Cover image for March forward, girl : from young warrior to Little Rock Nine
Title:
March forward, girl : from young warrior to Little Rock Nine
ISBN:
9781328882127
Physical Description:
x, 214 pages : illustrations ; 22 cm
Contents:
I'll figure it out later -- When fear comes home -- Black is an inconvenient color -- A head full of questions -- A church full of angels -- Rules of my survival -- Dimming the light of my dream -- Into the real world outside -- I'm not alone -- Becoming a real student -- The world is my birthday gift -- Hope that the world can be mine -- Blessed -- Santa is in town -- Television and bomb shelters -- Finding my piece of the pie -- Angel in a white sheet -- Who is Jim Crow? -- My life forges ahead -- Marching forward.
Reading Level:
950 L Lexile
Personal Subject:
Added Author:
Summary:
A member of the Little Rock Nine shares her memories of growing up in the South under Jim Crow.
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Summary

Summary

From the legendary civil rights activist and author of the million-copy selling Warriors Don't Cry comes an ardent and profound childhood memoir of growing up while facing adversity in the Jim Crow South.

Long before she was one of the Little Rock Nine, Melba Pattillo Beals was a warrior. Frustrated by the laws that kept African-Americans separate but very much unequal to whites, she had questions. Why couldn't she drink from a "whites only" fountain? Why couldn't she feel safe beyond home--or even within the walls of church? Adults all told her: Hold your tongue. Be patient. Know your place. But Beals had the heart of a fighter--and the knowledge that her true place was a free one.

Combined with emotive drawings and photos, this memoir paints a vivid picture of Beals' powerful early journey on the road to becoming a champion for equal rights, an acclaimed journalist, a best-selling author, and the recipient of this country's highest recognition, the Congressional Gold Medal.


Author Notes

Melba Pattillo Beals is the author of the bestselling WARRIORS DON'T CRY, which won ALA's Nonfiction Book of the Year award and the Robert F. Kennedy Book Award. She received a Congressional Gold Medal for her role in the integration of Central High School in Little Rock, AR. Read more about her at melbapattillobeals.com.


Reviews 6

Publisher's Weekly Review

In a visceral and vital memoir, journalist and activist Beals (Warriors Don't Cry), who integrated Central High School as one of the Little Rock Nine, recounts growing up African-American in 1940s Arkansas "under the umbrella of the rules and traditions of my oppression." Her grandmother encouraged Beals to trust in God, but the Ku Klux Klan members who marauded their streets by night filled her with constant dread. Beals's rage at the injustice permeating her daily life-and what she perceived as black adults' passive compliance-led her to ask, "Why not fight back?" Chilling examples of violence underscore the traumatizing environment: at age five, Beals witnessed Klansmen hang a man from church rafters during a prayer meeting, and as a teen she barely escaped rape after being unwittingly brought to a KKK gathering. Beals writes openly about her feelings of hopelessness and helplessness, though her courage and resolve are just as evident. It's a no-holds-barred reflection of the physical and psychological toll that prejudice, discrimination, and hate take on a young life. Ages 10-up. Author's agent: Jill Marsal, Marsal Lyon Literary. Illustrator's agent: Lori Nowicki, Painted Words. (Jan.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.


Horn Book Review

Beals, author of the adult memoir ?Warriors Dont Cry, received the ?Congressional Gold Medal for her bravery in helping to integrate Central High School in 1957 as one of the Little Rock Nine; here she recounts the childhood years that led up to her determination to take that important step. Fear was a constant, as she learned very early that the color of my skin framed the entire scope of my life. Beals vividly relates the many incidents that caused her to be afraid: the Ku Klux Klan would ride through her Little Rock neighborhood; Mr. Waylanss grocery story was a place of constant humiliation; signs everywhere told her NO COLOREDS; and even church could become a place of terror (she witnessed a lynching inside her church at age five). Melba was a reader, curious about the world she was growing into. I wanted to find out where the permission came from that allowed [whites] to treat us as badly as they did now. So she read about Plessy v. Ferguson, Brown v. Board of Education, Jackie Robinson, and Rosa Parks, and this history helps provide context for her personal story. Bealss account, made even more immediate by the addition of photographs and Morrisons child-friendly black-and-white illustrations, stops as she is poised to integrate Central High School at age fifteen. An epilogue recounts that harrowing story; back matter tells of the safe haven she eventually found with a white family in California after the Klan offered a bounty for each member of the Little Rock Nine, dead or alive. dean Schneider (c) Copyright 2018. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Booklist Review

