It's Not All Black and White

(This is a continuation of the piece I entered previously, the Ladies Tea Circle.)

Tuesday after Labor Day, I entered Junior High, seventh grade. Alone, among other kids in my neighborhood, I walked to school down the long hill to the traffic light intersection. I crossed the street toward my newly integrated school world. It was a large brick building with a newly built wing to the left. The wing used to have glass out front, but it was vandalized and replaced with plastic windows. I arrived at the same time as a long row of yellow school buses were delivering black children from the other side of town. Entering the building in a clump, I was a little white dot rolling in a black mass.

In the auditorium, I scrambled to get next to my only white friend in my section and huddled over her as if she were my protection from ‘these people’ my mother and the other ladies in her tea circle called ‘trouble’. I'm sure there were boys, but all I remember are the girls. Tall ones, with round Afro wigs the size of pizza trays or heads full of parts and ponytails and dozens of colored elastics. They were loud, and I was timid.

Leaning over Barbara, who as usual had her nose in a book I twisted my head to sneak a peek at my surroundings and immediately caught the eye of one of the girls with a big Afro. She wore a mini skirt brown jumper with a white shirt, white ankle, socks, and black shoes with a buckle. I froze.

“What you lookin’ at girl?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I..”

“You got sumpin’ in yo eye that poppin’ it open? Look-it here, Melinda,” Stacey, her name was, elbowed her friend, who was also the leader of the group. “That white girlz gots eye problems.”

Melinda, tiny but powerful, walked up to me, and stood on her toes to match my gaze. “Well, eyeball on you,” she said, pulling her bottom eyelid down with her index finger. I couldn't help notice the red in her eye matched the color of some of the elastics in her hair.

Then smoke seemed to rise as laughter exploded from the center of their hub, just as the bell rang, and the lines began to move forward. Stacey, bumped my shoulder purposely as she went by, which caused me to fall into Barbara who turned and said, “Hey, watch it!”

Then Melinda backtracked through her crowd, like Moses walking through the parted sea, and came right up to me again. Poking me in the chest with her index finger and her head tilted up to lock my eyes, she said, “You better watch out white girl. We’z be watchin’ you.” She gave me one strong, final poke and then walked away, the sea closing behind her and they disappeared through the double doors that closed with a snap.

Relieved to be rid of Melinda and her crowd I studied the wrinkled schedule that I had balanced on my blue denim looseleaf notebook. Period one, English. Room A2. I turned the piece of paper over and try to make sense of the map.

"I have English first, "Barbara turned, pointing to her schedule. Above her finger, I saw to my relief her schedule also said A2.

Barbara put the book she had been reading in her green army nap sack and began walking, following her map, with me clinging behind like a frightened puppy.

“This way!” she gestured with her arm, and we scurried down the wide hallway floor, made up of squares of all different shades of brown. Old beige lockers that were washed before the first day of school but were still bruised with dents and black marks, lined the walls. Intermittently, stood wooden doors with the crinkly glass windows that only light could see through. Above the doors were the numbers B1 the one on the right, B2 on the left. Seeing all the B’s, I frantically studied my own map.

“We're going the wrong way,” I screeched to Barbara. At the orientation, we were told that we only had three minutes after the bell to get to our next class. Hordes of students, mostly black, crisscrossed the hall, and doors banged open and slammed closed. “We should've gone out the other side of the auditorium,” I continued.

Quickly, we ran back down the hall through the auditorium across the back of the seats out the double doors and turned right. We just made it inside of A2 as the bell rang.

I stood just inside the door for a couple seconds to catch my breath, but the scene before me played in slow motion. First, I noticed Mrs. Fish, short, white hair, with her arm reaching high up on the green chalkboard, writing her name with yellow chalk in big script letters, with neat, artistic precision. Her maroon suit lifted with the rise of her arm, revealing her slip, and the pale yellow ruffle of her blouse shook. She had large square rimmed glasses, and red lipstick that seemed to glue her lips into a permanent frown. Clear stockings on bulgy legs carried her feet, thick in black square shoes with solid stubby heels. I knew tardiness was something this teacher would not tolerate.

I clenched my notebook and scanned the room for a seat. And there she was, front and center. Melinda. She was writing her notebook, head down and didn't seem to notice me. Barbara without a flinch, took the seat behind Melinda and reached in her bag to get her notebook and pencils and the book she had been reading in the auditorium. I spied one last seat, one row to the left of Melinda. The only way to get to that seat was to cross in front of all the desks, right past Melinda. I tried to walk quickly, but something inside me caused to make a slight hesitation, and take a deep breath just before Melinda's desk. She looked up and our eyes met. She pulled down her eyelid with her index finger, and I rushed to my seat.

