The Gilded Years (7 page)

The same summer, following worship at Trinity, Anita met the daughter in question, a confident fair-haired girl named Cora Shailer. Anita came down from the seats in the back upper gallery, which were free of charge and where the colored members of the congregation were relegated to, and walked to the first floor, where wealthy white parishioners rented the pews. She hovered on the edge of the group of women who had gathered after the service to hear about Cora’s time at Vassar. Halfway through her stories, Cora had seen Anita and smiled familiarly.

“Anita Hemmings, I remember you,” she said with a welcoming expression. “Do you remember me?” she asked.

Anita nodded yes, not because she remembered Cora, but because she had been imagining her for many months.

“I’ve heard you’re a bright girl,” she said in the same kind tone. “You should attend Vassar in a few years.” She smiled again as the older women looked down at the young girl, all unaware that Anita was colored. “Keep it in mind,” said Cora before launching back into the gossip of her college days.

From that moment on, Vassar never left Anita’s thoughts.

She had always loved her studies and the way her parents beamed at her when she came home happy and with perfect grades, which was in part due to their reverence for learning. Anita had begun grammar school later than most, as her parents had waited to send her until there was a place open for a colored girl at the Prince School on Newbury Street in affluent Back Bay. They thought, even when Anita
was young, that she showed too much intelligence to be just another face at the poorly funded schools in Roxbury. And their foresight had paid off.

It wasn’t until five years after the conversation in church, when the dream of Vassar was still very much alive in Anita, that she became aware that her race would keep her from gaining admission, even if her character and intellectual capacity were worthy. She was, without question, her grammar school’s most promising student, and because of her academic standing, she had grown quite close to her teachers, and felt more kinship to them than to her peers. It was in this phase of intellectual curiosity, a year before she entered the Girls’ High School, that she spoke to someone other than family about Vassar.

It was her seventh-year teacher at the Prince School, a stern yet well-meaning woman from a long line of Bostonians, who listened to Anita as she disclosed her desire to attend Vassar with the intention of becoming a teacher herself. With remorse, she informed her dedicated pupil that attending Vassar was out of the question for a Negro woman and urged Anita to consider Wellesley or the newly founded Radcliffe College.

Shocked by the news, as Anita had thought Cora knew the truth about her race, she shared the brutal admissions policy with her mother. The following Sunday, Dora Hemmings confided in her close circle at the church. Her extremely bright daughter had had her dreams stamped out. It was within that supportive community that a young woman named Margaret Marshall—Mame to her friends—pulled Anita aside after worship and told her that of course there was a way. Very light-skinned herself, she recounted to Anita how she had passed as white to attend the good grammar and high school down in Christiansburg, Virginia,
walking ten miles a day and lying to everyone about her race so that she could learn to read and write, unlike her siblings.

“Passing to continue your education, to better your mind at the best school in America is not something you should look at shamefully.
It is not an escape,” Mame had said while speaking to Anita in private. “People may try to scare you, carry on about psychological repercussions and betrayal, but I do not regret what I did. To live life without the Negro marker by your name, even for a short period of time, can expand your world. It’s something you should consider, Anita.”

In the community of Roxbury, where the complexions ranged from dark to light, the subject of passing was often heard in conversation. Some believed it was the ultimate sin against the Negro race, and others—those who had relatives who had passed or had passed themselves—saw it as an occasional necessity. “They make us pass,” Mame had said. “If they would give us good schools, any rights at all, then we wouldn’t even have to consider it, would we? People escaped slavery through passing, saved their own lives, the lives of their families. It’s not all just a traitor’s behavior to live an easier existence. Anita, please heed my advice: do not waste your strong mind because some might disagree with the practice, might chastise you. When one passes for a higher purpose, it’s worth it. Go on and prove to those Vassar women that we can be them, too.”

At fifteen years old, Anita hadn’t fully understood the strength of Mame’s words or the varying perspectives of her community on passing, but she was no stranger to the concept, having often been mistaken as white when she was without family or friends in Boston. And she knew stories of women who had passed to improve their positions in the world, and had heard them labeled as weak, as defectors, but
it was the first time she ever considered passing herself. For education, thought Anita, it felt right.

