Free My Mother the Cheerleader by Robert Sharenow Page B

unfamiliar face or vehicle arrived on the scene, everyone took note. FBI agents milled around in their sharp blue or gray suits, taking down license plate numbers and descriptions of suspicious-looking characters in little black notebooks. I wasn’t the only one in my neighborhood who kept a Spy Log.
    The Cheerleaders always gathered at the same spot on the sidewalk beside the school’s main entrance. John Steinbeck later described them as a pack of satanic dogs. But the truth is they were not dogs, satanic or otherwise. They were just a normal-looking bunch of ladies. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think they were gathered for a church bake sale or a PTA meeting. A couple of them might be described as naturally mean-looking. Bea Williams had deep lines in her forehead and down the side of her cheeks, which made her look cross all the time, and Jeanette LeFevre had a pinched face and a shrill voice. But other than those two they were an extremely average-looking bunch, except for my mother, who most people said was beautiful.
    Most of the Cheerleaders dressed plainly compared to my mother, but almost all of them dressed decently. There were a few housecoats in the group, and several wore their hair in curlers under head kerchiefs in the morning (something my mother would never do in public). Some commentatorsnoted that the fact that they wore their hair in curlers was a sign the Cheerleaders were low class. In truth, no one in the Ninth Ward could really be described as high class, and it was probably unfair to criticize them for wearing curlers in the early morning. Many of the ladies worked at jobs, so they didn’t have much time to take care of themselves before they had to stage their daily protest. When else could they curl their hair?
    Several women held signs on wooden sticks that read WE WANT SEGREGATION, GOD BLESS JIMMIE DAVIS , and READ YOUR BIBLE—INTEGRATION IS WRONG ! Others carried light wooden crosses or small Confederate battle flags. Bea Williams frequently brought a Negro baby doll in a tiny wooden coffin that she’d prop up on the sidewalk so Ruby Bridges could see it as she walked up.
    The group’s leader, Ada Munson, always stood at the front and led the chant: “Two, four, six, eight, We don’t want to integrate!” Every morning the ladies brought articles from local newspapers in which they were mentioned. They’d begin the dayby reading the articles aloud like a bunch of actresses poring over reviews of a stage performance.
    On that morning Ada Munson held a copy of the Jackson Daily News , a newspaper from Mississippi featuring an article with the headline “Woman Throws Egg.” She read highlights aloud to the group. “A Negro truck driver stopped at a traffic light in front of the William Frantz School in New Orleans on Friday, and a white woman threw an egg at him.” A few of the ladies laughed. “The egg missed the Negro’s head and smashed against the roof of the cab. The Negro man glared and drove away. The egg thrower was one of the Cheerleaders, Mrs. Antoinette Lawrence.” A few of the ladies gave a small round of applause for Antoinette, a petite brunette who giggled, gave a little wave, and said, “Oh, stop.” Ada Munson continued reading. “‘I don’t think the niggers are equal to whites,’ said Mrs. Lawrence. ‘Their heads are too hard to learn what our children can. We are going to win this fight. Let them niggers try to keep coming. I’ve got plenty of eggs.’”
    My mother stood in the back of the group, not really listening. I overheard a snippet of her conversation with Nitty Babcock.
    â€œAnd I’ll give you just one guess where he’s taking me for dinner tonight,” my mother said.
    â€œHell, I don’t know, Pauline, just tell me,” Nitty replied.
    â€œIt’s no fun if you don’t guess.”
    â€œPauline, you are acting like a