Chapter 24: The confession

Classes resumed after Christmas vacation and winter waned by the middle of March and the warmer sun melted away the snow cover to reveal the hidden, suburban lawns once again.

It was during second hour, that late March day, that Mr. Boswell brought a pretty, dark-haired woman into the classroom with him who he introduced as his friend Vi. He told the class that, like him, she was a civil rights activist and a member of the Unitarian Church and a student who attended the same seminars as he did, downtown at Wayne State University.

“Vi is a dedicated worker for the cause of equality,” Mr. Boswell said as he and his guest stood before the class, “and I want you to hear what she has to say today.”

Nancy Martin said, “I’m sure we’ll learn a lot from her, Mr. Boswell.” And then she giggled toward her friend Kathy at the next desk.

The woman, in her modest, dark blue dress and black heels, looked around the class and cleared her throat and, in a syrupy Southern drawl said, “I’m here, kids, because I’m for the oppressed, in our society, and the victimized and the beaten and the downtrodden and everyone who is abused by people in authority. Good, kind, decent people are being hurt every day ... beaten and denied their basic rights and nobody is doing anything about it. President Johnson has now called for help, in this civil rights struggle, and I’m joining with thousands of people ... good people like your Mr. Boswell ... and we’re going to make a difference. A difference for everybody and a difference ... a real difference ... for every one of you.”

As she talked, in her warm and friendly, languid voice, Cookie felt that the woman was talking directly to her and that she was addressing her needs and her situation in particular.

“Miss Vi?” Nancy raised her hand now.

“It’s Mrs ... but yes, dear?”

“Are you talking about helping the nig ... er ... I mean ... the negro?”

“I’m talking about people, sweetie. Real people who are oppressed because of nothing more than the color of their skin or their gender or for being different in any way.”

“My daddy says the nig ... I mean the negro should not be so uppity and should stay in his place,” Nancy said, smiling sweetly up at her.

“That’s where you can all help,” Mrs. Vi told the whole class now. “Your parents are mostly intolerant, kids. They can’t help it because they’ve learned racial hatred from your grand-parents and their parents. You hear their talk and their use of vulgar, racist words every day but you shouldn’t copy them. You need to break this awful chain. You should be correcting them.”

“Correct my dad?” John Madison scoffed loudly. “He’d kick my ass!”

“My dad too,” Nancy Martin said. “He hates nigger ... I mean ... negroes and that uppity Luther Martin King that Mr. Boswell’s always jabbering about.”

“Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior is who you mean,” Mrs. Vi corrected her. “And he is a very great man and he is going to ascend into a powerful position of destiny, in this country, and very soon.”

“God, I hope not!” Nancy said loudly now. “My dad says that that crazy nigger’s going to stir up a whole lot of trouble and somebody’s going to shoot his black ass dead some day!”

“Nancy Martin!” Mr. Boswell shouted as he jumped from the seat at his desk and ran to where she was sitting and pointed his finger directly into her shocked face, making her eyes go inwardly crossed. “You shut your foul mouth you nasty little snot!”

“What did I do?” Nancy exclaimed up at him in surprise.

“Get up! Get up and get out of my classroom and go stand out in the hall,” he yelled.

And Nancy, her face a stone mask of righteous indignation, rose from her chair, stood erect and walked staunchly out of the open door.

“This is what I have to deal with, Vi,” he told her apologetically and she patted his shoulder.

“I know,” she said. “We all have to deal with it. But maybe someday she’ll learn something, Mel, and you’ll have made a difference.”

Mrs. Vi went on to tell the class about the important struggle for voting rights, in Alabama, and how a huge march was being organized by Dr. King and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, going from Selma to the capitol city of Montgomery, to support a proposed voting rights bill. She explained how, as a member of the Detroit branch of the NAACP and the Unitarian Church, she and Mr. Boswell were going down to take part. Mrs. Vi also told the class how much the Unitarian church was dedicated to helping oppressed and mistreated people everywhere at any time

“Kids,” she said now, “when you see repression and mistreatment or when you are aware of abuse, of any kind, done to anyone, it’s up to you to report it and do your part to put an end to it so that people can live their lives happily and free of pain and fear ... the way that God wants you, and I, and everybody to live.”

