Jackson Free Press

When I was at Neshoba Central back in the 1970s, I would get called to the office quite a bit. The students around me would look at each other, cutting their eyes from side to side. "What has she done now?" was the question hanging in the air. I was editor of our school newspaper (which was printed in the Neshoba Democrat), and one of my mentor/instigators was Ms. Oneida Hodges, who dressed all in black and encouraged me to sing my opinions at the tops of my non-conformist little lungs.

So I'd get into trouble. When one of my writers took a swipe at the cafeteria food, the cafeteria ladies complained. Another time, I wrote the "con" in a pro-con piece about whether kids should work while in high school. (I had a job myself; no choice.)

The shop teacher complained, and I had to go reassure his class that I didn't hold their hard-working selves in contempt. (I seem to remember holding out my hands, calloused from scrubbing pizza pans at Pasquale's in solidarity. If I didn't, I should have.)

When the office called for me over the loudspeaker, I would go down to principal Jim Hardy's office, and he would close the door. The office ladies, with their humongous hair and Tammy Faye make-up, would raise their eyebrows at my latest scolding.

Once inside, though, Mr. Hardy relaxed, and so did I. He would then tell me in passing what the latest complaint was about me, if there was one. Then we'd get to the real stuff—the lessons about race that he was determined for me to learn.

Like so many Mississippi public schools, my school was forced to integrate over Christmas break 1969-70. It wasn't nearly as chaotic as the rumor mill had anticipated; The New York Times showed up; the Black Panthers didn't. By then, Neshoba County had suffered its 15 minutes of racist fame; the last thing residents wanted were more TV cameras capturing their curious, horrifying way of life.

Mr. Hardy became the high school principal, with Mr. McKinney as his assistant principal. Mr. Hardy was white, and Mr. McKinney was black, from "Carver," or "the colored school," one of the nicer things white people called it back then.

But although integration day went as smoothly as could be expected in a state where blacks and whites were terrified of each other—and taught their kids to be—the problems, of course, were not resolved overnight. And even as an uneasy truce began to set in with the realization that Jim Crow was over, lips were quickly sealed about just how bad it had been. Suddenly, we had young whites in what I like to call the "transitional generation" growing up amid adults who were so ashamed of the past that they didn't talk about it. Ever.

Of course, we didn't learn the Civil Rights Movement in history class. (That just started happening last year, I believe.) We young whites didn't know what we didn't know—and there was so much. We didn't know how violent our people had been against blacks; we didn't know about red-lining and every effort to keep blacks from gaining wealth and good education; we didn't know the Citizens Council boycotted white businesses that wanted to allow integration; we didn't know that the lies about African Americans being violent were told by people who, as a race, had hunted them down and killed them when they were "uppity," or had condoned it with their silence. We didn't know.

But Jim Hardy wanted to make sure that I knew. I don't know why exactly; was it because I seemed eager to talk about race (or anything else controversial); was it because I sat with black friends in the cafeteria, as did many of our group; was it because I asked the librarians for materials on our state's race history (and they didn't have much to give me)?

He would lean back in his chair, stroking his chin, and tell me how tough it had been. He told me his frustration with the need to elect a "homecoming queen" and an "afro queen." He talked about how we had to stop having proms because school-board members didn't want the races mixing on the dance floor (we had a banquet in the gym; then blacks and whites went their separate ways). He told me that when Ms. Hodges' husband first came to coach the basketball team, the board didn't want five black players on the court at once, even if they were the best players.

I thought of him Sunday watching Mississippi State and Memphis battle in Little Rock and how the sports race barrier was the first one to break, even as others have stayed.

But Mr. Hardy taught me something more. He taught me what faith looked like. He helped me to believe that it was possible to overcome the barriers that he and I and other white people had in front of us, to get past the hate that had been fed to us in our baby bottles. He taught me that we need knowledge—all kinds of knowledge, even about what white high school principals are going through on a daily basis.

