19.

ROADBLOCKS

My foray into water quality activism might not have been as successful without an impactful experience the previous year, before graduating from Oldfields School. It was 1969, the height of the civil rights movement. Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated the year before, and his tragic loss and the influence of his message were felt around the country. Oldfields School had finally joined the growing number of schools wishing to introduce racial and ethnic diversity, but they mishandled a situation and I found myself in the middle of it. It haunted me for years.

The spring of my freshman year, 1967, our headmaster, George S. Nevens Jr., called an unexpected all-school meeting. One hundred and fifty girls in cranberry red and plaid uniforms filed into the century-old library and sat in rows on the carpeted floor. The overheated room filled with the smell of perspiration as Mr. Nevens began. “I want to tell you of a historic decision made by the board of trustees. We are going to admit the first Negro students, starting next fall. They are two sisters from Harlem, New York.” His bald head flushed as he spoke, uncomfortable in his own skin and, as it turned out, with the board’s decision. Then came the request.

“Obviously, I will understand if some of you are uncomfortable, but the girls are going to need roommates.” He spoke as if he were talking about aliens. “So, if any of you would be willing, please raise your hand.”

I grew up with people from many backgrounds coming to our house. I knew what it was like to feel different, so I was sensitive to prejudice of any kind.

My hand shot up, along with those of six others. I knew from the moment Mr. Nevens saw me that he would pick me. It would probably strengthen his image with the board to say, “Our first black student is rooming with a Rockefeller.” It didn’t occur to him, or me at the time, to match our interests, habits, and preferences, as is the practice with most roommate situations. He was covering new ground and was clearly uncomfortable. I felt excited to be part of a new trend in admissions that was long overdue.

Toni Cockerham became my roommate the following fall. Toni was admitted from the Ethical Culture Fieldston School in New York City. Karen, her older sister, came from the High School of Music and Art, also in New York. Their father was Reverend Ivy Cockerham, the highly regarded first African American minister of the Chambers Memorial Baptist Church, in East Harlem. Their mother, Thelma Cockerham, a respected community organizer and activist for education reform, was executive director of the Harlem Education Program. When the opportunity arose for Toni and Karen to be pioneers of integration in a small girls’ school in Maryland, they accepted the challenge.

I liked Toni from the moment I saw her warm smile. She was a serious student with a great sense of humor. Her robust laugh could be heard from far down the hall. She was a star in field hockey and a conscientious and brilliant student. Her older sister, Karen, then a junior, was more reserved, but equally intellectual and thoughtful.

Toni and I became friends, but our work habits eventually caused a strain in our relationship. She was a night owl. I was an early bird. By December we decided to trade roommates. I was happy I had been the first to welcome my new friend.

My reputation as a leader and catalyst was growing. By the end of freshman year I had led a successful campaign against the antediluvian practices of hazing, and during the fall of sophomore year I started my first organization, the Outing Club, to get off campus and explore the countryside. It soon became the largest and most popular club in the school, enrolling 80 percent of the students. In May of my junior year, elections for various student offices were held for next year’s senior class. The two most powerful posts for incoming seniors were head of the student council and president of the school, an alias for the student body. The president of the school was the only position voted on by all students and faculty. I was elected president of the school. I was on top of the world.

The feeling did not last long. One week before graduation, Mr. Nevens called Toni and Karen into his office and admonished them for “acting too black.” Karen had worn a dashiki to school after spring vacation and let her relaxed hair grow out in its natural curls. I can only conclude from what followed that Mr. Nevens was threatened by Karen’s display of identity and saw Toni as her accomplice.

But who among us trying to grow up doesn’t experiment? The quest for discovering who we are is a necessary part of our journey to belonging.

I still remember Karen’s ocher-and-black dashiki. To me she looked exotic and beautiful. She had become a leader, too, elected to the student council and leader of the Dubious Dozen singing group. Why couldn’t Mr. Nevens see her example as a learning opportunity for the whole school? Instead, he remonstrated, “There is no such thing as black culture or the black experience.”

As he carried on his tirade, both sisters rose silently from their seats and walked down the hallway back to their dorm rooms. In short order they received a final message from Mr. Nevens: “You two have forty minutes to pack up and get out.”

A school meeting was called after their abrupt departure. Mr. Nevens’ face looked pale as he stood before us and reported, “Karen and Toni were not expelled, but they withdrew.” There was a stunned silence. Several of us raised our hands with questions. “We are not taking any questions at this time.”

