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.”