With the Might of Angels Read online

  Daddy said, “I’ll eat peanuts till I’m older than Methuselah if it means my Dawnie can look proper for her Stepping Up.”

  Sunday, May 30, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Shepherd’s Way Baptist Church has to be the loudest congregation in all of Lee County. Services start off slow, but as Reverend Collier works up his sermon, the amens and hallelujahs can be heard all the way over in Norfolk, and they grow like the swell of dust that rises after sliding into third base.

  This morning, Reverend Collier talked about integration. He even took out the New York newspaper Daddy had shown me, and read from it as part of his sermon. He rattled the paper, turned it into a fluttering fan to cool off his parishioners.

  “This is the truth. Right here,” he proclaimed. “In the New York Times from a week ago last Tuesday.”

  Seems everybody had read the same article Daddy had shown me. And for anyone who hadn’t, Reverend Collier spelled it out for them. “Chief Justice Earl Warren from the Supreme Court says, ‘Separate educational facilities are inherently unequal.’ ”

  The amens started up. Reverend Collier flapped and fluttered the New York paper. “Says here that separating black children from others of similar age and qualifications because of their race” — ten more amens before the reverend could finish — “generates a feeling of inferiority as to their status in the community that may affect their hearts and minds in a way unlikely to be undone.”

  You would have thought Reverend Collier was announcing that the Shepherd’s Way choir was getting new silk robes with gold trim.

  “Glory be!” shouted Miss Eloise, our choir director.

  “Hallelujah!” flung forward from somebody behind me.

  “Amen!” rose on all sides.

  When we got home, I asked Mama if I could please put on my Keds and go outside. She was so busy peeling potatoes that she shooed me off with a quick, “Go play, child.”

  Soon as I laced up my Keds, I was the one filled with:

  Glory be!

  Hallelujah!

  Amen!

  I ran to find Goober, who was perched under the tree mop, crunching on his peanuts.

  Tuesday, June 1, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Why is everyone making such a big deal about the Stepping Up ceremony? We’re not really stepping up to anyplace.

  Even though we’re going from sixth grade to seventh grade, we’re staying at Bethune, like all the other colored kids in Hadley. All we’re doing is stepping over from the elementary “division” — the side of the building that faces Monroe Street — to the middle school “division” — the wing that lines Crossland Avenue.

  We’re stepping over to more chewed pencils, more stinky bathrooms, more books with missing pages. And did I mention that Bethune does not have a library?

  Wednesday, June 2, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Today, along with Yolanda and Roger, I took the test Mr. Calhoun described to us last week.

  It started off easy enough, and I was even humming “When the Saints Go Marching In” just to stay awake.

  I wrote, checked off boxes, and filled in blanks without even sweating. But then something strange happened. Not strange like a noise or a bird flying in the window. But strange inside me.

  Suddenly, I knew the answers, but I didn’t know the answers, too.

  The test was easy as cake, but it started to feel hard somehow.

  It was when my mind began to stray that this happened. I looked around at the other kids in the room and wondered, What is this test really for? That’s when I struggled with the answers.

  One question I will never forget: Provide a word beginning with the letter M that defines a powerful force that propels in a tumultuous fashion.

  I read it over and over again.

  I broke it down.

  … a powerful force … that propels …

  Since the clock on the wall is broke, I couldn’t tell how much longer we had left to finish the test. I don’t know what the word tumultuous means. I didn’t want to just write anything, because if I’d wanted to change my mind I wouldn’t have been able to erase my answer — my chewed-up pencil had a bitten-off eraser. Why hadn’t I brought my new red pencil from Goober?

  Mr. Calhoun gave us a time warning. “Two more minutes.”

  And for the first time ever, I started to sweat a test!

  … beginning with the letter M … a powerful force that propels …

  I wanted to chew hard on some of that Wrigley’s gum that was stuck in a wad under my desk.

  Finally, with Mr. Calhoun’s “One more minute” warning, I wrote: “MY pogo stick.”

