Warriors Don't Cry by Melba Pattillo Beals

hurt.”
    “Hurry, child. Hurry.” Grandma India ushered us through the back door. In her face I saw reason to be even more frightened. There were no smiles, only a furrowed brow and terrified eyes. As we entered the house, I saw that she had locked all the doors and windows and pulled all of the shades. As soon as we were safely inside, she piled chairs against the locked back door.
    “So what about Elizabeth?” I said.
    “I think she’s safe. A white woman and man sat with her on the bus bench, protecting her from those awful people clawing at her. Then they got on the bus with her and rode away, so she’s okay.”
    “That’s a real miracle,” Mother said.
    “And the others—Terry and Ernie and those guys?”
    “The soldiers turned them away from that school just like they did Elizabeth. They’re safe. They didn’t catch as much trouble, because they were in a large group with Mrs. Bates and some of those ministers. But still they didn’t have no Sunday picnic; they had to get out of there real fast.”
    Even though Mother looked exhausted, nothing would do for her but to get dressed and go to work. “We’ve got to lead as normal a life as possible,” she argued as we described to Grandma what had happened to us.
    “One report said those troops were armed with rifles, nightsticks, and bayonets. Did you see any of that, Melba?”
    “Uh, yes, ma’am. I think I saw guns.”
    “Maybe things got mixed up. Perhaps the governor had them there to keep peace, and they mixed up their orders,” Grandma mused.
    “Seems to me they had ample opportunity to keep peace by protecting Elizabeth.” Mother Lois sounded very angry. “I think this situation is different than what we bargained for. We’d better let things cool off a bit. You can go back to Horace Mann for now.”
    Grandma squared her shoulders and said, “I don’t see how that will solve anything. Pretty soon, white folks will think it’s as okay to enslave us as it is to use soldiers to keep our kids out of school.”
    Mother stood in silence, pondering Grandma’s words for a long moment. Her expression reflected the painful realization that maybe what Grandma said was true. And then suddenly she said, “I had almost forgotten; I have to speak to you, Melba, and I want you to listen closely to every word and obey. Under no circumstances must you ever mention to anyone what happened to us this morning. Even if you have to tell a white lie and say we didn’t go to Central, we have to keep this our secret.”
    Telling a white lie was something she’d never before given me permission to do. She swore me to absolute silence, saying above all else those men must not connect us with their ugly deed. If we told the story and they found out who they were chasing, they might come after us to finish the job. As she spoke, her voice quivered and her hands shook. I had never seen her so uncontrolled. She looked the way I felt, battered and weary. Finally, she instructed, “Melba, don’t you dare go outside, girl. I want to know where you are every moment.” She pulled on her jacket, peeked through the glass in the front door, then hurried out onto the porch, almost running around the house to the car.
    I resigned myself to the fact that Grandma wouldn’t allow me to visit Thelma or Minnijean or any other friends who lived nearby. I wanted to call them for more news of what happened to them, but before I could pick up the receiver, the phone began to ring off the hook.
    “Don’t you dare answer,” Grandma shouted to me from the kitchen.
    I plopped down at the dining room table and watched her hop up and down for what seemed like a thousand times to answer the phone. It didn’t stop all morning. First, it was the call from the NAACP, then the ministers. There were our frightened neighbors and friends who said they really cared about me but insisted they have answers to a string of their nosy questions. And then there were more hecklers threatening