Source Pg. 9 & 10

her being there.  I looked over my shoulder to see the group of mothers standing still, obviously unwilling to come after me with a school official at my side.  I choked back tears and speeded my steps.
   "Hello, honey, welcome.  We're just beginning.  I'm Mrs. Pickwick."  The warm voice of the tiny dark-haired woman comforted me.  Although she was petite, I quickly discovered that my shorthand teacher was definitely not one to tolerate any hanky-panky.  When students moved away from me, hurling insults, she gave them a stern reprimand.  "If you move, you move to the office and see the principal," she said without so much as a hint of compromise in her voice.
   As I headed for the last row of empty seats by the window, she called to me, "Melba, stay away from the window."  Her voice was sympathetic, as though she really cared what happened to me.  As I turned back to follow her orders, I caught a glimpse of the crowd across the street from the front of the school.  I was so transfixed by the sight, I couldn't move.  The ocean of people stretched farther than I could see - waves of people ebbing and flowing, shoving the sawhorses and the policemen who were trying to keep them in place.  There were lots of uniformed policemen, but the crowd must have outnumbered them a hundredfold.  Every now and then, three or four people broke through and dashed across the street toward the front of the school.  The police would run after them.
   "Melba, please take your seat."
   Slowly, reluctantly, I turned away and stumbled to my seat.  As I sat there, trying to focus on the shorthand book before me, I could hear some of the things the crowd was shouting.  "Get the niggers," and "Two, four, six, eight, we ain't gonna integrate."
   Although I could not erase the images or the sounds of those people outside, somehow Mrs. Pickwick was so sincere and determined to be as normal as possible that I actually listened to what she had to say about shorthand.  I even managed to draw several shorthand characters on my tablet as the noise got louder and louder.  I looked up from my notes to see my guide entering the door.  She wore a frown and was red-faced and perspiring.  Something was awfully wrong.  It was written all over her face.
   "Come with me, now.  To the principal's office," she called our nervously.  This time she collected my books and shoved them into my arms.  I walked even faster than before.  We were almost running.  "Don't stop for anything," she shouted at me over the noise.
   As I followed her through an inner office past very official-looking white men, I was alarmed by the anxious expressions on their faces.  I was led to an adjoining anteroom - a small office, where some of the eight had gathered.  Two of the girls were crying.  I stood near the door, which was ajar enough so that although I could not see who was speaking, I could hear much of the men's conversations.  I heard their frantic tone of voice, heard them say the mob was out of control, that they would have to call for help.  "What are we gonna do about the nigger children?" asked one.
"The crowd is moving fast.  They've broken the barricades.  These kids are trapped in here."
   "Good Lord, you're right," another voice said.  "We may have to let the mob have one of these kids, so's we can distract them long enough to get the others out."

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