Freedom Lessons

by Eileen Harrison Sanchez

  “Jarrod, could you take this book to Mrs. Moberly?” She quickly chose a volume from the bookcase. Lulu would understand since they had an agreement to send their wiggliest students on errands to each other when necessary.

  Now what?

  She scanned the class and realized she could count on Linkston, her little professor, with his tortoiseshell-frame glasses. Typically dressed in pressed pants and a sweater vest over a white shirt, he was always the first one at school. She asked him to pass out the papers and scurried around the back of the room, collecting and organizing things so she would be ready by the time Jarrod returned.

  At the end of the day, once the students had gone home, Colleen knocked on the door to Lulu’s classroom.

  “Can I ask your advice on something?” Colleen said. “I went to the town library, and …” Her voice trailed off.

  Lulu’s face was grave as she looked up from her desk. “Let me guess. Did ole Miz Meriwether give you a problem, the one with her hair slicked tight around her head?”

  Colleen sank into one of the low student chairs. “First she couldn’t pronounce Rodriguez, and then she didn’t want to give me library card applications for the class.”

  “For your class? Why would you want those?”

  Colleen explained her plan. Lulu pinched off spent flowers from her plants on the window shelf as she listened. “How will the children get to the library?” she asked.

  Colleen remembered Miguel’s concern. “I can take them in my car.”

  The worried expression on Lulu’s face didn’t surprise Colleen. “Really? Have you told the parents?”

  “Not yet. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. What do you think?”

  Lulu tossed the pruned petals into the trash. “Maybe it would work for me because this is where I’ve always lived. We all do extra things for the children. Families don’t expect it, but the teachers at West Hill are like second parents. Everyone looks out for everyone. But I don’t know about the library and those women, or if the parents will agree to your driving their children around.”

  Lulu went to the sink and filled a bottle to water the hanging plants by the doorway.

  Colleen crossed her arms. “I did this at my last school.”

  “You know it’s not the same.” Lulu shook her head. “The rest of us go to the same church and have been in the students’ homes. Some of the parents were my schoolmates.”

  Colleen watched Lulu pack her schoolbag and tidy her desk. She thought about how she had never been in a Negro’s home.

  “This is important to me.” Colleen stepped toward Lulu. “Will you help me get the parents’ permission?”

  Lulu sighed. “Oh, Lordy. Let me start with Rachel’s mother, Annie Mae Woods. If she agrees, I can talk to a few at church this Sunday. I’ll explain and see what they say.”

  “Oh, Lulu, that would be wonderful.” It was all Colleen could do not to hug her. “Do you think I should come and meet with the parents too?”

  Lulu closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “One thing at a time, Colleen. One thing at a time.”

  “Mrs. Rodriguez?” Mr. Peterson called, as Colleen passed his office. “Do you have some time to speak with me before you leave today?”

  A tall, broad-shouldered man, Mr. Peterson carried himself like the Marine lieutenant he’d been during the Korean War. His Afro hairstyle set him apart from other men of his generation and helped him connect with the youth he now served. He greeted each student, parent, and teacher by name and always remembered the last conversation he’d had with that person. Colleen wished she could tell him about how she felt having Evelyn as her mentor. Talking to Lulu was so much easier.

  He came around the partition to invite her into his office. Despite the heat of the day, he was formally dressed in a suit with a shirt and tie. Colleen sat in a chair facing his organized desk. She remembered how her desk pad was stuffed with notes under the sides and stacks of paper-clipped things to do. The only papers on Mr. Peterson’s desk were neatly arranged in the in/out double-tiered letter tray.

  “You’ve stayed here late again, Mrs. Rodriguez. Were you meeting with Miss Glover today?”

  Colleen thought she would be comfortable speaking with him, but as she twisted her wedding band, she noticed that her palms were damp.

  “No, actually, I was speaking with Mrs. Moberly. I wanted her opinion on something I’m planning with my class.”

