Magnolias Don't Bloom in September

By Carol Lynn Luck

Kenda, a naïve teacher from upstate New York, journeys to Mississippi in 1970 on a quest to change the world and escape an abusive fiancé. When she starts working at a newly integrated junior high school, Kenda is greeted with a Confederate flag and a “Yankee Go Home” sign. She quickly learns that, even when equality beco

• Language: English
• Publisher: Golden Pages Press
• Release date: Apr 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733690614

Carol Lynn Luck

Carol Lynn Luck taught in New York, Mississippi, and Massachusetts; worked in cancer research; and managed federal education grants. She has a keen interest in cultural issues in history. Her first novel, Heroines of the Kitchen Table, tells the stories of four women who defied Hitler and struggled to save their loved ones. Gym Class Klutz deals with high school life in the 1960s. Carol writes to promote understanding among cultures, striving to make the world a kinder place. She and her husband have two grown children and live in Framingham, Massachusetts.

Book preview

Introduction

We all see the world through the lens of our own past experiences. The more complex and chaotic the world becomes, the more we limit our vision. Now more than ever, we need to cultivate understanding and compassion for our fellow human beings. We must step out of our own tunnels and into the lives and cultures of others. By traveling the roads others have taken, we can begin to get a glimmer of what shapes their views.

This novel is your chance to travel back in time with a young teacher in newly integrated Mississippi. You’re invited to share her funny, serious, frightening, and heartwarming experiences. In an attempt to re-create the Deep South as it existed in 1970, the author has included many events that actually occurred; some of the quotations and letters from students are directly from primary source material. But this is fiction; the characters do not exist. West Belfield is not on the map.

The author asks that you try to refrain from presentism, that is, depicting or interpreting the past based on present-day ideas and perspectives. For example, in 1970, Dixie was played immediately after the national anthem at football games and other events; everyone remained standing. Similarly, the Confederate flag represented the Southern United States; it was used in memorials, draped over coffins, and flown in the Deep South along with the American flag. The symbolism it has today is very different.

During the time and place of this novel, the Confederate flag did not represent slavery any more than the American flag symbolizes the exploitation of Native Americans. While we do not condone the actions of our ancestors in either situation, it behooves us to try to understand the context of history. It is an integral part of the past. We must acknowledge the moral implications, reconcile the values of those who went before us, and learn from this history. We must strive to denounce the greed of those with power and make this nation truly indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

CHAPTER ONE

1970—FROM NEW YORK TO MISSISSIPPI

As I push the kitchen chair into to my bedroom, it slides easily over the wooden floor. I climb on it and stretch above the closet to tug my suitcases down. Am I crazy? Am I doing the right thing? Questions bounce around in my head like Ping-Pong balls. I spent the last year here in New York, teaching at DuMont Junior High while finishing my master’s degree. My students called me Miss Kirkenbaum. They were well-behaved—most of the time. I’m leaving them, my fellow teachers, and friends to teach in West Belfield, Mississippi, a small town in the Deep South, where I’ve never been and where I know no one.

The words of President John F. Kennedy pop into my mind: Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country. I feel that deep sense of obligation to help improve the lives of others who are less fortunate. My grandparents suffered before they came to America, and my parents knew what it was like to go hungry. This makes it hard for me to understand why they wouldn’t even let me apply to the Peace Corps. To serve one’s country is the right thing to do: not in war, not in Vietnam, but in peace.

My thoughts are interrupted with the creak of our apartment door hinges. I hear Ru Ann drop her keys in the dish by the door. Then she glides into our bedroom holding a small container of pomade that she uses that to tame her curly black hair, which always looks perfect. Ru Ann dresses impeccably. With her tall, slim physique and ballerina posture, she’s the most elegant person I know. We’ve shared this small apartment for a year. My twin bed is covered with an old pink quilt, and Ru Ann’s with a bright bedspread of palm leaves and tropical flowers. In the August heat, the windows are propped open; and aromas of Greek food waft from Zorba’s cafe below.

Hi, Ru Ann! I’ve barely seen you for the last week or two, I say.

I’ve been spending a lot of time digging into the archives at the library. Found some incredible writings related to my research. It’s like a treasure hunt; so addictive I haven’t left until they close at midnight. I’ve hardly seen my friends at the Black Studies Center either.

It’s great that you’re really into your dissertation work, I say. But we haven’t had much time to talk, other than me telling you about my move.

"Kenda, looking at those suitcases, I suddenly realize you are going a thousand miles away, Ru Ann says. She points to the closet door with the jagged gaping hole. I’ve been wanting to ask you what happened here; did something happen between you and Red?"

