“Absolutely,” she said. “High time we integrate this library.”
But at the bottom of Mr. Browne’s list was a more worrisome choice—Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison. Ada hadn’t read the novel, but had skimmed reviews and knew it could be controversial for its sexual references and profanity, coupled with the fact that Ellison had Communist ties.
“This Ellison book—maybe you should run that by Principal Riordan,” Ada said. She tucked an errant lock that had escaped her bun behind her ear as she leaned down to make check marks on the sheet.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, exposing students to certain things could be touchy, is all.”
“So Central has a censorship policy?”
“I should say not!” Ada said, indignant and flustered at the same time and unable to meet his eyes.
Cam must have informed him that Ada ruled the stacks. In her thirteen years as librarian, she had never asked any teacher to get the principal’s permission to order a book or periodical. But then, they mostly ordered books Ada could personally vouch for.
Mr. Browne was also requesting a subscription to Ebony. An inspirational magazine seemed harmless on the face of it, but the memory of Miss Ruthie still flickered in her mind. When Ada was in high school, Miss Ruthie had been fired from the public library for bringing supposedly subversive publications to her stacks—including Ebony.
That was 1950, though—the McCarthy era, not 1970. The world had changed in significant ways, and with it, Central Charlotte Junior High. It was true that, despite integration, black students still sat apart from white students, but it seemed to be from choice, not deference. Now they acted like they belonged and didn’t seem to care if white kids saw them as interlopers. “Black Is Beautiful” stickers cropped up on notebook covers. Why shouldn’t the black kids have access to books that reflected their history and culture?
Still, Ada didn’t want to invite trouble in these turbulent times. All it would take was one white student checking out a book his parents didn’t approve of or another one telling her folks about a photo she saw in Ebony.
“I’m just trying to avoid . . . embarrassment,” she said.
“Mine or yours?”
The sharp question brought heat to Ada’s neck, making her wish she could undo a button.
“Look,” Mr. Browne said, his tone edging toward conciliation, “I’m just trying to follow protocol, not step on any toes. I showed the list to Cam—Miss Lively—just the other day, and she told me to bring it straight to you. You two are roommates, she said.”
Ada nodded, thinking, Cam should have warned me.
“She said there would be no problem. So forgive me if I don’t understand. Do you tell all the teachers the same thing?”
How could she explain the situation after the fact to Mr. Browne, without sounding like a bigot? Which she most certainly was not. Hadn’t her mother set her on the right path when she came home from first grade singing the song she’d learned at recess, about catching niggers by the toe? Much later, intense
discussions with Cam had expanded her thinking about racial injustice. Some of their most earnest conversations when they were becoming friends and later lovers had been about segregation.
“I have questioned other books,” Ada said. It wasn’t a bald lie: She remembered asking Cam why two copies of Catcher in the Rye were necessary. “But tell you what. Let me go ahead and put your order through. My intention was not to offend you, Mr. Browne. It’s just . . . I know this school. I’ve been here since the very first black child enrolled. I know these students and their parents.”
His face registered curiosity, like he was trying to decode her. “But we have new students and parents to think about, don’t we?” he asked. She wondered how many black parents would be happy with the content of Invisible Man, but that was a question she couldn’t ask.
Mr. Browne held her eye and then lightly tapped her desk with his index finger before turning to leave. “I’ve taken enough of your time.”
They’d gotten off on the wrong foot, and if Cam found out, there would be hell to pay. She needed this young man to know she wasn’t like other whites, the ones who touted their Confederate ancestors or acted like Jim Crow was still in force. She could have used the example of Miss Ruthie to explain away her cautious behavior, but it seemed like too elaborate a story, offered too late. Or she could have told him about the early days of integration at Central, but she had done so little—just interrupted one bullying incident.
So instead, she said, “I . . . I’ve read Mr. Baldwin,” just before he reached the library door. Cam had brought the novel Giovanni’s Room home from her trip to Washington, D.C. for the March. “It’s about two men who have an affair,” Cam had explained excitedly. “One white and one black.” The volume had made the rounds in their gay circle before ending up, tattered and well-read, on a high shelf in the bedroom closet.
“He’s a fine writer,” Ada said.
“One of the best,” Mr. Browne said, with a thin smile that suggested he might not hold a grudge. “You have a nice day now, Miss Shook.”
“Ada,” she said.
§ § §
When Mr. Browne’s order arrived, Ada catalogued and shelved the books herself instead of assigning the task to her volunteer library assistant. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Mrs. Randolph—she was, after all, one of the community members who had escorted black students from their buses to their classrooms on the first day of school. But Ada figured the less attention drawn to Robert’s order, the better.
Ada slipped a note into his mailbox, letting him know that the titles had arrived and were available for borrowing. Within a few days, eighth- and ninth-graders were asking where they could find Up from Slavery and My Bondage and My Freedom.
“I don’t think we have that, dear,” she heard Mrs. Randolph say when a girl asked for the most recent issue of Ebony.
“Mr. Browne said you did.”
“I’ll handle this, Mrs. Randolph.” Ada stepped in and directed the girl to the periodicals. Later, she explained to the volunteer that the library was now carrying the magazine, and that it had probably first come in on Mrs. Randolph’s day off. “It’s right there, above Life.”
