I Will Not Fear Read online

  “They’re getting away,” another man yelled. “The niggers are getting away.” Reaching the sidewalk path, I was bumping hard into people with my determination to escape. I began to realize for certain they wanted to kill me. The path was not paved but was rather partially dirt with chunks of concrete and tree stumps.

  The men who chased us began saying aloud their plans for us—how they wanted to have their way with us and then hang us. I had never felt that kind of fear before. It nested in the lining of my stomach, moving upward into my throat. I had an urge to call out for help, but who would save me? There was no one there who cared about me. Mom and I were alone. Police had stood by watching Elizabeth in peril and done nothing. I knew for certain they would not help me.

  “Take these keys,” Mom said in a commanding voice. “You get to the car and leave me here.”

  “No, Mom, no!” For the first time in my life, I felt the burn of her hand as she slapped me on my cheek. I didn’t know how to disobey her, but I wasn’t going to leave her there. I was a few feet in front of her. Circling back to grab her arm, I wouldn’t let her go. She must have been getting tired because she was slowing down. I was pulling her and running as fast as I could.

  Just then a man grabbed the back of her suit jacket to pull her back. Holding on to her briefcase with one hand, she wiggled out of the jacket. I knew we were going to die, right there together, if I didn’t do something. But what? We were only steps ahead of the men—just steps. I recalled Grandmother’s words: “God is as close to you as your skin. You have but to ask, and He will reach out to help you.” I began to repeat aloud the words of the Lord’s Prayer and the 23rd Psalm.

  Down on the unpaved path in front of us were dead tree branches that Mother and I went around. The men directly behind us did not see them, and they tumbled over each other. “Please, God, please,” I whispered. Their fall gave us the few seconds we needed to get to the car. I made it into the driver’s side and turned the key. Although I had driven very little, I put the car into reverse and backed out of that space faster than I had ever driven forward.

  As we backed away, a cluster of men were banging on our front windshield. I continued repeating the Lord’s Prayer and the 23rd Psalm under my breath as I drove backward through a hail of rocks and shouts. Speeding up, I circled around to go forward and went five blocks or so before realizing that everything was all right now and that, above all else, Grandma was right. God had made a miracle of branches on the ground, and we were safe—safe from the mob determined to kill us—for now.

  That night after we settled down safe at home, with doors and windows locked and shades drawn, I realized I could not get on my knees and merely say the Lord’s Prayer as usual. I had to say something special to God because He had done something special at my request. He had come to my aid and helped me when I called. There was no doubt in my mind that God had heard me. It was the first time God became real in my life. He was no longer words on the page of a hymnal and in the Bible. He was real, alive, and demonstrating His love for me.

  For the first time in my life, I felt I had direct connection to a God who was mine to keep. I began my prayers by talking to God as though He was my friend. “I have never been that frightened. I didn’t know what I needed to do to stay alive. Do You really want me to go to Central High? If so, please come with me, please keep me safe. Was Your help today a sign that I should move ahead or that I should withdraw and go back to my old high school? I love You, God. Thank You, thank You, and thank You for hearing me.”

  I felt a presence as though there was a warm blanket of love around me and someone in the room whom I could not see. After wading through many thoughts, I asked God not to go away because I would certainly need Him again. I was going to get inside Central High and try to complete the year there. From that moment forward, I would have faith that my God would be my real companion. I promised Him I would listen for His assignments for me. My faith was now bigger than a mustard seed, and I had hope I could complete His assignment.

  As my grandma had promised, God is as close to us as our skin, and it’s up to us to call on Him if we need help.

  Three

  Angels in Combat Boots

  After we were driven away from Central High School on the first day by an angry mob determined that we not integrate the school, the big question was whether I would return. Would my parents decide yes, and would the courts rule?

  Our house was filled with what we called God’s revival discussions about whether I was meant to go ahead with my attendance at Central High. The danger everyone had imagined had become a reality. Grandma was calling her prayer circle, asking for prayer sessions twice a day so we could keep on the Lord’s path and stay safe. A big part of the discussion was whether this was God’s intent for me, considering the growing danger for both me and the family as each day went by.

  Father said he wanted me taken out of school and flown to be with his relatives on the East Coast. Mother said this was a possibility we needed to ponder because we had no practice in dealing with what was becoming a constant world of fear. Ultimately, Grandmother concluded that if I had been chosen out of all those hundreds of students who applied and if I had a burning desire to change the direction of life for our people in Little Rock, I should take this God-given opportunity. That is when she turned to Mom and said, “Are we a faith family or have we given up trusting God for His protection? Isn’t that the bottom line? When you go, Melba, God will be with you.” The NAACP called a meeting and ordered us not to return to Central High until they called us. We would spend the days that followed out of school while all our friends started their semester.

  Because the governor had called back the National Guard and was now using state troopers to keep us from returning to Central High, the NAACP went to court seeking an injunction to prohibit the governor from blocking our entry. I was frightened that Friday as I sat in the hot courtroom, crowded with lawyers and hordes of news reporters, that the judge might not grant such an order. After much bickering and objection by lawyers for the governor, the judge ruled we could return to the school.

