in the hallways, whites and blacks struggled to communicate. It had been one thing to initially accept integration—the students knew it wasn’t their decision to make, and to fight back made little sense. Now, however, a cloud of hostility loomed. Black students couldn’t help but notice that Columbia High’s facilities—the ones they had been told were equal to Jefferson’s—were fancy and clean. An immaculate science laboratory. Textbooks without eight or nine names scribbled on a weathered inside cover. There were angry glares and harsh words. “After we integrated, a bunch of students of both races were in a room and a teacher said, ‘Are there any questions people from one race want to ask the other race?’ ” recalled Michael Woodson, Walter’s friend. “This little white girl raises her hand and says, ‘Is it true black people have tails?’ ”
Laughter ensued, but the general mood was one of great distrust. In the cafeteria, the students segregated themselves. One would never sit at the table of the opposite race. “I got suspended three or four times that first semester for fighting the blacks,” said Wayne Phillips, a white student. “I was prejudiced. I called people ‘nigger’ and thought nothing of it. And I wasn’t the only one.”
So what inspired students of both races to let their guards down? The clichéd answer has long been “sports”—the ability of blacks and whites to come together on a field of play. Yet the simplicity of that reply demeans what actually occurred. From the depths of a student body uncomfortable with itself, a small handful of leaders emerged. Johnson and Barber, the class presidents, were two. But the most important—the most influential —was Walter Payton.
Whether you were black or white, the best athlete in school would almost certainly approach you with an extended hand or a high five or a pat on the shoulder. It was the Alyne in him—the need to please all comers, no matter the circumstances. Walter had no illusions that he could bring the school together. No, his goal was significantly simpler than that—to be righteous. Of all the white students at Columbia High, Phillips was one of the most vile. He started fights with blacks, called them names, condemned them to hell. Payton targeted him as a potential ally. Shortly after integration began, Phillips found himself in a fight with a black football player. A large handful of black students jumped in. Phillips said some of them had crowbars. Payton dashed toward the scrum and pulled people off. “Don’t start with Wayne!” Payton yelled. “He’s OK! He’s OK!” The fight ended.
“He came up to me one day and said, ‘Wayne, if any of my black friends mess with you, you tell me,’ ” recalled Phillips. “I couldn’t believe it. So I said to him, ‘Walt, if any of the white guys mess with you, you tell me.’ I ran with the bad guys, and he had no reason to want to befriend me. But he did. He befriended many of us. It wouldn’t be a lie to say he changed our perspectives.
“He really did.”
CHAPTER 4
THE EMERGENCE
FROM NORTH CAROLINA TO FLORIDA, FROM LOUISIANA TO GEORGIA, FROM Kentucky to Mississippi, there is a universal language of the South, and it is football. People enjoy basketball and respect baseball. But what takes place between the hash marks of a football field determines the true worth of an individual, of a school, of a community.
In most towns below the Mason-Dixon Line a quarterback reigns over a valedictorian; a halfback with 4.4 speed is far superior to a math whiz with a 4.0 GPA. If a high school graduates 99 percent of its students, the achievement is acknowledged. If a high school wins a state football title, the achievement is immortalized. “People have their heroes,” said Richard Howarth, the former mayor of Oxford, Mississippi. “Down here, they’re predominantly football players.” While the early days of Columbia’s integration went as smoothly as
Laughter ensued, but the general mood was one of great distrust. In the cafeteria, the students segregated themselves. One would never sit at the table of the opposite race. “I got suspended three or four times that first semester for fighting the blacks,” said Wayne Phillips, a white student. “I was prejudiced. I called people ‘nigger’ and thought nothing of it. And I wasn’t the only one.”
So what inspired students of both races to let their guards down? The clichéd answer has long been “sports”—the ability of blacks and whites to come together on a field of play. Yet the simplicity of that reply demeans what actually occurred. From the depths of a student body uncomfortable with itself, a small handful of leaders emerged. Johnson and Barber, the class presidents, were two. But the most important—the most influential —was Walter Payton.
Whether you were black or white, the best athlete in school would almost certainly approach you with an extended hand or a high five or a pat on the shoulder. It was the Alyne in him—the need to please all comers, no matter the circumstances. Walter had no illusions that he could bring the school together. No, his goal was significantly simpler than that—to be righteous. Of all the white students at Columbia High, Phillips was one of the most vile. He started fights with blacks, called them names, condemned them to hell. Payton targeted him as a potential ally. Shortly after integration began, Phillips found himself in a fight with a black football player. A large handful of black students jumped in. Phillips said some of them had crowbars. Payton dashed toward the scrum and pulled people off. “Don’t start with Wayne!” Payton yelled. “He’s OK! He’s OK!” The fight ended.
“He came up to me one day and said, ‘Wayne, if any of my black friends mess with you, you tell me,’ ” recalled Phillips. “I couldn’t believe it. So I said to him, ‘Walt, if any of the white guys mess with you, you tell me.’ I ran with the bad guys, and he had no reason to want to befriend me. But he did. He befriended many of us. It wouldn’t be a lie to say he changed our perspectives.
“He really did.”
CHAPTER 4
THE EMERGENCE
FROM NORTH CAROLINA TO FLORIDA, FROM LOUISIANA TO GEORGIA, FROM Kentucky to Mississippi, there is a universal language of the South, and it is football. People enjoy basketball and respect baseball. But what takes place between the hash marks of a football field determines the true worth of an individual, of a school, of a community.
In most towns below the Mason-Dixon Line a quarterback reigns over a valedictorian; a halfback with 4.4 speed is far superior to a math whiz with a 4.0 GPA. If a high school graduates 99 percent of its students, the achievement is acknowledged. If a high school wins a state football title, the achievement is immortalized. “People have their heroes,” said Richard Howarth, the former mayor of Oxford, Mississippi. “Down here, they’re predominantly football players.” While the early days of Columbia’s integration went as smoothly as
Similar Books