  Thursday, June 3, 1954

  Diary Book,

  I’ve been trying not to think about the Stepping Up ceremony, but it’s now a week away, and I guess I should get my speech together. I don’t even have a title for the speech, or any idea about what I should say.

  I don’t believe in the boogeyman, but I do believe in the Panic Monster — a big scary thing that scoops you up and does the shaboodle-shake all over your insides.

  Mama calls this nerves. I call it a puddle under my arms, a dry throat, and teeth set to chatter.

  The Panic Monster has got me in his claws right now, and won’t let go.

  Friday, June 4, 1954 Before Bed

  Diary Book,

  Mama came into my room with the dress from Millerton’s on a hanger. She wanted me to try that thing on. The dress rustled under the paper Mama had draped over it. By punching a hole through it with the hanger, the dress stayed covered from its shoulders to its hem. I tried to pretend I’d fallen asleep, but Mama wasn’t having it.

  “That is the fakest snore I will ever live to hear,” she said.

  I giggled. “Can I try it on tomorrow?”

  Mama considered me for a moment. She peeled back the dress’s paper drape. “Well, I suppose we should let the creases fall out from the dress before trying it on,” she said.

  I went back to making phony snore sounds.

  Kaaaa … shooooo … Kaaaa … shoooo …

  That left Mama giggling, too.

  Saturday, June 5, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Daddy loves baseball as much as me. Today he showed me how to choke up on the bat, to grip it firm at its base so my swing packs more power.

  “Then meet the ball,” Daddy instructed. “Make friends with the ball as the pitch approaches you. No matter how fast it comes, say, ‘Hey, ball, it’s me and you, baby.’ Then swing at it. And when you swing, be intentional,” Daddy said. “Go at it fully — mean to do what you mean to do.”

  Daddy and I practiced in our backyard for near to an hour. When the sun got too hot, Mama brought us lemonade.

  “Let the child rest,” she told Daddy. “She needs to come inside and work on her speech for the Stepping Up.”

  Mama had that Peach Melba thing in her hand. She’d removed the paper covering completely. “Come, Dawnie,” she coaxed. “You need to try this on.”

  “I’ve been playing, Mama. I sure wouldn’t want to get dirt or grass stains on that pretty dress.”

  That worked better than fake snores. Mama didn’t even answer. She turned back toward the house, holding the dress away from her.

  Daddy must have seen the relief come to my eyes. “Are you ever going to try it on?” he asked.

  “I gotta write my speech” was my answer.

  “I suppose the dress won’t really matter unless your speech is ready,” he said. Then he told me to think of the speech as meeting a baseball with a bat. “It’s you and your message, coming together,” he said. “Keep it simple.”

  I wish it was simple. I have not written a single word of that blanged speech!

  So, right here, right now, I’ll start.

  Hey, speech. It’s you and me. Simple, right?

  How come, then, I can’t think of something simple to say?

  Sunday, June 6, 1954

  Diary Book,
>
  I thought maybe if I wrote down some of the reasons why I don’t want to give the Stepping Up speech, it’ll help me get to reasons why I might like to give it, and then maybe I’ll actually think of what to say for the speech.

  Reasons I don’t want to give the Stepping Up speech:

  1. I don’t want to wear the Peach Melba dress.

  2. I don’t want to wear the hard black shiny shoes.

  3. Even though I have the gift of gab, it doesn’t work for giving speeches.

  4. Stepping over doesn’t deserve a speech.

  Monday, June 7, 1954

  Dear Mr. Jackie Robinson,

  I have not written one single word for my Stepping Up speech. The ceremony is four days away. Has this ever happened to you? Have you ever had to give a speech, and had no idea what you’re gonna say? That’s what’s happening to me right now.

  Speechless,

  Dawnie Rae Johnson

  Tuesday, June 8, 1954

  Diary Book,

  I’ve had my pogo stick for as long as I can remember. It’s rusty and rickety, and it squeaks, but it still works.

