by
Margaret Liddell
It’s 1957, my sophomore year. Headlines shout, “Gov. Orval Faubus uses the Arkansas National Guard to prohibit nine Negro children from entering Little Rock's Central High School.”
Those students in Little Rock are my age and they’re going through hell to enter the doors of high school. Why am I not shaken by this news? I fret about mundane things like geometry, boys, clothes, and my hair. Racism exists in Chillicothe, Ohio, and it affects me directly, but at the time, the significance of the events in Arkansas doesn’t seem to rattle my 14-year-old teenage consciousness. I spend afternoons gabbing with friends on our party line phone, doing homework, and watching white kids dance while Negro entertainers perform on American Bandstand.
The red brick building that sits on the corner of Vine and Arch summons me. There’s no drama, no National Guard at the front doors. Our school is integrated, but we colored kids know our boundaries. We know our place in the scheme of things.
Stairs marked as “up only” lead me to my locker on the third floor. I hang up my coat, talk with Rosemary for a minute, and dash off to class. Homeroom and first period biology race by without incident, but second period I have plane geometry, a subject I dread.
Room 225 fills up with saddle shoes, bobby socks, ponytails, penny loafers, jeans, crew cuts, horn-rimmed glasses. I go to my assigned place, lay my books on the desk, and sit down to nervously await the arrival of Mrs. Beyerly. Before she comes, I have a few minutes to consult with Charlotte, who sits directly behind me. I don’t know many white kids that well but I talk to Charlotte sometimes. She’s very kind and never seems to mind helping. I twist around to face her with my homework paper in hand, “Charlotte, did you solve number 3?”
“Yes, do you need some help?”
“Please, I can’t get the solution.”
“Okay, let’s see.”
Charlotte’s ready to help, but the bell rings and Mrs. Beyerly, a petite woman with thin lips and short curly brown hair, strides in, commanding my attention. Today, she’s wearing her usual attire, a skirt, jacket, a crisp white blouse with rounded collar, and a small cotton tie that crisscrosses at the neck. The class quiets. There’s no chitchat from her; it’s geometry for 50 minutes with no breather. There is no goofing around, no note-passing, no silly gaga looks between teen lovers.
I’ve memorized her routine. She sets her books and papers on her desk, takes roll, then steps to the right-hand corner of the blackboard. In her left hand, she consults a black spiral grade book and proceeds with writing names. My heart races; I can feel its quickened beats.
With her back to us, she writes four names in rapid succession. Fear forces me into a sudden state of panic. For a moment, I rest my head on my desk and try to close my eyes. If I could escape, I would. I think I’ll faint and then I can go to the nurse’s room. Mrs. Beyerly moves aside to reveal the names of those who have to go to the board to explain how to solve the homework problems.
Margaret H., Number 3! It’s the very problem I couldn’t get.
Three of us must stand at the board to show the class how we solved our assigned problems. With hands folded in front of my multicolored-checked skirt, I fix my gaze on the window across the room as I wait. The guy next to me with his slicked-down blond hair parted on the side has Number 1.
Confidence. I hear it in his voice when he says, “Therefore.…”
He swaggers to his seat in triumph. The next guy writes quickly. He and his solution are a blur to me. My nerves are a bundle of twisted panic. I hold my breath, bite my lip, fiddle with the chalk. I can’t exhale.
Mrs. Beyerly, grade book and pencil in hand, says “Correct, you may take your seat. Next, Margaret, go ahead.”
Blackboard, chalk, eraser--what am I to do with them? If only this piece of smooth white chalk had the answer. A sense of hopelessness invades my brain. I feel like I’m in the middle of a nightmare screaming for help and no one hears me. I write nothing. I turn to the class and face Mrs. Beyerly.
“Do you know how to solve the problem?”
“No.”
“Can someone else please come to the board and do Number 3?”
Hands shoot up. I slink to my seat. At last, the bell rings. Not taking time to sort my papers, I shove them on my clipboard and gather my books while wishing I would never have to return. In a daze of embarrassment, I stumble from Room 225, then rush upstairs, open my locker, and shove my geometry book to the back. After my last class of the day, I walk out the white double doors of Chillicothe High School and still without any thought of the struggles and challenges of the Negro kids in Arkansas, I head for home.
