Thru the Eyes of Ruby

It’s my third day of kindergarten at William Frantz.

The first day, I thought I was in a parade. These four big men walked with me. Mama said they’re US Marshals. Here in New Orleans, we have a Grand Marshal leading Mardi Gras parades. People throw things and make lots of noise, just like they did for me.

Mama was with me that first day. I took a test that placed me and two other colored students at William Frantz.

I’m good at reading and arithmetic. Mama works with me. We take turns reading pages to each other every night before bed. I don’t always know all the words, but I try to sound them out because I wanna know what happens next. We just finished this book called Charlotte’s Web that made me cry over a spider—and I ain’t never liked bugs. Anyways, those two other kids didn’t show. Only me.

Me and Mama sat in the principal’s office that first day. We sat there ‘til the final bell rang. There was a whole lot of commotion in the halls. That means people making noise. When I make too much noise with my friends in the neighborhood, Mama asks, “What’s all that commotion?” I thought it must have something to do with the parade, but Mama looked so sad.

Next day we went back with the Marshals. All the people were back, screaming again. Someone shouted at me. They yelled that nasty word for colored people that I’m never to say.

It didn’t seem like any parade I ever saw. A woman was holding a baby doll with dark skin like mine, but the doll was in one of those boxes they put dead people in when they bury them. I couldn’t hear everything she was saying, but I heard “poison” and “kill you.”

I met my teacher. She took me to my classroom, but no classmates were there. I found out those loud people outside the school and in the halls were parents. They didn’t want their children near me, so they pulled them out of school and hollered about it. They wanted segregation. That means separated into groups based on skin color.

Mama cried last night. She didn’t want me to hear, but I eavesdropped. That means I put my ear up to the wall and listened. Even Daddy is scared for me.

Mama couldn’t come with me today. She has to stay home with my younger siblings. The Marshals wouldn’t let Daddy drop me off before work. They said he’d get too angry, and do something bad. They said they’d keep me safe.

I’m not scared.

My teacher is nice. And I don’t want segregation. I don’t want the bad people to win ‘cause they threw a fit. Mama says to me, “You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.”

I said prayers last night, more for Mama than me. I feel pretty in my white dress. I keep my head high and I walk with the Grand Marshals.

It wasn’t no parade, but I can pretend. I can pretend they’re celebrating me. Maybe someday they will.

The Bible says, “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.” That means when people are watching you with ill will, you’ll be blessed before their eyes. Mama taught me that. She said it’s best to worry about yourself, because God makes a positive example of people who are focused.

I look straight ahead when I pass the poison-kill-you lady. The sun shines the soft gold Daddy calls “buttery.” It shines on me.

It’s my third day of kindergarten at William Frantz.