Fire from the Rock Read online

  Yes, the article mentioned the accomplishments of Negroes like Harry Belafonte and Ralph Bunche and George Washington Carver, but it was obviously written by a white person who was describing my people the same way I would do a report on bugs! “In recent years, some progress has been made in improving the life of the African Negro, but his position is still far from desirable.”

  If I need to know about frogs or stars or blood vessels, I’ll know where to look. But for information about Negroes, I’ve got to look elsewhere. I wonder if the textbooks at Central High are all like this.

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 22, 1957

  So, when will I start going to school with white children?” Donna Jean asked as she and Sylvia got ready for bed.

  Sylvia, wrapping her hair onto brown paper rollers, looked at her sister with surprise. “Do you really want to, DJ?”

  “No, I don’t—that’s the point. I like my school. I just want to know how long I have before grown-ups mess everything up.” She was glancing through the pages of one of their mother’s Life magazines.

  “I don’t think you have anything to worry about for a while,” Sylvia told her with a smile. “Adults who change laws work unbelievably slow.”

  “That’s good to know. My friend Vanessa says white people rule the whole world, that they control everything and everybody. Is that true?”

  “Well, sort of, I guess. But that doesn’t mean it’s right, or that it will last forever.”

  Donna Jean brushed her hair while she talked. “When we watched the inauguration tonight, I was wondering what you have to do to become president. Eisenhower doesn’t look so special to me—just another bald-headed white man in a nice suit.”

  “You’re pretty deep, kid,” Sylvia said with genuine admiration. “I think the requirement is to be able to give long, boring speeches!”

  “Then Daddy can be president for sure!” Donna Jean said with a grin. “Except he’s colored.” She stopped smiling. “Look at this,” she said then, still looking at the magazine. “The new 'Miss America TV.’”

  Sylvia glanced down at the page. Miss America stood there next to the television set with her shimmering gold crown, blond hair, and lovely flowing gown. Both girls simply sighed. “Wow.”

  Donna Jean said, “Miss America looks so beautiful—like one of those fairy princesses in my storybooks at school.”

  “None of that stuff is real, Donna Jean,” Sylvia reminded her.

  “I know that. But Miss America is real, isn’t she?”

  Sylvia sighed and shook her head. “She may as well be a fairy tale, as far as we’re concerned.”

  Donna Jean asked, “Don’t you ever think about growing up to be Miss America?”

  Sylvia laughed. “Not likely, little sister.”

  “Why not?” Donna Faye continued. “You’re pretty.”

  Sylvia looked at her, surprised. “There’s no way they’d ever let a Negro be Miss America,” she told her sister. “Never in a million years.”

  Gary popped his head in the door then. “Hey, Miss Roller-Head,” he said, teasing Sylvia.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  “Shouldn’t midgets be asleep by now?” he asked DJ, walking over to her bed and tickling her. She giggled and hid under the covers.

  “So, you ready to become a freedom fighter?” Gary asked Sylvia casually.

  “You’d be much better at this than me, Gary,” she told him honestly.

  He sighed. “I know. But you’ve got the brains and the personality to make it work. I’d end up burning the place down.”

  “Or getting burned up yourself,” Sylvia added.

  “I’m a little scared for you, little sis,” he said gently.

  “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” she asked him. “It would be so much easier to stay with my friends and go on to Horace Mann, and only have to worry about whether Reggie likes my new dress.”

  “Don’t worry,” Gary said, laughing. “I’ve seen how Reggie acts around you. At the game Friday he was acting like a puppy with a new toy.”

  “You could tell?” Sylvia asked, blushing a little.

  “Oh, yeah! You’ve got that one tied up!” Gary replied with a grin.

  Donna Jean poked her head out from under the covers and chanted in a singsong voice, “Sylvie and Reggie, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” She repeated the rhyme several times until Gary started tickling her again.

  When she quieted down, Sylvia said, “Reggie says it’s cool I got picked, but I know he wants me to stay at Mann. He’s sending me mixed messages.”