Those students in Little Rock are my age and they’re going through hell to enter the doors of high school. Why am I not shaken by this news? I fret about mundane things like geometry, boys, clothes, and my hair. Racism exists in Chillicothe, Ohio, and it affects me directly, but at the time, the significance of the events in Arkansas doesn’t seem to rattle my 14-year-old teenage consciousness. I spend afternoons gabbing with friends on our party line phone, doing homework, and watching white kids dance while Negro entertainers perform on American Bandstand.
The red brick building that sits on the corner of Vine and Arch summons me. There’s no drama, no National Guard at the front doors. Our school is integrated, but we colored kids know our boundaries. We know our place in the scheme of things.
Stairs marked as “up only” lead me to my locker on the third floor. I hang up my coat, talk with Rosemary for a minute, and dash off to class. Homeroom and first period biology race by without incident, but second period I have plane geometry, a subject I dread.
Room 225 fills up with saddle shoes, bobby socks, ponytails, penny loafers, jeans, crew cuts, horn-rimmed glasses. I go to my assigned place, lay my books on the desk, and sit down to nervously await the arrival of Mrs. Beyerly. Before she comes, I have a few minutes to consult with Charlotte, who sits directly behind me. I don’t know many white kids that well but I talk to Charlotte sometimes. She’s very kind and never seems to mind helping. I twist around to face her with my homework paper in hand, “Charlotte, did you solve number 3?”
“Yes, do you need some help?”
“Please, I can’t get the solution.”
“Okay, let’s see.”
Charlotte’s ready to help, but the bell rings and Mrs. Beyerly, a petite woman with thin lips and short curly brown hair, strides in, commanding my attention. Today, she’s wearing her usual attire, a skirt, jacket, a crisp white blouse with rounded collar, and a small cotton tie that crisscrosses at the neck. The class quiets. There’s no chitchat from her; it’s geometry for 50 minutes with no breather. There is no goofing around, no note-passing, no silly gaga looks between teen lovers.
I’ve memorized her routine. She sets her books and papers on her desk, takes roll, then steps to the right-hand corner of the blackboard. In her left hand, she consults a black spiral grade book and proceeds with writing names. My heart races; I can feel its quickened beats.
With her back to us, she writes four names in rapid succession. Fear forces me into a sudden state of panic. For a moment, I rest my head on my desk and try to close my eyes. If I could escape, I would. I think I’ll faint and then I can go to the nurse’s room. Mrs. Beyerly moves aside to reveal the names of those who have to go to the board to explain how to solve the homework problems.
Margaret H., Number 3! It’s the very problem I couldn’t get.
Three of us must stand at the board to show the class how we solved our assigned problems. With hands folded in front of my multicolored-checked skirt, I fix my gaze on the window across the room as I wait. The guy next to me with his slicked-down blond hair parted on the side has Number 1.
Confidence. I hear it in his voice when he says, “Therefore.…”
He swaggers to his seat in triumph. The next guy writes quickly. He and his solution are a blur to me. My nerves are a bundle of twisted panic. I hold my breath, bite my lip, fiddle with the chalk. I can’t exhale.
Mrs. Beyerly, grade book and pencil in hand, says “Correct, you may take your seat. Next, Margaret, go ahead.”
Blackboard, chalk, eraser--what am I to do with them? If only this piece of smooth white chalk had the answer. A sense of hopelessness invades my brain. I feel like I’m in the middle of a nightmare screaming for help and no one hears me. I write nothing. I turn to the class and face Mrs. Beyerly.
“Do you know how to solve the problem?”
“No.”
“Can someone else please come to the board and do Number 3?”
Hands shoot up. I slink to my seat. At last, the bell rings. Not taking time to sort my papers, I shove them on my clipboard and gather my books while wishing I would never have to return. In a daze of embarrassment, I stumble from Room 225, then rush upstairs, open my locker, and shove my geometry book to the back. After my last class of the day, I walk out the white double doors of Chillicothe High School and still without any thought of the struggles and challenges of the Negro kids in Arkansas, I head for home.
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