Freedom Lessons

by Eileen Harrison Sanchez

  Chapter 37

  Frank

  Saturday, May 16, 1970

  Frank hurried home from work. He didn’t want to miss Dedra’s call about some graduation plans the Black Student Committee had put together. His friendship with Dedra had been renewed ever since she had seen him in his suit. He had driven the hearse at her aunt’s funeral two weeks earlier. Frank generally tried to stay in the background, but that day Mr. Fields had had him assist the family into their cars. Dedra hadn’t seen him at first. They hadn’t spoken since he had refused to be part of the walkout. But her face had softened when their eyes met, and she’d said, “So, this is where you’ve been keeping yourself, Frank. Quite a change from that football uniform, I’d say.”

  Now he hurried out as soon as Mr. Fields closed the door on the last mourner. Frank drove home from the funeral home without trading his suit pants for the jeans he usually wore. The driver’s seat of his mother’s car was worn, but he had examined it for any snags before sitting down. He folded the jacket and laid it carefully on the passenger seat. He couldn’t afford another suit. The job took up all of his after-school and weekend time, but he had been able to save some money.

  As he drove his mother’s old ’53 Crown Victoria up the road to his house, Frank noticed the row of mailboxes. Theirs was left open. He looked and saw nothing inside, so he snapped the small door shut.

  “Ma! I’m home! I’m starving. What’s for dinner?”

  He found her sitting in her wing chair, as she called it, the one with the brown-striped velvet upholstery. She was holding a piece of paper, and a long white envelope was on her lap.

  “I need you to read this, and then we can talk. Please sit with me.”

  “Ma, can’t I change my clothes and then read it?”

  “No. Sit with me, Frank.”

  He looked at his mother’s dull eyes, the tight set of her jaw, and realized that the paper in her hand didn’t bear good news. As he sat down, she handed him the letter:

  Dear Mrs. Woods,

  The parish school board has made the decision to require all seniors from West Hill High School to attend a fifth year at Kettle Creek High School. This generous offer will assure that all students receive a full curriculum before graduation. This decision will delay the graduation date for your son, Franklin Delano Woods, until the completion of the 1970–71 school year.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Cornelius Palmer

  Principal, Kettle Creek High School

  Frank shifted his body in the chair and read it again. It didn’t make sense. He leaped up, unable to contain the anger boiling inside him.

  “They can’t do this to me, Ma!” Peterson and his promises. “Damn honkies do what they want. First, they cut me from the team? And now no graduation?”

  One look from her, and he settled down. What she said next shocked him.

  “Frank, I’ve been sitting here and praying on this. We cannot let this happen. I don’t know how to stop it, but we’ll find a way.”

  Chapter 38

  Colleen

  Saturday, May 16, 1970

  “Hi, Dad. I can’t believe it. I have to send a letter to the parents of each student in my class to let them know I’m retaining their child. The principal wrote the letter, but I have to make copies and sign it. It’s awful! ‘Dear Parents, this is to inform you that your child will not be passed to third grade, so that the school can provide them with additional time to meet the challenging curriculum of Kettle Creek Elementary.’ Ridiculous.”

  She pressed the STOP button. Staring at the recorder, Colleen gave up on the idea of talking it out with her father. He would never get the tape in time to give her advice. She was just talking to herself. What was the point?

  Big, fat, quiet tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped onto the tape player.

  Where are those cigarettes? Damn! Of all the weekends for Miguel to be away on maneuvers! Who can I talk to? Evelyn?

  Evelyn had the same problem she did because she had the below-level 3C class. No phone meant having to drive to the pay phone or using the one in their landlord’s house. And she didn’t want anyone to overhear what she was saying. She found the carton of Marlboros. The last pack. Colleen chain-smoked until the surge of nicotine soothed her anxiety.

