Mrs. Lane: Yes. Ethel never had a sick day in her life—before. (A brief pause). I took her to the doctor at the end of the two weeks. He says she’s a nervous wreck.
Rachel: But what could they have done to her?
Mrs. Lane (Laughs grimly and mirthlessly): I’ll tell you what they did the first day. Ethel is naturally sensitive and backward. She’s not assertive. The teacher saw that, and, after I had left, told her to sit in a seat in the rear of the class. She was alone there—in a corner. The children, immediately feeling there was something wrong with Ethel because of the teacher’s attitude, turned and stared at her. When the teacher’s back was turned they whispered about her, pointed their fingers at her and tittered. The teacher divided the class into two parts, divisions, I believe, they are called. She forgot all about Ethel, of course, until the last minute, and then, looking back, said sharply: “That little girl there may join this division,” meaning the group of pupils standing around her. Ethel naturally moved slowly. The teacher called her sulky and told her to lose a part of her recess. When Ethel came up—the children drew away from her in every direction. She was left standing alone. The teacher then proceeded to give a lesson about kindness to animals. Funny, isn’t it, kindness to animals? The children forgot Ethel in the excitement of talking about their pets. Presently, the teacher turned to Ethel and said disagreeably: “Have you a pet?” Ethel said, “Yes,” very low. “Come, speak up, you sulky child, what is it?” Ethel said: “A blind puppy.” They all laughed, the teacher and all. Strange, isn’t it, but Ethel loves that puppy. She spoke up: “It’s mean to laugh at a little blind puppy. I’m glad he’s blind.” This remark brought forth more laughter. “Why are you glad,” the teacher asked curiously. Ethel refused to say. (Pauses). When I asked her why, do you know what she told me? “If he saw me, he might not love me any more.” (A pause). Did I tell you that Ethel is only seven years old?
Rachel (Drawing her breath sharply): Oh! I didn’t believe any one could be as cruel as that—to a little child.
Mrs. Lane: It isn’t very pleasant, is it? When the teacher found out that Ethel wouldn’t answer, she said severely: “Take your seat!” At recess, all the children went out. Ethel could hear them playing and laughing and shrieking. Even the teacher went too. She was made to sit there all alone—in that big room—because God made her ugly—and black. (Pauses). When the recess was half over the teacher came back. “You may go now,” she said coldly. Ethel didn’t stir. “Did you hear me?” “Yes’m.” “Why don’t you obey?” “I don’t want to go out, please.” “You don’t, don’t you, you stubborn child! Go immediately!” Ethel went. She stood by the school steps. No one spoke to her. The children near her moved away in every direction. They stopped playing, many of them, and watched her. They stared as only children can stare. Some began whispering about her. Presently one child came up and ran her hand roughly over Ethel’s face. She looked at her hand and Ethel’s face and ran screaming back to the others, “It won’t come off! See!” Other children followed the first child’s example. Then one boy spoke up loudly: “I know what she is, she’s a nigger!” Many took up the cry. God or the devil interfered—the bell rang. The children filed in. One boy boldly called her “Nigger!” before the teacher. She said, “That isn’t nice,”—but she smiled at the boy. Things went on about the same for the rest of the day. At the end of school, Ethel put on her hat and coat—the teacher made her hang them at a distance from the other pupils’ wraps; and started for home. Quite a crowd escorted her. They called her “Nigger!” all the way. I made Ethel go the next day. I complained to the authorities. They treated me lightly. I was determined not to let them force my child out of school. At the end of two weeks—I had to take her out.
Rachel (Brokenly): Why,—I never—in all my life—heard anything—so—pitiful.
Mrs. Lane: Did you ever go to school here?
Rachel: Yes. I was made to feel my color—but I never had an experience like that.
Mrs. Lane: How many years ago were you in the graded schools?
Rachel: Oh!—around ten.