With the Might of Angels Read online

  Monday, August 9, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Goober’s not allowed to come out of our fence without first asking me or Mama or Daddy. Today he wanted a pogo lesson, but we had to stay in our small front yard to do it, which is not enough room for jumping, and not enough concrete for pumping good on the pogo stick.

  I tried showing Goober how to pogo on grass, but my pogo kept sticking in the dirt. This made Goober cry, then wail. “I want to fly like you, Dawnie!”

  He kept saying it over and over, louder and louder. Screeching like he does when he’s upset. Then he slammed the pogo stick hard on the grass, and cried more. I sat him down on our back steps until he calmed down.

  “Let’s play airplane,” I said softly.

  Goober spread his arms wide. He ran in zigzags around our yard.

  “Watch out for the other planes, Dawnie, okay?”

  “Okay, Goober.”

  “Do you see the other planes flying, Dawnie? Do you see them flying?”

  “Yes, Goober, I see them.”

  Monday, August 16, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Daddy brought home a new magazine today. It’s called Sports Illustrated. A whole magazine about sports! Its pages were shiny, and felt so good touching up against the skin on my fingers as I turned them. And the pictures — I couldn’t stop staring.

  Wednesday, August 18, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Without asking me, Goober played with my pogo stick. I don’t like him touching my things, but the worst part is that he left the pogo stick out in the rain. The stick is already rusty enough!

  I’m mad as a hornet right now, and ready to attack Goober!!! That boy!! Somebody needs to leave him out in the rain so that he can rust. At least then, he’d be too stuck to mess with my stuff.

  I wish I could send Goober back to the planet where boys like him come from!

  Right now, if it were up to me, I’d put him on a rocket ship, set the destination dial to “Way Far Away,” and send Goober flying off for forever. I HATE when he does stuff like this. HATE IT!! If Mama and Daddy ever heard me say what they call “the H word” — H-A-T-E — I’d be the one sent off on a rocket, and made to live on Jupiter.

  Mama says that in God’s eyes there is no hate. But what about MY eyes? What about MY eyes that have to look at my rusted pogo stick and be hornet-mad every time I see the brown, crusted metal on the pogo’s spring?

  What about MY eyes that have to see what happens when Goober acts up?

  So yeah, HATE is a bad word. But when your brother leaves your favorite-est thing in the world out in the rain, you HATE him for it.

  That’s why a diary book is good. I can write the H word as much as I want. I can feel H-A-T-E, but not ever say it.

  I HATE having a little brother like Goober!!

  I HATE putting up with his baby-brother dumbness.

  I HATE being the one who has to stick up for Goober so much.

  And I HATE that God made Goober the way he is.

  HATE! HATE! HATE!

  And, here are some more H words—HA! HA! HA!

  Mama and Daddy can’t stop me from writing H-A-T-E!!

  Saturday, August 21, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Instead of calling my pogo a pogo stick, I should call it a pogo stuck. More rust has set in. The spring is crusted and slow to give. Darn that Goober!

  Sunday, August 22, 1954

  Diary Book,

  I think Reverend Collier is getting lazy. His sermons used to be about things like finding joy in the Lord’s surprises. Now all Reverend Collier talks about is integration and fairness in education.

  Can’t he think of some new ideas?

  Thursday, August 26, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Mama says grease heals. Today she slathered my pogo’s spring with bacon grease left over from frying, and it worked. That bacon grease made the spring like new. So, I’m back to jumping on my pogo stick. It now smells like pork strips, but at least I can say, “Bye-bye, pogo stuck.”

  Monday, August 30, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Other than Daddy’s truck, our radio is the most expensive thing we own. The voices coming out of that brown box give us all kinds of news. Mama and Daddy listen close most every night. My parents are very strict about what we tune into with our radio. We’re only allowed to play Christian music. Comedy shows, or anything Daddy says is a time-waster, are not allowed.

  Thank goodness Daddy listens to baseball games. Other than that, “The radio is for news,” Daddy says.

  Who wants to hear some man talking about boring newsy stuff? I’d rather listen to quiz shows like Break the Bank. But Daddy’s not having it. So, unless there’s a baseball game on, I only half listen.

  But tonight, I listened all the way when Daddy turned up the volume. The radio commentator said, “Virginia governor Thomas B. Stanley has appointed a thirty-two-member all-white Commission on Public Education to examine the effects of the recent Brown v. Board of Education school integration ruling. The governor has charged this commission with studying how the Brown decision impacts schools in the state of Virginia. The findings of this study will help the governor plan a course of action. The commission is chaired by Senator Garland Gray of Sussex County. It has been named the Gray Commission.”

  I didn’t fully understand all the talk about commissions and findings. But I did know that Daddy and Mama were pressed to our radio.

  Friday, September 3, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Why does summer seem to disappear the minute we turn the page on our kitchen calendar from August to September? Just yesterday I was fanning the sheen from my face with a dish towel, and wetting the towel with cold water to press on my forehead.