  “I’m pleased to know that you’re seeking advice from other teachers, in addition to Miss Glover. We have good teachers here, and every one of them can be helpful to you.”

  Colleen sighed and took in a deep breath.

  “Are you feeling well, Mrs. Rodriguez?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I’m just glad to hear that. I find Mrs. Moberly easy to talk to.”

  Mr. Peterson sat back in his chair and laughed. “Is that another way of saying that Miss Glover isn’t easy to talk to?”

  Colleen felt a blush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks, but Mr. Peterson’s smile didn’t falter. “Let me tell you a story, Mrs. Rodriguez. It’s about a young Negro woman who loved to read and a white woman named Rosa Keller. In 1953, Mrs. Keller was the first woman appointed to the New Orleans library board.”

  Colleen shifted so that she could cross her ankles.

  “Mrs. Keller was surprised that the library was segregated,” Mr. Peterson continued. “She was from New York. Isn’t that where you’re from, Mrs. Rodriguez?”

  “No, sir, I’m from New Jersey.”

  “I see. Well, Mrs. Keller suggested that the State Library of Louisiana in New Orleans be open to everyone, especially schoolchildren.”

  “I have to agree with that. I was just talking to Mrs. Moberly about the town library.”

  “Were you, now? What a coincidence.”

  Sure is, Colleen thought. Had Lulu told Mr. Peterson about their conversation? He flicked an invisible speck of dirt from his desk. “Our town library has been integrated since 1958. Strange, isn’t it? Libraries are integrated, but the bathrooms and the schools aren’t. We can thank Mrs. Keller, who had the courage to speak up.”

  “So, if I wanted to, I could take my students to the library?”

  He raised his right hand. Colleen remembered what Lulu had said: One thing at a time.

  “Listen to the rest of the story, Mrs. Rodriguez. Some time ago, our community was chosen to have a branch of the state library. Since it was to be built with federal funds, it would be integrated like the main branch in New Orleans. The young Negro woman I mentioned earlier was studying to be a teacher. She intended to be the best teacher in her family—a family I happen to know quite well. An integrated library gave her hope that she could get better books for herself and her students. Let’s call her Evie.”

  “Evelyn?”

  “Yes. Now, all summer Evie watched the workmen build that library, brick by brick. On opening day, she was up at dawn. She stood across the street, waiting for the doors to open. But something happened that day that made it so she couldn’t use the library. In fact, to my knowledge, she has never gone inside that building. Maybe someday she’ll tell you why.”

  He stood up and walked Colleen to the door. “Mrs. Rodriguez, you have a lot to learn about our community, and Miss Glover can help you. Perhaps she can learn from you too. Just think about that. But now, I believe it’s time for both of us to go home and have our dinner.”

  Chapter 12

  Colleen

  Monday, September 22, 1969

  The morning routine of Class 2C’s school day now included Book Count. Colleen looked at the tally and noticed Cynthia’s column creeping up on the bar graph.

  Cynthia saw it too. “Miz Rodriguez! Look, my boxes are almost as high as Rachel’s! But not as high as Linkston’s. I want to win!”

  Colleen remembered how Cynthia had fallen while racing the boys. She smiled, thinking about how winning was important to Cynthia.

  During her weekly meetings with Evelyn, her
mentor’s cool manner constantly punctured Colleen’s newfound self-assurance. The first library trip was planned for the coming Saturday. Colleen decided that she should ask for Evelyn’s advice about it at their meeting. It would break the tension one way or the other.

  At the end of the school day, Colleen went to her mentor’s room, as planned. Evelyn sat at a student desk, her petite frame almost the right size for the chair. She was perched with her elbows on her knees, though, her shoulders tilting forward. Her head was turned away, staring out the window.

  “Is something wrong? Evelyn?” Colleen stepped forward. “Evelyn?”

  “I hear you.” Evelyn stood up, her face resuming its usual composed expression. “I just didn’t want to answer. My friend has probably lost her job.”