“Well, that is wonderful for the children,” Mrs. Randolph said. “I will make a note to recommend it.”
Given the popularity of the books and magazine, Ada spent some time researching novels and poetry by black women writers, too—Maya Angelou, Dorothy West, Gwendolyn Brooks, Paule Marshall. She compiled a list and placed it in Robert’s mailbox with a handwritten note: “I thought the girls might like these, but I haven’t read them myself. Could I ask your opinion?”
The note came back to her the same day with a brief response. “I am not familiar with these writers.”
It seemed a bit terse and dismissive to Ada, but she found it hard to gauge someone’s tone through a one-sentence reply. Maybe he was in a hurry when he wrote it. Or in the worst-case scenario, maybe he didn’t think women were as important as men.
“Curious thing happened today,” Ada told Cam at supper. “I wanted to order six books by black women writers, and Mr. Browne—Robert—said he had never heard of them. Not a one.”
Cam kept her eyes on her plate, her fork poised over her creamed corn. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to say,” she replied in an even tone. “For sure, you are the most literate person I know, but I sincerely doubt you’ve read each and every one of those six books.”
The truth of the statement made Ada backtrack. “I just thought it was curious,” she said.
“That a black man hasn’t read every single book by a black writer? I bet he doesn’t know every single black person in this town either. No more’n you or I know every gay person.”
Ada traced a faded stain on the tablecloth with a fingernail. “I take your point. But just once, I wish you’d take mine.” She got up, even though she hadn’t finished eating, and determined never to me
ntion Robert Browne at home again.
§ § §
Another bomb threat, and then another, interrupted a spell of peace. Principal Riordan called a special meeting of the faculty.
“I don’t know why we’ve been targeted,” he said. “We have done nothing to draw attention to our school, so it must be random.” He paused to clear his throat. “Now I don’t want to worry you, but I feel you should be aware that Mr. Browne and myself have received . . . threats. Of a certain kind.”
Ada had been jotting a grocery list into her notebook, but she stopped and sat up straight as a flagpole. Across the crowded faculty lounge, she caught Cam’s eye and could tell she was equally surprised.
“You mean death threats?” a teacher asked.
Mr. Riordan sucked in a deep breath. “I’m afraid I do, Jim,” he said. His own household had endured several late-night calls, and Mr. Browne had received a letter at school. “The police are studying it for fingerprints. All this is to say that we cannot take these bomb threats lightly. I know they haven’t amounted to
anything anywhere across the city, but we must continue to be vigilant just the same.”
The principal referred to notes he’d made on an index card. “I also want to ask you not to engage with any parents who seem angry or upset, at least not on your own,” he continued. “You should refer them to me, or make sure you talk to them with me or with Mr. Baxter. We’re in a delicate time right now, but, God willing, this trouble will blow over soon.”
Ada had never heard him invoke God before. He shifted from one leg to the other as he spoke, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. The pressure on him must be great, with just a year under his belt as principal. Like her, he had been in college when the Brown decision came down in ’54 and a newly minted teacher when integration began three years later.
She thought about the library’s copy of Invisible Man, which had so far been ignored in the fiction section. Back at her desk, she considered removing it temporarily. She actually took it off the shelf and inspected its circulation card, relieved to see not one student had checked it out. She thumbed through it quickly, then stuffed it into her desk drawer for the afternoon. Maybe she would take it home and read it herself, decide if it was as problematic as her wandering imagination feared. But at the end of the school day, she told herself she was not a censor and returned it to its place.
§ § §
For Ada, Principal Riordan had been a refreshing addition to the Central administration. He told teachers to call him “Jack,” was hands-off when it came to faculty, and brought new ideas from his most recent post. A few veteran teachers, however, viewed him with suspicion. “He’s from New York!” was the charge leveled by some. “You know that old joke,” Cam said. “A Yankee’s someone who lives north of the Mason–Dixon line. A damn Yankee is a Yankee who doesn’t leave.”
So Ada wasn’t expecting trouble when the principal poked his head into the library during seventh period, noted the room full of students, and asked if she had “a few minutes” to spare after school. “Stop by my office, would you? Even if I look busy, please just barge right in.” There was no hint of menace in his voice, no tightened facial muscles. His tone and manner were almost breezy.
“I’ll be a few minutes late today,” she told Cam, who waited so they could drive home together. “Jack Riordan wants some sort of favor, I think.”
“Maybe it’s the chess club,” Cam said. “They never replaced Burnside.”
“If that’s it, I’ll be forced to volunteer for some other activity, like Future Homemakers of America.”
“You are a fine cook.”
“Close the door, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Riordan said when she appeared soon after the final bell. It was her first clue that something wasn’t right; the second was that he didn’t look her in the eye, but instead kept writing something on a notepad. She took a chair with a cushion that was starting to fray along the edges, and saw a copy of The Fire Next Time on his desk. It had the clear wrapper she put on all the library’s new hardcover books, to protect their jackets.
“You know this book,” he said.
“James Baldwin, yes. That looks like our copy.”
