Freedom Lessons

by Eileen Harrison Sanchez

  She had to agree with him.

  Mildred had told Evelyn about being rushed to a police car and driven away from the angry crowd. The next day, the black teachers were allowed into the school but spent the day in a room under police guard. As if that would accomplish anything. As if that were any way to keep Mildred and the other Negro teachers safe.

  The whistling of the kettle made Evelyn jump.

  Chapter 9

  Colleen

  Thursday, September 11, 1969

  As she walked to her car, late from redoing the comprehension questions, Colleen thought about the Negro teachers Evelyn had told her about. How terrifying it must been for them to leave their school and see hostile white faces jeering and taunting as they passed.

  At West Hill, the schoolyard was quiet. The birds weren’t chirping. Even the sky was an ominous yellowish gray. Everyone else had left, including Lulu, who taught the 2B class. Colleen sometimes wished that friendly, easygoing Lulu were her mentor instead of Evelyn. She had an easy laugh and walked with a bounce to her step.

  As Colleen drove into the trailer park, she stopped at the row of mailboxes. She and Miguel rarely got any mail, but today there was a small package from her father. Her heart ached as she realized how much she missed her parents.

  Rushing to open the trailer door, she dropped her things on the sofa and opened the package to find the cassette she’d hoped for. She retrieved the player and sat down at the kitchen table to listen.

  “Testing, testing, one, two, three.”

  Colleen chuckled. That was how she’d started her recording too.

  “Sorry, I tried to record over my practicing, but I’m just messing it up. Ignore it. Okay. Colleen, this is your father. I can’t wait for you to try out the cassette player and send me a tape. You can tape over this one or add on to it. Maybe you’ll do it better than me. There was a photo in the New York Times of teachers near you being escorted out of their school. Please, you know how I worry. I don’t want to read about you in the paper. Do you know about this? The article reported that school boards are under federal court orders to desegregate.”

  Unbelievable. He must have taped this message days earlier. He had known about the incident with the Negro teachers before she had.

  It was time, Colleen decided, to talk to Jan, who seemed to know all the local gossip.

  Jan opened the door on the first knock, and the scent of freshly chopped herbs filled the air.

  “That smells so good,” Colleen said. “I won’t keep you. Sorry to interrupt.”

  “Yep, I had a great harvest from my garden, and I’m fixin’ to can the tomatoes.” Jan nodded toward her kitchen. Her trailer home was air-conditioned and nicely furnished. The round kitchen table had four chairs and didn’t need to be jammed against one wall like Colleen’s did.

  Colleen held up a copy of Instructor magazine, her excuse for stopping by. “Thanks for lending me this. I thought you might want it back.”

  “You’re welcome, darlin’. Could you put it on the counter? Don’t want to get it dirty by touching it with these hands. How do you like working at West Hill?” Jan raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s working out fine,” Colleen said, a note of pride edging into her voice. “I have to admit, I’m always surprised when I look at my hands and see that I’m the one who’s different.”

  “I won’t say I told you so. But those children need good teachers, and you seem hell-bent on being one.”

  Colleen wasn’t sure that was a compliment, given the sour expression on Jan’s face.

  “I have a question for you, Jan. Did you hear about the schools in the next parish closing?”

  “Sure did. Those parents don’t want a Negro teaching white children.”

  “Do you think something like that could happen here?”

  “Glory, no! Our Negroes know their place. Even with Freedom of Choice, they didn’t choose to go to the white schools. But I’m sure glad I teach in a private school. Wouldn’t you rather be with your own kind?”

  Colleen gasped as if she had been punched. Did Jan think that because their skin was the same color, they were the “same kind”? “I like the school, and I feel welcome there.” A little white lie, it was almost true—no reason to tell her about prickly Evelyn.

  Colleen walked slowly back to her trailer. She had a lot to think about. It seemed that Jim Crow was more than laws; it was a way of life, a caste system with rules that Colleen didn’t understand. Back in New Jersey, things weren’t perfect, but integrated schools and workplaces were simply a fact, whether you liked it or not. Here, Negroes were second-class citizens in the minds of people like Jan. Even educated people. Even teachers.

