Because We Are

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Praise for the Writing of Mildred Pitts Walter

Because We Are

A Coretta Scott King Honor Book

A Parents' Choice Award Book for Literature

“Walter draws readers into a complex situation with finely paced writing, good integration of themes, and an understanding of the feelings of young men and women.” —
School Library Journal

The Girl on the Outside

A Christian Science Monitor Best Book

A Notable Children's Trade Book in the Field of Social Studies

“[Walter] re-creates the tenor of the times from both black and white perspectives and gives the incident immediacy for today's younger teens …” —
Booklist

“We are moved … by the courage required of these children and their parents …” —
School Library Journal

“A moving, dramatic re-creation of the 1957 integration of a Little Rock high school as seen through the eyes of a black girl and a white girl.” —
Booklist

“A vivid story … written with insight and compassion, its characters fully developed, its converging lines nicely controlled.” —
Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books

Second Daughter

“Based on a real case, this admirable historical novel is unique for the perspective it lends to the Revolution and its profound impact on the lives of all Americans.” —
Kirkus Reviews

Trouble's Child

A Coretta Scott King Honor Book

“Walter immerses readers in Martha's internal struggle, holding their attention to the last page. The quickly paced text utilizes the native dialect, further adding to the aura of the isolated island setting as Walter shows how ritual and superstition dominate.… While Martha's particular problems are unique, adolescent readers will easily empathize with her predicament of feeling confused by the pull from so many different directions at this stage of life.” —
School Library Journal

Because We Are

Mildred Pitts Walter

To my young friends:

Brenda, Craig, Eric, Jerry
,

Jill, John, Lloyd, Michele
,

Ronald, Ruby, Sheryl, and Vinita

One

A Santa Ana wind blew in from the San Gabriel Mountains. The grounds at Marlborough High School were deserted that hot October noonday as Emma made her way toward the cafeteria. She moved quickly, a smile on her face, feeling pleased with herself. She had just been told she had been elected to the National Honor Society. Everything was falling into place. A scholarship to a major university would surely come; the words
Emma Walsh, M.D
. flashed in her mind, and now the Golden Slippers would certainly want her as a debutante. She felt a sudden rush of excitement. Did she really want to be a deb? Don't be silly, she told herself. Who wouldn't want to be a Golden Slipper deb?

Should she break the news to her friends now, or just let it filter through the grapevine? Would the news that had made her so happy become another achievement for which she might have to apologize? Maybe she would tell Cheryl and Dee.

Inside the cool room, she paused to let her eyes adjust to the change in light. Marvin called to her, “Hey, Em, over here.”

As always she sensed that special joy on seeing him and the pleasure of being with friends in that section of the cafeteria where the Blacks gathered for lunch. She hurried through the hash line and started toward Marvin and her friends.

She passed those on the fringe of the main group. There was boisterous laughter; some people were practicing new dance steps around a group playing cards. “Hi, beautiful lady,” a boy shouted at Emma.

“Beautiful?” muttered a girl whom Emma recognized from her English Composition class. “Better say ‘white-girl lady.'” There was a burst of laughter.

Emma burned with shame and anger, but pretended she had not heard. It was well known that she maintained a four-point grade average, was the only Black on the student council, and that she had white friends. Would she forever have to prove her Blackness?

She placed her tray on the table where Marvin was seated with her main friends, Cheryl and Dee.

“Get up, Melanie, so Emma can sit next to Marvin,” Dee demanded.

“You don't belong at this table anyway,” Cheryl said.

“I belong wherever I want to be,” Melanie replied defensively. She left and began table hopping to prove her point that she moved back and forth between the groups.

Emma squeezed in beside Marvin. He kissed her cheek and grinned. “How's my woman?” he asked close to her ear.

Her skin prickled with delight, but, also, she felt a rush of shame. She hated his showing affection in front of everybody, even though he was a great basketball player, the school's hero—Marvelous Marv.

“Can't you see? She's
fine
, man.” Everybody laughed at Ron, a cello player, the only Black in the school orchestra. The laughter at her table, everybody in their section talking at once, the handslapping—all the body language—made her feel warm, safe, at home.

