With the Might of Angels (14 page)

Reverend Collier asked our family to sit in the first-row pew. We were one pew up from the NAACP people. The NAACP lady put a gentle hand on Mama’s shoulder when we got to our seats. A man I didn’t know shook hands with Daddy.

Reverend Collier said, “This will be a night to remember at Shepherd’s Way. We have a very special guest here this evening.”

People clapped. The man who’d shaken Daddy’s hand rose and made his way to the pulpit. He stood next to Reverend Collier, who introduced him. “I am very pleased to welcome a young preacher from the Dexter Avenue Baptist
Church in Montgomery, Alabama. He has just been named the pastor at Dexter, and has come to address us this evening. Please welcome young Brother Martin Luther King, Jr.”

The applause grew. I’d heard of Martin Luther King. He was just starting out as a preacher. Folks had been talking about him. He had a powerful way of speaking.

Martin encouraged us to become active members of the NAACP, and to vote in government elections. He spoke about the importance of peace and his belief in something he called “nonviolence.” There was brass and thunder in his delivery. I could not take my eyes off this man. His strong-strong way of speaking scooped me up and held on.

“Praises be!” somebody shouted.

Another voice rang out. “Amen, Brother Martin.”

But people also expressed doubts about Martin’s ideas of nonviolence. Yolanda’s father said, “With all due respect, I’m not one for standing by and letting white people hurt us.”

“Praises be to
that!”
came a voice from the back of the church. It was Mr. Albert, who sells peanuts from his cart.

Martin told us that love and unity will move
Negro people forward. And that fighting for justice and equality can be done quietly, without weapons, or hatred.

“Tell it, young brother!” someone called out. “Tell it!”

Others protested loudly, and soon our church became a swarm of debate, with people taking sides. Goober covered his ears from all the yelling. Martin raised a hand to quiet the noise.

Reverend Collier spoke next. That’s when I saw why we were sitting in the first row. He pointed at Daddy. “This is a man whose livelihood has been threatened because he has taken a stand against segregation by allowing his daughter to attend this town’s white school.”

More applause rose up. Martin Luther King clapped, too.

Reverend Collier said, “Brothers and sisters, I return to a question I asked in this church months ago — who among us steps back in the face of a threat?”

The reverend talked more about threats. And he spoke about Daddy. And about me.

“Mr. Sutter, who owns Sutter’s Dairy, is a man who has
stepped back.
His customers had threatened to boycott, to take their business elsewhere
because Brother Curtis and his daughter, Dawnie, and the Johnson family, have been brave enough to
step forward
toward progress.”

Applause, louder this time.

“When Mr. Sutter let Curtis go, his white customers stayed loyal. But what Mr. Sutter must have forgot is that Negroes buy as much butter as whites, and that a good chunk of his business comes from
our
side of Hadley and Negroes living in nearby towns, and throughout Lee County.”

Reverend Collier’s delivery now came on as strong and as booming as a drum. He was truly sermonizing. “We know what it means to boycott, too! We have what it takes to pull our business away from Sutter’s — to
step forward
peacefully, but powerfully.”

Goober had not taken his hands away from his ears. And it was a good thing, too. There was all kinds of yelling going on.

“How’s boycotting Sutter’s gonna do anything?” Miss Nora, Roger’s ma, wanted to know. “Why should I have to give up cream for my tea, on account of that too-good-for-the-rest-of-us child sittin’ up at Prettyman, not staying with her own for schoolin’?”

I’m good at lots of things, but I’m not a
too-good-for-the-rest-of-us
child!

“
She
started this mess.” Miss Nora was pointing at me. “Let
her
miss out on some milk.”

Somebody else shouted, “We need to take a bold step! Boycotting butter ain’t bold!”

With the help of Martin, Reverend Collier quieted everyone.

Our reverend tried to reason with the doubters. “Boycotting is nonviolent, but it’ll hurt Sutter — in a quiet way. We’ll be putting a hard pinch on his wallet. After a while he’ll feel the pain.”