When she shared Mame Marshall’s idea with her parents that evening, an idea that she had quickly embraced, they agreed. A Vassar education was worth lying for.

Anita still held that conviction close to her heart and she let the powerful memories accompany her as she and Lottie approached the school. The hansom soon deposited both women in front of Fay House, the building that housed every aspect of life at Radcliffe. With its mere three floors, it resembled an elegant but diminutive family mansion more than it did their college’s soaring Main Building.

“We’re to go to the reception room, and one of the maids will send up a visitor’s card,” said Lottie.

“Just like at Vassar,” Anita said, looking all around her for Gertrude’s recognizable face.

“Not quite. The girls do not reside on campus here, no exceptions, but Lilly promised she would be in the library studying. She’s doing so on purpose, I’m sure, to appear as diligent as possible.” Lottie paid the carriage driver and they walked into the building, past the Radcliffe girls, who looked nearly identical to the Vassar girls—the same capriciousness, same chatter, same airs of privilege and intelligence.

“Miss Louise Taylor to see Miss Elizabeth Taylor,” said Lottie to the woman monitoring visitors that day. She handed the young woman her card and explained that Lilly was her cousin.

“Of course, miss,” she replied, and left to fetch Lilly from the third-floor library.

“It’s pretty here,” said Lottie, looking up at the ceiling. “Is it prettier than Vassar, do you think?”

“Certainly not,” Anita said, looking around her at the small single staircase. “Not even a fair competition.”

Suddenly, they heard Lottie’s name called out in a high, melodic voice. They turned to see Lilly approaching, all smiles and with the same blond curls, deep blue eyes, and cherubic features as her cousin.

“Lottie and Anita!” she said, stretching out her arms. She gave the Vassar girls each kisses on the cheek, her plaid taffeta dress swishing against them, and took their hands. “I’m so happy you’re both here! Lottie warned me that you were the prettiest girl at Vassar, Anita. Isn’t she brave to room with you?”

“Oh, that’s not—” Anita tried to protest, but Lilly stopped her.

“People see what they see, Anita dear.” She smiled, and Anita was happy to note that she shared her cousin’s gaiety.

“Are you two really going to that brutish football game today?” Lilly asked as she led them out of the parlor.

“I take great delight in a football game,” said Lottie. “I’ve always enjoyed the display of athleticism that comes with the sport. But it’s more than that. There’s something very democratic about it. Not just a bunch of silly rich people who have more money than hair.”

Lilly and Anita laughed, because it was obvious that almost everyone Lottie knew had more money than hair.

“Shall we do a tour of the campus?” asked Lilly, steering them toward the second floor. “You’ve visited Radcliffe, Anita?” she asked, her cool blue eyes admiring Anita’s striking face.

“Yes, she has,” answered Lottie for her roommate. “She’s from Boston.”

“Oh? I wasn’t aware. We girls are often making trips to Boston. Is your family there?”

“Yes,” said Anita, quickly peeking into a nearby parlor, looking to change the subject. “What a splendid room,” she said. “The
Corinthian columns are very elegant. Beautiful acanthus design.”

“Why, yes,” said Lilly, with a look of surprise at this sudden interest in architecture. “We are fond of our parlors.” Lottie glanced in and asked Lilly how much time she spent inside.

“Are you asking me how well I’m doing in school, cousin? Wondering why I’m loafing about in parlors and not upstairs in the library?”

Lottie laughed and put her arm around her cousin’s cinched waist. “Obviously, Lilly. You’re no stranger to me. I know your love of lazing about.”

“I’m doing just fine,” said Lilly. “Aren’t you kind to inquire.”

Lottie did a little curtsey and took Anita by the arm. They both followed her charming cousin through the building.

Anita, pretending that she wanted to see every inch of the structure, kept turning around, looking this way and that, but they were able to complete their visit of the public rooms without glimpsing Gertrude.

“I need some air,” said Lottie, yawning as they ended their tour. “Let’s go outside and see if it has cooled off at all. One would think we’d stop suffocating by early October.”

The three young women walked down the hill from Fay House, toward Cambridge Common, enjoying the slight breeze. Lilly introduced her cousin and Anita to several of the girls they passed, animatedly relaying the gossip about each one after they had bid them goodbye.