Oh my God, Ru Ann, it was horrible, I say, still feeling the terror, even though it happened almost two weeks ago. Red tried to push me onto the bed. When I said ‘no’ and slipped out of his grasp, he suddenly got furious. He grabbed me and shoved me up against the closet door.

How did you get away? He’s so much bigger than you.

Just as he was about to punch me in the face, my knees turned to mush. I collapsed; an instant later his fist smashed into the door. Splinters flew, and he raced to the bathroom, his red hair a blur. He shrieked like something in a horror movie.

Oh, that’s awful, Kenda! Thank God he hit the door and didn’t hurt you.

Yeah, I was lucky. It could have been so much worse! One splinter lodged in my shoulder and it still hurts. But I was able to get out. And you better believe I ripped my engagement ring off and threw it on the floor. I haven’t even bothered to look for it.

Kenda, I am so glad you have sense enough to leave him.

Ru Ann, you make me feel better about my decision. Now I know I have to leave New York, I say, though I’m still not completely convinced.

I hope you don’t mind my saying that he always struck me as self-centered and controlling. He especially annoyed me when he’d call you a ‘Women’s Libber.’ What made you like him in the first place?

He was the first guy to take me to the movies and treat me like a lady. Everyone else asked me out on study dates, and they hardly seemed to know me once the course was over.

But surely you could do better than that jerk, Ru Ann says.

"I should have realized that the day he grabbed one of your plantains, took one bite, and tossed it into the sink calling it a crappy banana. Red didn’t even care when I told him your mom sends them all the way from Trinidad."

Don’t worry about that, Kenda.

It’s not the plantain, I say. I owe you for the door and the rent.

Ru Ann steps into the living room. Maybe if we can find that ring, I know of a pawn shop on the other side of town. I wouldn’t think you’d want it after what Red put you through.

"You’re right. I never want to see that thing again," I say.

Ru Ann pushes the scratched wooden coffee table to the side, and we both get down on our hands and knees. I look under the radiator and move toward the center of the room. A few minutes later, she emerges from behind the threadbare sofa and holds up the ring, which is sparkling through a small clump of dust.

You found it! I say. Do you think the pawn shop will give you enough to settle my debt?

Probably; let’s just call it even, Ru Ann says. Now, is there anything I can do to help you?

Maybe packing up my dishes and Corningware. There are two empty boxes from the liquor store and newspapers on the floor.

Sure. Ru Ann disappears into the kitchen.

I go back to packing clothes. The whole decision weighs on my mind. Am I going because I want a meaningful life, or am I running away from Red? I used to defend him. Now I think about all the times I cowered and did whatever he wanted. How could I let him treat me the way he did? Ever since he gave me that damn ring, he acted like he owned me, like I was his slave. Am I just trying to rationalize my escape from Red, or am I serious about doing good in the world?

I finish packing a suitcase and slide it into the living room. Then I join Ru Ann in the kitchen. Ru Ann, do you believe in fate? I could have pictured myself in some foreign country, or on a Hopi reservation, but not teaching in the Deep South. My folks vetoed the Peace Corps, and VISTA wouldn’t accept my application because it was past the deadline.

"Then how did you get this job in Mississippi?" Ru Ann asks.

When I talked to a kind lady in Washington, she sent me the list of school districts VISTA still didn’t have volunteers for. I called the first fourteen on the list; thirteen turned me down, but I only needed one offer.

I’ve seen your persistence before, but a month ago, I never would have thought that you’d go all the way to Mississippi alone, Ru Ann adds.

It’s not any more intimidating than joining the Peace Corps, I say, shrugging my shoulders. "Think of the alternative—facing Red—now that takes a lot of courage."

Speaking of courage, Kenda, I’m glad I went to your thesis defense. You seemed so unsure of yourself at first. But by the end, you were poised when they grilled you on all those hard statistics. It makes me feel confident that you’ll do fine in Mississippi. When challenges are thrown at you, you step up to meet them.

Speaking of stepping up, I’d better start loading my car.

We carry my possessions to my black 1960 Chrysler with rust below the doors and distinctive fins. This old Chrysler became part of my life when my college friends taught me to drive in the stadium parking lot. Named Fins, it was built like a tank, so there was no way I could hurt it. Once I got my license, I bought Fins for a hundred dollars.

The open trunk is enormous, like a whale’s jaws. I methodically arrange boxes, ice skates, suitcases, and my toolbox. It takes all my weight to push the trunk lid closed. I place my shoebox of pictures, my quilt, and Grandma’s candy dish on the back seat. A paper bag with my penny loafers, dusty sneakers, and shiny new high heels fits on the floor. One last time, I trudge up the worn wooden stairs.

Ru Ann waits in the doorway. Taking her two hands in mine, I say, Thanks for being such a good friend and roommate. I’m really going to miss you.

