SUNDAY, JANUARY 13, 1957
Hallelujah, Church!” Pastor Patterson intoned from the pulpit. “I’ve got a special message for you today, my brothers and sisters. But first, join me in a chorus or two of ‛Shelter in the Time of Storm.’” In his rich tenor voice Sylvia’s father began, and the church joined him as he sang:
“My Lord is a rock in a weary land, weary land, weary land
My Lord is a rock in a weary land
Shelter in the time of the storm ...”
Sylvia loved old hymns like this one. The minor key and the sadness behind the words made her shiver. It was cool to know that same song had given strength to people a long time ago.
As the last notes of the hymn filtered up to the highest ceiling of the church, perhaps even to Heaven, the room was stilled, waiting, strangely expectant. The small auditorium carried the faint fragrance of the roses in Miss Lillie’s bouquets, mixed with the usual comforting Sunday smells of floor wax and burning candles and Old Spice cologne.
Though she would never want her father to know, this was the time in the service Sylvia usually spent daydreaming. His sermons weren’t exactly exciting. She wondered mildly what today’s “special message” would be. She noticed that Reggie, sitting just one pew over, also seemed more attentive than usual.
Pastor Patterson raised his arms in the air, as if he was reaching out to Heaven, and began to speak. “You know, my daddy used to tell me, ‘Son, times are a-changin’. You better get on that train to glory, because I can see the handwriting on the wall!’ Of course, his statement didn’t make much sense to me as a child. Old folks are famous for mixing metaphors—forgive him.”
The congregation chuckled.
“But my daddy had a vision of the future that I couldn’t see at the time. I lost my father when I was a very young man—he was killed because of hatred and bigotry, and I lost his vision when I lost him.”
He paused and wiped his brow.
“Yes, my terrible loss made me close my eyes to reality. I’ve been afraid to face the future, afraid to offer my children—Gary, Sylvia Faye, and Donna Jean—any hope of getting on that train.” The rows of people shifted like water as everyone turned to look at them.
Sylvia blushed deeply. Her father never talked about family. He believed some things ought to be private, and Sylvia had always appreciated that.
Donna Jean, sitting next to Sylvia, wore patent-leather shoes, lacy socks, and a starched yellow dress. She leaned over and whispered with pride, “He’s talking about us!”
“Sh-sh-sh,” their mother admonished.
Pastor Patterson’s voice rose. “Our rock, Little Rock, truly is a rock in a weary land, friends. Let me hear you say ‘Amen’ if you’re weary!”
“Amen!” the congregation cried out with feeling.
“Let me hear you say ‘Amen’ if you feel like you need a rock in a weary land!”
“Amen!” they called out.
“Let me hear you say ‘Amen!’ if you need shelter in the time of the storm!”
For a third time they all repeated, “Amen! Amen!”
When the church had quieted, Pastor Patterson continued. “They’re talking about integrating the schools of Little Rock. It’s been a rumor for years, but this year it looks as though it will really happen. They want to take your children and my children and let these young people do what we can’t—change the world.”
“Here it comes,” Sylvia leaned over and whispered to DJ. “He’s gonna stomp all over the idea.” Their mother shushed them both with a touch of her gloved hand.
Pastor Patterson paused. “I think we ought to let them try.”
While murmurs broke out all around her, Sylvia sat stunned.
“My son is an angry young man, as I once was,” the pastor continued. The murmurs stopped suddenly, as if everyone had suddenly inhaled.
“He wants to change the world this very instant, and he’s been physically attacked as a result.” Sylvia turned to observe Gary, who was sitting on the very back pew. He was staring at his father with astonishment.
“Of my two daughters, my baby girl, Donna Jean, is already a victim of hatred at age eight, and my older daughter, Sylvia, often looks at me with eyes of disappointment and despair. Unless she needs lunch money,” he added. The church needed the levity.
I didn’t think he knew how I felt, Sylvia thought with amazement. Her father always seemed so distant. He’d tell her what to do, but he never really talked with her.
Sylvia glanced over to where Reggie was sitting. Dressed in a black suit that was a little too small and a skinny red tie, he grinned at her, then turned his attention back to her father. She noticed that he wore shiny black shoes instead of his favorite tennis shoes.
