Warriors Don't Cry: Introduction–Chapter 2

The stone steps are slippery with morning drizzle as we begin the tedious climb up to the front door of Central High School.

In 1957, as teenagers trying to reach the front door, we were trapped between a rampaging mob, threatening to kill us to keep us out, and armed soldiers of the Arkansas National Guard dispatched by the governor to block our entry.

On this day Arkansas Governor Billy Clinton, who in less than six years will be President of the United States, greets us warmly with a welcoming smile as he extends his hand. We are honored guests, celebrating both our reunion and thirty years of progress in Little Rock's race relations. Cameras flash, reporters shout questions, dignitaries lavish enthusiastic praise on us, and fans ask for our autographs.

On this day Arkansas Governor Billy Clinton, who in less than six years will be President of the United States, greets us warmly with a welcoming smile as he extends his hand. We are honored guests, celebrating both our reunion and thirty years of progress in Little Rock's race relations. Cameras flash, reporters shout questions, dignitaries lavish enthusiastic praise on us, and fans ask for our autographs.

And yet all this pomp and circumstance and the presence of my eight colleagues does not numb the pain I feel at entering Central High School, a building I remember only as a hellish torture chamber.

Our relationships with one another and the joy of our camaraderie have not changed.

I hear the raspy voices of their leaders commanding, "Forward march," as we first walked through these front doors on September 25, 1957.

Today, I could not find my way around its newly built freeways, its thriving industrial complexes, its racially mixed, upscale suburban sprawl.

You'd think I'd be more patient with their questions, since I am a former NBC television news reporter and have been a working journalist for twenty years. But it's different when you're the person being barraged by questions.

"If we had it to do again, we'd do the same," Terry quips.

In 1957, while most teenage girls were listening to Buddy Holly's "Peggy Sue," watching Elvis gyrate, and collecting crinoline slips, I was escaping the hanging rope of a lynch mob, dodging lighted sticks of dynamite, and washing away burning acid sprayed into my eyes.

In 1957, while most teenage girls were listening to Buddy Holly's "Peggy Sue," watching Elvis gyrate, and collecting crinoline slips, I was escaping the hanging rope of a lynch mob, dodging lighted sticks of dynamite, and washing away burning acid sprayed into my eyes.

During my junior year in high school, I lived at the center of a violent civil rights conflict. In 1954, the Supreme Court had decreed an end to segregated schools. Arkansas Governor Orval Faubus and states' rights segregationists defied that ruling.

The experience endowed me with an indestructible faith in God.

Would I integrate Central if I had it to do over again?

My answer is yes, unequivocally yes.

Back then, I naively believed that if we could end segregation in the schools, all barriers of inequality would fall.

But I am consoled by the words my grandmother spoke: "Even when the battle is long and the path is steep, a true warrior does not give up. If each one of us does not step forward to claim our rights, we are doomed to an eternal wait in hopes those who would usurp them will become benevolent. The Bible says, WATCH, FIGHT, and PRAY."

But I am consoled by the words my grandmother spoke: "Even when the battle is long and the path is steep, a true warrior does not give up. If each one of us does not step forward to claim our rights, we are doomed to an eternal wait in hopes those who would usurp them will become benevolent. The Bible says, WATCH, FIGHT, and PRAY."

Two days after my operation, my temperature soared to 106 and I started convulsing.

Mother shouted the words "Epsom salts and water" as she raced down the hall, desperately searching for a nurse. The woman was indignant, saying, yes, come to think of it, the doctor had said something about Epsom salts.

"But we don't coddle..." she growled.

Those trips to town became my primer on relating to white people.

Mother says when she tried to usher me to our drinking fountain, I caused such a fuss that the store manager chided her...

By the time I was four years old, I was asking questions neither my mother nor grandmother cared to answer. "Why do the white people write 'Colored' on all the ugly drinking fountains, the dingy restrooms, and the back of the buses? When will we get our turn to be in charge?"

I painstakingly formed the alphabet just as Grandma had taught me to do in order to distract me from my asthma cough.

When I was five, I had my first true bout with testing the harsh realities of segregation.

I couldn't decide which of her treasures I loved most—her eight-foot-tall antique armoire with its ornate Oriental carvings, her iridescent green music box that played “Stardust," or the special Dutch-girl quilts she created with colorful fabric profiles in each square.

I couldn't decide which of her treasures I loved most—her eight-foot-tall antique armoire with its ornate Oriental carvings, her iridescent green music box that played “Stardust," or the special Dutch-girl quilts she created with colorful fabric profiles in each square.

Some nights she would come home exhausted, her face pale and drawn, her teary eyes reflecting the discomfort of her plight.

Preachers, teachers, and doctors were usually the only professionals in our community, and hence they were accorded a special kind of respect because they had educational degrees.

They were living with constant fear and apprehension.

There was the milkman, blond and smiling, who leered at Mother Lois every time he delivered our milk.

There were so many times when I felt shame, and all the hope drained from my soul as I watched the adults in my family kowtow to white people.

Looking through horn-rimmed glasses, with what Grandma India called "criminal eyes," Mr. Waylan sometimes greeted us cordially. There were even times when he inspired a nervous laugh from Mother and Daddy with his placating chatter.

There was an ominous silence in the store. Everybody was staring at us. Other people in the store, some of them our friends, stood absolutely still, fear in their eyes.

There was fire in Daddy's eyes, but once again, Grandma looked at him and he backed down; the three of them cowered like children before a chastising parent.

There was fire in Daddy's eyes, but once again, Grandma looked at him and he backed down; the three of them cowered like children before a chastising parent.

...nasty words billowed around me as I washed my hands.

She said she remembered the time when we couldn't even enter the front door of the store and she was humbly grateful for that privilege.