Beals (Warriors Don't Cry, 1995) wastes no time getting into the deep, choking horror of living under Jim Crow in 1940s and 1950s Arkansas. Likening her fear of white people to an ever-growing monster consuming her nights, she reflects on how the Ku Klux Klan rode through her black neighborhood, plucking friends and neighbors from their homes to be lynched for minor infractions of the codes or for fun. That fear morphed into anger and motivation to find a way out, eventually helping her to become one of the Little Rock Nine. Beals has a way with short, powerful sentences that efficiently capture her roiling emotional inner life. She also outlines the interplay of racism and sexism in a harrowing recounting of the time she was herself a target of the Klan. The narrative stops short of the integration of Little Rock Central High School, featuring it instead in the epilogue. Young readers will be gripped by Beal's personal courage and determination to march forward for civil rights at such a young age.--Jones, Courtney Copyright 2018 Booklist


New York Review of Books Review

THE VERY EXISTENCE of Women's History Month is conflicted. It's a time to proudly recall the struggles and accomplishments of women long buried in our nation's narrative - but it also sets aside a single month out of 12 to celebrate half of the population, and therefore is a sort of insult. But four new books for young readers get it right, by highlighting the gender discrepancy in most tellings of the American story and seeking to fill in the gaps for a new generation. They offer supplemental histories that are also acts of unsilencing. An explicit narrative reclamation courses through ROSES AND RADICALS: The Epic Story of How American Women Won the Right to Vote (Viking, 160 pp., $19.99; ages 10 and up), by Susan Zimet. This book's supercharged introduction comes out of the gate swinging. "History is not what happened; it's the story someone tells us about what happened," the historian Sally Roesch Wagner writes in a foreword. "How did women gain a political voice? The old history told us male leaders gave it to us. Wrong. Amovement of women, assisted by their male allies, demanded and won it." These lines might also introduce votes FOR WOMEN: American Suffragists and the Battle for the Ballot (Algonquin, 320 pp., $19.95; ages 12 and up), by Winifred Conkling, which again offers a look back at the hard-fought right to vote. Unlike Zimet, whose writing pulses with a nerve rare for the subject, Conkling has composed something more like a lively textbook. Still, her approach is no less defiant. "Votes for Women" starts with the pivotal moment of success that came with Harry Burn's defining vote to ratify the 19th Amendment in 1920, then immediately zooms out. The fight for suffrage was won one day in the Tennessee statehouse, but it started nearly a century earlier, and that's where "Votes for Women" opts to begin, pulling back the curtain on 100 years of struggle. This larger story helps emphasize just how much of a footnote suffrage has been in our curriculum. The 19th Amendment is often treated as the accomplishment solely of sympathetic men, with paltry recognition of the women who fought for decades to lay the groundwork. Reading through both "Roses and Radicals" and "Votes for Women," I was struck by how little I had been taught about this crucial chapter of our history. These books turned me into a dispenser of feminist fun facts. "Did you know that Frederick Douglass spoke at the Seneca Falls Convention of 1848?" I asked a friend excitedly over happy hour. ("Yes," he replied. "But only because you already told me that last week.") In these books, the women who shaped the American narrative come to life with refreshing attention to detail. "Votes for Women" opens with a minibiography of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, set up as a cinematic hero's journey from that fateful moment when her father, mourning the death of his last son, told his daughter he wished she had been born a boy. Zimet is less wideeyed and more unsentimental in her approach. Opting for frankness about the racism of Stanton's platform, for instance, she contextualizes but also condemns her use of the atrocious term "Sambo." Of course, no women were more oppressed than women of color, and their stories are buried even deeper than those of the few celebrity suffragists who make it into stock history lessons. "Roses and Radicals" and "Votes for Women" both remind us of this fact through the inclusion of Sojourner Truth's 1851 "Ain't I a Woman" speech at a women's rights meeting in Akron, Ohio. "Truth was demanding that her listeners understand that women's rights weren't merely a matter for white women," Zimet writes. There are listeners today who still need help understanding this. Imagine if the most fundamental realities of women's intersecting identities were taken into consideration in history class. One woman of color in particular is at the center of Amy Hill Hearth's streetcar to JUSTICE: How Elizabeth Jennings Won the Right to Ride in New York (HarperCollins, 160 pp., $19.99; ages 8 to 12). In 1854, a century before Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on a Montgomery bus, there was Jennings's defiant bravery on a streetcar in the Five Points neighborhood of New York. Wrapped up in Hearth's detailing of Jennings's courage is a sobering recognition that the shame of our nation's history was widespread. Slavery wasn't restricted to the South. In fact, New York City itself was home to a municipal slave market until 1762. Writing with a compassionate handholding tone perhaps best suited for readers on the younger end of the book's suggested age range, Hearth reminds us that Jennings was not only blocked from riding in a streetcar, she also faced institutionalized obstacles. "For blacks, both boys and girls, the road to success was blocked by the color of their skin," she explains. "Only a very few managed to break through the barriers, and when they did, they still were not considered equal to whites." Things hadn't improved much nearly 100 years later, during the time that Melba Pattillo Beals writes about in her shocking autobiography, MARCH FORWARD, GIRL: From Young Warrior to Little Rock Nine (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 224 pp., $16.99; ages 10 and up). This book looks at Beals's younger years, before she was part of the Little Rock Nine who integrated Central High School (as she recounts in her best-selling "Warriors Don't Cry"). In empathetic yet unflinching prose respectful of younger readers, Beals depicts the nightmarish way the KKK held sway over the lives of black people. "The first thing I remember about being a person living in Little Rock, Ark., during the 1940s is the gut-wrenching fear in my heart and tummy that I was in danger," she begins. "By age 3, I realized the culture of this small town in the Deep South was such that the color of my skin framed the entire scope of my life." Beals candidly details the origins of her activism, as her fear transforms into rage over the passivity of the tormented adults who felt they could do nothing. There is in this new book even more untold history, more pain, outright terror and forgotten bravery, and yet so little has changed. It's thrilling to think of girls and young women immersed in not just history-book bullet points, but entire chapters fleshing out the stories of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Elizabeth Jennings. Previously, a curious child might have found these depictions in the pages of a dusty encyclopedia, and only if she knew where to look. We have been denied the full reality of our past, both its injustices and its secret heroes. It is still true that the road to success is blocked by both skin color and gender. Each victory in these pages is hung with the spoiler alert that we have yet to pass the Equal Rights Amendment. These books are an assertion of the female narrative, containing anger about the past, while arming a new generation with information they need to create a hopeful future. As Zimet writes in "Roses and Radicals," one thing is certain: "No matter what happens, the fight for women's rights continues." LAUREN DUCA is a columnist at Teen Vogue and has contributed to The New Yorker, The Nation and other publications.


