Prologue

Little girls are born every day. Some are born into wealth and power, others into poverty and powerlessness. As they grow into women, a few of those born into poverty transcend the financial and social status of their families and better their condition. Others do not change and may even worsen their lot. Some are lucky to be born in a period of history when human enlightenment progresses at an astounding rate. Others are born when humanity seems to bury itself in the darkness of ignorance, violence, and intolerance. And for many, their period of history presents only ambiguities and contradictions. Those born in such times find confusion and pain as they navigate that landscape. They must rely upon their own innate intelligence and wit, the love of their families, true friends, and other people of good will, if such people exist in their lives, in order to find success and meaning.

The second half of the twentieth century was one of those ambiguous periods for African Americans – particularly the women. The civil rights movement promised them the right to vote, equal housing and accommodations, and attempted to improve their education through integration. The women’s movement promised parity with men of all races.

The African American women who believed in those promises and decided to work towards their fulfillment often achieved financial and social success. However, their victories often bore a high emotional price tag, triggered by often overt and even more insidious, subtle racism.

Into this fog of ambiguity and contradiction, in the geographical center of America during the year of 1947, Lauren Sullivan was born.

Chapter One

Participating in the Bold Experiment

Two big, brown eyes peered over the pink chenille spread. Then an entire face, revealing a big smile. After four seconds, the intensity of the smile dimmed and the eyebrows furrowed. For the first time in her eight-year life, Lauren was going to attend her neighborhood school, the one only the white children were allowed to attend – until today.

For a year, it had appeared to Lauren that the only topic the adults in her world discussed was racial integration of the public schools. She remembered hearing about some decision made in the U.S. Supreme Court, Brown vs Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas. Her mother told Lauren that Topeka was only two hours’ drive from their town. Lauren would sit on the floor playing with her dolls while she overheard conversations about how the lives of Negroes would be affected by this event. Every adult said that integration was a very good thing and long overdue. It meant that Lauren could attend a much newer school with more books and supplies than her old school. But Lauren didn’t like the fear and powerlessness she heard in the grownups’ voices when they whispered about what the white teachers and students might do when the Negro teachers and students came to their schools.

“Lauren,” called her mother, “are you dressed yet?”

“Not yet, Mama; I can’t button my dress.”

Helen hurriedly entered Lauren’s bedroom, her facial expression anxious and distant. The school in which Helen taught, deep in the Negro section of town, was not going to be integrated this year. The school district had refused to send white students there. Helen buttoned her daughter’s brand new green and yellow plaid dress with its Peter Pan collar and wide skirt, and gave her a long stare. Lauren’s eyes were riveted on her mother. Her eyes were the first things one noticed about Lauren. They were huge relative to her small face – dark brown and clear – and they seemed to bore a hole through anyone looking at them. They reflected intelligence and wisdom older than her years. Their size was also a stark contrast to Lauren’s thin build. People often teased her by saying that a gust of wind would blow her away. Helen gave Lauren’s left cheek a spit bath. Lauren groaned, but did not dare move.

“You know, Lauren, you have a lot to look forward to this year,” Helen began, slowly and deliberately. “You will have a new school, new teachers, and new friends.”

“I liked my old school and friends, Mama. We didn’t even move, so why do I havta change schools? I finally got a teacher I liked – Mrs. Redding.”

As Lauren spoke, she could smell the scent of Tabu, her mother’s signature fragrance, permeating the air. She loved that scent. Although it was strong, it made her feel secure because as long as she could remember, her mother had worn it. It evoked thoughts of visits to the zoo, birthday parties, and church. Its fragrance also evoked in Lauren a feeling of romantic adventures yet to come because of the magazine ads she had seen. In one, a man with a violin was grabbing his female pianist in a passionate embrace. Lauren needed that sense of security and adventure today.

The adults were attempting to paint a rosy picture of Lauren’s new school. But she had misgivings. She’d overheard too many other whispered conversations.

“Lauren,” Helen said impatiently. “you know there is a new law that requires the schools to integrate. That means you have to attend the school in your neighborhood – in other words, you have to go to Garfield Elementary.” Lauren hated it when her mother didn’t explain the “whys” of things. She felt insulted and trapped.

“I heard you, Uncle Warren, and Aunt Eleanor say that the white teachers wouldn’t care much about us Negro kids and wouldn’t teach us anything. You said the white teachers really weren’t as smart as Negro teachers, Mama.”

“First of all, Lauren,” Helen snapped, “you were not a party to those conversations. Therefore, they are none of your business. Second, that’s not what we said. We just observed that as of today – 1955 – educated Negroes such as your uncle, aunt, and myself, don’t have much of a choice of careers. Most of us teach or end up in the post office. Only those Negroes who came from a little money can attend the professional schools at Negro colleges and become doctors, dentists, and lawyers. Even those with advanced degrees, they are only allowed to serve the Negro community. Educated white people can do anything that they have the ambition to do. They can have careers that pay far more than teaching and working within the Negro community. Many of those whites who end up teaching are those without the ambition or skills to do anything else.”

“Well, if my old teachers were better, why do I havta go to Garfield? Danny doesn’t want to go there either.” Danny, Lauren’s five-year-old brother, was beginning kindergarten at Garfield.

“It’s out of our hands, Lauren. You are going, and that’s that.”

Chapter Two

The Black Swan

The sun was casting its hot rays upon the storefront windows as Lauren stared absent-mindedly out the window of the trolley bus. Her mother’s tan Samsonite cosmetic case lay in her lap, filled with her leotard, tights, ballet slippers, and a change of underwear. Although the temperature had surged to 97 degrees, Lauren felt comfortable in her shorts and halter top. She liked to watch her tan skin become darker on her arms and stomach each Saturday, as she traveled to dancing school during the summer of her tenth year. She would travel alone for an hour, changing buses twice. On the way home, she would also stop at Zesty Creme for a large vanilla ice cream cone dipped in chocolate. The bus drivers also treated her as if she were a grown-up.

