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“Yahweh, you are my God. I will exalt you! I will praise your name, for you have done wonderful things planned long ago, in complete faithfulness and truth.”
Isaiah 25:1
For the last lesson of that day, my form was expecting Mr Walter, a balding man, who was always prompt for the English lesson on Thursdays. Being the most senior class, we were privileged to study more subjects. For the first two years of junior high, we studied six subjects: English, maths, music, art, Spanish and science. Now, in our final year, we studied nine subjects and felt on top of the world. The added subjects were German, geography and literature.
Mr Walter came in with an apology. ‘Sorry to be late, class. I have just been informed that your entire class will not have English now. Instead, you have all been asked to go and stay in the assembly hall to await an important announcement from Mr Robinson, the vice principal of academics.’
The class looked at me as they stood up to comply to Mr Walter’s directive. My heart pumped fast. Was this announcement going to be about me and my family stomping into Mr White’s office to point out our discovery of an egregious wrong going on in the college, with me as evidence?
I’d told my friends about the prospects of my changing school earlier in the day, and Pam had cried like her heart was being torn from her. Everyone else had gathered round. ‘What’s wrong with Pam?’ someone in the crowd of girls had asked, while I held Pam in an embrace.
The white teacher on corridor duty had looked on at our huddle. It was the hundredth time. We girls always gathered close in solidarity when our work was ripped, or we were kept in class to write an imposition, or a parent had been sacked, or a loved one in the family had faced racial prejudice at work, or one of us had been bullied on the bus by a white passenger, or a big brother had been unjustly put behind bars without a hearing, or a family disaster happened... I could go on and on. There were countless reasons. That was the way we huddled and cried when we heard that Carol was to be permanently excluded from the school because she had become pregnant, supposedly by her own mother’s boyfriend.
It suddenly occurred to me now why my mother did not want to get too involved with Uncle Bill till I was fully grown up, and at an age to discern deception form sincerity. Still, it was a big sacrifice she had made to ensure my protection and safety – unlike Carol’s mother, who had put her pleasure and desire over her only child. Poor Carol.
And me? Did I feel sorry about changing school? Maybe the details I would collect at the end of the day would explain why I could not become the likes of president if I schooled at Hillary.
As we all sat in the hall, waiting for Mr Robinson in complete silence as if it were a taboo to even whisper, I took the opportunity to reflect on what tomorrow might be like. One thing was clear: I had a choice. I could finish junior high in Hillary and start high school the following school year, or...
Mr Robinson walked in and, like everyone else, I stood up. We greeted him, and he asked us to take our seats. I became extra alert.
He went straight to the point. ‘Sorry to have kept you for a minute, ladies. We have looked at the academic performance of every one of you and we have reached a decision that some of you will be moved to other classes in another school, here in Detroit. Here are the names of those selected to go into the college programme: Sylvia, Beatrice and Karen.’ He initiated applause, and we all clapped heartily, forgetting for the moment that our form members were being separated.
He cleared his throat. ‘Finally, the names of those selected for the honours programme: Bella and Ngozi.’ This time the applause started even before Mr Robinson clapped his hands.
He raised his right arm, and there was sudden silence. ‘This exercise should have taken place over the vacation, to give you and your families time to plan. You have the choice to accept the offer the college has given you within a week. At the end of the school day, the girls who heard their names called should collect their letters of offer from the principal’s secretary. Students who do not make a response within the date specified in their offers will lose their privilege to change schools. Any questions?’
Sylvia raised her hand, and I saw Mr Robinson’s eyebrows rise. ‘Yes, Sylvia?’
‘Sir, I would like to know if our classes here at Hillary will now have students who are not Black?’
‘Ah, you are ahead of me! Your question has been answered in the letters you and those selected will be carrying home. Yes, we shall have white American students in Hillary. In a week’s time, the classes here will all be changed. You will be told what class you will belong to.’
All of a sudden there were more hands up, but Mr Robinson kept a calm face as if he was not in a hurry and had all the time in the world. He picked Bella.
‘Sir, what criteria was used to determine who goes to the college and honours classes?’
‘Academic suitability,’ Mr Robinson answered amicably, then he picked Evelyn.
‘Sir, is this an arrangement between Momford and Hillary only?’
Many hands were lowered.
‘For the time being, yes.’ He pointed at Rosa.
‘Sir, will students be allowed to return to Hillary if they don’t like the other school?’
All hands went down.
‘Definitely!’
I tentatively raised my hand, and he nodded assent in my direction. He was one of those teachers who played it safe rather than getting their tongues twisted when they called my name. I perfectly understood.
I stood up. ‘Sir, for those of us selected for the honours programme, are we at any disadvantage for not starting right from the beginning of our junior high?’
‘Good question,’ Mr Robinson said without reflecting any irritation in his demeanour. Instead, he looked at the clock to make his intention clear. ‘Like I have said, all these questions have been answered in the letters some of you will be carrying home. Other parents will be informed through the newsletter going out during the week. Now you’ll need to get back to collect your things from your class ready for the end of the school day. Good afternoon.’
We all stood up and said, ‘Good afternoon.’ The meeting was over.
As I walked home with my friends and classmates, a different kind of excitement replaced the foreboding we had all felt when it was only me who would be going away. Now that some students were leaving and there were choices, it seemed to me that the others were assuming we would all rather stay in Hillary and continue as if nothing had happened – but I knew better. I knew my family could not wait to whisk me off to Mumford the following day. I was silent as my friends made comments and expressed their concern. I wanted to have my thoughts clear and uninterrupted.
‘We are all being split. Some of us will not be in the same class!’
‘I know.’
‘I wanted to ask if we could choose the classes our friends were in.’
‘It’s according to academic suitability, Pam, and not friends.’
‘Yes. Like some people don’t like art or some people don’t like science. You will be put in a class where you are academically suited.’
‘That is great. I can part ways with German.’
‘I am going to divorce literature, finally.’
‘As for me, I’m going to go for only art, music and drama.’
‘If Ngozi’s family had not intervened, Hillary would have still been doing things wrong!’
‘Ngozi? Look, she is daydreaming of leaving already!’
‘Ngozi!’
I came to with a start. ‘Yes?’
‘Help us thank your family for what is going to happen in Hillary. Don’t you get it, girls? If there are white girls in this school, then the teachers will make sure we are treated better and taught better.’
‘They won’t tear our books and ask us to write imposition.’
‘It is God we should thank,’ I answered, ‘because it was God who gave the Negro Improvement members the courage and boldness to come here and talk to Mr White.’
‘Ngozi!’ Bella yelled across the din of our excited, babbling classmates. ‘Are you aware that Mumford College is far away – and it’s a boarding school?’
‘It is mixed, too,’ Pat put in. ‘Congrats, Bella and Ngozi. I wish I were in your shoes!’
‘Thanks,’ Bella answered. She stopped and looked closely at me. ‘Ngozi, are you not happy?’
‘Truth be told, Bella, whatever you decide is the step I will take.’