Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day!
I remember when they integrated the schools in Zachary,
Louisiana. I was in the 7th
grade. We were scared. Scared it would bring us down, tarnish us,
that some of the black would rub off, taint us permanently--ashamed to admit those feelings, and proud of our willingness
to go to an integrated school-- a big brer rabbit-tar baby ball of confused,
conflicted thoughts and feelings. At
least, that’s how it was for me. I can’t
really speak to anyone else’s feelings, because we never talked about it.
Some of my friends who I’d been in school with up to that
point went instead to the white-only private schools that suddenly sprung up like mushrooms. The rest of us were moved from what had been the
white junior high-high school, with the big white columns on the main street in
town, oak trees hung with moss in the front, to the former black junior
high-high school on a back road along the outskirts in the poor part of town,
lined with big ditches, back behind the railroad tracks, with trees that looked
like overgrown weeds.
To have to go to the black school, with the black principal,
in the black part of town—oh, the indignity, the shame. The first few weeks of school some white boys
from the 8th grade trashed the place, but that just hurt and shocked
people, increasing the shame and bad feelings, and after that everyone behaved. We were 50-50 black and white students and
teachers, or as close as the school board could arrange it, and teachers
arranged the classrooms so that the seating was equally integrated too.
My favorite class was Chorus. Miss Gloria taught us, and she was young and
beautiful and enthusiastic. I was part
of a sextet, 3 black girls and 3 white girls, and we felt so cool and proud of
ourselves. We liked to link arms and
walk around, proclaiming we were a "sextet"!
Emphasis on the word “sex.”
The highlight was when we got to go to LSU to perform at the
State Choral Contest. Denise Kent, a
white girl, whose single mother was cool, invited us all over to her house to
practice. Imagine, 3 black girls and 3
white girls in the same house, singing—at night, in Zachary, La. I think we were going to have a slumber
party, but some mothers thought better of it—didn’t want to push it too
much. It was the first time I had ever
seen such a thing or heard of anyone doing anything like that: simply being in
each other’s houses as friends and fellow humans.
The daring of it took my breath away.
I felt absolutely on the edge of the known universe.
Once we got to Baton Rouge, we stepped outside of the
known world altogether. LSU was a hippy
haven in those days, with head shops, bars, and dives all along the edge of
campus. Pictures of Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison stared
out at us from windows draped with beaded curtains.
Incense filled the streets. We
knew we were free. We linked arms, integrating ourselves--black, white, black, white, black, white--and
strutted our stuff in our matching uniforms—short burgundy skirts and vests
with white blouses. Walking out in public,
together, black and white, singing our songs.
Nothing was ever the same after that.
Thank you, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and all the people
who made such moments and many more for many people possible. Thank you, Miss Gloria, Mrs. Kent, and all the members of
the sextet, wherever you are, whoever you are now. In the Name of Love.