  I live in a trailer here, Colleen thought. Back home, we’d be called white trash. So would you, Jan.

  Betty Crocker’s New Dinner for Two was like a bible to Colleen. She took it from the shelf and cracked it open. It still had that new-book smell. Each section had an entire menu printed in a small rectangle. Tonight’s menu was from the section labeled “Frankly Thrifty.”

  Texas Hash

  Celery Hearts

  Dill Pickles

  Heavenly Salad

  Pineapple Upside-Down Cake

  Mealtimes had always been important in both Colleen’s and Miguel’s families. For Colleen’s family, conversations about the daily news, politics, and schoolwork were interspersed with “Pass the potatoes, please” and spills cleaned up with paper napkins.

  Dinner at Miguel’s parents’ home reflected the formality that cooks and maids had upheld when they’d lived in Cuba. The table was set with cloth napkins and everything needed for a three-course meal. Colleen’s attempts to prepare dinners like Miguel’s mother resulted in weight gain for both of them.

  Since the air conditioner was humming in the background, Colleen didn’t hear Miguel come home. He’d formed a habit of taking off his boots on the stoop outside so that he didn’t grind sand and dirt into the linoleum flooring. He entered the trailer barefoot, moved behind Colleen, and gave her a big bear hug and a bigger kiss. The tenderness erupted in her body, but not the way it usually did. Colleen shuddered as she turned and started sobbing on his shoulder.

  Through her sobs, she poured out the whole story of Evelyn telling her that she didn’t know how to teach, the Negro teachers being escorted out of the school a few towns away, her father’s message, and how he had seen a photo of the teachers in the newspaper.

  Miguel offered to brown the beef and make the Texas hash. Then he suggested that they have rice instead of the rest of the menu.

  Colleen felt the tension leave her shoulders. “No cake?”

  Miguel shook his head as he started chopping onions. “No cake and no celery hearts, either.”

  She wiped her eyes, and they prepared the meal together. While they ate, Colleen told Miguel about an incident that had happened after lunch in her classroom.

  “Remember Jarrod?”

  “Is he the one who bounces in his chair?”

  “Yes. I was at my desk, and three of the boys came running in.”

  “That’s what boys do.”

  “But all of a sudden, Jarrod froze, with an awful look on his face.”

  “Why?”

  “It took him a while, but then he said, ‘Are you going to hit me like Miz Young did?’”

  “What made him say that?” Miguel asked, cocking his head.

  “My desk drawer was open, and he was staring at the black leather belt I told you about.”

  She hated the thick strap. It was long enough to wrap around her waist twice. At least the buckle had been removed, but the holes to fasten the belt were there as a reminder that it had served a more functional life. The leather was well worn, almost supple, but she hated to touch it. The strap was standard supply, just like the pencils, tape, and paper clips in the top drawer. It bothered Colleen that Jarrod had thought she would hit him with it.

  “So, what are you going to do? Do you have to keep the s
trap in your desk?”

  “I guess so. Evelyn told me that I should use it as part of my classroom management. But I could never hit a child. Still, I can’t throw it out. It’s school property.”

  “You have to keep order, Colleen. You need to find a way to let them know who’s in charge. I’m a mean SOB to my troops because they need to survive in ’Nam when they leave here.”

  “They’re children! This isn’t a war. I’ll find a better way.”

  After dinner, Miguel washed the dishes and Colleen used the table to grade papers. They continued to talk as they both worked.

  “Miguel, do you know where the library in town is? Would you take me there on Saturday morning?”

  “Sure, but you can use the one on the base.”

  “I want to get a library card and some applications for my students. They can’t use the base library.”

  He had finished washing the dishes and was headed outside to shine his boots with Glo-Coat floor wax. He stopped in the doorway. “For your students? Why would you do that?”