Then “white-girl lady” flashed in her mind, and she recalled that last year when she first joined Marvin at that table, all talking had stopped. She had not been welcomed there, either. “Oreo chick” they had named her. But with a few phrases at the right times in the right places, Emma had gradually proved her right to belong. On second thought she decided not to mention the National Honor Society award to anyone.

Marvin held his sandwich for her to take a bite. She accepted. He grinned at her and she settled comfortably to eat her lunch, again pleased with herself. Then she saw Ms. Simmons. The young English teacher had red hair coiled around her head; and her skin, too fair by California standards, was sprinkled with freckles. Emma caught Ms. Simmons' eye and saw a look of surprise.

“Emma Walsh!” Ms. Simmons called, then made her way toward the table.

“Your shadow, Emma,” Dee whispered.

“The long
white
shadow,” Cheryl muttered, and there was a burst of laughter.

Ms. Simmons ignored the laughter. “There's student council next period. I'd like to see you there.” She looked from one group to the next with obvious disapproval. “I hope we don't lose her to you people.”

There was silence at Emma's table. Emma felt anger rise in her. What the devil is she trying to pull? Acting like we're close—in front of my friends, yet. “What do you mean ‘lose' me?” Emma asked.

Ms. Simmons smiled. “Just want you to know we need you, Emma.” She went on her way.

Emma sat feeling the old shame and humiliation Ms. Simmons had a way of arousing in her. The mood at the table was poisoned, and Emma knew that the effects would spread beyond these cafeteria walls.

Reluctantly Emma left Cheryl and Dee at the table. Marvin's parting words whispered in her ear were: “OK, baby, get on. It's your being white time now.” She laughed. He should have to deal with student council, she thought, especially Danny. She hoped Danny would not be there today, slinging his long blond hair, telling his jokes and trying to impress her with his familiarity with “ghetto talk.”

The student council hall was alive with laughter when Emma arrived. Danny was there, as usual the center of attention. When Danny saw Emma, he shouted, “Hey, Karen, here's your
best
resource.” Turning to Emma, he said, “Karen has to write a paper about welfare. Why don't you help her out?”

“Why do you think I can help her?” Emma asked.

“Don't all y'all know 'bout welfare?”

Everybody laughed. Emma looked at Ms. Simmons. Ms. Simmons smiled and said, “All right, let's calm down so we can get to work; and remember we're lucky to have Emma. I was just reminding Emma that we need her. She's not only smart, but she's pretty, too.”

How could Ms. Simmons let Danny get away with that? Why does she have to always make me out so different? Get hold, Emma told herself, but she didn't have to take that. She smiled sweetly, bowed her head, and said, “Thank you, Ms. Simmons.” Then she walked out of the room, and slammed the door.

At seventh period, in Ms. Simmons' English Composition class, Emma found students around the teacher's desk, handing in papers. “Oh, my goodness,” she cried. What with a science report, extra math, and a history test, she had forgotten to do the assigned outline. She rushed to her seat to get something on paper. Too late. Ms. Simmons was up and down the aisles now, collecting papers.

“Ms. Walsh?”

Ms. Walsh?
I'm in trouble, Emma thought. She's gone all formal: “Just one minute, Ms. Simmons,” Emma pleaded.

Ms. Simmons stood by Emma's desk. “You can't make it on past performance, you know. I am disappointed in you, Emma. You have great potential.”

“You don't know me,” Emma said without looking up.

“I know you've done excellent work heretofore, and with your background—”

“You don't know a thing about me, my potential,
or
my background, so … just forget it.” Emma tried to control her anger. “I'll turn in the outline before the day is over, OK?”

Ms. Simmons flushed under her freckles, patted the coil on her head, then pressed her hands on Emma's desk. “You
are
an outstanding student; you have leadership ability. You could be in the mainstream, Emma.”

Emma glanced at the other Black in her class, the one who had called her the “white-girl lady.” Suddenly there was the moment with Ms. Simmons in the cafeteria and again in the council hall—that humiliation. She straightened her back and turned her head sharply away from Ms. Simmons, her lips pouting.