“You ordered it, then.”
“I did.” This would have been the time to add, “Mr. Browne requested it,” but she held back the information.
“Have you read it, Ada?”
“I have not,” she admitted. “I have read other work by Mr. Baldwin, though, and he is a very fine writer. Clear and concise. Thoughtful.”
The principal examined the book as if she had just handed it to him. “A parent brought it to me. She wanted to know what this particular book was doing in a junior high school library.” Ada wanted to ask how the mother got it, but kept her silence. “I took the book home last night and read quite a lot of it, and frankly, Ada, I wonder what it’s doing here, too. Not only is Baldwin overly critical of religion and of Caucasians, but I’ve heard he’s a homosexual.” The word sounded uglier than it did when she or Cam used it.
“It was ordered, along with a number of other books on black issues.” She kept her words passive, as if the book had found its way onto the shelves on its own power. “No more than twenty in all. It was an attempt to integrate our library, now that our student body is pretty well mixed. The books were for different reading levels, and they all fit within the budget, which . . .” The principal held up a hand to interrupt her.
“This is a formal complaint.” He handed her a typed letter. “We now have a mother with several vocal, like-minded friends wanting to inventory our entire library. They’re taking the issue to the PTA. These parents want to know what the school has made available to their children.”
Ada scanned the letter. The Fire Next Time, she believed, was a collection of essays on race. It was not a book she would have ever bothered to worry about. She had never heard it mentioned among Baldwin’s homosexual-themed books. The moment when she had temporarily hidden Invisible Man in her desk drawer flashed into memory, along with Robert Browne’s face when he said, “So Central has a censorship policy?”
“No one said these children have to read Baldwin,” she said, placing the complaint back on his desk. “You know, Jack, once something like this starts . . .” She meant allowing parents to dictate which books a school could purchase. Ada had heard horror stories about school districts removing such revered novels as The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and To Kill a Mockingbird from the shelves after one or two parents had hissy fits.
“I don’t need to remind you that the PTA raises money for new books,” he said. “You have to take this seriously, Ada. It is not an idle threat.”
§ § §
After school, Cam and Ada sat across from Robert in one of the bright orange booths at Anderson’s. Cam and Robert ordered coffee and pecan pie as if it were any day, but Ada flicked the waitress away like an annoying mosquito. She had hinted at the problem in a note to Robert, but now she laid out the scene with the principal.
“I am to appear with Jack at the PTA meeting next Monday evening,” she explained. “I think there should be some sort of plan.”
“Well, the plan is simple,” Robert said. “I’ll come and tell them I ordered all the books, including Baldwin’s. I won’t come out and call them bigots, but I will challenge the notion that a clearly written book by one of our leading black intellectuals isn’t appropriate for students.”
“Unfortunately, there’s more to it than just racial bigotry.”
Ada and Cam exchanged a quick look. They had never confided their twelve-year relationship to anyone except other gay people. Lying awake in the dark the night before, they had discussed the possibility of clueing Robert in, so that he could understand the depth of the problem. Ada had read a recent poll in Time magazine that found most Americans thought homosexuals should be forbidden from teaching or having any access to children.
“It’s hard to go into detail here,” Ada said, wondering w
hy she had ever thought they could talk in a crowded diner.
Cam jumped in. “Let’s just say that part of the objection with Mr. Baldwin has nothing to do with him being black. It’s something more personal. If you take my meaning.”
Robert sipped at his coffee in silence.
“And this makes Ada and me . . . vulnerable.”
Robert’s fork skimmed the outline of his pie without cutting into it as he glanced at each of them with a puzzled look. Please say you understand and let that be it, Ada thought.
But instead, he shook his head. “That is not my fight.” In another breath he added, “I don’t think parents should be choosing what books schools buy. I will help on that end and, of course, on all racial matters, but I can’t . . . I just can’t defend . . . that.”
Ada cast a sideways look at Cam, whose face sank with hurt and disappointment. Just a few months earlier, Cam had read excitedly in The New York Times about a parade through the streets of New York City for gay rights. “I wish Auggie had stuck around to see this day!” she said, when she told Ada about it. “Our civil rights are coming, darlin’, and it’s going to be a glorious day!”
Now Robert’s words separated the two sides of the table like a wall. The sounds of clanking plates and other diners’ laughter filled in the silence. Robert swallowed a forkful of pie, then another, without chewing, until his slice disappeared.
“I should get going,” he said, sliding a crisp dollar bill across the table toward Cam. “My girlfriend is expecting me, and she’ll be fit to be tied if I’m late.”
“I do appreciate whatever help you can give us,” Ada added, as he stood up. He said something in parting she couldn’t quite make out.
“Never mentioned a girlfriend to me before,” Cam noted when he was out of earshot.
§ § §
Cam and Ada recruited about a dozen sympathetic faculty members to attend the PTA meeting, teachers who did not want parents to start scanning their assigned reading material, too. Even Miss Hutchins, who had no assigned texts for P.E., showed up. Mrs. Randolph, the library assistant, offered to come and to circulate a petition among the parents; her own son and daughter had attended Central.
The Ada Decades Page 9