Her smooth brown hands let go. Kenda, I’ll miss you too. Stay in touch. Godspeed, my friend. Her fingers flutter to my shoulder in a soft goodbye gesture.

I turn and go down the steps with tears in my eyes. I feel like I’m jumping into a lake with no life jacket and no idea how deep it is.

***

The roads twist and become narrow as the Tennessee mountains loom ahead. The radio blares country music, and the words would be funny if the stories weren’t all about losing lovers and feeling sad. Maybe I should have called Mom and Dad, I think. Even though they’d reprimand me for leaving New York, they should know where I am. But Mom is a master of worrying. I’d have to tell her I left Red, and she’d tell me how wrong it is to give up on your fiancé. Arguing with myself passes the time.

After a day and a half and a few naps in the car, I enter Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and drive down more narrow roads. I see huge pine trees and a few little wooden shacks with corrugated tin roofs and dirt yards. The misty rain falls over fields of spindly corn, low-lying cotton, and muddy animal pens. Without air conditioning, I have to keep the car windows open; the heat is worse than the stench of the pig farms.

After 1,200 miles, I see a white sign, smudged with mud, that says Belfield. My body is limp, but my spirit soars, knowing I’ve almost made it. A few miles down the road, a neon sign with an arrow announces the West Belfield Motel—Office. Gravel crunches under the tires as I pull in front of the grimy window with the hand-lettered word Vacancy. Glancing past the office, I see a row of cabins farther away from the road as two large trucks go barreling past.

At the desk, a lady in a wrinkled dress looks at me, tilting her head. Her hair is pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. Whatchya doin’ here? All by yo’self? she asks and peers out the window at my car. Where’re those orange plates from?

I’ve traveled from New York and need a room for the night. I open my wallet to prove I have money to pay. Is there a quiet area, away from the road? Like those cabins up on the hill, maybe?

She wrinkles her brow. Only th’ Coloreds stay there.

That doesn't bother me, I respond quickly.

No, she says firmly. Those rooms don’t have bathrooms; you’d hafta use th’ outhouses back by th’ woods.

Really? I ask. They don’t use indoor bathrooms?

They’re lucky to have a place to stay, she says in a disgusted tone. Most motels won’t take ’em at all. She snatches my five-dollar bill. You sure are a strange one. Here’s th’ key to th’ room right next door, an’ be sure to use th’ deadbolt. Don’t open th’ door for anyone.

As I turn the key in the lock, I wonder if she gave me this room to keep an eye on me or to keep me safe. Only an old battered Chevy and a pick-up truck without a tailgate are parked in front of the other rooms. Stepping inside, I am greeted with a musty smell. I see a bed covered in an old white chenille spread with moth holes and a dripping sink faucet in the tiny bathroom. This isn’t the Holiday Inn, but it’s better than sleeping in the car at rest stops. I collapse onto the creaky bed.

The next morning, I squeeze into the tiny shower stall. The water is chilly. After dressing in clean clothes, I head to the office. The lady doesn’t even say good morning. I ask her about how to find an apartment for rent in the area. Go on up th’ road apiece to th’ Winn-Dixie and check th’ bulletin board. You oughta be able to find a place to rent there.

At the Winn-Dixie, I park and buy the cheapest loaf of bread, peanut butter, grape jelly, and Quaker Oats. On the corkboard, I see a neatly printed index card: FOR RENT: 1 Bedroom Apartment, 2821 21st Street, $250/month. I have nothing to write on, so I pluck the card from the bulletin board when I’m sure no one is looking. I hop into Fins and drive down streets with well-kept lawns.

The address is a white house with black shutters on the corner. A note on the door directs me to the side, where a sign in plain block letters reads Phyllis’s Beauty Salon. Poking my head in the door, I notice a middle-aged lady in a starched pink dress adjusting a hair dryer on a woman with curlers in her hair.

Hello, I’m Kenda. I’m interested in the apartment upstairs.

The woman washes her hands and smiles. Hi, I’m Phyllis. Would you like to take a look at it? She glances back to the lady under the dryer, who has her face in a McCall’s magazine.

We go upstairs. It’s perfect, with wooden floors, a green couch, wing-back chair, and limed oak tables. The white refrigerator with its curved top hums. The dining area is just large enough for a gray Formica-topped table with chrome legs and four matching chairs.

This looks great. I don’t see a phone, though, I say, after looking around the living room.

You’ll have to pay for that, but I can call Southern Bell and have them install it for you.

How much is it?

It runs about seven dollars a month for the phone rental and line, Phyllis answers. Long distance is extra, of course.

That seems like a lot, but I do need a phone.

Back in the beauty shop, I fill out the rental form and give Phyllis nearly all the money I have left. She gives me the apartment key. As I lug my suitcases and boxes into the apartment, I am happy that I can check out of that sleazy motel.