"OK class, "Mrs. Fish began, sitting behind a big wooden desk, looking down at her notes, her left hand adjusting her glasses as she began the roll call.

She began at the A's and I trembled while I waited for the K’s. Then I heard, “Johnson, Melinda?” No response. Mrs. Fish reached her eyes over her glasses and looked out to the group for the first time. “Johnson? Melinda?” she repeated. Melinda, slouched in her seat, flicked up her right hand and said "Yeah, I’z here.” A slight pause as Mrs. Fish held Melinda's gaze, and then she went on.

“Kaufman, Johanna?” She pronounced the name like banana.

“Here,” I said, barely audible, “But it's Johanna.”

“What dear? Speak up, please.”

“Johanna,” I said a little louder, my insides shaking like a paint can in a mixing machine. The ‘an’ part is pronounced ‘on’.

“Okay, very well. Mitchell? Stephen?”she went on, forgetting me in an instant. I wished Melinda would forget me, and with that thought I saw her staring at me sitting in her chair sideways. She didn't say a word, but I got her a message loud and clear it said don't mess with me.

“Steiner, Barbara?”

Barbara looked up from her book. “Here,” she said, lifting her head for a slight second before it bounced right back down, her curls bobbing along.

After finishing the roll call, Mrs. Fish placed her pencil down and pushed herself to a standing position. Her large wooden chair made a loud scraping sound as it was pushed back. Like a sergeant about to run a drill she came in front of her desk and paced right and left, hands behind her back, leaning each time with an extended heel. Expectations of the class, what we would study, homework were given. I looked around the room and everyone was voraciously taking notes. I had my pencil in hand, trying to make it move on my page, but it was blocked by my frightful gaze at the back of Melinda's head. After what seemed an entire day and itself, the bell finally rang.

“Okay, good day class. Remember the homework expectations” she said to the flood of students racing out the door, each cramming to be the first one out. I remain seated. I wanted to be last. Melinda also remained at her desk. Mrs. Fish stood, stacked some papers and said, “Off you go girls, you only have three minutes.” Then she left the room.

Alone in a room with Melinda, and my next class Algebra one on the other side of the building, I had no choice but to hustle. Hugging my notebook along with my English textbook, I headed down the aisle. Just as I reached the left of Melinda's desk she stood and faced me, blocking my way. “Where do you think you're going white girl? Didn't I tell you, you better watch out? I ain’t gonna take no white girl shit, JoHONa. Do you hear what I'm saying?” I shook my head up in town like a bobble head doll.

“Good. Cuz you’d better hear it!” And then she turned and strutted out of the room, digging her left leg into the floor while her right arm plowed like an oar.

As soon as I was sure, Melinda was gone, I dashed out of the room and headed down the corridor that I hoped would take me to the B rooms. When I arrived at B3, I peered my head in carefully to see if I was doomed for more of Melinda's company. No sign of her and no sign of Barbara either which was no surprise to me because I knew she was much better at math than me. Rows of desks were covered with hubs of black students huddled together in groups like starfish with a few white faces lost in between. No teacher yet.

I walked down the left aisle along the side chalkboard and took the seat in the farthest back corner. The bell rang just as a skinny man and a gray suit, white shirt, skinny black tie with scarce gray hairs is trying to cover his whole head, rushed in with a stack of books that he placed in the top right hand corner of another large wooden desk. With barely a glance at the class, he picked up a piece of chalk and wrote his name on the board. The back of his coat had yellow lines from a chalkboard he must've leaned on in another room.

“Yo! Pin Head!” A voice from the middle of the room called out. You got the yellow brick road on yo jacket!” A blast of laughter.

Another girl with a balloon size Afro shouted, “Yo, Wanda, leave the man alone. He’s goin’ to teach us sumpthin’. Don’t mind Wanda, Mr. P, she aint’ go no brains.” More laughter.

Without a flinch, Mr. Parsons continued writing his name and Algebra one, on the chalkboard as if the class had not yet entered the room. I had heard of Mr. Parsons before. He had been teaching at the school for about 20 years and somewhere along the line he got the nickname Pinhead because of the way his head seemed to come to a dull point.