  “That’s because both sides of this issue are so strong. Either way, you’ll win and you’ll lose. No matter what happens.”

  “I’m all mixed up, Gary.”

  “Well, since it looks like it’s not gonna be me, I can’t think of anyone better than you to do this,” Gary said as he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “I’m proud of you, Sylvie.”

  Sylvia’s eyes filled with tears as Gary gently closed her door.

  Tuesday, January 22, 1957

  When Donna Jean told me she thought I was pretty, I was really shocked. First of all, she had never given me a compliment before-most of the time we tease each other, using names like “hunchback” and “beady ball.” But more than that, I have never in my life thought of myself as pretty. I guess I’m fair looking, maybe, but certainly not pretty. I don’t even know what the definition of pretty is. Is it what I see in the mirror, or what I see in Mama’s magazines? And what does Reggie see? That is, if he’s still looking at me.

  In Life magazine, like DJ said, all the women in the ads are white. They have pale skin and silky hair and they look sophisticated and in control. But is that what makes them attractive? Is it the blond hair? That couldn’t be, because many of them have hair as black as mine, and red hair, and brown, and every other combination as well. So is it their small lips? Their tiny noses? I’ve got full lips and a large nose. Does that make me ugly? I have no idea.

  Reggie seems to think I look okay, but I know he thinks Candy looks better. Where did she get those hips and those D-cups? I can’t compete with equipment like that. Most of the boys at school, including Reggie, are attracted to Candy Castle like bees to honey, but it’s not just because of her body. She has some other quality that makes them hover around her all the time. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know how to get it.

  In Ebony magazine, most of the women in the ads are Negro, but very few of them have dark skin like mine. Actually, most of them look more like the white women in Life magazine than they look like me. I wonder what colored men think of those models. What about white men? What attracts them? Does race make a difference? And how does all this fit in with the integration stuff?

  When I was little I had a doll called Tiny Tears. I never gave her a real name—I simply called her Tiny. I loved that doll more than life. I still have her, and every once in a while I go to the top of my closet, get her out of the box I keep her in, and unwrap her carefully. I keep her wrapped in one of Donna Jean’s old baby blankets. When I take Tiny Tears out and hold her in my arms, the smell of her, almost like baby powder, still makes me smile. Her eyes really blink in her sculpted face. When you squeeze the doll’s tummy, she coos. That sound, the feel of her soft, rubber body, even her slightly scratched, painted-on hair take me back to a time of safety and happiness and real joy. I still love that doll and she is the most beautiful thing I own. And she’s a little white baby. They don’t make Negro dolls.

  WEDNESDAY JANUARY 30, 1957

  Hi, Reggie.” Sylvia flopped down on the floor and twisted the long black telephone cord in her fingers. She still couldn’t get used to him calling every day, but she sure didn’t want it to stop!

  “Hey, Sylvie. Let me ask you something—do you think snowballs fly farther when the weather is colder?”

  Sylvia laughed. “You’re silly. When I throw them, they just kinda land not far from my feet.”

  “Sounds like I need
to give you throwing lessons,” Reggie said softly on the other end of the line. “I’ll put my arms around you, then take your arm in my hand, and help you toss that snowball to the next county!”

  Sylvia gasped, but managed to say in a squeak, “I just might let you do that!” Most of the time Reggie didn’t make her feel nervous at all anymore. She used to feel sweaty, but gradually she had relaxed enough to talk to him without feeling like she couldn’t swallow. But he always managed to say something that curled her socks!

  Reggie laughed, deep and throaty. Then, his voice turning serious, he asked, “Did you hear about the bombing of Dr. King’s house down in Alabama? I told you white folks were hateful and dangerous.”

  “That’s not fair, Reggie. Not all white people are like that.” Sylvia frowned. “My friend Rachel is open and understanding and really pretty cool about all this stuff.”

  “Does she have a brother?”

  “Huh?”

  “If you wanted to marry her brother, what would her daddy say? Would he welcome you into the family? Would she?”

