The next morning, Colleen went directly to Evelyn’s classroom to return the plate and cake server. Evelyn was at the blackboard, which was on the long side of the classroom trailer, instead of on the short side, where Colleen’s was positioned. The room was arranged with the desks in a way that made the space appear more open. Evelyn also had her desk behind the students, not in front like Colleen did. Maybe she should change her layout too. Would it help? It couldn’t be worse.
Colleen saw Evelyn smile as she walked toward her.
First the cake; now what?
“Evelyn, thank you. The cake was delicious, and the children really enjoyed it. But how did you know it was my birthday?”
“You told me. Remember the Sunshine Club we had back at West Hill School?”
Colleen put the plate and server down on Evelyn’s desk. “Yes, of course, but I didn’t realize we were doing it here at Kettle Creek.”
Evelyn placed the cake items in a bag under her desk and looked directly into Colleen’s eyes. “We’re not. I am.”
Colleen thought about some of the teachers in Kettle Creek’s lunchroom. They wouldn’t have eaten a cake baked by a Negro. Well, they would have if it were their maid, using their pans and utensils, in their house. What a coincidence that Evelyn had baked her favorite: a lemon-flavored cake with creamy lemon icing, just like her mother would’ve made.
Chapter 27
Colleen
Monday, February 9, 1970
When the children got to school the following Monday, they had a surprise. Linkston was always the first to arrive, much earlier than everyone else. He used to stand on the 2C line outside by the tree, until one rainy day Colleen invited him in to wait. From that day on, he always opened the door to the trailer, looking for Mrs. Rodriguez. She was always at her desk, right by the door.
“Miz Rodriguez! What are you doing way back there?” he asked today.
Colleen had placed her desk right under the air conditioner in the back of the room. She reasoned that it was better there because she rarely sat at it, and she gained a few feet by pushing it back into the corner. The previous Friday afternoon, she had rearranged the student desks and the reading center and had created a bulletin board on the long side of the room.
“Where’s my desk, Miz Rodriguez? The classroom is upside down!”
Colleen laughed and stood to show Linkston his new place. She had placed the desks in five clusters of six, with three desks facing three others. She had created “tables” like the ones she had used in New Jersey.
“Look, Linkston, everyone’s name is on their desk. When the children come in today, can you help me?”
“Yes, ma’am! I can read everyone’s name!” He adjusted his glasses as he walked around the desks to read the bright yellow index card attached to each one. He stood up just a bit taller and straighter. Or had he grown? His big smile lit up his eyes and revealed some missing teeth. She hadn’t seen that smile in some time. Linkston was always so serious. The transition had hit him harder than the others. He and Cynthia had been the last ones to go on a Saturday library trip.
“Let’s go meet the class, Linkston. It’s time.”
As Colleen walked toward her post, she saw the lines of children waiting for their teachers. Four lines were all Negroes. Why did they call this integration? It wasn’t, not really. The lines for the other classes had all the white children at the front and the Negro children in line behind them. Was it better or worse for the black children in the “integrated” classrooms? At least her children weren’t treated like second-class citizens.
As usual, Cynthia claimed the first position, with Jarrod right behind her, nudging her to move as soon as Colleen appeared. Cynthia stood her ground. Colleen knew that the child never wanted to disappoint her teacher.
“Good morning, chickadees!” As Colleen greeted her class, she did a quick head count. “Looks like everyone’s here. Okay, Cynthia, lead the class. I have a surprise for all of you.”
Colleen and Linkston helped the students find their new places. When the children were set, Colleen realized she would need to go over some rules.
Questions peppered the air: “Why do I have to sit next to her?”
And then complaints: “My mama says not to talk to him.”
“Children, let’s try it out. Which table is ready? Who can get their math work out first?”
Praising the children, table by table, for pulling out their books, pencils, and rulers worked to stop the chatter and begin the day. The change would take time and patience. Now the children didn’t have to pass their chairs through the narrow aisles because Colleen had placed them by their reading groups and would take her chair to them.
But by lunchtime, she questioned the rearrangement of the desks. The students never left their seats for the entire morning. The new desk placement caused a lot of snickering and face making that she hadn’t anticipated. The children were used to looking at the back of someone’s head, not at one other. The narrow rows were gone. They had served as a place for the students to line up so that she could take them to lunch in the expected orderly manner.
“Stand up and push in your chairs. I’ll call one table at a time to line up by the door.”
The first twelve students assembled across the back of the room. Colleen could see that that wasn’t going to work because they crowded into the space. After sitting all morning, the children were bursting with energy.
Just get them outside!
Walking to the lunchroom with the sun warming their heads and shoulders calmed them. Colleen was relieved to deliver them to the lunch aides. She needed to be out of that tincan classroom as much as her students did.
The afternoon was worse. Colleen tried everything. She had them stand in their places and play Simon Says, she let them march around the room to play Follow the Leader, and she praised them. Nothing worked. Then she remembered what Evelyn had told her back at West Hill months earlier: “Did you see the black strap in your middle drawer?”
