I grew up in a small town in South Texas called Lake Jackson. There were less than 5000 residents in our town, and almost all of them were white. There were a few families with Spanish names like Aguilera and Guerrero. Everyone with such a name was called Mexican. But there were no colored people, which is the polite name blacks were called in the 1950’s in that part of the country. As a grown up I sometimes wonder why there were no blacks in our community, because Lake Jackson had its origin as a sugar plantation that was owned by Abner Jackson. Abner was Andrew Jackson’s brother. There were ruins of the sugar mill in the public park that was on the west side of the lake. The plantation had had slaves working the fields. Local legend even had it that the lake itself had been dug by slave labor. I never saw that in a history book, but I heard it all my boyhood.
My dad moved to Lake Jackson after World War II. He had two uncles that had gotten work at the Dow Chemical plant in Freeport. They told dad that there was good money to be made at the plant, so he moved and took a job as an operator in the Carbon Tetra Chloride plant.
Lake Jackson did not have any colored residents in the early 50’s. The local general merchandise store had a sign on the back door that told colored people they were to enter the store through that entrance. But I never saw a colored person in that store.
The theater had a balcony that was the only place colored people would have been allowed to be seated for a movie. I never saw a colored person in the theater until the late 60’s, and by then the balcony was no longer the only place a black could sit to see a film.
My dad was from Northeast Arkansas. He grew up on a farm outside of Fisher, about 30 miles east of Jonesboro. Every summer our family would go visit his family. One year when I was a little guy, about 8 or 9 years old, something happened on one of those trips that I will never forget.
My dad worked shift work at the chemical plant. When he worked the day shift he got off at 4 o’clock. On one August morning we took Dad to work for his day shift so we could get the car loaded and ready for the annual trip. Mom put boxes of clothes and bedding behind the front seats and spread quilts over the top, making a bed for the four of us kids.
We filled the gas tank and had the tires and oil checked.
At four that afternoon, the whole family was in the car packed and ready to leave for Arkansas as soon as Dad clocked out. He was one of the first ones through the gate, and we left the parking lot before most of the guys had even reached their cars! It was our plan to drive all night to get to Grandma’s house before noon the next day. In those days it was a 16 hour trip from Freeport, Texas to Fisher, Arkansas.
We had made the trip so many times that we knew where we would be stopping for bathroom breaks and restaurants. If Dad had his way, we would not stop till we reached Texarkana. But he seldom got his way, because at least one of us would need to make a rest stop long before that. One of the places we usually filled up with gasoline was at a Texaco station in Little Rock. But on this night, I woke up to find we were stopped at a road block. We were still south of Little Rock.
My dad was talking to an army man, who was standing at our car window. He had his rifle slung over his shoulder, his helmet on his head, and I was fascinated. I looked around and saw two troop trucks on the side of the road in front of us, with soldiers sitting on benches in the back. They were all holding rifles.
When the soldier left, I asked my dad what was happening. He told me that the National Guard had been called out to make sure no riots were allowed to start in Little Rock. I asked him why people would want to riot in Little Rock. He told me that it was because some colored children wanted to go to school with white children there.
I had never considered such a thing. I asked Dad what was wrong with colored children going to school with white children. He told me there was nothing wrong with it, but that some people would be very angry because they did not like colored people. He told me to go back to sleep, but I could not.
We were held at the road block until sufficient cars had been stopped to be made into a caravan. No one was allowed to stop in Little Rock for food or gas that did not live there. We were escorted through town in the caravan, with one troop truck in front and one in the back. When we were through Little Rock, the trucks pulled to the side and we continued our journey toward Grandma’s house.
The school district back at home in Texas was not integrated until the fall of 1965, the year I was a senior in high school. It was the first time I had any significant contact with black people, and even that was limited. We had 12 black seniors in a class of over four hundred.
A lot of things have changed since that night in Arkansas. I had no idea that night how much courage nine school children in Little Rock had to have just to get to go to school.
I wonder if the children had any idea of how important their stand was in helping make this a better country. None of them ever knew or cared that I went through town that night.
But it is a night I have never forgotten.
If you would like to read more about the Little Rock Nine, you could begin at the web site in the external link.
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Contributor's Note
We have come far since that night, now a black man is running for the presidency!
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