  She considered her options: write the letters or don’t write the letters. If she sent the letters, she was ignoring the success and progress of the year. If she didn’t send them, would it matter? She had no authority to pass her students on to third grade. Worse, she had no power. Send the letter. It was the only way to expose how unfair the decision was. She’d have to rely on her students’ parents to do something.

  Colleen didn’t have a typewriter in the trailer. She would have to type the letter at school. Thinking about asking the secretary if she could use her typewriter changed her mind. Colleen didn’t want to sit at that woman’s desk. It would be like sitting in a fishbowl. She imagined the unfriendly secretary watching her and knew that she would only make mistake after mistake, wasting the dittos, pulling the ditto master out of the typewriter, and getting purple ink all over her hands. Colleen decided she would just have to write it carefully by hand onto the master. The more she thought through the steps, the clearer her plan got. It would have to be in cursive and sealed in an envelope. The children would be able to read it if she typed it.

  Yes! Many of them will be able to read it! Yet the principal didn’t even want to know about them.

  After lunch on Monday, Colleen made copies of her handwritten letter, stuffed the envelopes, and addressed each one. At the end of the day, she inserted each letter into the folders she used to send homework and school notices home.

  “Miz Rodriguez, why are we bringing letters home? Is that my report card?”

  Of course Jarrod would be worried about a letter going home.

  “No, Jarrod, it’s a special notice for your parents. Report cards go home next week.”

  “I was worried, Miz Rodriguez. You always show us our report cards first. My mama doesn’t like bad news. I want to see it before she does.”

  “You will, Jarrod, next week.”

  As Colleen lined up the students and took them out to the bus lines, she wondered how his mother and all the parents would react.

  The report cards are worthless, and so am I.

  Chapter 39

  Annie Mae

  Monday, May 18, 1970

  “Hello, Mr. Peterson. I’m calling to ask if you’re free to join Reverend Wilford and some parents at the church this evening,” Annie Mae Woods said. A baseball game played loudly in the background. The volume was so high, she could hear the announcer: “Astros lead one to zero, top of the second.” She was relieved to hear him agree.

  Annie Mae had asked the reverend if he could meet with her and some of the parents. Folks were getting the news about the canceled high school graduation by word of mouth, and the location and purpose of the meeting kept changing as the day went on and more people wanted to attend.

  First, all the seniors—fifty-three of them—had been told that they couldn’t graduate. Their parents were ready to storm the parish school board offices. That was bad enough. But when the elementary-school children had come home from school on Monday with letters explaining that they would all be retained, the group had gotten larger and angrier.

  Annie Mae arrived early to prop open the heavy, solid oak doors as an invitation to enter Tabernacle Baptist Church. She made herself stop to admire the carved panels depicting the life of Jesus, her hands passing over the impressive craftsmanship with gentle, loving strokes. Shelton had teased the figures from the wood long ago, but his essence remained. His artistic skills and time had served as their tithing to the church.

  The reverend would lead the meeting once everyone arrived. Mr. Peterson’s presence would help calm tempers. Annie Mae prayed that folks would have more self-control in the church than they’d had on the phone.

  “Good evening, Reverend,” Ann
ie Mae called when he entered from the rear door. He paced up and down the aisle, scanning the pews for stray missals, replacing them in the bookracks. He was tense and distracted.

  The reverend offered quiet greetings at the door as the community streamed into the church. Soon the pews were filled. Annie Mae sat up front, turning each time someone entered. Hope filled her heart when she saw the figure she had been waiting for. The woman’s ebony skin glistened in the heat of the evening. A wide, colorful band above her forehead held her full, high Afro in place. Large gold hoop earrings swung as she walked to take a seat next to Annie Mae.

  Chapter 40

  Colleen

  Tuesday, May 19, 1970

  When Colleen met the children at their bus line on Tuesday morning it was clear how badly the letters had been received. They stared silently at her, waiting for her to say the first word. The usual banter and chatter were absent. Her customary “Good morning, chickadees!” blew away with the wind.