As I sat listening to him, in a bit of a daze because I didn't completely understand why he was telling little-ole-me all this, I got an image of a man with courage who believed in working within the system to make things better. Along with Mr. McKinney, who would become his best friend, Mr. Hardy was worried about the educational disparities that were already in place between the previously all-white school and the lesser-funded black schools. He was worried about teacher retention. He was concerned about losing families to private academies where kids would only go to school with those of their skin color.

(And you can bet they wouldn't be taught much about red-lining and economic discrimination in those schools, regardless of how college "prep" they were.)

Mr. Hardy did me one of the biggest favors anyone has ever done for me. He respected me enough to talk up to me, not down. He inspired me with the hope that individuals can make a difference. He taught me that disparities are often based on real historic inequalities. And he showed me a man who knew he had to learn from beyond his frame of reference in order to help the world move into the better future that he believed in and prayed for.

Mr. Hardy taught me how vital it was, and is, to talk about racism in America. In 2000, he would tell me about his respect for Mr. McKinney: "I learned from him what really did go on, the other side."

I first felt the audacity of hope sitting in Mr. Hardy's office. It took years for his gift to fully make sense, but now I know what he gave me—permission to defy my heritage and make new choices. Bless him for that.

Previous Comments

ID

76549

Comment

Wonderful story, Donna. Where are Mr. Hardy and Mr. McKinney now?

Author

LatashaWillis

Date

2008-03-27T08:00:51-06:00

ID

76550

Comment

I was in the first grad when integration ocurred in West Point, MS in 1969. I loved your story. Has anyone written anything comprehensive on the experiences of those children and staff (besides the Little Rock nine) who went through integration in MS in 1969?

Author

FreeClif

Date

2008-03-27T08:08:33-06:00

ID

76551

Comment

There were many children who played an important role in changing the south. There was a teenage mother who refused to sit in the white part of the bus in Alabama before rosa parks did, but they chose to organize around ms. parks rather than the teenager because they felt it would be better to focus on a more "respectable" member of the community.

Author

FreeClif

Date

2008-03-27T10:35:09-06:00

ID

76552

Comment

Whitley, did the teenage mother get arrested for what she did?

Author

LatashaWillis

Date

2008-03-27T11:44:50-06:00

ID

76553

Comment

I am fairly certain that she did. It has been a few years since I read an article about it.

Author

FreeClif

Date

2008-03-27T13:38:11-06:00

ID

76554

Comment

Her name was Claudette Colvin. This is an informative article about her: http://www.guardian.co.uk/weekend/story/0,3605,411932,00.html

Author

FreeClif

Date

2008-03-27T13:43:57-06:00

ID

76555

Comment

Colvin's case instructs not only about racism, but also about sexism and classism. She was considered a morally inferior candidate to rally around when in fact she was poor and a victim of statutory rape!

Author

FreeClif

Date

2008-03-27T13:53:23-06:00

ID

76556

Comment

"Victim" of statutory rape is the wrong phrasing. By definition, statutory rape is consensual. If it were not, it would be rape.

Author

QB

Date

2008-03-27T15:02:34-06:00

ID

76557

Comment

Main Entry: statutory rape Function: noun : rape consisting of sexual intercourse with a person beneath an age (as 14 years) specified by statute NOTE: Many state statutes also specify a minimum age of the perpetrator or an age differential (as at least four years) between the perpetrator and the victim. Consent of the victim and belief that the victim is of the age of consent are usually considered immaterial. Statutory rape is now codified under various names, such as rape in the second degree rape in the third degree unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor, and criminal sexual conduct in the second degree. Merriam-Webster's Dictionary of Law, © 1996 Merriam-Webster, Inc. Fat harry, the reason its called rape is because if you have sex with a 14 year-old she is not considered legally able TO GIVE CONSENT. It is sex without legally recognized consent.

Author

FreeClif

Date

2008-03-27T15:27:00-06:00

ID

76558

Comment

Donna, I'm writing a book about school integration in Neshoba County; I graduated Philly in 1966, and my sister was at Possum Hollow when you were at Goat Hall. Could you and I have an off-the-blog conversation about your memories of those first years out at NCHS?

Author

footsy

Date

2008-03-27T21:31:59-06:00