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Selected Stories
Integration 1964
By Nancy Khare
At two a.m. there was a knock at the door. I wiggled out of bed, groggy and still half asleep in a sense of hazy expectation. A large black man, a stranger, greeted me. I invited him in and showed him the couch where he could sleep.
Okay, okay—I knew he was coming.
My husband was out of town that night and he had told me that his friend would be passing through. I could expect him and should prepare a bed for him. Brij would be returning in the morning.
I confess I had some trepidation about this, letting a man I had never met into our house in the middle of the night while I was alone. My husband did not seem to think this was unusual and I knew he would never expect me to do anything that might bring me harm.
The fact was, Brij knew Mr. Tollerson would probably have difficulty securing a motel room in our town. This was Columbia, Missouri in 1964.
Tandy Tollerson was teaching at the all-black Southern University New Orleans. He had told Brij of a vacancy in the political science department and encouraged him to apply for it. Brij was ready to take a break from graduate school before beginning his dissertation and this was a chance to earn some money and gain experience in teaching—an opportunity he could not resist.
I didn’t mind harboring Tandy for the night, and when we said goodbye, it never occurred to me that he would eventually become one of my teachers and mentors.
About eight months later we were now settled in New Orleans. Everything was smooth but there was tension in the air; something was brewing. The ominous signs of segregation were fast disappearing.
I am not an activist. But I could not understand how segregation had lasted so long. The Civil War had ended over a hundred years before, yet a chunk of Americans were still not full partners in our nation and I saw this as a sin against humanity and God. But it was time to stop sermonizing and to put my money where my mouth was!
Mrs. Macgregor, a local teacher, was committed to raising public consciousness by running for the Orleans Parish School Board. She had served as a missionary in Africa and had become a civil rights activist by taking a stand at the ballot box.
At least twenty years my senior, Mrs. Macgregor was going to begin by integrating the all-black Southern University New Orleans. She became the first white person to seek enrollment there by initiating a friendly suit through the court and then enrolled in an advanced chemistry class, opening the way for me to join her during the second semester of the 1964-65 academic year. I enrolled in Tandy Tollerson’s American Government class. We were the first two white students to study at SUNO. We were reverse Integration Warriors!
There were twenty three students in the American Government class. With my ultra fair skin and blonde hair, I was hard to miss, but the other students appeared oblivious to my presence. I was not a very studious pupil but I did maintain perfect attendance.
As the final exam approached, Mr. Tollerson emphatically stated there would not be any make-up exams. His made it clear that we were to show up or fail!
On exam day, I awakened with an unrelenting migraine headache, the kind that in that past had confined me to a darkened room for two days. But I dared not succumb. Tandy Tollerson would not allow any excuses.
I wished that I could detach my head and place it in a bowl of water, but I faced the exam and plowed through to the final question, an essay, about filibusters. I had no idea what a filibuster was.
I never said I was a diligent student despite my perfect attendance. But this time I was struggling to hold my head up without vomiting and as I reread the question, I realized that I didn’t even know enough to bluff a coherent response.
My original goal had not necessarily been to “learn,” but to fulfill my mission to integrate SUNO. And very much against my will and in full blown physical misery, I was confronted by the mysterious filibuster.
Of course, I failed the exam. I was particularly mortified since Tandy was a colleague and personal friend of my husband. Brij later told Tandy how sick I was and Tandy causally responded that I didn’t need to come to class in that condition. His “no excuses accepted” apparently had been a bluff.
Even without the migraine, I would not have known what a filibuster was, although you can be sure that I subsequently found out. But one thing I did know. I had done my part in the struggle for integration
(Volume Two)
First Date
By Brenda La Vine
The first words I heard from his mouth were, “Need someone to shovel your walk, lady?”
It was a hot and sunny afternoon in June, and my blind date was standing on the stoop holding a shovel he had found under the steps. I knew immediately that he was not my type and that we certainly did not have the same sense of humor. I was forced to invite him in and I tried to be pleasant.
My mother and her closest friend had insisted we meet even though the last words I’d heard from him when I was home on spring break were: “If I can remember to turn my calendar pages, I’ll call you in June.” Needless to say, this was not an auspicious beginning.