  The children followed her into the classroom trailer like ducks in a line. All were surprisingly compliant and meek, except, of course, for Jarrod, who finally spoke up: “Miz Rodriguez, my mama says I can’t go to third grade. You told me I was doing good.”

  As Colleen struggled to reply, Rachel handed her an envelope. “My mama told me to give you this letter. I’m supposed to listen to you and do my work.”

  Colleen read the letter from Annie Mae Woods. It requested that Colleen meet with Annie Mae’s cousin Penelope Woods after school.

  The hum of the air conditioner was the loudest noise in the trailer. The day dragged along as the children and Colleen struggled with their work. Rachel was true to her mama’s advice, but she didn’t volunteer a sound all day long, not even raising her hand when Colleen asked for sentences for the spelling words. Rachel loved to write and read the longest sentence by using more than one of the words from the list. The tracks of tears on Cynthia’s cheeks replaced her usual gleeful shouts when she got the correct answer. And when Colleen put a sticker on Linkston’s perfect math paper, his smile started and then stopped as their eyes met.

  The day was finally over. Sad, disappointed faces broke her heart as she dismissed her students. After they boarded their buses, Colleen walked back to her classroom to meet with Annie Mae’s cousin. It was only a few minutes before she heard a rapping knock. A surge of adrenaline replaced Colleen’s anxiety as she opened the door. A tall black woman with a huge Afro hairstyle stood on the path to the steps. Dressed professionally in a pantsuit, with a large gold sunburst necklace and big hoop earrings, she looked like cover girl Naomi Sims with a bit of Angela Davis mixed in. Fear gripped Colleen as she recalled newsreels and newspaper and magazine photographs. Her mind shifted to black power marches that started as nonviolent demonstrations. Visions of dogs attacking Negroes and grown white men hosing the marchers up against a wall competed with her trust that Mrs. Woods wouldn’t send anyone who would harm her. But she didn’t know why this woman was here and couldn’t help wondering, Who is this? What’s her story?

  The woman extended her hand and introduced herself. “Good afternoon. I’m Penelope Woods. May we speak?”

  Colleen gulped as she opened the door wider to allow the woman to come up the steps. “Yes … Yes, of course.”

  “I was at a meeting last night and met one of your principals, Mr. Peterson. I told him that I was coming to speak to you today. He was glad to hear it.”

  That news surprised Colleen but didn’t stop the pounding in her chest. She nervously pulled out her desk chair for Penelope. It was the only adult-size chair in the room. Colleen sat on a student desk and apologized for the lack of space.

  “Miz Rodriguez, your apologies aren’t necessary. I am here to represent the children of my cousins, Rachel Woods and Linkston Jefferson. Annie Mae has also asked me to speak for the other parents. Please tell me, why are you retaining your entire class?”

  She didn’t waste any time. The anxiety returned and rushed through Colleen, making it hard for her to remain seated as she stumbled into an answer.

  Colleen explained the directive she had been given, making no effort to protect Cornelius Palmer. She rose to gather all the things she’d wanted to bring to the principal: her grade book, the charts of sight words, and the science and social studies projects on the bulletin boards. At least someone would get to see her proof of progress.

  Penelope listened and then asked, “Where are you from?”

  Colleen told her, and Penelope nodded. “Yes, New Jersey. I thought I recognized your accent.”

  Penelope stood and began to walk around the room. Colleen realized how tall she was when the woman’s hair brushed the ceiling.

  “I live and work in New York City, but I own a horse farm here, which is why I’m in town.”

  She fingered the papers tacked to the bulletin board and studied the bar graphs that tallied the number of books each student had read. She seemed preoccupied as she gazed at the display.

  “So, Miz Rodriguez, I will explain to the parents what you have told me. While they are not happy, this is a bigger problem than your second-grade class. Another teacher who lives in our community, Evelyn Glover, had the same meeting with the principal. Her story is the same as yours. But she handled it differently. In addition, over the weekend, my cousin Annie Mae Woods received a letter. Her son Frank and all the black high school seniors are not going to be allowed to graduate.”

