I awoke already furious and very reluctant to get up. I wanted to throw the alarm clock at the wall and smash it, but instead I turned it off and swung my feet out of bed. Why did this day ever have to come? It would be my first day in eighth grade in Meadowbrook Junior High. I did not want to go.
I was enraged with my parents for making us move to this lily-white town. I would probably be the only Negro in the school. We had lived in the city where I had friends and did not stand out as being different. But my parents thought we needed to move here so I could get a “better education.” They also said I was learning bad English from my friends. Who cared about education or good English anyway? I really only lived for one thing—my music.
My mother had been a concert pianist and accompanist. Once she had me, she gave up her career at least temporarily. But there was always music in the house. My earliest memories were of her playing the piano. She played constantly. When she wasn’t playing she was taking care of me or giving lessons. My father was a banker without a musical bone in his body, but he adored her, that was obvious, and he adored me too.
They were both upset when I reacted so angrily to the idea of moving. They took me to see the house they were buying, and I had to admit it was quite a place. It was a large white colonial with four bedrooms, a huge living room, a study for Dad, and a music room for mom. The kitchen had every convenience you could imagine. There was even a three-car garage, although we only had two cars. I think they thought the house would win me over, but it didn’t. Oh, it was nice alright, but the location, right in the middle of town, was terrible, and it was too far away from my friends. They probably believed that, when we moved in and I went to school and found some friends, I would get over my anger. But I promised myself that I would never get over it, that I would never find friends, and that I would never forgive them.
After slowly dressing, I dragged myself downstairs for breakfast. My parents pretended to be very cheerful and to ignore my mood. It didn’t work. I ate in silence, while they chatted away about their plans for the day. Then I got up, grabbed my school stuff, and started to walk out the door.
“Would you like me to drive you to school for the first day?” my father asked.
“That would be the worst!” I thought. “Junior High kids do not get driven to school by their mummies and daddies. The next think you know, he’ll probably want to go into the school and meet my teachers. Gag!”
“No!” I shouted as I slammed the door shut and walked down the sidewalk toward the school.
I suppose I could have ridden my bike but the school was within walking distance and I didn’t want to get there any sooner than I had to.
When I arrived I went to the office to finish registering. I walked in and a prim white lady did a double take before saying, “Hello. How can I help you?”
“I’m Christian Walker,” I muttered, “and I’m supposed to be in the eighth grade.”
“Oh, yes,” she said cheerfully. “Welcome. I’m Mrs. Connors. Here is your schedule, your home room number and teacher, and your locker number and combination. Let me just check to be sure we have your name, address, phone number and your parents’ names all correct.”
She read them out and I said, “Right.”
I looked at my schedule. Typing! Why was I taking typing? I was sure that my parents wouldn’t sign me up for it.
I looked at her and mumbled, “Why am I taking typing? After all, I don’t plan to work in an office or even to write.”
She looked a bit nonplussed before replying, “It’s required of all eighth graders.”
“That’s stupid,” I grumbled.
Again she looked a bit odd, but continued, “Well, you’re free to go. Your homeroom and your locker are on the second floor.”
Without saying anything, I walked out the door. “Free to go,” I thought. “I would like to go right back out the front door!” But I turned and headed for the stairs. “The second floor,” she had said. “Of course it’s the second floor,” I thought. “I’m not stupid. Both the room number and the locker number are in the two hundreds. Does she think I would look on the third floor which clearly didn’t even exist?”
Climbing the stairs and walking down the hallway, I passed several students who stared at me. “What’s the matter,” I wondered angrily, “haven’t you ever seen a Negro before? Well, get used to it.”
I found both the homeroom and the locker easily. There was a white boy kneeling at the locker below mine fiddling with his lock, so I had to lean across him to get at my lock.
He looked up at me, and for just a second gave the same look I had seen on the stairs and in the hall, but he changed it quickly, held up his hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Peter Bradley.”
I didn’t really care who he was, so I mumbled, “Christian,” and went back to my locker.
He kept looking up with a phony little smile and said, “Well, welcome, Chris.”
I almost strangled him right then. I slammed something into my locker and stated in my most quiet, controlled and threatening voice, “It’s Christian! Don’t ever call me that again!”
“OK,” he replied, hesitantly. He looked a little hurt, but shrugged his shoulders, closed his locker and went into my homeroom.
“Oh no,” I thought. “Don’t tell me we’re in the same room. It’ll be just my luck to wind up sitting next to him.”
I delayed as long as I could and went in just as the bell was ringing. Fortunately there was a seat in the back, far away from Peter. I slammed my books on the desk, sat down and stared straight ahead as some of the other kids turned to look.
“Well,” the teacher said, looking a little flustered, “good morning everybody, I’m Miss Walters.” She had that rather overly cheerful voice that some female teachers have. “I hope you are all ready for the new school year.”
“Hah!” I thought.
Then she began to take attendance, alphabetically of course. “Why am I always at the end?” I fumed to myself.
When she got to me she said, “Chris Walker?”
“It’s Christian!” I said in that same voice I had used with Peter. I caught Peter looking back at me, perhaps wondering if I was going to say the rest of the line, but I had the good sense not to.
Again she looked a little uneasy. “Alright, Christian, I’ll try to remember.”
“You do that,” I grumped to myself.
The rest of the period passed as she went over schedules, routines, and how long we had for lunch if we went home. Then she dismissed us and we went to our other classes.
I found that I was in Peter’s class in math, history, PE, and typing. At noon I went home for a quick lunch, just grunting when Mom asked me, “Well dear how did it go?” I walked back for the afternoon and, at the end of school, hurried home to take out my anger on a good loud Rachmaninoff Prelude.