Some of the NAACP people and Reverend Collier gave us very simple but perfectly direct instructions.

“Starting Monday, when the milkman comes, refuse to take his bottles. If he leaves them on your porch, don’t use the milk. Let it spoil.”

People listened.

“Don’t purchase any butter, cream, or cheese,” the reverend instructed.

I was all for nonviolence and for helping Daddy, but no milk, butter, cheese, or cream?

That sure
was
a pinch — just thinking about it hurt as much as sleeping in curlers. Martin led us in a prayer. Miss Eloise, our choir director, stood.
She played on a tambourine, and started to sing “I’m on My Way.”

The congregation joined her. The song swelled, rising through the church with the tambourine’s rattle.

When I glanced at Daddy, he looked like he’d just won a prize at the fair. He was so pleased. Mama, too. And Goober — he’d found a church fan and was waving it and singing. He had the tune right, but had changed the words to
“No more cheese for me!”

I sang, too, but I was not ready to say good-bye to buttered toast and mac-and-cheese.

First day back to school after turkey and pie. I dragged my feet to the breakfast table.

Dry toast didn’t help. Daddy drank his coffee black. Goober filled his oatmeal bowl with cider.

When Daddy and I walked to school, Waddle was waiting in her usual spot. Dawn’s blue curtain made it hard to see her fully. But the streetlamp’s light showed off the double rings that formed Waddle’s raccoon mask.

Waddle’s fur’s gotten thicker, her tail bushier.
She looks thick, too. Big around the middle, storing fat to keep warm for the cold months ahead. Winter’s not far off. “Nice coat,” I said to my raccoon friend.

Even by afternoon, I had to wear mittens for clapping the erasers. I smacked them together with a fury to get it over with quickly. White
pooof
rose all around me, from the chalk dust, and from the steam that spewed warm into the icy air as I coughed.

It snowed lightly during the night. Powdered sugar on our grass. Goober had his coat and mittens on already when he brought me my pogo stick. “Teach me, Dawnie.” He shoved the stick at me. “
Show
me. There’s no more dirt. The stick won’t get stuck. It’s all white now.”

“It’ll be slippery,” I said.

But Goober was right. The ground was hard enough to make the pogo go. With winter coming, I knew this would be one of the last times I’d be jumping on my pogo stick, so I gave Goober another lesson, with the snowy ground beneath us.

First I showed Goober how to jump on, then off the stick, two feet at a time.

“Watch me. On — off.” I demonstrated for Goober, who hardly let me finish, he was so eager.

Goober copied me. “On — off!” He did good on the first try.

We worked our way up to five full bounces. Goober was able to jump a little bit forward. “Am I flying, Dawnie?”

“You’re flying good, Goob.”

“On — two, three, four — off!” Goober was all smiles, even though the spring on my rickety pogo stick was squeaking the whole time.

A few tries at pogo-flying were enough for Goober. When his nose started to run, he was ready to go inside.

I’ve set my pogo stick in my bedroom closet, where it’ll sleep till spring.

I woke up this morning to the promise of winter.

We don’t get lots of snow in Virginia, but when snow covers all the houses and trees, and spreads a quilt thick enough for making snow angels, I’m the first one to sing about jingle bells.

Yolanda came over after church today, bringing gingerbread baked by her ma. We made up a song about the snow, and sang it together:

Fluffy silver stuff, stuff, stuff
Makes a ball of puff, puff, puff
Will it be e-nuff, nuff, nuff?

Yolanda and I giggled and giggled. She saw for real that I am not uppity.

The milkman came today, early, before the sun, like always.

He left the six glass bottles of milk in our tin collection box on the porch.

Oh, did I want some milk with my oatmeal!

At cafeteria time, I was tempted to drink from the Sutter’s milk carton that comes on our lunch trays. Miss Billie delivered me from temptation by not putting the milk on my tray. She also left off the pudding, and gave me a burger without cheese. If I didn’t think the kids at Prettyman would ridicule me, I’d have brought my lunch in the Peach Melba pail with the bow on top.