  “Her brother is a nerd—there’s no way I’d marry him!” Sylvia tried to laugh it off, but she knew what Reggie was talking about.

  “Don’t get fooled by what you think is friendship, Sylvie. Lions hang with lions. Bears hang with bears. They don’t mix.”

  “I think you’re being mean and unfair!” But she felt uncomfortable, because there was some truth in his words.

  “So, what did your father think about the bombing?” Reggie asked.

  Sylvia shifted in her seat. “I heard Daddy talking about it with some of the other ministers last night,” she told Reggie. “He was really upset.”

  “Did he sound scared?”

  “No. Surprisingly, Daddy was angry. I’ve never seen him like that—mad enough to do something!”

  “Tell your daddy to call me if he ever decides to get up off his knees and get out into the streets where the real action is,” Reggie said with feeling.

  “Reggie!” Sylvia replied, a little surprised at his outburst.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean no disrespect to your daddy, but everybody in his generation wants to sit around and wait for things to get better—my folks included. It’s time to get up and do something.”

  “You sound like Gary.”

  “Gary’s cool. He understands. You know, if men like Martin Luther King, or even girls like you, are going to try to change the world, it’s not going to happen quietly,” Reggie told Sylvia.

  “I know. I bet Dr. King was terrified when that bomb woke him up. He has little kids,” Sylvia added. Her right ear was getting sweaty, so she switched to the left.

  “I wonder if something like that could happen here in Little Rock,” Reggie mused. “People are getting awfully riled up about the school integration.”

  “I sure hope not,” Sylvia replied, imagining what it would be like to have a bomb detonate on her porch. She shuddered.

  “If somebody ever tried to mess with you, Sylvie, I’d hurt ’em bad. Real bad,” Reggie said boldly.

  “That’s probably the sweetest thing anybody has ever said to me,” Sylvia said softly. “Also the dumbest. You’re not Superman, Reggie.”

  “Neither are you.” He paused. “You know, Sylvie, I know I have no right to tell you what to do, but I’ve thought about this quite a bit, and I don’t want you to go to Central. I want you to go to high school and just be normal, not some kind of hero.”

  “Oh, Reggie! I don’t know what to say.” Sylvia felt tears welling up.

  “I just want you to be with me. Is that too much to ask?”

  Sylvia sighed. “Please don’t make this harder than it is. This whole thing is bigger than both of us, Reggie.” The phone lines were silent as neither of them spoke for a moment. “Do you think white folks imagine the same world we do?” she asked quietly.

  “Probably not.”

  “Do you think they’re scared like we are?” Sylvia asked thoughtfully.

  “I ain’t scared of nobody!”

  “Hey, my mother is calling me. I have to get off the phone now.”

  Just as he had the last few times they’d talked on the telephone, Reggie said softly, “See you later, alligator.”

  Sylvia tried to cover the excitement she felt, and she knew it was corny, but she loved the fact that she had a stupid little custom that involved a boy. She said calmly in reply, “After while, crocodile.” She hung up the phone, a slight smile on her face, a faint frown behind it.

  Wednesday January 30, 1957

  My father is no Martin Luther King. He’s old and set in his ways, or in ways that have been set for him. I’m pretty sure a bomb on our front porch would send him running to Alaska, not to the NAACP office to become a freedom fighter.

  Daddy has met Rev. King a couple of times at church-related activities. I know he admires Dr. King for the work he’s doing in Alabama, but I’m glad my father comes home every night and we don’t get bombs tossed on our porch. It’s bad enough I get brothers tossed at our front door.

  When Miss Rosa Parks got arrested a couple of years ago because she refused to give up her bus seat to a white woman, it was Dr. King who helped the Negroes in Montgomery organize a boycott. For a whole year they walked everywhere they had to go until they won the right to sit anywhere they wanted to on the public buses.

  I was a little surprised when Life magazine ran a story on the boy-cotters in Montgomery. They ran pictures of some Negro men sitting in the front of a bus. They looked tired, but pretty proud of themselves. Buses here in Little Rock have been integrated recently, but most colored folks I know still tend to sit near the back anyway.

