When
Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas was racially integrated,
I was twelve years old. The talk on our campus was that the black
kids in our town had a newer school building that looked a lot better
from the outside and offered a broader curriculum. Why
did they want to go to school with us? The
kids (including me) were ranting and raving. When I got a chance I
asked a black lady why they wanted to go to school with us. She told
me that they didn’t want to go to school with us anymore than we
wanted to go to school with them.
At
home, I was repeating the things I had heard at school. My father
told me about a black school that he passed every week. When it
rained, what little playground they had was a mud hole. In the winter
when the children should be in class, some would be walking down the
road gathering fire wood for the wood heater. They had no other way
to heat the school and no one supplied the school with wood. That
summer while helping my father with his job he showed me the school
house. It was a small, run down clap board building with one or two
rooms. I realized how wrong I had been. The kids at my school were
right in one way; the school building that the black students used
looked better and the curriculum may have been better, but the black
children had to pay a price. The black kids were bused from all over
the county to the one school while the white kids had four schools
scattered over the county. I don’t know for sure, but the county
must have spent about three times as much for the white kids as they
did for the black kids.
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