Me and the Little Rock Nine

Another post to republish, written in March 2013, and relating to my life in 1958, aware of a momentous event in American history

Now that my 16th birthday’s out of the way—it’s become a family event, this year bigger than last—the most exciting thing going on in my life is Winter’s retreat and Spring’s approach: the great drama of the seasons. I like it when nothing more than that is happening, for then I can travel back in time, and have adventures in memory, and make astonishing discoveries from the riches of my own past. Several things have recently prompted me. One was was Bryan’s mention that he was 4 when Reagan became President. It made me reflect that I was 11 when General Eisenhower, who I so often heard mentioned in radio bulletins about the Korean War, was made President. And then there was the photo I showed in my last post Hope of me aged 16. It made me wonder who I was then, in 1958, a year which seemed so full of hope and promise:

       O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in’t!

And this reminded me that my childhood memoirs had stopped abruptly in that year. and have stalled since February 2009. Why?

• 4th July 2007 onwards: frequent instalments of memoir, up to . . .
• 9th Feb 2008 Cherrydown(3) . . . then a year’s gap till . . .
• 12th Feb 2009 (Memoirs continued) At Mrs Jenkins’; and then nothing. Till today. Why?

My early life was episodic. It lent itself well enough to my chosen literary medium. I was able to sketch it out in short self-contained pieces, not always published in chronological sequence. But it got harder. I left off at the point where I was lodging with Mr & Mrs Jenkins, sometime before Christmas of 1957, so that I could continue at the same school after my parents had sold up and left the Isle of Wight. I can date it with certainty because of Harry Belafonte’s version of “Mary’s Boy Child”, in a lilting Caribbean Calypso style, which took England by storm, and was sung as a carol in the more progressive churches of all denominations. For us in the Isle of Wight, it was a revelation that black people from far away, who were starting to arrive on these shores, though not yet on the Isle of Wight, had their own take on the Christmas story, a purity and magical simplicity. The song itself was a kind of missionary revival movement all on its own. At least such was its effect on the elderly Mr & Mrs Jenkins. And I was bewitched by Harry Belafonte’s voice, laden with exotic scents of some distant isle, with that same sense of wonder expressed by Miranda in the earlier quote from Shakespeare’s The Tempest.

Long time ago in Bethlehem,
So the Holy Bible say,
Mary’s boy child, Jesus Christ,
Was born on Christmas day,
Hark, now hear the angels sing,
A newborn King today,
And man will live forevermore,
Because of Christmas day.
Trumpets sound and angels sing,
Listen to what they say,
That Man will live forevermore,
Because of Christmas day.

My pleasant stay with them lasted a couple of school terms. This was nothing unusual for me. My life had always been episodic. Things would last a few months, maybe a whole year. Then I would move to another house, sometimes a new country, acquire a new stepfather or perhaps lose the previous one. Yet compared to some boys (girls didn’t exist within my horizon) I was fortunate to stay at the same two private schools, except for the episode where my mother left me with a so-called aunt to attend a school in Holland. As soon as I learned fluent Dutch, she brought me back to England. But that doesn’t count. I was still 5. After that schools provided a certain continuity. My two headmasters possibly influenced me more than my two stepfathers. My real father played no part in my upbringing, other than to pass on his genes. In fact I had no knowledge of his existence. My mother was too neurotic to know mother-love, so I didn’t know it either. Her part of the deal, as she saw it, was to acquire husbands as necessary to ensure I was fed, clothed and educated. Perhaps a fatherless boy tries to persuade himself, through rebellion against every authority-figure, that he doesn’t need a father. He strives to gain favour with any suitable substitute, whilst the chance is there, for the connection won’t last. For my headmasters, I was a “scholarship boy”, whose redeeming feature was academic achievement. In other respects I was a wild animal, tame enough to eat from its benefactor’s hand, ready to perform necessary tricks and stay out of trouble.