When class was over and the other students filed out, Cookie, with her books hugged to her chest, walked to where the woman was standing and said hello to her.

“Hello, child,” she responded and smiled warmly back, “and what’s your name?”

“Cookie Mullins, Mrs. Vi.”

The woman laughed. “Cookie. I have to say that is such a perfect name for you. You look so sweet, darling.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Vi.”

“Listen,” she said, touching the arm of the brown sweater that Cookie wore with her beige skirt, “my first name is Viola. Mel ... I mean ... your Mr. Boswell is so formal. You can just call me Vi.”

“Oh, Mrs. Vi, I could never do that. You’re such an elegant woman and so worthy of everyone’s respect.”

She laughed. “You’re talking about me?”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Vi. I was so taken with what you had to tell us. You are so right about respecting people and being kind to each other and looking out for one another and telling people when something is happening that isn’t right.”

“Well, Cookie,” she smiled kindly at her now, “at least I reached someone today.”

“Yes, ma’am. I had to come over to you to tell you something. Something ... about me.”

“What is it, honey?” she warmly entreated, sitting on a school chair now so that she could look directly into Cookie’s sad, azure-blue eyes.

“Well ... it’s my father... ,”she hesitated, not sure if she should go ahead with this. “It’s not easy for me to talk about, Mrs. Vi, but...” Cookie just wasn’t sure if she could take this fearful step. The anxiety within in her was almost overwhelming.

“But what, child? Say it. What about your father?”

“Well ... he ... he sometimes hurts me, Mrs. Vi,” she managed to say. “He doesn’t really seem to care about me and he ... he sometimes hurts me really bad.”

“All kids think that their parents are too strict or unfair to them or that their punishments are cruel and uncalled for, honey,” Mrs. Vi interrupted. “But believe me when I tell you that they’re only trying to do what’s best for...”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Vi. No. It’s not like that at all. He ... he really hurts me. He ... he slaps me hard and he punches me and he kicks me and knocks me down and he ... he beats me with his hand or with a belt or...”

“That’s crazy talk,” the woman stated now, her smile evaporating as she held up her hand for Cookie to be silent. “I don’t want to hear any more of that kind of talk. What are you really trying to tell me, child?”

Cookie paused, not knowing what the outcome would be if she continued to utter such dangerous words to someone who really didn’t seem to believe her, but (gathering her courage) she just let it come out and continued. “Since I was a little girl, Mrs. Vi. My father has been hurting me and causing everyone in my family and here at school to do the same to me.”

“This is quite hard for me to comprehend,” Mrs. Vi stated now. “You’re such a sweet, pretty thing, Cookie. How could ... Why would anyone want to... ?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Vi. He just hates me and he wants everybody else to hate me as well. He’s able to manipulate people and situations, ma’am. He can do that. He has that ability. He always has had. He has his ways of turning people against me and allowing them to abuse me and they all think it’s some kind of a game and they all do it because they can do it and get away with it. Even sometimes be rewarded for it. It’s been going on since I was five.”

“Oh, come on, Cookie. That’s so hard for me to even imagine.”

“Then ... you don’t believe me?”

“It sounds so very hard to believe, Cookie. Things like what you are telling me just don’t happen to people, honey. And certainly not to pretty girls like you. Do you have any proof of what you’re telling me?”

Cookie looked about the room and, aware that she and Mrs. Vi were alone, she thought about it for a moment and hesitated but, seeing as she had come this far, she set her books down and unbuttoned the top buttons of her brown sweater, just to her bra. Then she pulled her collar aside to expose her right, upper shoulder and the group of small, pale, pock-like scars that had been hidden there.

The woman’s eyes widened as she looked at the site and asked, “What are those, child? What are you showing me? How did those happen?”