My Mother the Cheerleader (7 page)

T
he morning show on North Galvez did not end once Ruby Bridges was inside the school. By December there was a handful of white students back at William Frantz Elementary. These kids were not granted federal bodyguards, so their parents had to walk them to school every day themselves. As it turned out, the white kids may have needed more protection than the Negroes. The ugliest displays of hate were reserved for the white parents who dared to cross the picket lines. To the Cheerleaders, good old boys, and rednecks, nothing was worse than a race traitor. Ada Munson put it
this way: “Da niggers are too stupid to know any better. Dey're just being manipulated. But if you're white, you ain't got no excuses.”

For the most part, the few parents who sent their kids were already considered outsiders in some regard. Herman and Maria Letterman sent their daughter Sophia. But Mrs. Letterman was from Spain, so she was not considered one hundred percent American, despite being a fully naturalized U.S. citizen. Her foreign birth explained her confused racial attitudes. The Reverend and Mrs. Eleanor Jenks sent their son, Timothy. At his church the Reverend Jenks had been preaching about how the Bible taught us to be color-blind and that Jesus would definitely have been in favor of integration. Everyone thought he had a perverted reading of Scripture, and he had lost many of his congregants. Father Bryson, one of the local Catholic priests, also used his pulpit to preach in favor of desegregating the schools. “Easy enough for a priest to say,” my mother sneered. “They never have kids of their own to worry about.”

Morgan did not stay to watch any more of the show. After Ruby Bridges entered the building, he returned to his car. He arrived to discover Royce Burke and Clem Deneen leaning against the driver's-side door of his Bel Air with their arms folded. Most outsiders and tourists simply avoided the area like it was a war zone. Curious observers who wanted to catch a glimpse of the spectacle were usually careful to be as discreet as possible. For instance, when Mr. John Steinbeck paid a visit to watch the Cheerleaders, he disguised himself as a tourist from Liverpool, England, for fear of being accosted by the crowd if they suspected he was a fellow American. Morgan had prepared no such ruse. When he approached his car, Royce and Clem made no move to clear out of the way. They straightened up and tightened their arms across their chests.

“Excuse me,” Morgan said.

“You want us to move?” Royce asked.

“Yes.”

“Now?” Clem responded.

“Yes,” Morgan replied. “Now.”

“We're happy to oblige you, sir.”

“No problem at all,” Clem nodded.

Clem and Royce switched places so that they were still blocking the door. They giggled like they were the cleverest duo this side of Abbott and Costello. Morgan didn't laugh. My mother watched from the back of the pack of Cheerleaders.

“Please move,” Morgan said firmly.

“Why you leaving?” Royce asked. “Don't you want to see da whole show?”

“I've seen enough, thank you.”

“You drove all da way down here from New York and dat's all you're gonna stay for? Dat's a shame, ain't it, Clem?”

“A dirty shame.” Clem nodded.

“I'll ask you again,” Morgan said. “Please move out of my way.”

“
Please
move. We got ourselves a real gentleman, Clem.”

“Where you from, boy?” Clem asked.

“New Orleans, if you must know.”

“Well, your car and your voice sound like dey're
from
Jew
York…I mean, New York City,” Royce replied.

“I was born here,” Morgan answered.

“Oh, really,” said Royce. “Den I'm sure you understand da way we like things down here, right?”

Morgan stared at him for a long moment and then sighed. “Are you going to let me get into my car?”

“Why, sure,” said Royce.

Royce and Clem separated just enough to expose the handle of the car door. Morgan hesitated but then stepped forward with his key. He placed the key in the door and unlocked it. He turned the handle, but because Clem and Royce were still in the way, he couldn't really open it.

“Excuse me,” Morgan said.

Clem refused to budge.

“I said excuse me,” he said more firmly. Morgan opened the door so it brushed the back of Clem's legs ever so slightly.

“What da hell are you doing, boy?” Clem snarled.

“I believe he's getting physical with you, Clem.”

“I believe you're right,” Clem replied.