Mr. Parsons put the chalk down and sat in his wooden chair without looking up. Wanda and her friend Teresa continued their conversations as if they were outside in front of school at the end of the day, waiting for the buses to come and cart them back to those neighborhoods where my mother tried to avoid driving through on her way downtown.

Wanda, Teresa, Tyrone, Rhonda, Roy and others, all faced each other, talking loud, as if they were at a party, laughing and hooting. A few white and black boys and girls sat around the perimeter of the bubbling hub facing forward, pencil in hand, trying to listen, but finding it hard not to turn their heads to watch the group who had absolutely no interest in learning Algebra or giving Mr. Parsons any cooperation.

Trying to listen to Mr. Parsons above all the racket was like listening to a radio station broken up with static. I didn't understand the concept he was teaching, but I didn't dare speak. At last, I heard him say “So that's your homework for tonight,” just before the bell rang and I slipped down the same side wall I entered.

I had my notebook, my English text and my now my math text to balance as I once again studied the map to see where to go for my next class, which was music. Once again, I had to go to the other side of the building and then down an extension hallway. I ran. It didn't matter if I got caught. Doom seem to lurk all around me.

I stood outside the music classroom, another wooden door with the crinkly glass, and I placed my hand on the brass knob. I was late. Fear of Melinda and Stacey was temporarily replaced with fear of a reprimand or a possible detention, which would mean extending this miserable day even longer, and then later, having to explain to my parents why I got detention on the first day of school or even at all. Balancing my books in my left arm on my left hip I slowly turned the knob. The door stuck a little so I had to give it an extra shove with the ball of my foot. It got away from me and swung open with a disturbing clang. All eyes looked in my direction like laser pointers. Stacey's were the first I caught hold of. She smiled and pulled her left eyelid down with her left finger, which I already knew what that meant. It meant ‘eyeball’ but what ‘eyeball’ meant I hadn’t a clue, but I knew it didn't mean anything good.

Melinda, Stacey and the entire gang were in this class. Mr. Benson sat angled toward the door behind a black dull-finished baby grand piano. I could see his round face and balding head peering from his white shirt inside a gray sports jacket with patches on the elbows. He wore a skinny blue tie with yellow dots that lay haphazardly over his round front.

“Miss Kaufman?” he said from over the piano. “Yes,” I said, flitting my eyes rapidly back-and-forth between him and Melinda. I wasn't sure which of the two had more authority. “You're late,” he said.

I was just about to say, I know and ramble off my excuses, but he quickly followed ‘your late’ with ‘have a seat’. Then he turned to Armand, a white boy in the front row and said, “Mr…” he looked down his list. “Karell.” Armand, who was hunched over, curling the pinstripes on the back of his shirt, and trying not to be seen, alerted his head up in Mr. Benson‘s direction “Mr. Karell, would you mind passing these papers out, please?” Armand looked behind him, as if checking to see if it were safe, and then he reluctantly stood and reached over the piano. Without looking at faces, he carefully placed a paper on each desk that was immediately swiped up by several domineering brown hands.

“Yo Armand!” Stacey shouted. “Yuz cute fo’ a white boy. She and the rest of the crowd burst into an uproar. But then, one by one, as each began reading their papers, all became serious and quiet. I looked at my paper. I didn’t understand.

Mr. Benson played a soft chord, and we all looked up. He said, “How many of you know this song?” All the black hands shot up. I read the title: “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” What did it mean? I never heard it before. Armand had his hand up. Was it out of fear or did he really know it? She looked around. Other white kids had their hands halfway up. Slowly I began to raise my left hand. Stacey called out to me.

“You know this song white girl? I don’t think so.”

“Stacey,” Mr. Benson said. “Settle down. Let’s just sing it then, since most of you seem to be familiar with it. The rest of you will catch on.”

He played an opening measure, and then all the black faces began singing out, some with eyes closed. They sang as loudly as they laughed and hooted, but the sounds were different. They were deep and resonating, and serious. Their mouths were wide-open, white teeth glistened, singing as if in prayer.

I had never witnessed anything like this before. I caught Mr. Benson’s eye and he winked at me with a wry smile as if he knew what I was thinking and how I felt even though I didn’t.

I looked right at Melinda, then Stacey, and then tall he others in the gang. Not one noticed me as they sang, they were so entranced. They were entranced in a world that didn’t include any annoying blue-eyed white girls.

I didn’t want the song to end. I didn’t want the feeling to end. But I also couldn’t wait to go home and tell my mother and the other Tea Circle ladies, that there actually was something wonderful about “these people”.