They started out.
“Here!” called Aunt Hager. “Ain’t you gwine to take yo’ coupons?” In his rush to get away, Sandy had forgotten them.
It was a long walk to the park, and Willie-Mae stopped and took off her shoes and stockings and carried them in her hands until she got near the gate; then she put them on again and limped bravely along, clutching her precious bits of newspaper. They could hear the band playing and children shouting and squealing as the cars on the shoot-the-shoots shot downward with a splash into the pond. They could see the giant Ferris wheel, larger than the one the carnival had had, circling high in the air.
“I’m gonna ride on that first,” said Sandy.
There were crowds of children under the bright red and white wooden shelter at the park entrance. They were lining up at the gate—laughing, merry, clean little white children, pushing and yelling and giggling amiably. Sandy let Willie-Mae go first and he got in line behind her. The band was playing gaily inside. … They were almost to the entrance now. … There were just two boys in front of them … Willie-Mae held out her black little hand clutching the coupons. They moved forward. The man looked down.
“Sorry,” he said. “This party’s for white kids.”
Willie-Mae did not understand. She stood holding out the coupons, waiting for the tall white man to take them.
“Stand back, you two,” he said, looking at Sandy as well. “I told you little darkies this wasn’t your party. … Come on—next little girl.” And the line of white children pushed past Willie-Mae and Sandy, going into the park. Stunned, the two dark ones drew aside. Then they noticed a group of a dozen or more other colored youngsters standing apart in the sun, just without the bright entrance pavilion, and among them was Sadie Butler, Sandy’s classmate. Three or four of the colored children were crying, but most of them looked sullen and angry, and some of them had turned to go home.
“My papa takes the Leader,” Sadie Butler was saying. “And you see what it says here on the coupons, too—‘Free Admittance to Every Child in Stanton.’ Can’t you read it, Sandy?”
“Sure, I can read it, but I guess they didn’t mean colored,” he answered, as the boy watched the white children going in the gate. “They wouldn’t let us in.”
Willie-Mae, between the painful shoes and the hurt of her disappointment, was on the verge of tears. One of the small boys in the crowd, a hard-looking little fellow from Pearl Street, was cursing childishly.
“God damn old sons of biscuit-eaters, that what they are! I wish I was a big man, dog-gone, I’d shoot ’em all, that’s what I’d do!”
“I suppose they didn’t mean colored kids,” said Sandy again.
“Buster went in all right,” said Sadie. “I seen him. But they didn’t know he was colored, I guess. When I went up to the gate, the man said: ‘Whoa! Where you goin’?’ just like I was a horse. … I’m going home now and tell my papa.”
She walked away, followed by five or six other little girls in their Sunday dresses. Willie-Mae was sitting on the ground taking off her shoes again, sweat and tears running down her black cheeks. Sandy saw his white schoolmate, Earl, approaching.
“What’s matter, Sandy? Ain’t you goin’ in?” Earl demanded, looking at his friend’s worried face. “Did the little girl hurt her foot?”
“No,” said Sandy. “We just ain’t going in. … Here, Earl, you can have my coupons. If you have extra ones, the papers says you get more lemonade … so you take ’em.”
The white boy, puzzled, accepted the proffered coupons, stood dumbly for a moment wondering what to say to his brown friend, then went on into the park.
“It’s yo’ party, white chile!” a little tan-skin girl called after him, mimicking the way the man at the gate had talked. “Whoa! Stay out! You’s a nigger!” she said to Sandy.
The other children, in spite of themselves, laughed at the accuracy of her burlesque imitation. Then, with the music of the merry-go-round from beyond the high fence and the laughter of happy children following them, the group of dark-skinned ones started down the dusty road together—and to all the colored boys and girls they met on the way they called out, “Ain’t no use, jigaboos! That party’s for white folks!”
When Willie-Mae and Sandy got home and told their story, Sister Johnson was angry as a wet hen.
“Crackers is devils,” she cried. “I ’spected as much! Dey ain’t nary hell hot ’nough to burn ole white folks, ’cause dey’s devils dey-selves! De dirty hounds!”
But all Hager said was: “They’s po’ trash owns that park what don’t know no better, hurtin’ chillens’ feelin’s, but we’ll forgive ’em! Don’t fret yo’self, Sister Johnson. What good can frettin’ do? Come on here, let’s we have a party of our own.” She went out in the yard and took a watermelon from a tub of well-water where it had been cooling and cut it into four juicy slices; then they sat down on the grass at the shady side of the house and ate, trying to forget about white folks.
“Don’t you mind, Willie-Mae,” Hager said to the little black girl, who was still crying. “You’s colored, honey, an’ you’s liable to have a hard time in this life—but don’t cry. … You, Sandy, run round de house an’ see didn’t I heard de mailman blowin’.”
“Yes’m,” said Sandy when he came back. “Was the mailman, and I got a letter from mama.” The boy sat on the grass to read it, anxious to see what Annjee said. And later, when the company had gone, he read it aloud to Hager.
Dear Little Son:
How have you all been? how is grandma? I get worried about you when I do not hear. You know Aunt Hager is old and can’t write much so you must do it for her because she is not used to