Colleen remembered her surprise when she’d realized that the thick black belt was in her desk for a purpose.
“You better use it from time to time; otherwise, they won’t respect you, and they’ll get the upper hand.”
Colleen had promised herself that she would never use the belt. How could she hit a child with it? It was two or three inches wide, soft and flexible, and could encircle her waist almost twice. Every time she opened the drawer, she could smell the leather. It was a good smell, like new shoes, but it provoked some terrible thoughts: images from TV news, white faces full of rage, angry racist chants.
A ruckus from the back of the room drew her out of the memory.
“Jarrod. Sit down.”
He was still unhappy about losing Simon Says, and he had grabbed Linkston’s glasses. The two boys were struggling.
“Give me my glasses back. Don’t break them.”
Colleen rushed over and reached between them to get the glasses.
“Jarrod. Stop.”
Colleen saw a look she didn’t recognize from Jarrod. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes tightly, then pulled away from her. Linkston looked ready to cry, Jarrod ready to run.
Colleen rushed to her desk and opened the drawer. The smell of leather wafted up like a warning.
“Jarrod, come here.”
His anger turned to fear as he dragged himself to her desk. He knew what was in that drawer. She remembered him asking if she would use it when they were still at West Hill School.
Colleen took out the belt and hit the desk with a whack that echoed in the trailer.
“Do you want me to hit you?” She heard her words as if someone else had said them.
He shook his head from side to side so fast that some of the kids giggled.
“Then sit down.” He did. So did she.
The rest of the afternoon was quiet, but it wasn’t a good type of quiet. Shame filled her up. She had crossed the line. She couldn’t control the circ
umstances that had put her in this tincan classroom, but she must control her response.
Chapter 28
Colleen
Saturday, February 28, 1970
February was Colleen’s favorite month for two reasons: her birthday and snow. At home in New Jersey, the cold, crisp days and surprise snowstorms often meant a day or two off from school. She could have used that this week. Miguel had been impatient with her mood lately, and she couldn’t blame him. She didn’t know how he managed to be the tough drill sergeant all day yet leave that personality back in the barracks every evening. Her birthday was over. The classroom was a disaster. She was miserable. And where was he, anyway? It was Saturday and the last day of February.
“Colleen. Colleen!” She heard Miguel’s shout over a rumbling noise that vibrated the metal walls of the trailer. She threw open the trailer door to find him sitting on a motorcycle with a helmet on his head and one in his hand.
“Get your jacket and hop on.” He laughed as he revved the engine.
Frozen in place, Colleen had to shout over the noise. “Where did you get a motorcycle?”
“The supply sergeant lent it to me; we have it for the day. Are you coming or not?”
Colleen put on the helmet and sat behind Miguel. She had to hold on to him for dear life as he turned off the gravel road onto the paved highway, but the ride lifted Colleen’s spirits, and soon she was laughing along with him. They turned off at a bend in the road that led to a backwoods creek. They stopped to sit on a rock ledge overlooking the gentle stream.
“This ride seems to have taken your mind off things. How ’bout I make some Texas hash for supper?”
“We can both do it,” she replied, giving him a big grin and a bigger hug.
On the way back, they went through town and stopped at the Piggly Wiggly for a package of chopped meat and rice. He put the groceries in the saddlebag of the motorcycle. Colleen asked, “Can we make one more stop, at the five-and-dime? I need some nail polish remover.”
“Not much room left,” he said, as he fastened the buckle.
“It’s small—don’t worry. Wait here. I’ll be quick,” she replied.
The five-and-dime had old counters with items arranged in bins, not on shelves. At the end of the counter was a stack of children’s coloring books that a clerk was putting into larger bins. Colleen took a look at them. Sometimes she found letter or number puzzles that she used for extra worksheets during reading group. She was surprised to find paperback cursive-writing books. Back home, children learned cursive in the spring of second grade. Kettle Creek Schools didn’t have that practice, but no one seemed to be watching what she did, so why not? It would be a new thing to teach, to challenge them with. Something they could be proud of. She bought all the books, ten, not enough for all her students, but each book had several practice pages for every letter. They could share. She picked up thirty no. 2 pencils and paid for the purchase.
When she came out with a shopping bag from McCory’s, Miguel had straddled the motorcycle and was ready to go. He shook his head. “What’s this?”
Colleen laughed and placed the package between them. “I found something that will help me for next week.”
“Dios mío,” he shouted over the rumbling of the engine. She reached around him and hugged him tighter so the books wouldn’t fall.
On Monday, Colleen handed out the cursive-writing booklets. As she expected, the children were motivated to learn how to write like the older kids and their parents.
“Oh, my mama writes like this,” Rachel said. “It’s so pretty. Sissy, my sister, and even my brother, Frank, can write like this.”
Colleen demonstrated writing the first letter on the chalkboard. “Who can tell me what letter this is?” Excited hands waved in the air. “Cynthia?”
“C!” she shouted. “It’s my letter.”