  I slammed hard on its pedals today, hoping a bunch of pogo jumping would bring on some good ideas for my speech.

  Not one speech-y thought came. Punching the pavement with my pogo sure felt good, though.

  That pogo’s spring is on its last leg, but it keeps going. My own legs are getting stronger every time I pump.

  Thursday, June 10, 1954 Late night

  Diary Book,

  The Panic Monster doesn’t ever sleep, no, no, no.

  He gets into his rhythm, and works. Tonight he’s going double-time.

  Shaboodle-shake-shake. Shaboodle-shake-shake.

  I’m as rattly as a loose screw in a can.

  Tomorrow is the Stepping Up ceremony.

  The only speech I know is the Pledge of Allegiance.

  Panic Monster, have mercy!

  Friday, June 11, 1954

  Diary Book,

  It’s just after the in-between. I’ve been up most of the night. Now the sun is showing off the very top of her head.

  Morning soon.

  Still no speech.

  Shaboodle-shake-shake. Shaboodle-shake-shake.

  Later

  Today was the Stepping Up ceremony, and in all my twelve years of life, I have never stepped like that.

  Getting ready to go to Bethune was the worst part.

  The Peach Melba dress didn’t fit me right. When I came out of my bedroom, Mama and Daddy were like two hovering chickens, peck, peck, pecking.

  The Panic Monster flaring up alongside my parents didn’t help matters. I was sweating more than a cold pitcher of iced tea set out on a hundred-degree day.

  “The dress is too small,” I said.

  I turned around so they could both see that the dress’s zipper would only go halfway.

  “Square your shoulders, Dawnie,” Daddy said. “That’ll help.”

  Who knows how a father figures out stuff like that? But Daddy was partly right. When I stood straight-straight, with my shoulders pressed back and my neck lifted, the dress seemed to fit better.

  “We can’t take any chances,” Mama said, scurrying off to get her sewing basket. “Stay just like that, Dawnie.”

  I didn’t move. I held my breath, even.

  Mama came quick with a needle and peach-colored thread. She started stitching from the place where the waist of the dress joins the body part of the dress — Mama sewed me in! The only thing closer was my skin.

  I have other dresses I could have worn, but they’re homemade and plain, and I knew Mama and Daddy were set on me wearing the dress from Millerton’s. Besides, I don’t dare challenge Daddy and Mama, not ever. So I let Mama do her needle-and-thread busywork up the length of my back.

  When Mama bit off the final tail of thread, I still had my shoulders fixed, and my neck stretched as straight as my pogo stick.

  It got worse. Mama wiped down my new shoes with Vaseline to make them even shinier. Isn’t patent leather shiny enough?

  My face came next. Same Vaseline. Same high shine on my forehead, cheeks, and nose. Then there was the talcum powder. “To keep you dry,” Mama explained.

  I coughed and coughed as Mama doused me with that thick talcum. The powder helped dry my sweat. But by the time we left, I was a ginger-snap cookie, decorated with powdered sugar, sewn up in a Peach Melba dress.

  “Pretty Dawnie,” Goober said, clapping. “Want a peanut, pretty Dawnie?”

  I reached for a peanut. “Thanks, Goob.”

  But Mama was quicker than me. She snatched that peanut faster than a hen grabs at a kernel of corn. “No eating before you’re about to give a speech. It weakens the voice, dulls the smile.”

  We walked to Bethune, like always. On our way, we met up with Yolanda and her ma and daddy. “You look good in that dress, Dawnie,” Yolanda said. “But you’re walking funny.”

  I didn’t answer. Between the talcum still rising off me and my Peach Melba trap, I could hardly breathe.

  The whole school — all four hundred and seventy-two students and their families — filled every corner of Bethune’s gymnasium. Night crawlers in a can had more room than we did, all squeezed together in that hot, cramped place.

