Fire from the Rock Read online

  “May I have your attention, please,” Miss Washington asked, even though the room was so quiet it echoed.

  She spoke quietly and deliberately. “According to research done by the Little Rock Board of Education, five hundred and seventeen Negro students who live in the Central High district are technically eligible to attend Central High School.” She paused. “Of that number, eighty students and their parents originally expressed an interest in being seriously considered. As of today, forty-two students are still willing to be considered to be the first students to attempt the integration of Central High.” She stopped again, removed her glasses to wipe them clean with her handkerchief, and slowly replaced them on her nose.

  “So will those students go to Central?” Calvin asked in a surprisingly quiet voice.

  “Not so soon, Mr. Cobbs. There is a process that must be followed. The remaining students must be interviewed by a committee of the school board.”

  “Why?”

  “To make sure that they are the right people for the job—because it will be difficult.”

  “Anybody in here on the list?” Calvin asked.

  “The only student in our class who still remains on the list is Sylvia Faye Patterson,” Miss Washington replied quietly. Sylvia sat up straighter at her desk as the rest of the class turned to look at her. She felt like a bug under a microscope.

  Lou Ann glanced at Sylvia, then nodded her head in Reggie’s direction. Sylvia turned to look. He was frowning.

  Candy Castle leaned over and whispered to Reggie, loud enough for Sylvia to hear, “You know who to call when she’s up at Central being Miss Chocolate Chip in the vanilla ice cream. You get lonely, I always got extra candy at my house.” To his credit, Reggie tried to ignore her while some of the other boys chuckled at the less than subtle hints she was dropping.

  Calvin said out loud, “I’m proud to know you, Sylvia. And if you ever need somebody to make you laugh, just call me and I’ll tell you a dirty joke!”

  Sylvia smiled at Calvin and thanked him.

  Some students glanced at her with envy, others with pity. Finally she bowed her head—the stares were sharp and almost painful.

  Calvin raised his hand again. “When are the interviews?” he asked. Sylvia was grateful that he was asking, because she wasn’t sure if she could even talk at that point.

  “Sylvia Faye must report tomorrow after school,” the teacher replied.

  Sylvia swallowed hard and glanced up at Miss Washington, who tried not to look concerned. But she noticed that her teacher’s fingertips silently drummed her desk for the rest of the afternoon.

  Sylvia gave her parents the information at dinner. She found she had very little appetite.

  “What are you gonna say to them, Sylvie?” Donna Jean asked as she tried to cut her pork chop.

  “I have no idea, DJ. I guess I’ll try to convince them I’m a good person,” Sylvia replied.

  DJ finally gave up on her knife, picked up the pork chop with her hands, and bit into it with gusto. She ignored her mother’s frown of disapproval. “You need to be more than good. I think they’re looking for perfect!”

  “White kids aren’t perfect,” Gary said sullenly. “Not even close.”

  “They don’t have to be,” Donna Jean told him. “They’re white!”

  “It is true that often we have to try twice as hard to receive half as much,” their mother admitted. She scooped more gravy onto Gary’s plate.

  “I just want an equal chance,” Sylvia said quietly. “Are you coming with me tomorrow, Daddy?” Her father had remained unusually quiet during the meal.

  “Yes, child, I’ll be there. I want that committee to know you’ve got a strong family behind you. I’ll speak my mind if I have to.”

  “Really?” Sylvia was surprised.

  “Have you ever known me to sidestep an opportunity to talk in front of a group?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “No, Daddy.” She couldn’t believe he was being so supportive.

  “Are you scared, Sylvie?” Gary asked.

  “Terrified,” she admitted. “I really don’t know what to expect.”

  “You want me to go in your place?” he asked, only half jokingly.

  “I really do wish you could,” she told him. She stirred her food, but ate very little.

  “I’d tell those stupid white folks to keep their old school!” Donna Jean said suddenly.

  “Donna Jean!” her mother cried out. “I won’t have you talking like that! Mind your mouth, young lady.”

  “But, Mama,” DJ wailed. “Why can’t things just stay like they are? We’re happy at school, and we don’t have to worry about bad people hurting us. What’s so great about being with white people anyway?”

  No one seemed to have an answer. Gary started to speak, but was silenced by a look from his father.

  “The world is changing, baby girl,” Mr. Patterson said quietly. “Whether we want it to or not.”

  Mrs. Patterson motioned to Donna Jean to come to her. DJ climbed on her mother’s lap and snuggled close. Her mother rocked her as if she were still a baby. Sylvia cleared the table. Gary went to his room, unusually silent.

  After dinner her father retreated to his favorite chair to read the Little Rock newspapers, but he seemed to have trouble concentrating. He flipped from page to page hurriedly instead of his usual careful, slow method of going through the paper.

  Sylvia sat on the hassock near his chair and asked him shyly, “Daddy, do you think the kids at Central will like me?”

  “Of course they will, Sylvia Faye,” he told her, not looking up from the paper.

  “That’s not what I mean, Daddy. Do you think I’ll fit in with them, with the things they talk about and like to do?”

