raining knives and forks!!!
Friday, April 22, 1955
Diary Book,
The new hiding place for my diary is in my shoe box, where the Vaselines once lived, where that frog almost lost his life in the name of science, and where I’ve hidden my Christmas money. Goober can’t find my Diary Book there.
I’ve now had the chance to look more closely at Goober’s scribbles. His peanut people have broken legs and arms. And heads split open. And bandaged noses. And smiles turned down. And Xs for eyes.
Goober’s labeled each broken peanut person. He’s named all of them after himself.
Saturday, April 23, 1955
Diary Book,
Before Prettyman, there wasn’t a single lesson, paper, assignment, or test that turned me to gooseflesh. Now I’m all goose. Nervous as a jumpy bird.
Back at Bethune when I took that test with Yolanda and Roger, I didn’t know what to expect, so I didn’t study. I was only just a little nervous. But that was different. The only truth that test unveiled is that it’s no secret I’ve got what it takes to succeed at Prettyman. But do I have enough smarts to pass Prettyman’s Seventh-Grade All Competency Exam?
Sunday, April 24, 1955
Diary Book,
Today was a church service filled with good surprises.
That preacher from Alabama, Martin Luther King, Jr., had come back to Shepherd’s Way as our guest. Martin talked about the Sutter’s Dairy boycott.
He spoke about our progress as a people, and told us that change takes time. Nobody argued about nonviolence. But plenty grumbled about non-buttered toast, no milk for coffee, and baking without cream.
Before the protests got out of hand, Reverend Collier introduced a new member of Shepherd’s Way. “Brother Arne Pelham, welcome.”
A pudgy man stood and nodded to the congregation. The reverend asked Mr. Pelham to tell us about himself. But Reverend Collier didn’t give Mr. Pelham time to speak. The reverend was eager to share the good news.
“Brother Pelham is a dairy supplier who’s come to Hadley from Maryland. His company, Pelham Dairy, will start operation throughout Lee County this month.”
I tugged at Daddy. “What does that mean?”
“It means we can buy our milk from Brother Pelham,” Daddy explained. “We now have a Negro selling us dairy products.”
“Will there be a Negro milkman, too?”
Daddy nodded.
Mr. Pelham was glad to shake some hands.
Reverend Collier then introduced another church visitor. He motioned to the back of the church, encouraging the guest to come forward.
It was Mr. Dunphey!
He stepped to the pulpit and stood next to Reverend Collier. I blinked to make sure I was not dreaming this up. But as soon as Mr. Dunphey told us about being a teacher at Prettyman, and writing the letter to the newspaper, and believing in change, I knew this was no dream — I was wide awake.
My heart’s beat-beat-beat proved I was far from asleep.
Mr. Dunphey told the
congregation about being asked by Mr. Lloyd, our school principal, to leave Prettyman. And he told us about going back to Boston, but thinking twice on it.
“Change starts with one person, then another, then more. I’m only one man, but progress can start with me, and with each of us.”
Mr. Dunphey’s words got some people to clap.
He said, “School administrators can kick me out of Prettyman, but nobody can make me leave Hadley.”
Reverend Collier said, “Brother Dunphey, you are a shepherd for peace.”
And there it was, another H word at our church—Happy!
Later
At home, I showed Mama and Daddy the scribbles and pictures Goober had made in this diary book.
A sharp frown pinched at Mama’s face. Daddy’s, too.
Daddy went to his truck and came back with a roll of brown paper used to wrap laundry packages. He pulled out two long sheets, spread each on the floor of our living room.
“Goober, Dawnie,” he called. “We’ve got work to do.”
I was not in the mood for chores. Or folding linens. Or hanging shirts to dry.
Daddy instructed us to each lie flat, faceup, on one of the paper sheets. I looked at Mama, then Goober. They were as puzzled as me.
“Be still,” Daddy said. “Goober’s first.”
Daddy pressed Goober’s open hands flat down on the paper, and pulled his arms away from his sides. With Mama’s laundry pencil, he traced Goober’s outline — head, neck, arms, legs, hands, and each finger. Goober started to giggle, then wriggle. “Daddy, you’re tickling me.”
I was next — head, arms, neck, legs, and the outline of my hair. Goober was right. It did tickle.
Mama watched, and knew just what to do next. She taped the tracings to our living room’s biggest wall. She printed our names on the bottom.
She handed me and Goober each a laundry pencil. “Write good words. Draw nice pictures,” Mama instructed.
Goober and me, we didn’t waste any time. On the inside of my silhouette I wrote: “SMART. BRAVE. INTENTION. POGO. HOME RUN.”
I drew baseballs and frogs and bells and lots of 42s, Jackie Robinson’s jersey number.
Goober’s pencil got busy, too.
He wrote: “GOOBER. BOY. ME. FREE. RUN. FLY.”
His drawings covered the whole page, inside the tracing and out.
He drew dancing peanuts, smiling peanuts, peanuts playing in leaves, and peanuts with wings.
When we were done, Mama said to Daddy, “Curtis, I will never badger you again about hanging wallpaper in our living room. We now have the prettiest walls on Marietta Street.”
Monday, April 25, 1955
Diary Book,
We got our first delivery from Pelham’s Dairy today. That milk tasted real good with my buttered toast.
Tonight Mama made me a warm cup of milk before bed to help me sleep before the exam. But as welcome as that warm milk was, I can’t sleep.
I’m writing during the black-night hours that churn slowly before the in-between. For three nights in a row, sleep has not been my friend. Two days till the exam.
It’s still raining, but less.