  There were three chairs on the stage, where me, Yolanda, and Roger were meant to sit before delivering our remarks.

  Roger and Yolanda settled into their chairs right away. I didn’t dare sit. One bad move in that dress, and Peach Melba would be done for.

  “I’ll just stand,” I told Mr. Calhoun.

  “Suit yourself, Dawnie.”

  Roger spoke first, then Yolanda. They each said short thank-yous to their families and teachers, and talked about how glad they were to be “stepping up” to seventh grade.

  Alls I could think about was the Pledge of Allegiance and the Peach Melba dress that was now choking me. The talcum powder wasn’t doing its job. (The Panic Monster has a way of killing anything that’s even the least bit helpful.)

  I was so overcome with terror that I couldn’t even remember the Pledge of Allegiance. The wrong words kept filling me up.

  I pledge allegiance to perspiration …

  Then came the Panic Monster for the tenth time today, his sharp claws lifting me from the puddly place under my arms. His loud-as-thunder shaboodle-shake rattling inside my head.

  Mr. Calhoun announced that I was the sixth grader with the best grades. That throughout my time at Bethune, I showed “very bright promise,” and that I had brought honor to Mary McLeod Bethune’s legacy.

  I made my way to the very front of the stage, still not knowing what I would say.

  I pledge allegiance to perspiration …

  Shaboodle-shake-shake-shake!

  Our school has no microphones or fancy equipment for speaking, so it was just me and all those people.

  Shaboodle-shake-shake-shake!

  Then me and all those people sucked in a loud breath when my too-tight dress busted its seams.

  Mama’s sewing stayed put in the back by the zipper, but the dress had split open on each side! Thank goodness for my undershirt. At least I had no skin showing! But the dress was no-doubt torn.

  Not only did I step up at today’s ceremony, I also stepped over to the place on the stage where nobody could see the rips in my dress. Then, quick as those Vaseline-y shoes would take me, I stepped off that stage and into a far corner.

  Mr. Calhoun didn’t try to coax me back with the other speakers. He just left me to my spot. He came to the front of the stage and started applauding loudly. Everybody joined him, including me. “Thank you, Roger, Yolanda, and Dawnie,” he said enthusiastically.

  And there it was, as it’s been for weeks. No speech.

  Peach Melba from Millerton’s had saved me.

  The Panic Monster started to let go. Shaboodle-shake slowed its rhythm. At least I could breathe regular again.

  As the top student in sixth grade, I got a copy of th
e Webster’s Dictionary, donated by a local chapter of the Delta Sigma Thetas. The dictionary is used, but it’s new to me, and in very good condition.

  I pressed the dictionary under one arm to cover the open place showing my undershirt, and kept my free arm pinned to my other side to conceal the rip there.

  Afterward, for a special treat, Daddy took me, Mama, and Goober to the Woolworth’s food counter.

  There is no colored section at Woolworth’s. That place is “Whites Only” all over. We can order our food and leave, but we can’t sit and eat with the white customers. We can’t even come in the front door. There’s a back entrance for Negroes.

  When the waitress asked what we each wanted, Daddy gave the order.

  We don’t have special treats from Woolworth’s often, but when we do, I usually get an egg cream. But, Daddy said, “For this occasion, Dawnie gets a banana split.”

  As soon as we got home, Mama took a seam ripper to the back of the dress, and released me. I don’t know why she bothered to put the dress back on its hanger. I will never wear Peach Melba again.

  Saturday, June 12, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Our family now owns two big books.

  The King James Bible (Old Testament) and the Webster’s Dictionary, also old. Even though the dictionary is used, it has all its pages as far as I can tell.

  Daddy insists that I keep the dictionary in my room. “Smart children need books around them,” he says. Man, is that book big.

  How many words can there be in the world?

  Tonight I read the article from the New York newspaper a second time. I looked up two words in my dictionary — segregation and integration.

  Segregation: The state or condition of being separated.

  Integration: The act or interest of combining.