  The next time we attempted to enter Central High was Monday, September 23, 1957. We were given rides by our parents, who dropped us off at the side entrance in accordance with instructions from the NAACP. Members of the Little Rock police force were to escort us into the 14th Street side door. As we pulled up to the curb, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the screeching crowd, sounding like the roar of a huge football game, gathered at the corner half a block away. They were clustered behind wooden sawhorses with policemen standing guard. Their presence was different this time. Before, there were fewer policemen and nothing to hold the mob back. This crowd was more frightening, however, because their number had grown even larger.

  As I was getting out of the passenger side of the car, a uniformed officer beckoned to me. Two of them walked our group up the stairs to the side door, where we were greeted by a stocky woman with a grim expression and dark brown hair. Once we were inside, she directed us to climb up a few more stairs to the two-block-long, curved hallway filled with hostile, red-faced students growling their unwelcome. With its wide expanse and tall ceilings, the hallway was dimly lit. Nevertheless, I could see our guide’s facial expression. She did not have a smile and cheerful good morning for us but, instead, mumbled crunchy words that came from the mouth of a scowling face.

  We made our way to what I assumed was the center of the hallway—about three-fourths of a block into the stately marble-floored passageway—where the central office was located. At that point, I was counting on the fact that although we nine African American students were surrounded by mostly very angry white people, some of them must be educated like my mom and some must worship a God of some description and have compassion for us. I was wrong. Not one of them showed any sign of welcome. Later I would decide that perhaps the peer pressure of that large student body was great, and no one could afford to show us any kindness.

&nbs
p; After we received our class assignments, I asked Principal Matthews, “Excuse me, sir, why aren’t any of us assigned to classes together?”

  “You kids want integration, we’ll give you integration. You will go nine separate ways.” Even Thelma Mothershed, the one among us who was admittedly a bit disabled by her heart condition, was sent off in a different direction. Almost immediately, their expressions, the attitudes of the school officials, and the spoken words of the principal let me know they were angry enough to do something drastic to get us kicked out. We could definitely not count on them for protection or even a civil hello.

  With a Pillsbury Doughboy sarcastic smile, the principal ushered us out the office doors. Stunned by the prospect of our group being split nine different ways, I felt tears bubbling in my throat. I dared not display them in my eyes, but I had to admit I was frightened in a way I had never felt before.

  Recalling the promise that God is my companion, I squared my shoulders, stood up straight, and reached somewhere deep down inside for courage. Determined not to show emotion, I moved ahead. I realized that no matter who I thought was assigned to protect me, I could depend on only myself and my God. If I was to make it through the next minute, the next hour, and the next day, I needed to upgrade my faith and trust.

  Each of us was assigned a guide to negotiate the gigantic building. I was totally silent as my guide urged me to ascend the stairs. I had no choice but to turn to the Lord’s Prayer for strength to climb to the third floor where my homeroom was located. Over and over again, I whispered the prayer under my breath. By the time I entered classroom 313, I had repeated it thirteen and a half times. I would practice that ritual throughout the school year in order to keep myself inspired to move with dispatch.

  Walking among so many people, the majority of whom were mistreating me, was a new experience for me. Sometimes I felt as though I were a dartboard and everyone was shooting darts at me, some aiming at my heart, some at my head, and all really hurting me. At other times, I felt as though I were the food one drops into a fish tank that all the fish suddenly dive toward. All the voices in my head were shouting, Run, run, get out of here; you will die if you stay here.

  Still, I knew for certain I could not run. I had to calm myself down and all the while give the impression I was strong and able to cope. I had no place to go except inside myself for comfort and hope. Part of me was listening to the incredible shouting in the background, the voices of the mob outside. What was going to happen with them? Thank God the police were holding them back with the sawhorses.

  Gathering strength, I continued making my way through the jungle of angry humankind. At 11:30 that day, school officials summoned us to return to the first-floor office. As I descended the stairs, I was filled with questions: What now? What did they want of us? Upon reaching the office, I followed the same school administrator who, though still not introducing herself, had escorted us earlier that morning through an inner office and past very official-looking white men. I was alarmed by the anxious expressions on their faces. I was led to an adjoining anteroom—a smaller office where some of the other eight had gathered. Two of the girls were crying. I stood near the door, which was ajar enough so that although I could not see who was speaking, I could hear much of the men’s conversations. I heard their frantic tone of voice, heard them say the mob was out of control and that they would have to call for help. “What are we gonna do about the nigger children?” asked one.

  “The crowd is moving fast. They’ve broken the barricades. These kids are trapped in here.”

  “Good Lord, you’re right,” another voice said. “We may have to let the mob have one of these kids so we can distract them long enough to get the others out.”

  Shortly after, a tall man who identified himself as an assistant police chief entered the room and did not mince words. “You Negro students must leave Central High School right now. Members of the mob are moving toward the school.”