Looking back now, I discover I have some tenuous links with some boys and girls called the Little Rock 9. We are the same age. Our educational horizons changed at the same time. As I was starting a new phase of my own education, and being asked to do some grown-up things, they started to attend Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas. No big deal, you’d think. But because they were black, they were blocked from entering the school by the Arkansas National Guard, in defiance of the Federal Supreme Court. So then they were unblocked, by the 101st Airborne Division of the United States Army led by General Eisenhower. No, correction: sent by President Eisenhower. As the story unfolded over the months, it was reported in the British newspapers, but in a garbled form, as I’ll explain in my next. My own reference in that published essay was even more garbled. But then, it’s necessary to understand the purpose of the essay. I can’t recall why I wrote it, but certainly it wouldn’t have been a topic of my choosing. But in the way I wrote it, I certainly had a purpose of my own.

For while all that stuff was happening in far-off America, I was busy gaining favour with my new-found headmaster, benefactor and not-quite father-figure, Major PWF Erith, BA, TD, who had given me that year of such hope and promise in 1958. I’ve written up how he interviewed me, in part of that piece about Mrs Jenkins, here. He had already given me a scholarship to stay at the school as a boarder for no additional charge, after my parents had moved off the Island. In return I was to help look after the junior boys at Swainston House, and act responsibly as an usher.

usher: An assistant to a schoolmaster or head-teacher; an under-master, assistant-master. Now rare. Also in fig. context. (OED)

In effect it was my first job, and it showed a level of respect for me as a person that I had not yet known. To be respected by those above me and admired by my juniors was a great boost. It it gave me some precious freedom too, as I shall relate. I didn’t discover till later that he was planning for me to apply for a scholarship to Oxford. I would need to be up to date on current affairs, and able to talk politics, to impress the dons. Hence the reading of newspapers. In an old school magazine—part of a consignment of memorabilia entrusted to me by the late headmaster’s daughter—I discover an essay I’d written on “The English Heritage”. It makes brief reference to “incidents at Little Rock, Arkansas”. I’ve been wondering why I wrote the essay at all.

As the flyer about my school (see above) makes clear, “snobbery [was] heavily discouraged”: for in the Head’s view, true nobility was to be found in middle-ranking officers of the Armed Services, and in clergymen of the Church of England. A teacher working for Major Erith must sport his rank on every occasion: Major, Colonel, Wing Commander. You’ll note also the annotations, in his own handwriting. “Spiritual well being” was catered for by the Chaplain and the Head, “a Diocesan Reader”. His only medal, TD, stands for Territorial Decoration, a long service award in the reservists. I don’t think he ever saw active service, but after retiring his school role he took holy orders and became Rector of the local parish in Calbourne. In addition, he glorified sport and physical exercise. Such were his ideals. My own attitudes, insofar as I had developed any, were antithetical to his. I was a pacifist (despite obligatory service in the Cadets), non-Christian (despite obligatory Scripture lessons and church attendance) and totally indifferent to team sports. All the same, I wanted to maintain his approval. So I wrote essays promoting the views I felt he shared, quoted the poets he loved, and generally reacted to him with words, many being too satirical for his eyes. For I hadn’t reached the stage of forming my own view on world events, and could only absorb influences, whether from Government, newspapers or school. In my next, I’ll republish that essay on “The English Heritage”.

So I’ve tried to explain why my memoir-writing faltered four years ago, and could not recommence till now. I had to do more than tell anecdotes. I had to revisit my state of mind and share it with the reader. I’ve done it very crudely, but that doesn’t matter too much. It’s important to get dates and facts right as a framework, but the real joy of it is to meet that younger Vincent and share his good times with you, as I shall try to do.

Maybe there’ll be something more going on, too. Perhaps I can collaborate with that Vincent, change him by subtle editing, as if he were a literary creation; bringing to light aspects which he didn’t understand at the time, glossing over some of his foolishness. I don’t do this for deception and concealment and I certainly won’t tamper with that old essay. But the beauty of these dips into the past is to serve a deeper truth. I do it with my life, you could do it with your own.

As befits my age, perhaps, I see an infinity of riches in the past; much less in the present, unless one looks through the material universe as I am learning to do, as through a clear window, to view the timeless.