Ever since the boycott started, our phone has been ringing more than before. When Mama answers, no one speaks. Tonight eight calls came, with silence on the other end of the line.

Here is my Christmas list.

It’s called
Dawnie Wants.

And here is the rest of the
Dawnie Wants
list, for my eyes only.

Back came the milkman to take the bottles from Monday, and to deliver new milk. It was so cold outside that the milk probably didn’t spoil. Still, the man in the Sutter’s truck set out six bottles of fresh temptation. Is it ever hard to not drink that milk!

The telephone has been ringing all evening. Only three of those calls have been from people we know. The rest were hang-ups. We only have one phone. It’s on the wall next to our refrigerator. With all the ringing, our phone seems to jangle the whole house.

I can tell by the way Mama’s snapping for us to keep out of her kitchen, and to fold the laundry faster, and to do our homework, and to get ready for church on Sunday, that she’s agitated.

Goober’s getting on Mama’s nerves. I just know it. He’s annoying me, too. Walking in fast circles, pretending to answer a telephone, repeating, “Hello … hello … hello …”

Finally, this evening, Mama took the phone off
the hook so that we could eat supper in peace. But Goober wouldn’t let up.

“Hello … hello … hello …”

Except for saying grace, we ate with hardly any words between us.

Goober kept on.

“Hello … hello … hello …”

Finally, I couldn’t take anymore. I yelled at Goober almost near to cursing. “Goober, shut the heck up!”

Mama and I went to the post office in town today to mail Christmas packages to my aunt Karen, Mama’s sister in Tennessee. We ran into Miss Nora, Roger’s loud mother. Mama was cordial.

“Happy holidays, Nora,” she said.

Miss Nora was not feeling the joy of the season. “It’s hard to be happy when you can’t use cream to make eggnog,” she huffed.

“Try canned milk,” Mama suggested.

“Try sending Dawnie back to Bethune,” Miss Nora huffed.

Mama was working hard to stay nice. “Nora,
it’s too late for that now. Besides, nobody’s
making
you boycott Sutter’s.”

Miss Nora held tight to her parcels. “My boy Roger has twisted my arm. I’m just glad we’ve kept him at Bethune. You’re courtin’ trouble, Loretta,” Miss Nora said. “I would not want to be standing in your shoes now.”

“Believe what you believe,” said Mama. “I believe my shoes are walking in the right direction.”

I couldn’t help but turn my eyes to what Miss Nora was wearing on her feet. She had her nerve! Those were the ugliest shoes ever. They looked like warty toads, with shoelaces.

I would not want to be walking in
them.

Who put Miss Nora on hospitality duty at our church’s front door?

Seems she invited one of her friends to join her in putting me down.

Miss Laura, a lady from our church sewing circle, stood next to Miss Nora as we filed into the entry at Shepherd’s Way.

This must be the season of ugly feet.

Miss Laura’s shoes were as black as my Vaselines, but no kind of shiny. She must have picked them up from the giveaway pile on the Wicked Witch’s front curb.

Mama nodded to both women. “Ladies, good morning.”

Miss Laura’s greeting was as sharp as her shoes. “Well — hello to the too-good-for-the-rest-of-us Johnsons.”

Not that again.

Reverend Collier started services by asking everyone who was participating in the Sutter’s boycott to raise their hands.

Some hands went up right away. Many stayed down. But after a moment, all hands were raised. All of them! Roger had both hands raised.

That made me want to raise both
my
hands.

So I did.

Today we were sent home with two flyers from school. One announcing something called the “Bell Bake Sale,” the other reminding students about final tests for the semester. The Bell Bake Sale is to raise money for a new bell that
will be stationed outside the school building on the front lawn. The flyer showed a drawing of the bell. That is a
big
bell. It’s housed in a brick well, and swings from an iron hinge. The handle for ringing the bell is as big as the grip on a butter churn. Just by looking, I can tell that bell rings loud enough to slice the clouds.