I was outraged and heartsick, and pondered what to do. I felt I might have some influence because of my new position and because a distant cousin, descending from the William A. Rockefeller branch, was chairman of the board. I talked with Mr. Nevens and asked if there had been some mistake. “This is between me and the board. You really don’t have to concern yourself with it,” he said stiffly. I left his office feeling patronized and angry.

On commencement day a week later, all hell broke loose. The graduates, in long white dresses, gathered at the top of the hill while the rest of the students lined up behind them. As the newly elected school president, I stood in front of the graduating class. From this vantage point, I was first to see an unfamiliar yellow school bus drive up the main road and park just below the ceremony site. I watched as the bus doors opened and out came Karen, Toni, their parents, and forty other black men and women. Karen and her supporters stood silently at the foot of the hill.

Mr. Nevens walked rapidly toward me, puffing a cigarette. His hands were shaking and he was breathing hard. I thought to myself, Doesn’t he see that he’s setting an example of drugs by smoking? Rumor had it he was also an alcoholic. His normally rosy nose and cheeks were drained of color as he took me aside and spoke in a strained, raspy voice: “Eileen, as president of the school you have an obligation to be on my side. I want you to do everything in your power to keep order.” In a flash Mr. Nevens was down the hill, smoke trailing in the air behind him, fumes of anger.

What the hell did he mean? Was he telling me I couldn’t have my own opinion? I didn’t like conflict any more than he did, but I admired those girls for coming back and I thought he should have listened to them in the first place. I stood mute.

The music began and the seniors, guided by decades of Oldfields tradition, marched down the hill, laying bouquets of flowers on the ground before the “May Queen,” the girl voted prettiest in her class. Some students, in silent protest, placed flowers at Karen’s feet instead, as if to say, “I’m with you.”

I could see Mr. Nevens and his board chair arguing out of earshot with Toni’s parents, no doubt trying to intimidate the unwelcome group. No one budged. Karen and Toni stood between their father and another male supporter with tears running down their cheeks. I hoped Mr. Nevens would relent and allow Karen into the ceremony. She had been accepted to Middlebury College, but would she be able to attend if Oldfields refused to issue her high school diploma? This seemed the height of cruelty. I stood behind the seniors and cried.

I lost contact with Toni and Karen until Barack Obama was first elected president.

For years I had wondered about her and her sister. Where were they? What had become of them? I still felt sad after all these years that I hadn’t been able to help them. I tracked Toni down through the Fieldston alumni association and wrote her a letter. A year later she wrote back. She was eager to get in touch but had been caring for her ill mother. I waited three more years. As I wrote my own story, I needed to know where their lives had taken them. My husband, Paul, helped me find the 1969 New York Times stories, written directly after the graduation. They reported that Karen’s diploma was still under negotiation. What had happened? When Paul located Toni’s phone number, I had to call. “Is this the Toni from Oldfields?”

“Yes,” said a deep woman’s voice.

“This is Eileen Rockefeller.” Shrieks emanated from both of us.

The following week, Paul and I met Toni and Karen at a restaurant in New York City. Forty-three years had elapsed since we’d laid eyes on each other. Toni’s dark, Nilotic features set off her black, curly hair against a crimson dress. Karen still wore the close-cropped hairstyle that I had admired, highlighting her bright, almond-shaped eyes. As adult women we hardly recognized each other, but after multiple hugs we cried, laughed, and slapped high fives. Karen and Toni sat down across the table from Paul and me. Toni and I shared pictures of family. We caught up on jobs, friends, and losses of parents. They asked Paul about his life and how we met. Finally, I asked Karen to describe what had happened after the day she should have graduated.

Karen took a deep breath, the memory still painful. “Oldfields did not give me a diploma, but Middlebury College accepted me anyway. After a year I transferred to Fordham University. Toni returned to Fieldston for her senior year and then went to Wellesley College.”

Karen stopped to wipe a tear from her eye. Toni squeezed her hand with the familiarity of a longtime supporter. “In 2001 I told my story to the chair of the board of the social welfare agency where I work. To my great surprise, he knew the head of Oldfields at the time and went down to the school to tell her about our experience.” Karen looked down before continuing, to collect herself. “The Oldfields headmistress, Kathleen Jameson, came by train to New York and hosted a ceremony to give me my diploma. It had been thirty-two years.”

We all dabbed our eyes. Paul and I reached across the table to clasp Toni’s and Karen’s free hands. Despite the loud chatter in the restaurant there was a moment of silence within our circle.

Finally I asked them both, “When you look back on your life, what are you most proud of?” After a long and thoughtful pause, Karen spoke first. “I guess I’m most proud of my family, for sticking together and helping each other.”

We waited while Toni found her words. “I’m proud of never giving up.”