Looking around the apartment with its ivory walls and sage-green furniture, I miss Ru Ann’s colorful touches: the bedspread and the bright fruit bowl. The beauty shop doesn’t even begin to compare to the delicious smells from Zorba’s. But it’s comfortable and in a safe part of town. I’m anxious to find out more about my school. What will my fellow teachers be like? In New York, I had lots of close friends to talk with. What if things don’t work out?

***

The next morning, I enter the West Belfield Separate School District Office. At the first desk, a woman looks up from her typewriter and smooths her short brown hairdo with a wrinkled hand. Her desk is covered with neat piles of papers.

She looks up and asks, How can I help you?

Hello, I’m Kenda Kirkenbaum, the new teacher from New York.

Good mornin’, I’m Mrs. Janes, secretary to the superintendent. We were wonderin’ if you were gonna make it, she says. School starts in two days. Mrs. Janes squints and looks me in the eye. I hope you don’t mind me sayin’, you sure look awful young. She shuffles through some papers. Here you are, Kenda K-somethin’, Wilks Junior High. You’ll be teaching four classes: two math and two science. Mrs. Janes hands me papers. You’ll need to sign this tax form. This is your contract, the district’s rules, your grade book, and class lists.

Thank you. I flip through the materials, sign the form, and wish Mrs. Janes a good day.

After I get back to my apartment, I set all the papers on the kitchen table and stare at the boxes stacked next to the door. I’ve never felt so alone; I wish I had a phone to call Dad and let him and Mom know I’m here and I’m okay, but I don’t want to bother Phyllis. My phone should be installed within a week; I’ll wait until then.

I set to work unpacking dishes, books, and clothes. Hours later, I collapse on the couch. Loud cawing in the yard awakens me. Rubbing my eyes, I see crows bickering in the dusk. I make myself a peanut butter sandwich and copy my rosters into the grade book: first period—math; third and fourth periods—science; and sixth period—math. There are thirty-eight to forty-two students in each of my classes; my largest class last year was twenty-nine. In the bedroom, I stretch out my twin-size sheets on top of the double mattress.

Even though I sleep fitfully, the next day I feel much better, almost settled. This apartment is comfy, but I’m nervous. I spend the day reviewing all the papers Mrs. Janes gave me, writing lesson plans, reading, and finding my way around town. It takes only seven minutes to drive to the school—a two-story, brick building with tall, skinny windows. A wide concrete walkway separates large areas of leveled dirt and leads to the main entrance. Only the maroon and gold-painted sign Lieutenant Bobby Wilks Junior High School feels welcoming. Before I go to bed, I choose my clothes for the first day in a time-honored ritual I’ve done every year since kindergarten. Drifting off to sleep, I think I’m prepared for the first day of school—or am I?

CHAPTER TWO

THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

The intercom crackles in my classroom. The chalkboard is blank except for the words Welcome to Sixth Grade and Miss Kirkenbaum written neatly in cursive. Bright fluorescent lights reflect off the desktops and the ochre cinderblock walls. The smell of fresh paint lingers in the room. With my hair in a neat bun and wearing my favorite blue shirtwaist dress, I stand tall and a smile creeps across my face. I feel older than my twenty-two years. Everything is perfect.

The bell rings and clusters of chattering students shuffle in.

Although there are about equal numbers of students of each race, the groups are segregated.

The principal’s deep Southern drawl comes over the speaker. Welcome tuh Lieutenant Bobby Wilks Junior Hah School. This is your principal, Mistuh Washin’ton, and I’m wishin’ each and ever’ one a you a great year. This intuhgrated school is a new experience for all a us. We are here tuh learn. To do that, we mus’ respec’ all our teachers an’ fellow students. Now, let’s say the Pledge of Allegiance . . . 

The intercom clicks off, and I flip open my brand-new grade book with one hundred sixty names in my neat handwriting. Soon these names will become real pupils—mine for a whole year. But I wonder why they gave us class rosters with only the students’ last names.

Welcome to the sixth grade. When I say your last name, please raise your hand and tell me the name you like to be called.

Briggs.

Tiffany.

Frost.

Sheila, ma’am

After about thirty names, I’m almost through the list. Winters.

Ah-vree, a boy answers.

Excuse me. What’s your first name?

Ah-vree, ma’am, he repeats.

My puzzled expression frustrates him; he shouts Ah-vree at me.

Another student tries to help. Yeah, miz, like them white things by a elephant’s mouth.

I still don’t understand, so I ask him to spell it.

Ah Vee O R Why! Ma’am, you de dumbest teache’ I ever had! His Afro shakes as he moves his head from side to side.

Oh, IVORY, I say, as I write it next