“They’ve asked me to let Sylvia Faye be on the list of students who might be considered to integrate Central High School,” her father told the church. “I know that some of you have been approached as well. I can’t think of anything more terrifying than sending my little girl into danger, but I’m inclined to let her try.”
Sylvia gasped. Her mother reached over and squeezed Sylvia’s hand. Even through the thickness of her mother’s white gloves, the tingle of her touch made Sylvia squeeze back. Just when you think you’ve got your parents all figured out, they turn around and act like humans.
Pastor Patterson opened the huge Bible in front of him. “If you look in the book of Judges, you’ll find the story of Gideon—a brave young man, but not the strongest kid in the neighborhood. He tells the Lord that he comes from the weakest tribe and that he’s the feeblest of them all. Like the Lord didn’t already know that!”
The congregation chuckled while they searched for the passage.
“But the Lord told Gideon, ‘I’m gonna be with you, son. Don’t be afraid. You ain’t gonna die—at least not today.’” He wiped his brow.
“Friends, I’ve been afraid all my life. Maybe it’s time for me to step out on faith.”
Sylvia gazed at her father with wonder. Surely someone had taken her father away and replaced him with this man who looked just like him.
“You know, we humans tend to need proof, even when it’s the Lord who is making the promises. We’re pretty weak when it comes to faith. To prove to Gideon that he had no need to be afraid, the Lord made fire explode from a rock—it burned up everything that had been on the stone. Can you just picture it?”
Sylvia glanced over at Reggie again. He mouthed the word “Whoosh!” and acted like he was using a fire hose. His mother smacked him on the back of his head and told him to be still. He just rolled his eyes and smiled at Sylvia once more.
“What I’m trying to say, Church, is maybe we need to look around and make some hard decisions. I guess all that fire made Gideon a believer. Because you know what? In the battle the next day, the Lord gave him the victory!”
Pastor Patterson kept preaching for another few minutes, but Sylvia didn’t hear much of it. She was too overwhelmed with her father’s sudden turnaround and the now very real prospect of her name going on the list.
After church, lots of people came up to Sylvia, giving her words of encouragement or suggestions. Sister Hortense, the oldest member, hobbled over to her, leaning heavily on her cane. She used that cane as a weapon sometimes, bopping children on the head when they talked too much during service. Kids learned early to keep out of her way. She said, “Chile, you been chosen for a very special task. The Lord will bless you for it.” Sylvia thanked her, glad she was in a good mood.
Not everyone, however, was so supportive. One woman, whose rolls of fat under her tight white suit made her look like yeast bread in the bowl, waddled over to Sylvia and said, “Stick with your own kind, girl. Mixing the races will only get you hurt. They don’t want you there. You hear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sylvia replied politely.
Another lady, Sister Simpson, wearing very high heels, tiptoed over to Sylvia and whispered in her ear, “The colored schools were good enough for me, and good enough for your parents as well. Don’t try to get uppity, little girl.”
Again Sylvia knew nothing else to say but “Yes, ma’am.”
Lillie Cobbs, however, who was dressed in a pale green wool suit, pushed the other woman aside and told Sylvia, “Don’t pay her no mind, child. She don’t know nothin’ about progress. If you feel like you can do this, the Lord will protect you from small-minded people from both races!” Sylvia could smell gardenias in her reassuring hug.
Sylvia noticed Reggie standing near the edge of a group of teenaged boys. All too cool to wear winter coats, Sylvia could tell they were trying not to shiver in their crisp white shirts. They all laughed a little too loudly as Calvin purposely slipped on a piece of ice, showing off for the teenaged girls who stood in another small group, their full skirts billowing under their woolen coats. The girls, hair tightly curled and slick with pomade, giggled together, and whispered about the boys. None of them, as far as Sylvia knew, had been selected to go on the list. Already she was starting to feel left out.
Sylvia stood alone near the front steps. The two groups of teens broke up as parents called their children to load into their cars, but instead of heading to the parking lot, Reggie walked right up to Sylvia. She held her breath and pretended to act casual.
“Hey, Big Shot,” he teased.
“Hi, Reggie.”
“Are you scared?”
“A little.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I don’t think it’s a very good idea.”
“Why?”
