As she walked to her car, late from redoing the comprehension questions, Colleen thought about the Negro teachers Evelyn had told her about. How terrifying it must been for them to leave their school and see hostile white faces jeering and taunting as they passed.
At West Hill, the schoolyard was quiet. The birds weren’t chirping. Even the sky was an ominous yellowish gray. Everyone else had left, including Lulu, who taught the 2B class. Colleen sometimes wished that friendly, easygoing Lulu were her mentor instead of Evelyn. She had an easy laugh and walked with a bounce to her step.
As Colleen drove into the trailer park, she stopped at the row of mailboxes. She and Miguel rarely got any mail, but today there was a small package from her father. Her heart ached as she realized how much she missed her parents.
Rushing to open the trailer door, she dropped her things on the sofa and opened the package to find the cassette she’d hoped for. She retrieved the player and sat down at the kitchen table to listen.
“Testing, testing, one, two, three.”
Colleen chuckled. That was how she’d started her recording too.
“Sorry, I tried to record over my practicing, but I’m just messing it up. Ignore it. Okay. Colleen, this is your father. I can’t wait for you to try out the cassette player and send me a tape. You can tape over this one or add on to it. Maybe you’ll do it better than me. There was a photo in the New York Times of teachers near you being escorted out of their school. Please, you know how I worry. I don’t want to read about you in the paper. Do you know about this? The article reported that school boards are under federal court orders to desegregate.”
Unbelievable. He must have taped this message days earlier. He had known about the incident with the Negro teachers before she had.
It was time, Colleen decided, to talk to Jan, who seemed to know all the local gossip.
Jan opened the door on the first knock, and the scent of freshly chopped herbs filled the air.
“That smells so good,” Colleen said. “I won’t keep you. Sorry to interrupt.”
“Yep, I had a great harvest from my garden, and I’m fixin’ to can the tomatoes.” Jan nodded toward her kitchen. Her trailer home was air-conditioned and nicely furnished. The round kitchen table had four chairs and didn’t need to be jammed against one wall like Colleen’s did.
Colleen held up a copy of Instructor magazine, her excuse for stopping by. “Thanks for lending me this. I thought you might want it back.”
“You’re welcome, darlin’. Could you put it on the counter? Don’t want to get it dirty by touching it with these hands. How do you like working at West Hill?” Jan raised an eyebrow.
“It’s working out fine,” Colleen said, a note of pride edging into her voice. “I have to admit, I’m always surprised when I look at my hands and see that I’m the one who’s different.”
“I won’t say I told you so. But those children need good teachers, and you seem hell-bent on being one.”
Colleen wasn’t sure that was a compliment, given the sour expression on Jan’s face.
“I have a question for you, Jan. Did you hear about the schools in the next parish closing?”
“Sure did. Those parents don’t want a Negro teaching white children.”
“Do you think something like that could happen here?”
“Glory, no! Our Negroes know their place. Even with Freedom of Choice, they didn’t choose to go to the white schools. But I’m sure glad I teach in a private school. Wouldn’t you rather be with your own kind?”
Colleen gasped as if she had been punched. Did Jan think that because their skin was the same color, they were the “same kind”? “I like the school, and I feel welcome there.” A little white lie, it was almost true—no reason to tell her about prickly Evelyn.
Colleen walked slowly back to her trailer. She had a lot to think about. It seemed that Jim Crow was more than laws; it was a way of life, a caste system with rules that Colleen didn’t understand. Back in New Jersey, things weren’t perfect, but integrated schools and workplaces were simply a fact, whether you liked it or not. Here, Negroes were second-class citizens in the minds of people like Jan. Even educated people. Even teachers.
I live in a trailer here, Colleen thought. Back home, we’d be called white trash. So would you, Jan.
Betty Crocker’s New Dinner for Two was like a bible to Colleen. She took it from the shelf and cracked it open. It still had that new-book smell. Each section had an entire menu printed in a small rectangle. Tonight’s menu was from the section labeled “Frankly Thrifty.”
