Going to School in Black and White

by Cindy Waszak Geary

  I continued to believe that integrated schools were part of a process of creating better relationships among people of different races. As I was leaving Hillside that spring of 1973, it seemed reasonable to assume that racially integrated schools would be the norm everywhere at some time in the not-so-distant future, and that we had just been part of the first wave. I felt satisfied to have been part of that change and pleased that I had done what was asked of me to help make the world better for everyone. But now I was going to college where some of the pressure was off, and I could relax around the issue of race. Being white meant that it was possible for me to do that.

  Cindy Waszak, Senior Portrait.

  7— Finally at Hillside: It’s All About the Band

  Seven

  Finally at Hillside: It’s All About the Band

  LaHoma

  My struggles for independence from my parents continued, but my transition from junior high to high school was made easier for one essential reason: the marching band. This was no ordinary group of musicians. The Hillside Marching Hornets were the most talented, baddest band in the land. I knew they were world famous (at least to us), and no other high school in the area had the reputation or following of the Hillside band. As a young black Durhamite, I used to look forward to seeing three things during the holiday parades: Hillside High Band, North Carolina Central University band and Santa Claus. My affection for Santa Claus soon faded, but my love of the bands never wavered.

  The majorettes leading the band seemed to me to be the prettiest girls, with beautiful long brown legs. They could twirl and catch their batons and dance in perfect coordination with the cadence of the drummers. Then the band would play a familiar tune, belted out with confidence. How I loved Hillside’s band! I began to dream that I, too, one day, could be in that band.

  One of the reasons I persevered with the French horn in the eighth grade was that I thought it might help me get into the marching band at Hillside. But I had two problems. One was that I could not see myself playing and lugging around the French horn in the marching band, especially given the complex dance routines the band was known for. And second, I really wanted to be a majorette.

  But therein lay two more problems: First, I did not know how to twirl a baton. Second, that year the band director, Mr. Edgerton, required that anyone who tried out for the majorette squad had to play an instrument at least her first year—sophomore year—in the marching band. He also had a large squad of seniors, so he was not selecting any sophomores that year to be a majorette. What was an aspiring majorette to do?

  My quick solution was to take flute lessons. I picked the flute, not because I thought that it was the easiest instrument, but because it was the lightest. So, while my classmates were planning to try out for Hillside’s band using instruments they’d been playing for at least two years, I started taking lessons on a completely new instrument that I had to master in a few weeks.

  I convinced my parents to buy me a second-hand flute. Then I coaxed some of my peers to show me what they knew. I bought a beginner’s book, and basically taught myself how to play the flute in the last few weeks of the ninth grade and before summer band tryouts. I could read sheet music and learned just enough to play the major notes and chords, and somehow convinced myself that I played well enough to sit for auditions. Luckily they were group auditions, which went well enough for me to gain a spot in the marching band. Either Mr. Edgerton felt I had some potential or he just felt sorry for me, but either way, I did it, I made the band!

  I was never any good at playing the flute, but I managed to avoid attracting attention by pretending to be really engaged and also by playing very softly. My saving grace was that I could read sheet music very well, so I could chime in loudly at the end of the stanza, or I memorized a few chords well enough to hit them at the appropriate intervals. I was also lucky because Mr. Edgerton didn’t really expect that much from the sophomores; he had more talented juniors and seniors who carried the tunes with flair and passion.

  We knew better than to show up the upper classmen, anyway. Even the most talented of the sophomores knew that their turn as standout musicians would come later. We came to all the practices, learned all the routines.

  I loved the grueling schedule of a Hillside High marching band member. It was no accident that Hillside had a great high school marching band. That hot summer we alternated on the football field with the football team and then, when school started, practiced before and after the school day. The adoration of our loyal fans whenever we played was worth the countless hours we sacrificed practicing.

  While I enjoyed playing in the band, the thought of becoming a majorette was even more alluring. I watched them practice, and envied their creativity and talent. One of my best friends, Cynthia, a clarinet player, and I talked about how we were going to become majorettes. Cynthia got her older sister Roslyn to talk to one of the graduating seniors, Ava, who showed us the basics of baton-twirling and high stepping, and coached us on attitude and poise.

  I loved it. We went to Ava’s house as often as she had time for us, and then we went back to Cynthia’s house for more work. We practiced and practiced. We both thought we had a good shot at being selected. We also knew that Mr. Edgerton had lost a lot of seniors on the twirling squad, and he was looking for talented sophomores. Somehow both Cynthia and I were selected along with four other sophomores, one junior, one senior, and our squad captain, Pam.

  This was THE most exciting thing that I could imagine happening, and I proudly told all my family and friends. We were booked to play in the Mardi Gras, so Mr. E worked us hard. I didn’t mind. I was a Hillside High School Marching Hornet and a majorette in the baddest band in the land, and we were going to New Orleans!

  There were about a half dozen white students in the marching band my senior year. Allen, Tommy, and Andy vividly embraced the spirit of the band. They seemed comfortable in this setting—and excelled with this style of marching at Hillside compared to what bands were doing at the predominantly white high schools. No white girls ever tried out for the majorettes or flag squad—but the next year, Andy became the first white guy to lead the band as the drum major. Mr. E. rewarded talent, initiative and hard work. Andy had all three.