  Her father hardly ever looked right at her—he sometimes looked in her direction, but Sylvia always got the feeling that something else more important had his attention. But at that moment, he looked directly at her, then gave Sylvia one of his rare smiles. “If the kids at Central are as smart and talented as you are, Sylvia Faye Patterson, they’ll be mighty special. And if they have any sense, they’ll be proud to call you their friend.”

  Sylvia sat there stunned. Her father rarely gave her a direct compliment. She gave him a hug and hurried off to her room to check on Donna Jean.

  Wednesday, April 17-evening

  All I can think about is what it would be like to go to school with white kids, with kids who think Elvis Presley is cute and Frank Sinatra is dreamy. Kids who have blond hair and blue eyes. When they knock, the doors always open. They expect good stuff to happen for them, and it does-like a magic wand or something. These kids don’t know what it feels like to have a store clerk make you put your money on the counter so they don’t have to touch your hand. These kids don’t ever think about the fact that the history books we use in school have nothing about famous Negroes, and no pictures of colored people except for a few photos of slaves.

  Maybe Reggie is right-I should just stay where I belong, where I’m safe and happy and accepted. I’d miss so much if I left the friends I’ve gone to school with since first grade. Parties. Dances. Clubs. Basketball and football games. I’ve heard the Negro kids would not be allowed to participate in any of this stuff at Central.

  It’s their school and their world. They have their customs just like we do-football teams and cheerleaders and dances and such. I guess I would feel funny if I was told that I would have to go to school with little green men from Mars. But I’m not green—I’m human just like they are.

  I’ve never been inside Central High School, but besides the fact that it’s huge, huge, huge—covering one whole city block, it’s got to be just like any other school, right? Lockers. Shiny, waxed wooden floors. A library filled with thousands of books waiting for a thirsty kid like me to gulp them down. A cafeteria that always seems to smell like tomato soup, no matter what they’re serving.

  Teachers—some fair, some biased, probably a few who are angry—all
smarter than me and maybe not willing, but able to teach me. And students. Not all of them would be horrible racists. Many will want to help, and would be kind? Right? Rachel, for example, will be there. She would stand up for me, wouldn’t she? Would she be afraid to tell people that we were friends?

  Last week someone painted another swastika on the door of Zucker’s store, Rachel told me. This was the third time in the past few months. Rachel suspects the Crandalls next door-probably Johnny and his hateful hoodlum friends. She said the first time it happened, her father sat down on the ground and cried—that must be awful watching your daddy shed real tears. She and her parents stayed up all night washing the door and repainting it. Three times the door has been painted. Three times.

  If Rachel can’t be safe in Little Rock, how do I stand a chance?

  THURSDAY, APRIL 18, 1957

  Sylvia Faye Patterson!” the harsh female voice called out. “Yes, ma’am,” Sylvia replied, standing up quickly from the wooden chair at the far end of the long, empty hallway. Her mother squeezed her right hand, and her father squeezed her left, but she suddenly felt chillingly alone.

  “Enter!” the woman commanded from the other end of the hall.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sylvia said again as she hurried toward the voice. A large, curtainless window let in the full impact of the afternoon sunshine, so Sylvia could only see the silhouette of the woman with the strident voice. Her parents seemed to be miles behind her.

  “Hurry, girl!”

  Sylvia’s patent-leather shoes clicked faster on the wooden floor. She reached down to smooth her skirt as she checked her hair with her other hand. She wore a new, neatly ironed, red-and-white candy-striped dress that her mother had made for her, white gloves because her mother had insisted, and her Sunday shoes, which pinched her toes, instead of her comfortable school saddle oxfords.

  Sylvia reached the door, found the woman with the voice to be thin, unsmiling, and wearing a pair of cat-eye glasses, and entered the interrogation room slowly. Dimly lit, the dull gray room seemed to be full of shadows. It felt more like a prison than an office. Sylvia took deep breaths, resisting the urge to turn around and run full speed back down that hall. She forced herself to smile pleasantly, refusing to let them see how scared she was.

  Six examiners, five men and one woman, sat at a long wooden table. The woman with the harsh voice, Sylvia realized as her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, was Eileen Crandall. She glared at Sylvia with thinly veiled animosity.

  One straight-back chair sat about five feet away from their table, alone in the center of the room. Sylvia was asked to sit there. Sylvia took off her gloves and waited.

  “You are Sylvia Faye Patterson?” It was both a question and a statement.

  “Yes, sir,” she responded politely to the first man who asked the question.

  “You go to Dunbar?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your grades seem to be quite acceptable.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I guess that’s a compliment. Who can tell with these people?

  “Do you think you’re better than white children?” he asked suddenly. Sylvia was stunned by the harshness of the question.

  “No, sir. But I think I’m as smart as anyone else.”

  “Are you trying to be smart now?”

  “No, sir. I just tried to answer your question.”

  “Don’t try to get sassy with me, now.” This is not going well—I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  “No, sir,” Sylvia started to hang her head, but she lifted it up and stared at them all, directly in their faces. I don’t think they like it when you face them fair and square.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” Mrs. Crandall asked.

  Should I bring Reggie into this? she mused. Unless you count that football game, we’ve never been on a real date, never done much more than talk and laugh on the phone.