Colleen explained that they would learn the magic letters first. “They’re called magic letters because they’re almost like the printed versions, and c is the first one. Then comes a, and then d. Soon you’ll be able to write words by connecting the letters. Let’s practice.”
Chapter 29
Frank
Thursday, March 5, 1970
Frank heard the phone ring when his mother was in the kitchen, drying the last of the supper dishes.
“Frank, Dedra’s on the phone.” His mother smiled and handed the phone to him. He knew she liked Dedra. “That girl has spunk,” she used to say. But that had been when Dedra was the cheerleading captain at West Hill High. When she had cheered for him.
He took the phone into the pantry behind the kitchen and closed the door. He missed talking to Dedra. It was hard to see her since he had stopped going to football practice. He used to walk her home afterward and had planned to ask her to the senior prom. But that was at West Hill. Would there even be a prom now?
“Frank, why didn’t you come meet us at the tennis courts? We need everyone to help plan and organize for the walkout.”
The tennis courts.
He sat on the floor in the dark. Did she care about him, or was he just another body in her protest now?
Frank remembered the first time he had kissed her, after one of her solo tennis practices the previous fall. They hadn’t had tennis rackets, but they had tossed a ball back and forth. Dedra had told him about Althea Gibson and how Althea had shaken hands with Queen Elizabeth after winning Wimbledon. He could still hear her hope when she’d said, “Maybe I can meet Althea someday. Or Rosa Parks.”
He lost himself, thinking about her and listening to her breathing in his ear.
“Frank?”
He hadn’t gone to the tennis courts. He didn’t want to call attention to himself. The last time he had joined a walkout, he’d gotten arrested. He needed time to think this over.
“Well, we’re walking out at noon. I wanted you to know.”
He heard an angry edge to her voice. He still didn’t answer. He wanted to hear her soft breathing.
“Frank?” She stopped speaking.
Her silence worried him.
“I couldn’t go to the planning meeting. My mama needed me to watch Rachel and Baby James.”
The lie was too transparent.
“Don’t you want to see me? Why couldn’t Sissy have watched them? She’s old enough.”
He couldn’t explain why he hadn’t gone. He was trying to figure it out himself.“Frank, what’s wrong with you?”
He admired Dedra. She was ready to fight for all the players and all the cheerleaders and all the black students. He wasn’t like her: his disappointment over not playing football cut too deep, and he was having trouble fighting for himself.
“Frank, we don’t have any senior privileges. We’ve got three more months of senior year. We at least want our prom. And what about next year? We don’t have our spots on the student council, even though I was president at West Hill. You couldn’t play football. We’re going to sit on the lawn until we get representation. Will you be there?”
“I’ll think about it, Dedra.”
“We need to do more than think. The principal promised us he would set it up, but it never happened.”
Frank remembered the meeting in the main office with his mother and Mr. Peterson the day after the first walkout. The office had been available because Mr. Armstrong had met with some of the West Hill students that day. That was when promises had been made. But now months had passed, and there still wasn’t any representation for the black students in any sports or student government at Kettle Creek High School. His football teammates and the cheerleaders had organized a second walkout. And Dedra was their leader. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t official.
Frank remembered the quiet girl he’d met when they were freshmen. She’s not quiet anymore. She wants to be like Rosa Parks and Althea Gibson.
The next day during his fourth-period class, Frank kept looking at the clock. At noon, he held his breath. Chairs scraped the floor. Footsteps followed. His Eng
lish teacher turned from the board as the door opened. Five or six Negro students lined up quietly to walk out of the room. Frank saw his teacher, Dr. Willa Henson, frown at what was happening. She pushed her glasses above her forehead to get her blond hair out of her eyes. Then two of the girls left the line and went over to her, saying, “We want to leave, Dr. Henson.”
“But why? What will this accomplish?”
“We need to be heard.”
Frank was surprised to hear his teacher tell them, “I know. Go ahead.”
He looked around to see the remaining students, all white, just sitting and waiting for what would happen next.
Frank stood up and walked to the window. He looked down at the lawn in the front of the building. From his third-floor view, he could see the street and the circular drive around the flagpole. Black students stopped to take brown bags from parents who seemed to have known this was going to happen and were actually making deliveries. Laughter echoed up to him as the students sat on the grass and began to eat their lunch as if they were at a picnic—except for Dedra. He saw her stand to speak to the principal. He knew what the request was. He wondered what the answer would be.
If the principal and the coaches could be like Dr. Henson, things might be better. Frank had been selected for this class. It was a small class of sixteen students, chosen for their potential and maturity. Today they were writing in their journals after having a discussion about the crossover and the challenge black and white students were having about the attitude “This is the way we do things, and this is the way we don’t.”
He had never had a teacher who was called Doctor. She expected more of Frank than any teacher ever had. Not just neat and nicely written pages—she wanted his thoughts.
His heart was racing; he had made up his mind. He sat back down at his desk.
More students were leaving their classrooms, shouting and slamming doors.
Freedom Lessons Page 11