  This morning I was fishing in my dresser drawers for something with sleeves until morning’s chill gave way to warmth. I miss summer already. Even bee stings and sweat-weather.

  Saturday, September 4, 1954

  Diary Book,

  School starts in four days. Alls I can think about is me at Prettyman Coburn.

  Me on that pretty baseball field.

  Me inside a school with working clocks and toilets that flush.

  Me in a homeroom.

  Me with white kids.

  Only me.

  With white kids.

  Only, only.

  Me.

  (The Panic Monster has been whispering to me lately. His growl has been low, but there’s no mistaking shaboodle-shake!)

  Monday, September 6, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Today, when I asked Mama why we celebrate Labor Day, she said, “To acknowledge those of us who work, to pause on behalf of laborers.” But there was no pausing in our house today. It was like we were getting ready to meet the queen. Some kind of scrub bug has bitten Mama. She spent the day sweeping and wiping all over our house.

  “Is somebody special coming?” I asked.

  “You’re special,” Mama said. “And you’re going to a new school.”

  I started to ask what me going to Prettyman has to do with furniture polish and a broom, but I held my tongue. Somehow, to Mama’s way of thinking, a clean house means a good first day of school.

  Tuesday, September 7, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Mama’s gone cuckoo bird! Yesterday it was cupboards and carpets. Now it’s me. Tonight when I took a bath, Mama scrubbed me cleaner than clean. She washed from my eyebrows to my toe jam, then set my hair on hard plastic curlers. Those curlers have teeth on them, too. “For gripping your hair,” Mama explained.

  Now she expects me to get a good night’s sleep on these teethy pink plastic things. Mama had given me a whole mess of curlers from her hair care kit, too many for my small head of hair. When I told her I didn’t need the extra curlers, and to please put them back in her hair-care kit, she insisted that I keep a pile of the curlers on my nightstand. “They come loose and can fall out while you sleep,” she told me. “Besides, curlers a
re like socks. They have a way of disappearing. Always good to have some handy.”

  While I was in the bathroom messing with the curlers in my hair, trying to tie up my hard plastic teethy head in a scarf, Mama laid out clothes for my first day at Prettyman Coburn.

  When I got back to my bedroom, there it was on a new hanger, dangling from the doorknob — the Peach Melba dress! Before I could protest, Mama explained, “I sewed a panel into each side to open up the bodice. It’ll fit fine now.”

  The patent leather shoes were on the floor, side by side, at the foot of the dress. I’d taken to calling those shoes “the Vaselines.” They had more grease on them than a petroleum factory.

  The shoes fit, but even with ankle socks, they rub at the heel and on the tops of my feet, at the place where the buckle meets each of the straps. The worst part, though, is that Mama had made a hair bow to match the dress. That thing looked more like a bone than a bow. I would be going to Prettyman Coburn with Vaseline feet and a Peach Melba bone in my hair!

  I didn’t say a word — I couldn’t. Partly because the only word flinging up inside my head was ugly, and partly because I didn’t want to hurt Mama’s feelings. She had worked hard on mending the dress, shining the shoes, and making the bow.

  But what about my feelings? I don’t give a nose hair what people think about me, but I also don’t like to look stupid.

  Later – the in-between

  For the life of me, I can’t sleep.

  I’ve counted sheep, chickens, baseballs, the stars out my window, and the moans made by our pipes. I’m more excited than on Christmas Eve.

  What shiny surprises will be waiting for me tomorrow?

  Even with all my excitement, shaboodle-shake is rocking my bed — and my head.

  Wednesday, September 8, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Last night I dreamed about the Panic Monster.

  I woke up with a bad headache, from the curlers. When I took them out, their teeth had left marks on my forehead and at my ears. And my curled hair made me look like a muffin-head.

  Mama secured the bone with four big bobby pins.

  Then she and Daddy started in with repeating their lists of “Always remember …” and “Don’t forget …” and “Make sure you …”

  But before Mama or Daddy could get too deep into their rules, the phone rang. I answered it. I knew the voice right off. It was that white lady from the NAACP, asking to tawlk to Mama or Daddy.

  I pushed the receiver at Mama. “Yes, hello, Cynthia,” she said, with a smile in her voice. But soon Mama was frowning, and shaking her head, and saying, “I see … I see …”

  When she hung up, she told Daddy and me that I would not be going to school today, that the Hadley school officials had put a stop to me attending Prettyman.

  “When will I go?” I asked.

  “The NAACP is working toward lifting the hold by noon today,” Mama said.

  But noon came and went. We waited for further news and instruction on what to do. The phone didn’t ring once.

  Finally, by three o’clock, Mama said, “Take off the dress and put it back on its hanger. Set the shoes in their box, and be careful with the bow.”

  I am the only kid in Lee County who got to skip the first day of school.

  I now know what it’s like to feel two ways at once — disappointed that I would not be admitted to school today, and relieved that I would not be admitted to school today.