“Please just let me—” But before Morgan could complete his sentence, Clem gave him a quick, hard elbow in the ribs. Morgan gasped but then reacted quickly by pushing Clem, who lost his footing and stumbled back. Royce leaped forward and grabbed Morgan, pinning his arms behind his back. A few of the other good old boys and two local police officers took notice and gathered around the three men in a circle. The police officers wore small grins and made no move to break up the action.

“All right!”

“Let him have it, boys!”

“Show him some tooth, Royce!”

Real fistfights look kind of silly and strange when you see them up close. In movies and television shows, fights usually look orderly. In a typical Western or gangster picture one man punches another man, who falls back and then retaliates with his own punch. But when you really see grown men fighting, it looks sloppy, ugly, and unpredictable.

While Royce struggled to hold Morgan's arms twisted behind his back, Morgan kicked and flailed with his feet to keep Clem at a distance. Clem roared forward and managed to punch Morgan hard in the stomach. Morgan winced and his knees bent, but he didn't fall. Part of me wanted to rush forward and throw myself in front of Morgan to protect him. Another part of me wanted to grab the police officers and shake them for not breaking things up. Still another part of me longed to just run away as fast and as far as I could. But the biggest part of me just froze up with a fear so powerful, I don't think I could've willed my body to move at all. My eyes darted over to my mother, who also seemed to be frozen in place, staring in paralyzed disbelief.

Clem landed a quick punch to Morgan's gut that brought him down on one knee. He coughed and doubled over. The crowd of onlookers cheered their approval. Clem reared back to give him a kick in the face. Just before the blow landed, Morgan lunged forward and grabbed at Clem's leg. He managed to catch and latch onto a piece of Clem's ankle. Clem
tumbled over and Morgan twisted on top of him. Both men rolled on the ground. Clem pressed Morgan's face against the pavement. Royce jumped on top of them and punched Morgan a couple of times on the back before a few more police rushed over. A big crowd had gathered, hooting and cheering louder. Even the local police couldn't ignore what had now turned into such an obvious public disturbance. Four new police officers came forward and separated the men.

“All right boys, let's break it up,” said a police sergeant as he pulled them apart.

The three men got back on their feet and stared at one another. The crowd clapped and egged on Royce and Clem. Morgan dusted himself off. A small trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth, which he wiped with the back of his hand. A few pebbles were embedded in the side of his cheek and on his forehead from when Clem had pressed his face against the ground. The inside of his mouth must have been bleeding, because I saw his front teeth stained pink as he ran his tongue over
them to make sure they were still in place.

“What da hell is going on here?” the sergeant asked.

“I'm just trying to get into my car,” Morgan replied.

“He was starting trouble, Officer,” Royce countered. “Clem and I was just standing here, and he gave Clem a shove.”

Some of the good old boys nodded and shouted their agreement.

“Dat's right.”

“He did!”

“Uh-huh.”

“A man's gotta be able to defend himself, right, Sarge?” Clem added.

More of the good old boys chimed in with their assent.

“Dat's right.”

“Can't let someone just shove you.”

“Got dat right!”

“What da hell's da world coming to?” Royce asked. “We got niggers in da schools and New
Yorkers coming down thinking dey can push people around.”

“It ain't right.”

“No sir, it ain't.”

The sergeant stared at Morgan.

“That's not the way it happened,” Morgan said plainly.

The crowd roared its disapproval. The police sergeant pointed at Morgan and jerked his thumb toward the street.

“Just get outa here. I don't want to see you round here again. You hear?”

Morgan didn't reply. He just walked toward his car. The good old boys laughed and whistled. Royce and Clem still stood in his path. After a moment's pause they parted and let Morgan pass. Morgan got into the car and started the engine. Royce momentarily stepped in front of the car.

He stared at Morgan and smiled. “I'm watching you.”

Royce stepped aside. Morgan wrenched the car into gear and pulled away. He never saw me or my
mother, but both of us had our eyes locked on him as the Bel Air drove away down North Galvez. The retreating car was followed by hoots, whistles, and catcalls.

“Stay da hell away!”

“Go back to New York!”

“Nigger lover!”

“Watch your back, boy!”