School Library Journal Review

Gr 6 Up-Now in her seventies, Beals recalls growing up in Little Rock, AR, before she became one of the Little Rock Nine, an experience she penned earlier in Warriors Don't Cry. In this latest, Beals describes how as early as age three, she questioned the fear and constant oppression of black people by whites and the U.S. legal system. "I sensed from the very first moment of consciousness that I was living in a place where I was not welcome." Beals remembers such indignities as being locked for hours in a pantry by her grandmother's white employer, and being besieged by angry police while using a department store bathroom for whites as her grandmother begged forgiveness. She also details a horrifying episode when Ku Klux Klan members barged into her church service, barricaded the doors, and lynched a congregant from the church rafters. As a preteen, Beals narrowly escaped being raped by Klan men who found her alone alongside the road and drove her to a gathering in the woods. These horrendous experiences, contrasted with the love and support of her family and community, shaped Beals's determination to volunteer for the integration program that would cement her legacy as a beacon of civil rights. An epilog provides a synopsis of the Little Rock Nine, and black-and-white childhood photos and illustrations by Morrison appear throughout. VERDICT Beal's recollection of white oppression and her rise above it will haunt readers. A must-read for teens. -Vicki Reutter, State University of New York at Cortland © Copyright 2017. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Kirkus Review

One of the Little Rock Nine describes her childhood in the years leading up to the 1957 event.Beals' moving adult memoir, Warriors Don't Cry (1994), painted a harrowing portrait of her experience as one of the African-American students who integrated Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas. Here she shares her memories of growing up in the segregated South and what led her to challenge Jim Crow laws. She describes a warm, loving family environment where church and education were highly valued. These positives are not always enough to outweigh the darkness she feels from witnessing and experiencing racism from whites in stores or even those doing business in and around her home. There are episodes involving the Ku Klux Klan and even the lynching of a family acquaintance, experiences that leave Beals with a desire for justice and an abhorrence of the treatment of blacks at the hands of whites. When she is among those chosen to integrate Central High School, the determination she needs has been building for years. This narrative is told in a conversational tone, full of personal stories and remembrances. Beals pinpoints clearly the injustices and pain of her early years and shows how they prepared her for the challenges of making history, intertwining these stories with more personal coming-of-age recollections. Archival photographs and Morrison's drawings punctuate the pages. (Final art not seen.)A valuable addition to the stories of life in Jim Crow America. (Memoir. 10-16) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.