Tuesday, April 26, 1955
Diary Book,
Can you cram for an exam?
Can you scram from an exam?
Is there ham at an exam?
I’m getting punchy!!
Wednesday, April 27, 1955
Diary Book,
Today was the Seventh-Grade All Competency Exam. The rain had stopped, but there was wet everywhere. I’m sure Bethune’s red bricks have stained the streets. After days of downpour, that school is probably a puddle of mud.
The air was thicker than biscuit gravy this morning. Mrs. Taylor had opened our classroom windows. No breeze came. Just heaviness everywhere. Mama made me wear galoshes to school. If there’s one thing that makes your feet sweat, it’s galoshes. And the one thing that makes the rest of you sweat is sweaty feet.
Mrs. Taylor handed out each test packet, facedown. She looked at the wall clock. “Students, begin,” she said. I flipped my test packet over faster than a spatula flips a burnt pancake. At the top of my test it said Science for the Ages, the name of my Biology textbook. Daddy had been right. Here was my gift.
The first section of my test was all about the dead frog! I had to draw its innards and explain how they work. So, I was starting off the exam with real good thoughts in my mind. That set the tone for the rest of the test. Real good.
I set my pencil to work, labeling the frog’s stomach, liver, and heart.
My own heart was beating a happy dance of relief. Not once did I need to use my pencil eraser. I was sure of my answers. By the time I got to the parts of the test that had to do with government and algorithms, I was warmed up and feeling fine.
The questions about “The Three Questions” didn’t stop me one bit. By now, me and Mr. Tolstoy were buddies.
When I was done, I reviewed my work. I put down my pencil. I watched the minute hand rise on the clock. I’d finished with two minutes left to flex my sweaty toes.
Later
The exam is over. Even with the gift that came in getting a test that started off with frog dissection, I feel like I’ve been dissected. Oh, my innards!
Thursday, April 28, 1955
Diary Book,
Gertie was glad for so many exam questions about democracy and the branches of American government.
“Easy, easy, pillow squeezy” was how she described her test.
I’m just glad Gertie’s got know-how about branches, and I’ve got a brain for frog’s legs.
Now we wait. For our grades.
Friday, April 29, 1955
Diary Book,
Sunshine!
At last.
Warm sunshine.
Happy sunshine.
Shine on, sunshine!
Saturday, April 30, 1955
Diary Book,
My tree mop is worn from the winter weather. But with so much sun, its ropes are dry and dangling.
The mop is as stringy as ever, and ready to play.
This afternoon I reared back with my bat, swinging righty, then met the mop — bam! — and sent it soaring.
If that mop could sing, it would have joined me for a chorus of “Welcome Spring.”
Sunday, May 1, 1955
Diary Book,
I asked Mama if I could please get my pogo stick out from the cellar. “Patience, Dawnie” was all she said.
That means no.
Monday, May 2, 1955
Diary Book,
Before now, I never gave the first days of May a second thought other than to mark the beginning of my birthday month. But this is May with a capital M.
I was awake before the dew even knew what to do. With Daddy now working for Mama, he drove me to Ivoryton, let me out at Waverly Street, where we usually part ways on foot.
Waddle greeted me this morning! The markings on her face were the same, but she looked different somehow, smaller. She was partway under a rosebush, scuttling back to where I couldn’t see, out again to greet me, then back to hiding.
Mrs. Thompson’s rosebush was beginning to shed its winter brown. There were no blooms yet, but come summer, pink buds will bring joy.
I followed Waddle to the spot under the bush. I pulled back the low parts of green. Waddle’s whiskers twitched.
She had four baby raccoons suckling her!
They were tiny as newborn kittens, and just as hungry. None of them had face masks or tail rings. Just fur, and tightly shut eyes.
I whispered, “Waddle, you’re a ma! You’re a beautiful ma!”
I left Waddle to her babies, letting a small singsong fill my thoughts:
Waddle’s a ma … Waddle’s a ma …
When I got to the front of the school building, the new bell was there, but was covered in what looked like blue silk.
The Prettyman Bell was waiting for its unveiling.
The entire school gat
hered, with seventh graders standing in a row closest to Mr. Lloyd.
Mr. Lloyd spoke into a megaphone. “This bell will serve as a salutation to all who enter Prettyman Coburn School each morning. And the bell will usher students out in the afternoon. The power of its sound will be in the hands of our new Bell Ringer.”
Gertie nudged me.
Mr. Lloyd continued. “Our seventh-grade class has the Bell Ringer privilege beginning this month, and extending through the 1955–1956 school year.”
I wanted Mr. Lloyd to stop talking. I was eager to see the Prettyman Bell. But Mr. Lloyd, he sure was taking pride in his megaphone.
“As our seventh-grade teachers tally test scores, the question remains — who will the Bell Ringer be?”
Quietly, with my lips making the words, I prayed a silent prayer: me, me, me.
That’s when Mr. Lloyd unveiled the Prettyman Bell. He flung off the blue silk, let it flutter behind him. That bell was as big as Goober! It was a brass dream come true, waiting proudly on iron hinges.
My prayer rose up, this time from the deep place somewhere between my heart and belly. The spot where hard wanting lives.
Me … me … me …
Tuesday, May 3, 1955
Diary Book,
How long does it take to grade some tests? It’s been a week since we took the Seventh-Grade All Competency Exam.
The Prettyman Bell is ready for a ringer.
I’m sick and tired of clapping erasers.
I can’t take another minute of Mama’s flypaper and fan.
Enough chalk dust!
Thursday, May 5, 1955
With the Might of Angels Page 17