Texas Hash
Celery Hearts
Dill Pickles
Heavenly Salad
Pineapple Upside-Down Cake
Mealtimes had always been important in both Colleen’s and Miguel’s families. For Colleen’s family, conversations about the daily news, politics, and schoolwork were interspersed with “Pass the potatoes, please” and spills cleaned up with paper napkins.
Dinner at Miguel’s parents’ home reflected the formality that cooks and maids had upheld when they’d lived in Cuba. The table was set with cloth napkins and everything needed for a three-course meal. Colleen’s attempts to prepare dinners like Miguel’s mother resulted in weight gain for both of them.
Since the air conditioner was humming in the background, Colleen didn’t hear Miguel come home. He’d formed a habit of taking off his boots on the stoop outside so that he didn’t grind sand and dirt into the linoleum flooring. He entered the trailer barefoot, moved behind Colleen, and gave her a big bear hug and a bigger kiss. The tenderness erupted in her body, but not the way it usually did. Colleen shuddered as she turned and started sobbing on his shoulder.
Through her sobs, she poured out the whole story of Evelyn telling her that she didn’t know how to teach, the Negro teachers being escorted out of the school a few towns away, her father’s message, and how he had seen a photo of the teachers in the newspaper.
Miguel offered to brown the beef and make the Texas hash. Then he suggested that they have rice instead of the rest of the menu.
Colleen felt the tension leave her shoulders. “No cake?”
Miguel shook his head as he started chopping onions. “No cake and no celery hearts, either.”
She wiped her eyes, and they prepared the meal together. While they ate, Colleen told Miguel about an incident that had happened after lunch in her classroom.
“Remember Jarrod?”
“Is he the one who bounces in his chair?”
“Yes. I was at my desk, and three of the boys came running in.”
“That’s what boys do.”
“But all of a sudden, Jarrod froze, with an awful look on his face.”
“Why?”
“It took him a while, but then he said, ‘Are you going to hit me like Miz Young did?’”
“What made him say that?” Miguel asked, cocking his head.
“My desk drawer was open, and he was staring at the black leather belt I told you about.”
She hated the thick strap. It was long enough to wrap around her waist twice. At least the buckle had been removed, but the holes to fasten the belt were there as a reminder that it had served a more functional life. The leather was well worn, almost supple, but she hated to touch it. The strap was standard supply, just like the pencils, tape, and paper clips in the top drawer. It bothered Colleen that Jarrod had thought she would hit him with it.
“So, what are you going to do? Do you have to keep the strap in your desk?”
“I guess so. Evelyn told me that I should use it as part of my classroom management. But I could never hit a child. Still, I can’t throw it out. It’s school property.”
“You have to keep order, Colleen. You need to find a way to let them know who’s in charge. I’m a mean SOB to my troops because they need to survive in ’Nam when they leave here.”
“They’re children! This isn’t a war. I’ll find a better way.”
After dinner, Miguel washed the dishes and Colleen used the table to grade papers. They continued to talk as they both worked.
“Miguel, do you know where the library in town is? Would you take me there on Saturday morning?”
“Sure, but you can use the one on the base.”
“I want to get a library card and some applications for my students. They can’t use the base library.”
He had finished washing the dishes and was headed outside to shine his boots with Glo-Coat floor wax. He stopped in the doorway. “For your students? Why would you do that?”
“Remember I told you last year how I created a reading reward program that worked well? I thought I would do it again. You just told me I need other ideas.”
“A reward program? That’s your idea?” He winked at her.
Colleen rolled her eyes. “Yes, that’s my idea. I’m not a drill sergeant. They earn a ticket for each book they read. The tickets go into a coffee can, and I pick out four tickets at the end of the month. On the next Saturday, those four students get to go with me to the library.”
“I’ll pick them up and take them in our car.”
“What are you doing?” Miguel turned back from the doorway and put down his boots and the bottle of Glo-Coat on a piece of newspaper. His voice grew stern. “Didn’t you just tell me that you’re worried about how those Negro teachers are being treated for crossing race lines?”
“This is different, and it isn’t about me. They should have library cards.”
Miguel stared at Colleen, worry etched into the lines of his face. “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”
Colleen denied the thump-thump-thumping in her chest. “I’m sure,” she told him.
But she wasn’t.