Excerpts

Excerpts

CHAPTER 1 I'll Figure It Out Later THE FIRST THING I REMEMBER about being a person living in Little Rock, Arkansas, during the 1940s is the gut-wrenching fear in my heart and in my tummy that I was in danger. I didn't know why exactly, but clouds of dread engulfed me every evening when day turned to night. I sensed from the very first moment of consciousness that I was living in a place where I was not welcome. By age three, I realized the culture of this small town in the Deep South was such that the color of my skin framed the entire scope of my life. It brought with it many ground rules designed to imprison and control everyone who was not white.      Of the eighty-eight thousand residents, sixty-six thousand were white, while twenty-two thousand were black. The white people and the black people lived in separate worlds that seemed to intersect only when absolutely necessary. My big questions from the beginning were "Who set up my community that way and why?" and "Why do whites get more privileges than we do--more houses, more books, more pets, and more food, more merchandise in all the downtown stores, all the police officers and firefighters, and all the transportation?" Even the city buses belonged to them.      When I felt frightened and overwhelmed, which was often, I would clench my fists so hard that my knuckles would hurt. Then I would press my open hands into my sides as hard as I could. I would let go and do it again and again until I felt in control of the terror bubbling inside me.      In order to feel safe, I always wanted to stay at home with my mother, Lois; my grandma, India; my papa, Will; and my baby brother, Conrad. Sometimes I stayed in my own room with my Raggedy Ann doll, who I called Mellie, my other stuffed animals, and my books. It was the only place I felt totally safe, as if I belonged; there was love and good in that small world for me. There was nobody there to be mean to me and call me nigger.      Our home was welcoming and cozy. There were always aromas of tasty dishes, flowers cut from our backyard in vases, doilies that Grandma India crocheted on tables, and squares of tapestry she had made on the walls. Tattered but freshly swept carpets covered the highly polished hardwood floors, and the rooms were filled with antique velvet-covered chairs inherited from my great-grandma. Grandma always hummed as she baked, especially when she prepared gingerbread men or coconut cake. I always felt loved, protected, and wanted by all the adults in my life.      On most days, my brother and I stayed in the house, pretending we were other people by dressing up or playing with paper dolls, puzzles, and blocks. When Grandma was outside, we followed her into the gated backyard, where we rolled around with our big red wagon and helped her water all the plants.      Come four o'clock in the afternoon, Grandma would let me go with her to the garden in the rear of the backyard to water what she called her four-o'clock plants. Often, I would stand beside her and wrap my hand in her freshly starched housedress as the water sprayed in my face. I never knew why she called them four-o'clocks; still I would remember for the rest of my life that this was the best time of my day. I waited for that watering all day because I could often have Grandma to myself. I felt the most akin to her because I resembled her more than I did my mother. She stood tall, with a medium body, and black curls about her shoulders. Her complexion was the same golden brown as mine. She made it okay for me when other people called me "big for my age" or said, "She's very dark skinned compared to her mother."      Garden time was a time when I could tell Grandma all the things--even the secret things--I was thinking about that I could not tell other people. I could ask her about what I didn't understand in the world. It was a time I could ask her where God lived. People were always talking of God, and I wanted to know where exactly He was. I wanted to go visit Him in heaven to ask Him what was going on and why we had to be treated so badly by white people. When would it end? I could ask Grandma questions like "Who is God? I don't really see Him. Is God stronger than the white people? Could He teach them to share with us?"      She would always end our talks in the garden with "That's enough for today. A wee one like you doesn't have space in her head for more deep thoughts. I don't understand why you choose to talk about all these topics. You have too much worrying in your head, baby. You're like a baby warrior! What about the joy of being a baby--about dolls and teddy bears? Let's think about other things. How about helping me with dinner, young lady?"      I would hold my breath, unclench my fists, and wait for tomorrow. She was my very best friend and someone who always filled me with hope. Sometimes later in the afternoon, we would listen to classical music, and Papa Will would sit on the big green velvet chair in the living room. I'd sit on his lap, and he would read to me, teach me my multiplication tables, or put together a puzzle. Often he would tell me about his sisters and brother and their life on a farm. His father was a minister, as were his uncles and many cousins. My Uncle Ben was a traveling minister.      