“White folks.”
“Huh?”
“You’ll stick out like a raisin in a bowl of rice.”
Sylvia smiled at the thought, then looked down at her shoes. “I know,” she said with a sigh.
“You got guts, Sylvia Faye. And you got class. But I don’t know if you’ve got good sense.”
She looked at him quizzically. “How can you compliment me and insult me in the same sentence?”
He ignored her question. “And you’re really pretty, you know,” he said quietly.
Sylvia felt hot despite the chilly wind. “Thanks,” she managed to say as she thought, He’s looking at me like I’m a piece of chocolate cake.
“You know, there’s one thing you might want to consider as you figure out what to do about September,” Reggie added casually. He leaned against a tree and pulled off a brittle twig, showing no sign of nervousness at all.
“What’s that?”
“Well, I’ll be at Horace Mann with the rest of the colored kids. And you’ll be at Central.” He picked a tooth with the end of the twig.
“Yes, so?” Sylvia’s heart thudded.
“I’d like my girlfriend to be at the same school with me. Dances. Games. Movies. Who will I take if you’re not there?”
Sylvia didn’t know how to act like this was no big deal. She wondered what Lou Ann would say. When she finally found her voice, Sylvia said, with as much feminine coyness as she could find, “Who says I’m your girlfriend?” She smiled tightly, trying to hold back all the fizz she felt inside.
“I do.” He turned then and headed to his mother’s car. “I’ll call you. See you at school tomorrow.” Reggie said casually. “And don’t forget we’ve got a date next Friday!” he called back.
“Sure,” she replied, as if this happened every day. She felt like dancing in the snow.
Monday, January 14, 1957
Yesterday the telephone rang constantly. Some calls were from other parents whose children are being considered as possible candidates for Central, but many were from friends and family with differing opinions. There were a couple of calls from Miss Daisy Bates, the president of the Arkansas NAACP. Everybody knows her—she lives not far from us on W. 28th Street. I think she’s pretty—and such a proud, powerful lady. Daddy says she’s pushy. That’s probably true, too. Gary thinks that Miss Daisy and her husband, L.C., who publish our local Negro newspaper, are heroes.
Lou Ann called just before supper and told me to wear something red to the game. She said if I show up in beige or brown, she would bop me on the head with a saddle oxford! Reggie finally called just before supper. We didn’t talk long, but it seemed like every word was glowing with importance. What’s funny is I’ve known Reggie practically all my life, but all of a sudden he makes my stomach feel like mashed potatoes.
I still haven’t gotten used to the idea that we’re together, and he asked me again what it will be like when we’re apart in the fall. I told him it may not happen and it’s so far away I’m not going to worry about it yet. But the truth is, I am worried.
Gary is grumpy and irritable. He’s like a balloon that’s been blown up too far—all he needs is the pin that will make him pop. He wants to be on the list so bad he can taste it. I’m on the list, but I’m afraid to swallow. I wish I could trade places with him.
Miss Washington seemed very pleased when I handed her Mama’s letter, giving permission for me to be considered. Several other students from Dunbar and Horace Mann had also been asked, including, I found out, my friend Melba Patillo.
Since our last names both start with “P,” Melba and I usually ended up sitting near each other when she went to Dunbar last year. She liked to read as much as I do, and we often shared library books. Plus she can sew like no tomorrow. Once, when I admired a skirt she wore, she brought me the pattern the next day. She’ll be a great choice to be one of the students to integrate the school.
Even though me and DJ cleaned up the kitchen, I can hear Mama downstairs going behind us, sweeping and wiping the places we missed, softly singing one of her “worry songs,” as she calls them. She has a lovely voice-deep and mellow-and I feel safe when I hear it. Sometimes she just hums, but every once in a while, she really belts it out. I bet she could have been a professional singer if she hadn’t married Daddy and had us.
I’ve read about Marian Anderson, the first colored lady to sing at the Metropolitan Opera. She even sang on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. I wonder if the opera folks treated her like she was special, or if they made her go in the back door like Aunt Bessie had to do for Mr. Crandall’s shirts. I hope not. I’d love to hear her sing, just to compare her voice to Mama’s, but colored folks hardly ever show up on television, and if she sang on the radio, I missed it.