  I don’t think Daddy could have done what Dr. King did—got a whole city to cooperate on anything. And would I have walked with them in protest? Maybe if Reggie walked with me. That’s not the right reason, I know.

  I’m not even sure Reggie is going to be in my life much longer, and the thought of losing him is making me crazy! He wants me to go to Mann with him. If I go to Central, I lose the friends I’ve been with since grade school, my chance to be a cheerleader for Reggie’s team, and the only boyfriend I’ve ever had. Not much chance of me finding a boyfriend at Central.

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 1957

  Hey, Sylvia, what did you do your project on?” Calvin asked as they walked into the classroom. “I know you’ll get an A-plus as usual, Miss Perfect Patterson.” He took off his hat, bowed down in front of her, then dropped to one knee. “May I just touch your hand, my lady?”

  “Oh, quit that,” Sylvia said, laughing, as she swatted him on the side of his head. “Get up and go dust off my chair so I may sit down on a proper throne!”

  Calvin scrambled up and ran ahead, pretending to strew flower petals in front of her. Sylvia tried to brush it off, but she didn’t like being the center of attention, and she didn’t like it when others made fun of her good grades. The thought of being chosen to be on the list to go to Central made her even more nervous.

  Reggie walked in then, wearing his favorite shoes and that brown leather bomber jacket Sylvia liked so much. It had belonged to his father, he’d told her once, and Sylvia thought it smelled of adventure and history—maybe a little romance. She relaxed as he gave her a genuine smile and went to his seat.

  Just then Candy Castle, whose soft yellow sweater clung to her cleavage like melted cheese, walked over to Reggie’s desk and casually leaned over to speak to him. Her ample chest was level with his face. Sylvia couldn’t hear what Candy said, but Reggie laughed as if she had told the best joke in the world.

  Miss Washington, after taking attendance and making announcements, stopped at every student’s seat to collect their projects, taking the time to speak to each student.

  “You did your paper on baseball?” Sylvia heard Miss Washington ask Reggie.

  “Yes, ma’am. Jackie Robinson. And the other Negroes who integrated major league baseball,” Reggie replied.

  “Good,”
Miss Washington said as she moved to Lou Ann Johnson’s desk. “And what did you choose, Miss Johnson?” The large woman standing so close made Lou Ann seem even skinnier.

  “I did my paper on Fats Domino and Chuck Berry. They’re going to change the world of music,” Lou Ann replied. “Besides, all the rest of the stuff on your list was boring.”

  “Well, I certainly hope your paper isn’t boring. I’d hate to fall asleep in the middle of reading it and be forced to give you a failing grade,” Miss Washington replied, chuckling.

  When she got to Sylvia’s neatly handwritten report, Miss Washington asked with a tone of approval in her voice, “Why did you choose Africa, Sylvia Faye? Many Negroes want to forget their heritage and their roots.”

  “I read an article in the World Book encyclopedia and it made me angry,” Sylvia replied. “I wanted to find something that would make me feel proud.”

  “Sadly, most people don’t look at Africa with pride,” Miss Washington said.

  “I think it’s important that we know where we came from, so we can figure out where we’re going,” Sylvia said simply. Calvin made an armpit noise. Candy Castle got out her hair-brush.

  The teacher nodded with approval. “We need more sensible thinkers like you, Sylvia Faye,” Miss Washington said. “That’s one reason you were chosen to be a candidate for Central.” As she moved around the classroom collecting the rest of the projects, Sylvia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It seemed as if everyone in the class was watching her, making judgments with their eyes. Reggie, noticeably, looked in the other direction.

  “Sylvia’s always trying to be the teacher’s pet!” Candy Castle whispered harshly—loud enough for Sylvia to hear. In spite of Miss Washington’s strictness, Candy was chewing a piece of gum. She worked it slowly, with her mouth half open. Reggie, and the rest of the boys who sat near her, could focus on little else. Sylvia glanced at her and rolled her eyes, but said nothing.