  Out and About: Another Lesson Learned

  I was a pretty good student, not the most outstanding because I had too many extracurricular interests, but I was regularly recognized for scholarly achievement. While this was a characteristic I was proud of, I sometimes wanted to shed my egghead reputation and adopt a hipper, cooler version of myself.

  To avoid the embarrassment of having parents drop you off or pick you up at a party, my friends and I would tell our parents that the other’s parents would take care of that. The objective was to arrive at the event or place via one of the desired ways: (1) boys, (2) a hitchhiked ride from someone we did or did not know (an older sibling was OK, but not someone’s parent), or (3) on foot. Arriving at a party, park or dance accompanied by your parents was the worst possible situation, one to be avoided at all costs.

  Many nights, I would get out of the house under some pretext of being picked up by one of my friends’ parents. My friends and I would sit on the corner to catch a ride to a party or to visit boys in another neighborhood. Then we also had to find a way back home. Sometimes we caught rides with an older teen who already had his or her driver’s license. He or she would drop us off at one house, and we would scatter back to our own homes in the vicinity.

  This bad habit of hitchhiking around town was the highlight of our weekends. We looked forward to going out on the block (the corner of the street that separated our houses) to yell greetings at drivers we recognized. This became a game for us, mostly during the summer months, when we didn’t have much to do. Then we started yelling at people we didn’t know.

  It was all good fun, and we passed many hours on Friday and Saturday nights, sitting on the corner, talking, calling at cars and chatting with whoever stopped. Sometimes we would
coax the drivers to take us to the closest store if we wanted to buy candy, or to a house party. It seemed harmless enough, and we were always in a group, so we all felt safe.

  One autumn day I was walking home from school after band practice. It was later than usual, and the friends I usually walked home with had already headed out, so I was alone. This was a comfortable walk for me, and I was lost in my thoughts about school, band practice and all that I had to do when I got home.

  A car pulled up beside me as I climbed Lawson Avenue. I kept walking. The driver called out to me, “Hey!” I glanced in the direction of the voice and saw a familiar-looking face, although I could not remember his name or when I had met him. He asked if I wanted a ride.

  I walked up to the car, and then I remembered. He was one of the guys we had stopped over the summer out on the block, so that made him OK in my mind. Besides he was kind of cute and didn’t look threatening.

  I hopped into his car.

  At the next intersection he turned left. That was not the right way to go to my house, and I told him so. He suggest that I relax, that we were just going to do a little sightseeing, and besides, he needed to drop off a package at a friend’s house. I could keep him company.

  I tried to relax, to convince myself that I was OK, that this was OK. I started talking—about my friends, about school, about band practice, about my honor this and my honor that, hoping to impress him. He just kept nodding and driving, farther and farther away from my house.

  We were on Roxboro Road when I finally realized that something was really wrong. He stopped talking. There was no longer a smile on his face. He just stared in front of him and accelerated. Suddenly, he swerved off Roxboro, barreling down an unpaved road.

  I panicked and started screaming: “Where are you taking me? What are you doing?” He stopped the car suddenly and reached over me, locking my side of the car. I kept screaming. He pulled at my clothes—trying to kiss me, telling me to relax, that I knew this was what I wanted. I pleaded with him to stop, that this was all a mistake, that I was a virgin, that I was not that kind of girl, that I didn’t even know him: “Stop! Stop! STOP!!” He tried to grab my breasts as I fought, and then I bit him. Finally, I was able to unlock the car and jump out.

  I started to run toward the main road, crying, sobbing, crying, as I heard him crank up the car and pull up beside me. “Get in,” he said, “I’ll take you home.”

  “No way,” I said to myself, no way am I getting back in that car, and continued walking. He rolled along beside me—laughing, and promising to take me home.

  I thought a few minutes and reconsidered my options. How would I get home? I didn’t have any money to make a phone call, I was too far away to walk home, and even if I could call my parents to come pick me up, what would I say? That was too humiliating.

  I got back into his car.

  He gave me a wry grin, knowing that I had no options. I hugged the passenger door, prepared to make another escape if I needed to. He ignored me, turned the volume up on the radio and drove me back to my side of town—to the street corner where we had first met weeks before, when I had been so confident flirting with my friends.

  As I got out, he handed me my school books, and advised:

  “Stop getting into cars with guys you don’t know.”

  I still wonder whether his intention was to rape me, or just to scare me. I would like to believe the latter because nothing prevented him from accomplishing the first.

  The rest of that school year passed comparatively uneventfully. I earned grades high enough to be chosen as class marshal for the Class of 1974. Although blacks outnumbered whites at Hillside, matters of academic achievement were always a balancing act, because only the students with the highest GPAs could represent the school for official events. Our dynamic and politically savvy principal, Mr. Lucas, was keenly aware that he was being watched by both the black and the white parents. Each and every decision had to be carefully weighed. One wrong step would bring unacceptable consequences. Frankly, I don’t know how Mr. Lucas managed to walk that tightrope of racial angst, but he did. Decades later, he continues to receive accolades for his wise stewardship of our school during this period. Countless documents bear witness to his efforts.