  “Your friend? The one who the police escorted from school? Oh, I’m sorry.” Colleen stood by the table where she and Evelyn usually sat, tracing a crack in its surface with her fingers.

  An awkward silence stretched between the two women. Finally, Evelyn spoke. “Mr. Peterson told me you had a question about using the library.”

  Anxiety bubbled in Colleen’s stomach. How much had Mr. Peterson told Evelyn already?

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you for some advice. I have a reading incentive plan in my room. The children are earning points for a chance to go to the library with me on Saturdays.”

  “What library?” Evelyn sat at the table and shuffled some papers. “The one on the army base?”

  “No, the one in town.”

  Evelyn’s expression hardened. “Why?”

  Still standing, Colleen explained her plan. “When I found out that none of my students have a library card, I decided I would help to get them. And I’ll take four at a time in my car on Saturdays since there isn’t money for a school bus trip.”

  Colleen touched the top of the chair, ready to pull it out and sit. But Evelyn seemed so lost in thought, so distracted, that Colleen didn’t think she had even heard her.

  “Evelyn?”

  Evelyn raised her voice. “So, what is your question, Colleen? What do you want from me?”

  Colleen didn’t see any way to change the subject, so she plowed through. “When I went to the library a few weeks ago, the librarian wasn’t exactly cooperative. It took a bit of time to get enough library card applications for my class.”

  “And?”

  Colleen sat down. “It was when she found out what school I worked in that she became less cooperative.”

  A flash of anguish passed over Evelyn’s face. “I still don’t know what your question is, Colleen.”

  “What should I do?”

  Evelyn leaned back and turned her head toward the clock. “I really can’t advise you on that. What I would do about the library has nothing to do with what you can or should do.”

  The unspoken words hung between them: because you’re white.

  Evelyn flipped open a folder. “We still have our jobs. Let’s try to keep them.”

  Chapter 13

  Colleen

  Tuesday, November 4, 1969

  Colleen stood under a tree on the grassy rise behind the school that was used for recess. It was her week for playground duty, and she was the only white person in the yard. Moments like this reminded her that she was the one who was different, who needed acceptance.

  For the past four months, Colleen had lived in two different worlds. She and Miguel lived in a whites-only trailer park, even though there wasn’t a sign. They went dancing on weekends at the integrated NCO club, but that didn’t generate any new friendships.

  Two months earlier, her students’ parents had agreed to sign permission slips for library visits and cards. Mrs. Annie Mae Woods was instrumental in helping with that. Adults’ cautious nods countered the gleeful greetings from children at her Saturday morning pickups. She always drove away carefully so that the tires of her car wouldn’t kick up the gravel of the unpaved roads. She wanted to build these families’ trust.

  Colleen had grown up in an all-white community, gone to all-white schools, and attended Mass at an all-white church. Until college, the only Negro she had ever known was Beulah, the woman her parents had employed for a few years when her mother was sick. She had had a black baby doll, if that counted for anything. When her family had moved, Beulah had stopped working for them. The doll had been a present from her mother, who knew how much Colleen missed Beulah after she left.

  “Beulah!” she said aloud. Cynthia ran to her. “Miz Rodriguez, who y’all want?” Cynthia’s delicate features contrasted with her tomboy ways. Today, her fine, curly hair was plaited in the usual braids, with yellow, blue, green, and red barrettes clipped to the ends of each one. So far, none had unraveled.

  Colleen covered the gasp that escaped from her mouth. “Sorry, I was thinking of an old friend. Guess I said her name.”

  Jarrod ran by, shouting, “You cain’t catch me!” and Cynthia was gone.