“Hollis Kelly: so poor at French that it sounds as if her tongue has been split like a lizard,” said Lilly, speaking louder than she should have been. She nodded to two more girls after giving them a warm hello and introducing her guests. “Alice
Truman: her father was flush with money out west, but he died in a mine collapse and the family went bankrupt. An estranged uncle has to pay for her schooling now. The other is Edna de France: Be sure to look at her from the side as she walks away. Her nose is so hooked she can hang a coat on it.”

Lottie made a face at her cousin. “It’s no wonder you always got along so well with my mother,” she told her.

As they looped back to Fay House, Lilly slowed her steps and whispered something to her cousin. Anita stopped behind them, her body stiffening as they spoke, then Lilly turned back to her and said, “Anita, up ahead of us is Alberta Scott. Did Lottie warn you about her?”

Anita looked at Lottie, who shrugged and said, “I forgot she was here. We don’t have that concern at Vassar.”

“She was the first,” said Lilly in a whisper, and suddenly Anita knew. She was speaking about a Negro.

“She was the only one until another came this year, a Gertrude Baker in the class of 1900. And now that they’ve made their little point, I pray they are done admitting them,” said Lilly. “It cheapens the school. Of course, neither of them resides near anyone we’re acquainted with or engage with us outside our classes, so I suppose it could be even more inappropriate. I hear there have been several of them at Wellesley. And this Alberta Scott, the first one to arrive, she’s very dark. In the evening all you can see of her are those bulging white eyes. You know the type. She’s class of 1898, but they admitted her accidentally, I’m sure. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to get rid of her.”

Lottie turned and looked ahead. “She’s stopped walking. She’s just standing there in the middle of the road.”

“Let’s cross the lane so we don’t have to walk by her. It makes me very uncomfortable. She has a smell about her that isn’t quite right,”
said Lilly, her face pinching in disgust. “They all do, don’t they? Especially when it’s warm outside. Virginia Bloomingdale had Greek with her last year and had to sit right next to her. Imagine. And Virginia is from Atlanta. The poor girl barely made it through class. Her father wrote letters to the president to protest, threatened to pull Virginia out of school, but the administration wouldn’t listen. They even went so far as to say there would be more admitted in the years to come, so perhaps it wasn’t an accident after all. Now Alberta is still here and Virginia is not.”

It took Anita a moment to follow Lottie and Lilly across the street so they would not have to pass close to Alberta. She took a few steps, careful not to look back at Radcliffe’s first Negro student. She had been so scared at the prospect of running into Gertrude that she had not even considered the possibility of seeing another Negro on campus.

Anita had never lost sight of the fiction she was living at Vassar. The
Plessy v Ferguson
debate and discussions about the Jim Crow laws were just recent reminders. Her freshman year, she had been in a hall play and blackened her face with makeup to play a Negro woman along with ten other girls, who declared it all great fun. She had listened to southern girls talk about the former slaves who were still on their properties, sharecropping cotton to survive. Some spoke more highly of their dogs. Anita had overheard two sophomores dismiss the Negro as mentally, physically, and spiritually inferior and had stayed silent, she had repeatedly read the word
nigger
in the school newspaper and ignored it, but she had never felt shame the way she did when she crossed the street to avoid Alberta Scott. She wanted to be the person who did not cross the street, the person who instead went right up to her. She wanted to say, “You, Alberta
Scott, are a Negro at Radcliffe College, and I, Anita Hemmings, am the only Negro at Vassar College.”

But Vassar was not Radcliffe.

“Anita. Anita?” said Lilly, looking back at her. Anita realized that she had stopped walking and that her eyes were still fixed on Alberta’s slowly disappearing form.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Lilly. “I was lost in thought.”

“It’s jarring, I know,” said Lilly. “Did Lottie not tell you about her and Gertrude? Negroes at Radcliffe. It’s disgusting. I can’t imagine their grades are up to snuff. They don’t have the same capacity for learning as we do. I’ve read studies on their minds. They are built for labor and breeding. Though I wish they would stop the latter. Many of the girls here think differently, but then again, it’s Massachusetts, isn’t it? Easier to brainwash the women of New England.”