  There was always an equal number of black and white class marshals—always. That year, we also elected the first white class president at Hillside. Greg was an easygoing and popular guy—smart and funny—who had lots of friends both black and white. Greg’s election seemed to demonstrate that our class had mastered this whole “integration thing.”

  The Second Letter

  My senior year was on track to be the best of my life—I was in the band—and in May Mr. Edgerton told me that I was his choice to be head majorette! He said he wanted me to start working with the other girls that summer to make sure we were ready. Practice our twirling, practice our high stepping, make sure we were in shape, think about our uniforms, order our boots. I also had started dating a new guy, so things were looking good.

  But then I got another letter.

  In June 1974, the Durham City School Board sent a letter of correction notifying me I would need to change schools that year and that because of the zoning and where I lived, I needed to go to Durham High School. Their apologies.

  My senior year—MY SENIOR YEAR!! How could they do this to me?! It was 1970 all over again. To say that I was horrified, grief-stricken, and could not be consoled does not convey the depths of my despair. I did not care that Durham High was a good school. I wanted to go to Hillside because I was a senior, I was the head majorette, I was a leader in other important school groups, all my friends were at Hillside, my boyfriend was there, and I just HAD to go to Hillside.

  But the school board said “No.”

  I cried. I pleaded with my parents to do something, do anything, to help me stay at Hillside. Could we move? Could I move in with someone who lived in the Hillside area? Could I not move, but say we did and give a phony address? Plenty of kids wouldn’t mind going to Durham High, so why were they torturing me? I had dedicated my whole life to stepping into my place at Hillside, and I was being denied…for what, FOR WHAT!?

  I started telling all my friends that it looked as though I was not going to go to Hillside my senior year. Nobody could believe my bad luck. The idea of integration took on a terrible stench from my perspective. To me, integration was a hateful practice forcing people to go where they did not want to go for some unreasonable and arbitrary goal.

  I knew that my parents were working behind the scenes, but I still do not know what tricks they pulled, what calls they made, what favors they promised, or what lines they crossed for me to stay in Hillside. I do know that I received another letter in June that I had been exempted from the new policy and could attend Hillside my final year.

  The College Hunt

  I applied to only a handful of colleges. The only one I was truly interested in was Spelman College, the historically black all female school in Atlanta. Spelman and Morehouse (the all male school also in Atlanta) were considered the best black colleges in the country. In early February, I was accepted and awarded a full four-year academic scholarship. All I needed to do was to send in the $100 housing deposit to guarantee my spot. I was thrilled. I informed my parents, and the $100 was sent. I started making plans to move to Atlanta.

  Then I got an acceptance letter from Duke University, also with scholarship money, and my parents lost their minds.

  “Duke!” they exclaimed to their friends. “Duke!! Our daughter got into Duke!” This was where my mother had toiled as an LPN for 30 years. She was in the first group of black nurses hired at Duke in the ’50s. Black students were not admitted to Duke when my mother started working there. Nevertheless, from my parents’ perspective, Duke was the Ivy League school of the South that guaranteed success for all who enrolled. Duke! Duke!

  Many of my high school classmates, both black and white, had applied (and been admitted) to the University of North Caro
lina at Chapel Hill. I did not apply to Carolina or North Carolina Central University because I knew that I wanted to leave Durham. I applied to Duke, not thinking that I would be accepted, to appease my guidance counselor and my parents. So, when I received that acceptance notification packet on April 1 (yes, April Fool’s Day), I was as surprised as anyone. I knew of Duke’s reputation, and I was keenly aware that they admitted few black students. I had read that information in the newspaper.

  When I saw my parents’ joy and the amazement of all our family, friends, church members, neighbors, and Hillside teachers, it dawned on me that going to Duke was not about me or my accomplishments—it was about the success of the village that had raised me. I couldn’t turn that down—no matter how much I wanted to go to Spelman. I acquiesced, put aside my plans, and sent back the acceptance note to Duke.

  Graduation Season

  I’d had a boyfriend for nine months, which, in teenager time, was a lifetime. As graduation approached, friends and others inquired if we were making long-term plans. I smiled and responded coyly—“Who knows?”—secretly hoping that it would be true. Our senior class peers had voted us “Best All Around” couple at Hillside. He was so smart, so athletic, so good looking, and we were so compatible in temperament, interests and ambitions. Or so I thought.

  The end came quickly. He didn’t have enough time, he said, and I heard my first (but not my last) “It’s not you, it’s me” routine. To his credit, he did take me to the senior prom a month later (though frankly I do not know whether it was from guilt, pity or familial pressures to help me save face so close to graduation). There were rumors of another girlfriend, and I was embarrassed and humiliated to have been dumped. The acceptance letter from Duke jolted me back to life, thank God. The promise of a Duke education elevated my mood and poured salve over my wounded ego.