How demure I was, a junior in college, in my lavender cotton dress with white collar and cuffs and white patent pumps. My short brown hair and carefully applied make-up were all in readiness for this twenty-nine year much older man. He was in jacket and tie, and seemed quite relaxed about our date. I, on the other hand, was my usual insecure self and was ready to end our “date” before it even started.
“Come on in,” I said, true to my tradition of eschewing confrontation.
“I’m Bob,” he said, as if he had to tell me, and walked into the living room. We chatted for a while and then he said he had made a reservation at a local restaurant. We walked to the car and he held the door open, which was the first positive sign of the evening. I’ve tried to remember what we talked about as we drove to the next town, but the years have made this part of the story rather vague. I do remember that we discussed baseball. I was an avid Brooklyn Dodger fan and he was a fan of the NY Yankees, the team I most hated.
He suggested that we go to the Mayfair Farms bar for a drink. “Okay,” I said, even though I had never before sat at a bar.
“What will you have?”
“Tom Collins,” I said, trying to sound suave. He had a Rob Roy, which seemed a very sophisticated drink to me. Most of the boys I had dated did not drink scotch but swigged their beers straight from the bottle.
Mayfair Farms was a charming well appointed restaurant. Beautiful spring flowers sat on heavy beige silk tablecloths, and the white china place settings were surrounded by Old English silver and ecru damask napkins.
The headwaiter brought us the menus and the next serious hurdle arose. What to order! I really didn’t want to order anything too expensive or too fattening. How many courses? Should I ask him what he was having? Even though I had been well educated at Vassar, my worldly skills left something to be desired.
I look back at this girl, who had often been taken to elegant restaurants by family and friends, who had gone to upscalecamps and summer schools, who had grown up with many privileges. How had she acquired so many doubts?
We ordered dinner and the evening progressed in a rather uneventful manner. We had desultory conversation, even though he managed to mention that he and his buddy had dated models. Was I supposed to be impressed by that? Another signal to me that our first date would be our last.
As we drove home, he told me about his retail business and the fact that he worked seven days a week and had only three nights off. I was still a rather sheltered college girl and found it hard to imagine the life of such hard work.
When we arrived at my house, he walked me to the door and said good-bye.
Mother was waiting in the den. “How did it go?”
“Well, he drinks scotch and likes the Yankees like Daddy.” I did not want to mention that I had no intention of seeing him again. She would have to explain to her friend Ruth that Brenda was being too picky again.
"Do you think he'll call you?”she asked.
"I doubt it, I said indifferently. I went into my room, undressed, and started to read. My summer vacation had started with a thud.
Much to my surprise, Bob called me on Tuesday and asked me out. I had no plans and moreover wanted my mother to be able to tell her friend that we were going out again. I could always endure one more dinner.
We were engaged six weeks later.
This is one of more than 100 stories by 31 writers in this anthology. To read the others, purchase the book at:
Archived Stories
Depression Trilogy Part 2 - by H.C, Klingman - July 2011
A Sad Story - by Marsha Wilchfort - June 2011
Veranda - by Lucia Leao - May 2010
Shadows - by Luciana Duce Dugan - April 2010
Dead Man's Suit - by Margaret Sorensen - March 2010
Momalaeh - by Janice Ashley - February 2010
Sunday Breakfast - by Teresa Garza - February 2010
You Can't Judge A Book - by Its Cover By Sonia E. Ravech - February 2010
Craigs List - A Chanukka Story - by Tiny Katz - January 2010
A Father's Study - by Steve Kates - December 2009
A Better Life - by Don Amicucci - November 2009
My Siblings - by Maria Abesamis - November 2009
My Love Life in A Nutshell - by Casandra Hancock - October 2009
Alas Mr. Martin - by George Britton - September 2009
Mama's New Shoes - by Zee McGrath - August 2009
Creatures in Our New Florida House - by Judith Lyon - July 2009
Nassau Bahamas 1956, A Love Story - yy Bernard Perron - June 2009
Night Blooming Jasmine - by Luciana Duce - May 2009