  “Remember I told you last year how I created a reading reward program that worked well? I thought I would do it again. You just told me I need other ideas.”

  “A reward program? That’s your idea?” He winked at her.

  Colleen rolled her eyes. “Yes, that’s my idea. I’m not a drill sergeant. They earn a ticket for each book they read. The tickets go into a coffee can, and I pick out four tickets at the end of the month. On the next Saturday, those four students get to go with me to the library.”

  “Ay, Dios mío! How?”

  “I’ll pick them up and take them in our car.”

  “What are you doing?” Miguel turned back from the doorway and put down his boots and the bottle of Glo-Coat on a piece of newspaper. His voice grew stern. “Didn’t you just tell me that you’re worried about how those Negro teachers are being treated for crossing race lines?”

  “This is different, and it isn’t about me. They should have library cards.”

  Miguel stared at Colleen, worry etched into the lines of his face. “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

  Colleen denied the thump-thump-thumping in her chest. “I’m sure,” she told him.

  But she wasn’t.

  Chapter 10

  Colleen

  Saturday, September 13, 1969

  “Hi, Dad. Me again. I’m planning to go to the library today to get some better books for my students. All the libraries in Louisiana are integrated now, but not all the schools. I don’t get it. More soon. I love you.”

  Colleen put the tape player away. Miguel was outside in the car, waiting to take her to the library.

  Her mood lifted at the sight of the one-story brick building with its large, welcoming front door. Inside, she found a long counter where two librarians were working. One woman looked about Colleen’s age. The other woman was older and wore her hair in a ’50s-style beehive.

  “Good morning. May I help you?” The younger woman’s smile glinted. It was unusual to see an adult with braces.

  Colleen smiled back. “I’d like to get a library card for myself and some applications for my students.”

  “Of course!” The young woman handed Colleen a preprinted, four-by-six-inch index card. “Here’s a pen. I’ll come back in a few minutes to look it over and check your identification.”

  Colleen completed the form, pulling out her military spouse ID and a gas bill with her address. The older librarian strode over and held out a hand for the paperwork. Her hair was pulled so tightly off her face that it stretched her skin taut. Colleen wondered if it gave her a headache.

  “Excuse me.” The woman squinted at Colleen’s ID. “Is this application for you?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  As the librarian examined her, Colleen could almost feel her freckles buzz. She was used to people staring at her green eyes and red hair. When she was a kid, the local banker had given her a lollipop because she was cute. This didn’t feel like that.

  The librarian tilted her head. “But this application is for someone named … hmm, Rod-rye-kwiss? That’s you?”

  Colleen felt her Irish temper rising as she clenched her jaw and carefully pronounced her new name. “Yes, I’m Colleen Rodriguez. Is there a problem?”

  “Do you have some other personal identification?”

  “A driver’s license. We moved here a few months ago.”

  The librarian held Colleen’s license up to the light, as if it might be counterfeit. “But this doesn’t say Rod-rye-kwiss.”

  “Right. I haven’t gotten a chance to change my name yet. We just got married. I’ll take care of it when we go home to New Jersey.”

  “Darlin’, I never saw anyone that looked like you with a Mexican name.” The woman shook her beehived head. “Just a moment, please. Wait here.”

  Colleen’s face grew hot. So this was how it felt to be an outsider.

  The librarian reappeared after a minute. “My boss approved your paperwork,” she said with a tight smile.

  Colleen reached out to take the card. The librarian seemed reluctant to let it go.

  “Thank you.” Colleen willed herself to stand taller, with her head high and her shoulders back. “I also need some applications for my students.”

  “You’re a teacher? Why didn’t you tell me so before?”

  Tension rose up Colleen’s back. She nodded toward the younger librarian. “I did ask for student applications from the woman over there.”

  “Where do you teach?”

  “West Hill School.”

  The librarian stepped back from the counter. “West Hill School? On Tulip Lane? That’s the black school.”

  Colleen gritted her teeth. Is there a WHITES ONLY sign I missed somewhere?