  As much as I didn’t want to show up with muffin hair and a Peach Melba bow, I didn’t want to not go to school at all.

  Thursday, September 9, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Today was the same as yesterday. Waiting and wondering, and listening for the phone to ring. Goober has started school at Bethune. I don’t like the ripped-up schoolbooks and raggedy pencils at Bethune, but I’m sure sick of sitting around while Mama scurries from the kitchen to the living room, wiping her hands on her apron, and telling me to keep clean.

  Friday, September 10, 1954

  Diary Book,

  I’ve done the same routine several days this week — scrubbed in the tub, set my hair in curlers, woken up, put on the Peach Melba dress, and waited to hear if I’d be attending school or not.

  Daddy says people who make the state laws are working to slow down integration. NAACP officials are meeting every day to determine if it’s safe for me to go to Prettyman Coburn.

  Today Daddy brought home three different newspapers and read, read, read. After supper, before Daddy left for work, he was pinned to the radio, listening close. I listened, too, hoping for some news. “Governor Stanley has called again for cool heads, calm, steady, and sound judgment,” the man on the radio said. “Stanley started out in favor of integration, but has been swayed by the majority, and has, in recent weeks, been in support of segregationists.

  “School board officials have threatened to close all Hadley public schools rather than integrate them.”

  I’m a trapped rabbit, eager to jump — right out of my skin!

  Sunday, September 12, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Church was packed today.

  Reverend Collier started his sermon by asking, “Who among us steps back in the face of a threat?”

  He talked about what the school board was trying to do to keep schools separate.

  The reverend ended his sermon by telling us, “Those who have faith always step forward.”

  Monday, September 13, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Back-to-school once meant back-to-boredom.

  Back-to-books.

  Back-to-Bethune.

  Back-to-broken.

  But today when I watched everybody except me go back to school for the second week, I wished I was also going back — to anything.

  But I have been held back from school for dumb reasons.

  Butterflies in a net have more freedom than me. At least they can breathe. I’ve been holding my breath for near to a week.

  Thursday, September 16, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Sitting home. Waiting. Hair curled. Vaselines strapped on tight. Help!

  Friday, September 17, 1954

  Diary Book,

  I am dying of Peach Melba bone disease. Could I at least wait in dungarees?

  Sunday, September 19, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Well, I got my back-to-school wish after all. Turns out, I’m going back to Bethune tomorrow.

  Back to bitten-up pencils and broken books. Mama and Daddy are sending me to Bethune for now, until people make up their minds about which school I’m going to for good.

  Monday, September 20, 1954

  Diary Book,

  I don’t know what’s worse — no school, or old school. At least I can go back to wearing clothes that fit and hair that’s nothing like a muffin.

  By the way, in this year’s classroom it’s 11:20 all day long at Mary McLeod Bethune School. The books have yellow pages and are dog-eared. Today I stared and stared at my classroom’s broken clock, and as yucky as chewed gum feels, I pressed both thumbs hard under my desk.

  More than ever, I knew that Bethune doesn’t have whatever it is I need to learn to go to college and doctor school.

  It’s like I wrote before. I have no idea what I need, but I know Bethune doesn’t have it. That’s why I want to go to Prettyman so badly. Even though I have never set foot in that building, I have a hunch the kids inside are getting everything a girl needs to go to doctor school.

  Wednesday, September 22, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Seems the only person happy to have me back at Bethune is Goober. “Dawnie’s here,” he said to everyone who would listen. I’m now in the middle school “division” at Bethune, and, boy, is it bad. It had rained all night, so the streets and sidewalks were red from the leaky bricks. A silt smell rose from the wet pavement. Double ugh!

  There’s something I hadn’t noticed about Bethune before. It droops. Even when it’s not rain
ing, the building’s shoulders slouch.

  Kids who had been my friends in sixth grade were calling me uppity for wanting to attend Prettyman. Yolanda didn’t even stick up for me.

  When I asked to share her umbrella on the walk home, she said, “There’s not enough room under here.”

  “Be that way,” I said. “Rain suits me fine.”

  But not walking with my friend made something in me droop, too.

  When I got home, my thumbs were red from pressing so hard under my desk.

  Friday, September 24, 1954

  Dear Mr. Jackie Robinson,

  This whole thing feels like being stuck in the wrong dugout, waiting to bat. Wanting to run. Can we please just get this game started? I want to show Prettyman how Dawnie Rae can play.

  From,

  You-know-who

  Saturday, September 25, 1954

  Diary Book,

  Mama does laundry for a living. She cleans, dries, irons, folds, and mends for families in Ivoryton. She’s home most days, except on Saturday mornings when she delivers the clean linens and shirts to her customers.

  Folks call Mama “Loretta the Laundress,” mostly because she can remove stains better than anybody else, and could press the wrinkles from a raisin if she had to. Mama’s iron works harder than a farm mule, and she’s got her own special starch she’s invented using potato water and lavender.