  With so many police around, shouldn’t they be able to protect us? Imagining what must be going on outside made me even more frightened. The fear rising in a frothing ball in my stomach was beyond anything I had ever experienced before. There were no words to describe the feelings that engulfed me and made my knees shake. I knew for certain that no one was coming to rescue me. If the police couldn’t save me, who was capable of getting me past that mob? I couldn’t think of any human being who could. Only God could help me. “May we call our parents?” I asked.

  “No, no, we don’t have time.”

  Call God, the voice in my head said over and over again.

  Two white policemen hurriedly ushered us out of the office, through a heavy wooden door, and down a winding staircase that led through a dark passage to the basement. I hesitated, closing my eyes, hoping for divine assurance.

  My inner warrior was rising inside me—something had to be done. Were they leading us into a trap in which we would surely die in order for them to gain favor with the mob? What choice did I have? I began repeating the Lord’s Prayer, whispering it under my breath as I scurried as fast as I could to keep up. I would have to believe what Grandma promised me, that God is as close to me as my skin and always stronger than any enemy.

  As we descended the stairs to a dimly lit basement, I couldn’t help asking myself whether I should try to run toward the sliver of light piercing through huge doors hung on gigantic chains. But how would I get them open? There were policemen with us who were bigger and stronger and carrying guns. Pausing for a moment, I pleaded with God, “Again, I ask You to please help all of us out of this—please, please. I don’t know what You can do, but help . . . help.”

  I realized that beyond that door were some of the same yowling voices I heard from the mob across the street—the same calls for “get the niggers.”

  We were shepherded into waiting police cars and, once inside, were told to put our heads down on our laps as we climbed up the concrete driveway out of the basement. Members of the mob had taken up a station there at the side of the school, armed with weapons and more intention to hurt us. Hearing the shouts and rocks and other objects banging on the car frightened me beyond words. “Please, God, help me,” I whispered.

  I could feel my heart pounding in my chest; every other sound was drowned out by shouting people around me. I felt the car moving and looked up to see the hands and faces of people against our windshield as members of the mob grabbed for the car, hoping to stop it and have their way with us.

  For a time, the car only crept along, and I realized we were somewhat trapped because the police could not afford to injure anyone in that crowd. I thought the awful crowd had us at its mercy as we slowly crawled along. I held my ears and prayed that the locks kept the doors shut. I don’t know how many times I repeated the Lord’s Prayer before I could hear the engine of the car over the shouts of the crowd. With the escort of the kind police, God had helped us escape our predators. God had answered my prayer once more.

  When I arrived home, I hopped out of the car to greet Grandmother and neighbors who were in a panic. “We heard that the mob got hold of you,” shouted Mrs. Brooks, the neighbor from across the street. “Praise God you made it.”

  That Monday evening, even bigger crowds rampaged, causing incredible havoc. Tuesday, the violent rampages were bigger and louder. Following all that drama, our city became an armed camp, and I could not go anywhere unaccompanied by an adult. For that day, the mob had won. They were the reason we were forced to leave. Most of all, they frightened me into questioning whether I would ever return to high school again without drastic changes. Nevertheless, I tried to hold on to my faith and to the hope that the problem could be worked out. Someday I would get into Central High School and actually become a welcomed student there, if it was God’s will.

  The call came that evening from the NAACP—suspend, do not return to Central High until the call comes to do so. How could we possibly go back inside the school if the mob continued to gather in front and threaten us? I
was, for the first time in my life, truly afraid of dying at their hands—all those people, all that hate, were like a huge army to face. I did not see how God could be bigger than the mob. And yet Grandma had always said that having faith was belief in a positive outcome, whether I could clearly see the outcome or not.

  I couldn’t imagine how God could keep us safe. What could He do to make the crowd go away? How could He convince them that it was all right for us to attend Central High, that we would not bother them or ruin what they had for generations considered their private sanctuary? The Monday we entered school and remained inside until almost noon became known across the world as Mob Monday. That evening as I was pondering what to do next, as were all the adults in meetings elsewhere, an announcement came over the airwaves that President Eisenhower would address the nation: his topic, the Little Rock school crisis.

  To everyone’s astonishment, the president announced he would be dispatching the famed 101st Airborne Division of the US Army—the Screaming Eagles, the heroes of the Korean War—to guard us and keep the peace.

  Answers to our prayers may not always appear in the form we imagine. Sometimes God sends angels in combat boots to protect us.

  Four

  Through Trials and Tribulations

  On Wednesday morning, September 25, escorted by armed 101st Division soldiers, with helicopters overhead and troopers galloping back and forth across the two blocks in front of Central High School, we nine black children climbed up to the front door and walked inside. We got past a mob with God and the soldiers as our shields. We completed the day inside the school, not without incident but certainly with determination. That day, I learned it was going to require an enormous amount of faith for us to survive. We would have to turn the other cheek to verbal and physical abuse. That day, I confronted for the first time the reality of what I was facing, and I questioned whether I had what it took to live through the integration process over the long haul.