  “Yes, that’s right. I need twenty-four applications.” Colleen splayed her fingers on the counter to stop her hands from trembling.

  “I don’t have that many here at the counter. You’ll have to wait.”

  The librarian walked into the back office. Finally, Mrs. Beehive returned with a stack of cards.

  “Can you explain why you’re doing this and not the parents of your students?” She pursed her lips, as if impersonating the librarians who’d shushed Colleen and her giggling friends back in the high school library.

  “Where I taught in New Jersey, every student received a library card at the end of first grade. The teachers handed them out. My students are in second grade, and none of them have a card.”

  “That’s not our policy. We have to have parental permission for each of these cards. And if any books are not returned, there will be a fine, or even full payment, for the book. Do you understand that?”

  Colleen struggled with her rising anger but responded politely. “Of course. The children will be with me when they take out books, and I will help to return them.”

  “But West Hill is across town. Are you bringing them all here on a school-day field trip? We would have to make arrangements for such a large group.”

  “Only a few at a time, on Saturdays, as soon as they get their cards.”

  The librarian slapped the pile of application cards on the counter. She gave Colleen an amused look. “Well, Mrs. Rod-rye-kwiss, bless your heart. You are just what we need in this library. You come back to me with those permission slips.”

  Colleen picked up the stack of applications and walked out of the library.

  Rodriguez, Rodriguez.

  As she left the building, she felt a set of piercing eyes follow her, and a chill traveled down her spine.

  Chapter 11

  Colleen

  Tuesday, September 16, 1969

  Colleen sat at the large table in her classroom, eating her lunch alone and grading papers, when a child’s cry interrupted her contemplative mood. Cynthia ran in from recess with tears in her eyes and four barrettes clutched in her hand. Her dress was crumbled and dirty. One knee was scraped raw.

  Colleen rose so quickly that sh
e knocked over her chair.

  “Cynthia, what happened? Come and sit over here with me.”

  Tears cleaned the red dirt from her cheeks as Cynthia sobbed and shuddered, trying to catch her breath to answer.

  “Miz Rodriguez, I was racing with the boys. I was winning! But someone tripped me! Is my dress ruined? My mama will be mad.”

  “Let me wipe your face, Cynthia. Come to the sink. We can fix this together.”

  Colleen dampened a napkin from her lunch bag to clean the dusty red dirt off the child’s face. Then she gently washed Cynthia’s brown knee. It might need a Band-Aid, but that could wait. Colleen saw that the four barrettes belonged to four unraveled braids. The girls called them plaits. But it didn’t matter what they were called, Colleen had never braided a Negro girl’s hair before.

  “Cynthia, can I dust off your dress? Should I fix your hair?”

  Cynthia slowly calmed down as she let Colleen clean her up, her sobs growing softer. Cynthia’s hair was soft, and the tight curls stretched into long, wavy sections that sprang back as Colleen tried to braid them. When she struggled to fasten the barrettes to Cynthia’s hair, the little girl stared at Colleen’s arms.

  Finally, she looked up. “Miz Rodriguez, why do you have so many pimples on your arms?”

  “Pimples?” Colleen frowned down at her arms and then laughed. “Oh, you mean freckles. I get them from the sun.”

  “The sun? How does the sun give them to you? Will I get some? I done never heard ’bout that.”

  Just as Colleen finished the last braid, her class arrived at the door with Lulu, who had playground duty that day. Colleen looked up to see Lulu’s expression shift from a puzzled look to a wide grin.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Rodriguez. I have your children here. Are you ready for them?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Moberly.”

  As Colleen guided Cynthia to her seat, she realized that her lunch and the students’ papers were all over the table she needed for the lesson she had planned. If she didn’t clean it up quickly, Jarrod would be up to his “funtics.” Jarrod was a large boy with closely cropped black curls. His ears stood away from his face, and when he looked at someone, it was often through squinted eyes. Maybe she should refer him to the school nurse for a vision screening.