I always felt safe when I was with Papa because to me he was as tall as the sky. He had broad shoulders and dark golden brown skin that was much like mine, as well as wavy black hair. No one was as big and protective as he was; no one ever made me feel safer than he did.      Mother Lois would come home by five every afternoon from her job at Baptist College. Some nights she would gather her books, take the chicken or peanut butter sandwich that Grandma handed her, and head out to the University of Arkansas, where she was taking classes for a bigger, higher degree--something called a master's degree. I didn't know what it really meant but figured it must be huge because she had so many heavy books. She said she would get a better teaching job and earn more money with that degree.      If Mother was studying at the kitchen table, with its chrome top and red leather chairs, I would sit at the table with her and turn the pages to look for words that I knew and pictures, which were most often not there. She would pick out a word and tell me what it meant--words like pedagogy and phenomenon . I would always giggle because I thought, Now I know something that none of my friends know.      "Dinner is served," Grandma would call. "Melba Joy, sit down, fold your hands, and let's say our prayers to thank God for the food we have!"      My favorite time of day was always dinner, when each of us was around the wooden table in the dining room, with warm aromas escaping from the hot dishes in the center. Grandma usually made fresh biscuits and vegetables for us even when we were only having a tiny speck of meat. Blessings, lemonade and milk, and laughter surrounded us in a joyful bubble.      On Sundays, we would have a new roast chicken for dinner. The meal would also include potatoes and a vegetable. By Thursday nights, the Sunday chicken that Grandma had roasted was down to a few threads in the soup we would eat. Yes, it was the same chicken we'd had all week, but with all the spices she added, she could make the soup smell and taste like something new and draw me to the kitchen. On Friday nights, we would have fish, and then on Saturday, we would have tuna fish casserole with green peas. We would all sit together laughing and talking and loving each other across the table. It was during these times that the world seemed perfect to me.      I just wished the white people would disappear in a puff of smoke somewhere forever.      Next was the family cleanup and a lesson of one kind or another--the alphabet, math, poems, or memorizing the sequence of the presidents of the United States in the order they served.      After study time, Grandma would say, "Find your pajamas and get a washbasin and take it to the bathroom. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. Start from the top down. Wash down as far as possible and then wash possible."      As Conrad got a little older, he would race me to the washbasin in the sink. If I lost, that meant I had to go get the washbowl off the back porch. Then we could bathe in our one bathroom as long as we had our backs to each other and kept the door open. We had only the one bathroom, but I was grateful that it was indoors. Some of my friends did not have that privilege, and had to go outside to use the bathroom, no matter what the weather was.      If we had finished our baths and were ready for bed well before eight, it was story time, but we had to be in bed by eight o'clock. One of the three adults would read to us. My mother told me she had read to me when I was in the womb before I was born. By age four, I was overjoyed every night to be cuddling on the bed and listening silently. When Conrad was old enough to join me, it was even better.      After story time, though, huge fears took me over. The Ku Klux Klan was a group of people responsible for much of my evening dread. Just after reading time ended, either on weekends or when we got word of trouble, Mother and Grandma would begin the ritual I watched for my entire childhood. They would close the windows, draw all the curtains and cover them with black cloth, dim the lights, and silence the radio. It brought a terror to my body that descended like a cloud and stalled anything I might otherwise do. It made me run and hide in closets, cry, and hold my breath.      "God is everywhere, and we all belong to God. He is the world," Grandma would reassure me. "He is stronger than the Ku Klux Klan. He loves us. Nothing happens to us that He doesn't want to happen."      That would always leave questions hanging in the air for me, though. "Does he want all this bad stuff to happen to brown people? Why? What have we done to deserve this treatment?"      There also came a time that when I laid my head on the pillow, I had extra worries even on top of the Klan, because I'd noticed that Mother and Papa Will were not as friendly toward each other as they had once been. They did not laugh together, hold hands, or tell jokes to each other as they had done before. The last thing I wanted was what had happened to some of my friends' families: a divorce. It worried me, and I tried to figure out what to do. When I talked to Grandma about it, she said, "Pray." We lived on a corner of Cross Street in a four-bedroom house. Cross Street was paved, lined with small pretty white houses and many colored shutters. Sometimes working white men in their uniforms or their navy striped suits drove up and down the gravel road that ran alongside our yard, making the dust and small rocks grind under their wheels. It was a thriving thoroughfare, but if white strangers doing business came along the road during daylight, we were warned not to speak to them. It made me sad when Mexican farm workers were transported along that same road, like cattle packed in the backs of trucks, calling out to us to please marry them and rescue them.      