  She replied, “No, ma’am. Not really.”

  “Most girls your age are interested in boys. Who would you socialize with in an all-white school? You certainly couldn’t date a white boy.” Mrs. Crandall was nervously chewing the wood on her pencil. Who would want to go out with a white boy? Good grief! I have trouble enough understanding the boys I know.

  “I wouldn’t want to do that, ma’am,” Sylvia replied to Mrs. Crandall, not really sure how to answer.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to date anyone right now,” Sylvia said honestly. “I’m mostly interested in my studies.”

  “Suppose you saw a white boy you found to be attractive. Would you try to encourage a relationship?”

  Sylvia thought of Mrs. Crandall’s son Johnny and the pasty-faced white boys that beat up her brother. There was no way she could imagine wanting to date one of them. “No, ma’am.” she replied emphatically. “I really just want to go to classes. My parents are very strict with me and do not allow me to court at all. That would not be a problem.”

  “How many times a day do you go to the bathroom?” another man asked.

  Sylvia looked at him with surprise. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never counted.” Mama never lets us talk about bathroom stuff; especially in public. She says it’s just not polite. These people are crazy!

  “We’d have to give y’all separate bathroom stalls if we let you use the toilets at all. Could you go all day without going to the bathroom?”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” Sylvia replied. Then, although she knew she shouldn’t have, she added, “Could you?”

  The bald-headed man scowled in disapproval and scribbled furiously on the piece of paper in front of him, but he said nothing else.

  “You understand you could not participate in any school activities?” the bald man asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No dances—we wouldn’t want none of y’all touching our children.”

  “I understand.” Nobody wants to touch their precious children anyway!

  “No clubs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No sports.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You can’t be in any of the plays—they wouldn’t have any parts for Nigras anyway!” He chuckled and seemed pleased with himself as he continued to take notes on the paper in front of him.

  “The rules have been explained to me, sir,” Sylvia replied. Then she added, “But I think they are unfair.” They didn’t like that one! Sylvia grinned inwardly.

  “Nobody asked you what you think,” Mrs. Crandall said haughtily as she peered at Sylvia over her glasses.

  “Do you have any white friends?” another man asked suddenly.

  Sylvia thought of Callie Crandall, who was most certainly not her friend, then she thought with fondness of Rachel, with whom she felt comfortable and open. So Sylvia replied, “I’ve known Rachel Zucker most of my life.”

  “You mean the grocery man Zucker’s daughter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She’s Jewish. She doesn’t count. Do you have any real white friends?”

  Sylvia’s mind reeled. They don’t count Jewish people in with the white population? This was a bombshell to her. “Uh, no, sir. I guess I don’t.” I wonder if Rachel and her family know how they are looked upon by the majority of the folks in town. Yeah, considering those swastikas on their door, they do.

  The thin, bald-headed man spoke next. “Why do you want to go to Central High School, Sylvia Faye?”

  She relaxed a little. “Central High School is the best school in Little Rock, even in Arkansas. I want to go to college when I graduate, and become someone special or famous—someone who makes a difference in the world. I think that Central would best prepare me to do that.”

  “Horace Mann is newer than Central—it was just built last year. What’s wrong with the schools that have been established for the coloreds?” It was Mrs. Crandall speaking again.

  “I think education ought to be the same for all children,” Sylvia said slowly. “I think there is a lot we can learn from each
other.”

  “What can a white child learn from you?” Mrs. Crandall asked haughtily.

  “Patience, maybe. And understanding.”

  All of them shuffled their papers then. Finally the fat man at the end of the table who had said nothing yet asked, “Is your brother Gary Patterson?”

  Oh, no. Here it comes. “Yes, sir.” “He’s got a reputation for being a troublemaker. That kind of stuff runs in families. Are you a troublemaker as well?”

  How am I supposed to answer a question like this? Sylvia took a deep breath and answered. “My brother has never been in trouble with the police,” she answered honestly. At least not yet. “And I have no intention of ever causing any trouble to anyone.”

  “Does your mother like teaching the colored children at Stephens Elementary?” the bald-headed man asked.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure she does. Very much.” I wonder what Mama’s job has to do with this.

  “We hear she’s pretty good at teaching, at least for a Negro.”

  “Thank you.” Sylvia tensed.

  “Do you think your mama is willing to risk that job?” the fat man on the end of the table asked.

  “Risk it? How?” Sylvia looked confused.

  “Some members of our community are opposed to integration,” Mrs. Crandall replied with a nasty smile. “I have heard threats of job action against the parents of the children who try to integrate. Are you aware of that?”

  “No, ma’am,” was all Sylvia could say. She felt like an animal in the road, about to be smashed by a car. “Our family believes in faith and prayer.” I think I need a little of both, Sylvia thought desperately.

  “Yes, we’re aware of your family’s church connections,” the bald man said then. “You know, your father also stands to lose his job at Dimming’s Brickyard. We wouldn’t do such a thing, of course, but we can’t control all of the members of this community.” Mrs. Crandall was smiling broadly. “And wouldn’t it be just awful if something happened to that little church y’all go to?”

  Would they? Could they? Yeah, I think it might be possible.