By David A. Summers

Andrew’s day began on a jarring note. Not yet inside his classroom, he was approached by two of his senior journalism students, both girls, who stumbled over each other in their eagerness to tell him their idea for an article they “really want” to write for the school newspaper. They’d read something “so inspiring” in this morning’s Tri-City Herald, something that shows what our students can do with their lives “if they want to make a difference.” Of course, their idea would need his approval. He was the faculty advisor. 

The girl with the darker skin, the one whose ethnicity was not immediately apparent, glowed with pride as she told him the article in the Herald was about a woman who’d graduated from this high school thirty years ago. This woman went on to earn a doctorate in education, and now is being honored by a national organization for her “outstanding” research on the problems facing children of color in our schools.

The two girls wanted to interview her—”should interview her”—because they had “so many questions, like what was it like for her when she was in school here?” and “does she have any advice for our students today?” Andrew remained outwardly patient as they sought his assurance that this woman—who “must be super-busy”—would take the time to talk to them.

He’d missed the article in the Herald, but could picture the woman, or rather he could picture her when she’d been “the Jackson girl.” Rich mahogany skin, hair in what everyone called an “Afro,” warm smile, intelligent dark eyes that met his when they spoke to each other. Smart, too, and not shy about speaking up in class. Unlike her, most Black students avoided attention, which he understood. Blacks were badly outnumbered in this small town out in the country. Better to remain invisible.

Recalling the Jackson girl’s face resurrected a long-buried memory, a memory now given new life by his certainty that she would find time to talk to these girls, and if asked, would tell them exactly how she’d been treated as a student here. Word would get around, followed by questions, the same ones he’d once asked himself. Not that he’d be criticized openly, but a few might ask what he remembered about it. After all, he’d been there, hadn’t he? 

“This really isn’t school news, is it?” he said. “Besides, it’s already in the Herald, right?” He excused himself before the girls could protest.

~

He’d been a new teacher when it happened, straight from the big city, straight from college, eager to show he could connect with students, that he could fit in. He wouldn’t have dreamed of openly disagreeing with the principal about anything. Who knows how he’d react?

Andrew remembered the principal calling the faculty together a few days before graduation to tell them how he was handling a problem that had come up, one that could damage the reputation of the school. It was about the Jackson girl, he said, referring to her as “one of our Negro students,” then adding, “I meant African-American, but whatever you call her, she’s acted immorally.” Andrew could still see the man’s sharply chiseled face, could still hear his voice, hard and unforgiving like one of those preachers who rail on about sinners burning in hell.

“What she did,” the principal said, “was get herself pregnant, and then keep it hidden until she gave birth just last week. Unmarried, of course. If we ignore what she’s done, we’ll be telling our students, the whole town actually, that promiscuity is just fine by us.”

“It’s our duty to maintain high moral standards in this school,” he said, now pointing a finger at his teachers as though they’d grown complacent. He then stunned Andrew by saying their task was made all the more difficult “by a certain group of people, which I don’t have to name, whose women tend to be promiscuous by nature.” 

The girl needed to be punished, he told them, and he was doing it by preventing her from participating in the graduation ceremony with the other seniors. Her diploma would be mailed to her.

Andrew remembered wanting to speak up, wanting to ask what gives us the right to punish her for something she’s done in her private life that hasn’t hurt anyone except possibly herself? And does anyone seriously think all the White girls who graduate from this school are virgins? 

He remained silent, no denying that, but at least he kept a neutral look on his face when the principal slowly scanned the room, as though daring anyone to disagree. Or did he nod, along with all the others?

~

Andrew now pushed those thoughts aside, reminding himself he wasn’t going down that path again. Years ago, he’d decided to quit thinking about what he’d done or hadn’t done that day. It hadn’t mattered then, and didn’t matter now. Besides, she knew what people around here were like, even better than he did. She should have waited.

As for him, he’d long understood he wasn’t going to change anyone’s attitudes. If he tried, and if he persisted, he’d only risk being labeled a troublemaker, and might even lose his job. Then what? Where else could he find such an easy life, surrounded by all this natural beauty? The gently rolling hills of the Palouse, the towering Cascades in the distance, the mighty Columbia with its breathtaking gorge, wildlife at every turn. All a precious gift, all his to enjoy. He had no close friends, but otherwise, what more could he ask? 

~

Hours later, Andrew gazed westward as a shimmering orange sun slowly sank behind the darkening peaks of the Cascades, leaving behind brilliant streaks of copper and gold. He searched for the quiet contentment he so often felt at this time of day, but instead found only vague feelings of shame, of smallness. Had he actually nodded? Was he that weak?