The ballet teacher, Devon Martin, was a thirty-nine year old white woman who had studied briefly in Paris and New York. After teaching technique at the Kansas City Conservatory of the Arts, she’d opened her own studio in a fashionable white section of the city. Devon was strict with her students, some of whom had actually gone on to New York for ballet careers.

Lauren took two one-hour classes each Saturday. The first at 11am stressed technique and barre work. The second, which began at 1pm, focused upon excerpts from classical ballets. Between classes, the students ate lunch at the restaurant a half block from the dance studio.

As she entered the studio, Lauren immediately noticed the smells of sweat and powdered resin, the substance that the budding ballerinas placed on the toes and soles of their ballet shoes to prevent slipping on the hardwood floors. These were smells to which Lauren had long become accustomed since beginning ballet lessons four years ago. This sweaty smell was distinguishable from the one Lauren experienced on the playground or in her own home. It was formed by the body chemistry of white people, and had as its elements the diet they enjoyed, mixed with their colognes and talcum powders. Lauren walked into the dressing room. Here, everyone wore the same uniform: black leotards, pink tights, and black ballet slippers. The girls who were older and more advanced wore pink toe shoes. Lauren could hardly wait until she would be able to wear toe shoes, after, as Miss Devon Martin had said, her legs had developed a bit longer.

Devon Martin demanded superlative performances from all her students. She had often told Lauren privately that excellence was “the great equalizer.” Lauren wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but she knew that when she was in ballet class, she transformed into a beautiful graceful fairy princess. The most slender student in the class, she was also the second youngest. Therefore, in addition to working hard to meet Devon’s high standards, she had to perform as well as girls one to five years older, who had better developed muscles. Lauren did not mind the challenge.

The three hours per week she spent here allowed her to fantasize about worlds much more glamorous than the mundane scene of the Kansas and Missouri flatlands and the lifestyle of her family. She dreamed of going to Paris and New York, becoming a prima ballerina. Why, the dance movements even had French names that flowed gracefully from Miss Martin’s tongue. The rhythmic tapping of Miss Martin’s baton on the hardwood floor was blended with the classical music Mrs. Landon played on the piano.

The teacher stared at her pupil for a few seconds. Then she slowly started speaking.

“You are going to be a remarkable woman, Lauren. I hope you will study ballet diligently because I feel you truly have some talent.”

Lauren was shocked to hear these words from this woman. She loved ballet, but didn’t believe she had any unusual talent.

“You are very thin, which is good for a ballerina. You could have a career in ballet.” Lauren involuntarily started to smile.

“You will, however, always have unique challenges because of your beautiful brown skin, Lauren. That, however, is no reason to shrink away or attempt to be unobtrusive. Wear that skin, as well as your whole being, regally and proudly, my dear. You owe no one any excuses for being who you are. If you run into people who lack character – and you certainly will – look straight into their eyes and show them that you are a woman to be reckoned with. However, to pull it off, you must always be far better at whatever you do than anyone else. Do you understand, my dear?”

“Yes, Miss Martin,” said Lauren. She had never been spoken to this way by a white person. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome, my dear,” smiled Devon. “Now hurry home. You have quite a way to go.”

“G’bye, Miss Martin.” Lauren went to the dressing room, picked up her overnight case, and headed for the bus stop. She felt a heady euphoria that she had never before experienced. Her mind raced into the future. Lauren suddenly saw herself in Paris, dancing on the stage of the Paris Opera, a place that Devon had described to the class several times. For the first time, Lauren saw herself as the beautiful, graceful adult that Devon had described.

Lauren’s daydream continued without limit until the loud bellow of the bus’ exhaust awakened her. As she ascended the steps into the vehicle, she recognized the bus driver as the same bald, little white man who always drove this bus every Saturday. He had been solicitous of her in the past because, as he told her several times, he thought she was young to be on a bus so far from the Negro section of town. Sometimes, he allowed Lauren to ride for free.

“Hi, little lady,” the driver said again for the hundredth time. Lauren dropped her dime into the slot and took a seat behind the drive. “Little lady, where do you go every Saturday? Do they make you clean the whole house?” Lauren was puzzled at first by his question. But then she realized that the driver thought she was a miniature version of the day workers, who climbed on his bus at the end of the day, heading back toward the Negro section of town.

“Oh, I don’t work in anybody’s house, sir,” stated Lauren, innocently. “I go to dancing school. I’m going to become a great ballerina someday,” she said, proudly. The bus advanced a few blocks before the driver said anything else. Then, seemingly out of the blue, he began talking.

“So you go to ballet school, do you? In this white neighborhood? That’s real highfalutin’. Well, didn’t you know that ballerinas have to pay thirty rather than ten cents to ride a bus?”

“No, sir,” said Lauren, with genuine surprise.

“You bet, little ballerina girl. So from now on, when you get on the bus, make sure you have your thirty cents ready.” Although the driver wasn’t speaking in a threatening tone, Lauren recognized his hostility. She didn’t understand exactly what she had done to offend him; but she calmly rose and dropped the additional two dimes in the meter – dimes she had planned to spend on her weekly ice cream cone. As Miss Martin had instructed her, she walked regally to the meter and back to her seat without uttering a word. The driver had a look of vindication on his face; Lauren didn’t even notice. She felt graceful, intelligent, and beautiful, in spite of that mean old driver.

You may purchase An American Daughter of Brown through Ms. Robinson’s website at www.barirobinsonauthor.com/purchase or www.amazon.com