  “I didn’t know. How could they do that?” Colleen realized how broad this decision had been, when she had been thinking only about herself and her class. What had Evelyn done differently? Was there another option? If the decision to retain students included high school seniors, what was next?

  Colleen shifted off the desktop and stood on shaky legs to extend her hand first, in hopes of ending the meeting.

  “Thank you for speaking with me. Please tell the parents that I’m sincerely sorry. This has been upsetting to me, and I know it’s been upsetting to the children.”

  “I see that, Miz Rodriguez. I realize that you’re nothing more than a pawn in this game. But we’re not finished.”

  Chapter 41

  Frank

  Tuesday, May 19, 1970

  The phone rang. These days, it was always ringing. His mother answered and, after a second, called him.

  “Frank, it’s for you. Don’t be long. I’m expecting a call.”

  If she had seen him roll his eyes, she wouldn’t have given him the phone. He picked it up from the counter and opened the pantry door as she walked outside to gather the clothes drying on the line.

  When he heard Dedra’s voice on the other end, he smiled and said, “I’ve been waiting for you to call since Saturday.”

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing, Frank. But either there was no answer or it was busy. Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Can’t get near the phone. My mother has been talking to every parent, teacher, neighbor, preacher she can. She’s not telling me what they’re doing, but I know they’re going to the parish school board meeting Thursday night.”

  “That’s why I’m calling. Forget about the Black Student Committee and our meetings with Mr. Palmer. He sent that letter to all of us two days after he claimed he’d consider our request to graduate from our own high school. We’re going to the school with food and blankets on Thursday night.”

  His mother came back into the house. The sounds from the kitchen were quiet and soft; she must be folding the laundry on the table.

  “Are you there?” Dedra asked.

  He remembered the pain of the foot on his back when the police had stopped the students’ protest walk. He felt the twist of the handcuffs on his wrists.

  “Yes, I hear you.”

  He relived the anguish of sitting in the jail cell waiting for his mother.

  “Well? Are you in this time? We’re meeting at dusk behind the building, and we’re not leaving until they let us graduate.”

  His mind raced. Heat ro
se to his forehead as he recalled the shame of being placed on second string because of his skin color, and now being told he couldn’t graduate.

  His temples throbbed; his heart pounded. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders. “Yes, I’ll be there. I’ve got to go now. See you Thursday.”

  He slowly opened the door from the pantry, relieved to see the kitchen empty. Folded laundry lay in neat piles on the table. He gently placed the phone on the hook and walked out.

  In his bedroom, he pulled the second drawer out of his bureau, placed it on the bed, and reached into the empty space. His heartbeat steadied as his fingers grasped the small metal rectangle resting on the drawer’s support rail. The lighter was the same width as the rail, and the drawer could still close each time he took it out.

  His bedroom was exactly the same now as it had been before the fire. He studied the single wall covered with the striped wallpaper his father had helped him paste up. They had never finished the job.

  Memories of the fire flooded his mind. His thumb rubbed the grooved surface of the inexpensive Zippo lighter. He always woke up in a sweat from the dream. Awake, he couldn’t erase his father’s body being placed in the pickup, his shoe left behind on the ground, or the silver glint next to the shoe. His recurring dream was a reality and a memory he couldn’t reconcile.

  As he clutched the lighter, he felt his father’s presence, as well as his own anger, his guilt, and his fear. He’d never told anyone he had found it. Each time he took it from its hiding spot, he asked his father what to do. The lighter had become his confessional. If he had given the lighter to the FBI, would anything have changed?

  The town police never came to investigate his father’s death. But FBI agents knocked on his mother’s door a few months later, after the NAACP filed a complaint. He was fourteen and scared, watching from the hallway. He heard his mother gasp when she saw Reverend Wilford with two white men dressed in jackets and ties, with fedoras on their heads.