The noise of the crowd swelled again, and everyone seemed to tighten back into position around the school. Down the sidewalk Herman Letterman was walking toward the entrance, clutching his ten-year-old daughter, Sophia, around the shoulders. Unlike Ruby Bridges, Sophia Letterman looked scared out of her wits. Her eyes darted around at the crowd, and she clutched the edge of her father's jacket like it was her only life-line. Mr. Letterman wore a tight frown of determination and kept his eyes on the school entrance. Some of the onlookers threw tomatoes, while others bombarded them with words.

“Race traitors!”

“Nigger lovers!”

“Take your foreign whore of a wife and go back to her country!”

A tomato struck Herman Letterman in the back of the neck, and the crowd roared with laughter. Mr. Letterman didn't react. He hurried his daughter up the stairs. Ada Munson led another furious chorus.

My mother wasn't paying attention to the school anymore. She stared off into the distance, where Morgan's car had disappeared. I ran to get my bike, hoping I'd be able to catch up with him.

M
r. John Steinbeck's visit to William Frantz Elementary School left him stunned and disgusted by what he witnessed. He questioned the very humanity of the Cheerleaders and expressed complete dismay at the complicity of the community at large. How could so many people watch an innocent child be bombarded with such violent hatred? Who was worse, the protestors attacking the child or the scores of silent witnesses who allowed it to happen?

Segregation was something everyone in our neighborhood just took for granted. If you had
asked your average Ninth Warder at the time if there should be segregated schools, it would've been like asking “Should the sky be blue?” In the Middle Ages everyone just assumed the world was flat—they didn't have any good reason to think otherwise. Then Copernicus came along with this new way of looking at things. I'd bet that Copernicus's neighbors probably thought he was a complete nut job. But it's not as if he was going to try to push people over the edge of the world to prove he was right. It was just a theoretical idea that didn't put any direct responsibility or pressure on ordinary people. Integration was also a theoretical idea, but it was a theoretical idea that people in the Ninth Ward were being asked to put into action. For my mother, the idea of sending a child into an integrated school was just as crazy as taking a walk off the edge of the flat Earth.

I'd love to be able to say that deep in my thirteen-year-old heart I believed in integration and hated my mother for what she was doing. But the fact of the matter is I never really gave it a thought, except
to resent the fact that my mother never took any interest in my education until the news reporters and photographers started showing up outside the front entrance of the school. Sure I felt bad for Ruby Bridges. I really did. But it never occurred to me that my mother and the others were wrong. I just felt sorry that Ruby was being manipulated by her parents, the N.A.A.C.P., and the Communists into doing something that so many people thought was bad.

But as I pedaled my bike away from the school that day, germs of doubt and questions crept into my mind. An image of Morgan staring at Ruby and the Cheerleaders in tight-lipped outrage lingered in my head. I tried to decipher his expression at that moment. His face seemed to communicate hurt, disbelief, confusion, and defiance, all at the same time. Why did he just stand there and watch? Why did he go nose-to-nose with Royce and Clem? Was he really a Communist spy? Was he a Jew? I'd never known a Communist or a Jew. Why did Communists and Jews want to manipulate the Negroes in the first place?

I pedaled by Rooms on Desire and did not see Morgan's car parked anywhere nearby. It was just before nine o'clock. Charlotte would arrive at nine thirty and start on the laundry. My only official duties at that hour were to be available for new arrivals and stay on call for Mr. Landroux. I knew Charlotte could cover me at least until noon, when she'd need help with lunch.

I didn't want to go back to the house. I needed time to think. So I steered past Rooms on Desire and pedaled my bike to the canal, letting all the random bits of information I had about Morgan stew in my head. Even though it was still early in the morning, a heavy humidity hung over the city. I could smell the earthy odor of the mud and waste rising from the canal, comfortingly familiar. I followed several pieces of garbage floating on top of the oily water, a ragged piece of
The Times-Picayune
, a blue five-gallon jug, a single white baby shoe. The shoe looked surprisingly new, and I wondered how it got there and hoped there wasn't a baby floating around somewhere in the water too. Jez claimed she saw a
human hand sailing down the canal once, and I didn't doubt her. They had pulled more than a few bodies out of that water over the years.

I tried to unravel the mystery of Morgan in my head, but I kept coming up with more questions and no answers. So I headed toward the only other place that I suspected I might find him.