  As the children raced away, Beulah was still on her mind and Colleen remembered an incident on a bus when she was twelve. When a weary Negro woman struggled down the aisle at the end of her workday, there were no seats left. Everyone looked away, either out the windows or into a newspaper. Colleen noticed that one of the bags the woman was carrying had cleaning supplies in it, and she remembered Beulah, so she stood up and gave the woman her seat. Heads turned, eyes blamed, and stern, silent faces denounced Colleen’s offer. She lost her balance and reached for the strap above her head so that she wouldn’t fall as the bus turned the corner. Her father’s words came back to her: Colleen, always treat people the way you would want to be treated. It was right of you to give up your seat.

  The recess bell rang, and the children lined up along the brick wall of the school. Colleen led them past the row of crepe myrtle trees and the trellis of morning glory vines near her classroom’s door. She thought she should get a trellis for her trailer home. She felt a grin spread across her face at the idea of lavender flowers against a turquoise metal background.

  Colleen held the classroom door open for the children, but they halted suddenly, and Linkston shot her a concerned look. Three white men stood inside the classroom with Mr. Peterson. Each one held a clipboard. Their dark suits, white shirts, and narrow ties set off their serious, unsmiling presence.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Rodriguez.” Mr. Peterson nodded at her. “Please go about your usual routine. We won’t be in your way.”

  The children filed to their seats in silence, even Jarrod. Linkston, the self-appointed enforcer, didn’t have to remind anyone of the rules. He looked at Colleen pleadingly and whispered, “Who are they?”

  Colleen wondered the same thing, but she couldn’t show her concern. Were they here to observe her because she was new? They’d never taken her references. Could something be wrong? She recognized the superintendent who had hired her.

  Standing at the front of the classroom, she said, “Children, I need the Red Robins to meet me at the reading table. The rest of you can finish your math and writing practice. Is everyone ready to work?”

  Wide-eyed children glanced at the white men and silently started writing. Colleen walked to the back wall and sat at the reading table so she could see the rows of students. The suits jotted something on their clipboards. Linkston sat next to her, his glasses magnifying the fear in his eyes.

  Suddenly, she thought of the Negro teachers who’d been escorted out of the white school and the hostile parents shouting threats at them. Even in her serene little classroom, the presence of these white men sent a charge through the air.

  As she reached over to pick up a stack of vocabulary cards, her hand trembled. Usually the children were excited to read the cards aloud, but this time, no one spoke.

  “Hmm.” Colleen forced an encouraging smile. “Let’s see who knows this word.”

  Her little professor Linkston finally answered. She rewarded him by letting him hold the card. Slowly, each child read so they could hold a card.

 
The lesson took half the time she had planned since everyone was so timid about speaking up. The students who were completing seat work put their papers away when they were finished and sat quietly with their hands folded. Under any other circumstances, Colleen would have laughed aloud at this uncharacteristically angelic behavior.

  Colleen glanced at the men, who were still furrowing their brows and scribbling on their clipboards. Would they think the children were well behaved or that she didn’t give them enough to do?

  “Good work, children.” She felt a pulse below her eye. “I see that everyone is finished. Do you remember that today is Science Experiment Day?”

  This announcement usually brought gleeful cheers. But the students sat in silence, and none of them scrambled to help her as they normally would have. While she rummaged in the side closet for her science materials, she heard whispers from the children. She swiveled to see whether the men were still taking notes.

  The suits were gone as mysteriously as they had appeared.

  Jarrod spoke first, still a bit hesitant. His hand went up, “Miz Rodriguez! Was that your husband?”

  Cynthia shot him a quick retort. “Jarrod, her husband is an army man!”

  “Are they principals like Mr. Peterson?” asked Linkston.

  “Maybe, but we have work to do,” Colleen answered. “Okay, where are my scientists?”

  Hands shot up, and the children’s faces broke into relieved smiles.

  Just then, the intercom crackled. “Good afternoon, teachers and students, pardon the interruption. Teachers, please stop in the auditorium after dismissal today for a brief meeting.”

  Mr. Peterson rarely used the intercom system, always preferring to come personally into each classroom to make announcements. His voice sounded strained to Colleen, but it could just be that she wasn’t used to hearing it broadcast from the box on the wall.