Our street was a quiet one, with respectful neighbors who were friendly, attentive, and churchgoing on Sundays. There was Mr. Major, the plumber; Miss Austine, the hairdresser; Miss Brooks, the nurse; Mr. Elders, the dentist; and a whole array of kind working folks. Like almost all women in our community, my grandmother was a maid in a white woman's kitchen or at the Marion Hotel. My mother was a librarian at Baptist College and sometimes taught classes at other schools. Papa was a hostler's helper at the Missouri Pacific Railroad.      The people in my community always greeted my brother and me with smiles and hugs, telling us how smart and precious we were.      Sometimes during the afternoon or on Saturday, we would have friends our age--Caroline, Betty Ray, Clark, or Robert--and their mothers over to play. We didn't have lots of friends, as Mother wouldn't let us go visit others. She said home was always the safest place to be. Our friends, also around age three and four, lived a block away. Their mothers would visit with the adults, and I'd always hide and listen to them talk about our world and what white people preferred.      At times, though, I feared the visits from any other adults who would come to talk to Mother, Papa, and Grandma about what was going on outside our community. I listened in as they discussed their thoughts and tried to figure out what life-threatening activities the Ku Klux Klan might have planned for that night or the next in our neighborhood.      Grandma had explained to me that the Klan was a bunch of white men. They were law-abiding city officials by day. But by night, they put on white sheets and masks, carried fiery crosses, and did lots of evil things to our people. Sometimes they even killed a member of my community to punish him or her for being what they called "uppity." Sometimes the murders would happen for no reason at all . . . just for sporting fun.      Many of the violent, frightening things that happened to us happened after dark. I had learned early on that as long as I stayed in the places where our people were allowed to go and I didn't venture outside our community, everything seemed okay. That was, until nighttime.      Mother Lois and Grandma India spent a lot of time talking to neighbors and friends and sharing frightening stories of things the KKK were doing: taking away our people's jobs, taking away our cars, beating us, yelling at us, threatening to kill people, and yes, actually killing someone if the person did something the white people thought was disrespectful.      My little brother, Conrad, didn't understand that we were treated differently, because he was too young, but I did. It seemed to me that the grownups must have thought they could say anything out loud in front of me and I wouldn't really understand what they were talking about because I was so little. They were wrong. I took in every word, and I spent all my waking hours listening closely to the adult talk, trying to figure out their words, what they meant, and why they never spoke up, and pondering my world. How did I get here? How long did I have to stay? I imagined there must be places beyond Arkansas where my folks were treated better.      I kept secrets about how much I understood of our world. Early on, I could tell that the white people in Little Rock believed we had to do whatever they wanted us to do. I told myself that it must be that God liked them better than us. They treated us like they owned us. Whatever they said was taken as something to be heeded by my people, who repeatedly analyzed it and struggled to precisely obey their wishes. Everything they said was like a warning that if we did anything they considered wrong or said anything rebellious, bad things would happen. Everything they didn't like was punishable. Their personal opinions ruled us--there seemed to be no authority in charge to direct them as to what was fair.      The terror that this caused would haunt me all my young years. Excerpted from March Forward, Girl: From Young Warrior to Little Rock Nine by Melba Patillo Beals All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.


Table of Contents

Prefacep. vi
Chapter 1 I'll figure it out latterp. 1
Chapter 2 When fear comes homep. 14
Chapter 3 Black is an Inconvenient colorp. 21
Chapter 4 A head full of questionsp. 31
Chapter 5 A Church full of angelsp. 37
Chapter 6 Rules of my survivalp. 50
Chapter 7 Dimming the light of my dreamp. 62
Chapter 8 Into the real world outsidep. 73
Chapter 9 I'm not alonep. 85
Chapter 10 Becoming a real studentp. 91
Chapter 11 The world is my birthday giftp. 99
Chapter 12 Hope that the world can be minep. 111
Chapter 13 Blessedp. 123
Chapter 14 Santa is in townp. 134
Chapter 15 Television and bomb sheltersp. 141
Chapter 16 Finding my piece of the piep. 148
Chapter 17 Angel in a white sheetp. 156
Chapter 18 Who is Jim Crow?p. 171
Chapter 19 My life forges aheadp. 177
Chapter 20 Marching forwardp. 189
Epiloguep. 201
Note to Readersp. 212
Acknowledgmentsp. 213