The Dilemma of A Rose
It was beauty on wheels; “Cougars Our Love is Like a Red, Red Rose”; letters perfectly placed in red and green on a white poster attached to a bed of crepe paper grass; all adorned on a green pick-up truck. The decorations were topped off with live green leaf branches, artificial red roses—and me. I stood in the middle of the float, dressed in green from the neck down leaning on the cab to keep my balance, while nervously smiling and timidly waving my rosebud mittens made of bright red felt. With red petal-shaped crepe paper towering around my neck and a red felt cap donning my head, hopefully, I looked like what I was supposed to be—a red rose that loved the cougars. It should have been a perfect day of love and school spirit—instead, tension hung in the air.
Four years had passed since schools in our small town were forced into integration. Four years of matriculating under the same roof but still segregated inside the classrooms—and more eminently segregated in our hearts and minds. Four years of watching our heroes disappear. No longer did we see African-American principals and teachers in large numbers, no longer did we see African-American SGA presidents and class secretaries, Drum majors and cheerleaders were reduced to one, maybe two; and no homecoming queens—they all seemed to have disappeared into the woodwork. What happened, where did they go?
The class of 1972 had a brilliant solution to the homecoming queen problem—they selected one black candidate for the ballot. Though the African-American students were outnumbered, their unified vote for that one candidate outfoxed the split vote for the multiple Caucasian candidates, resulting in the first African-American homecoming queen since integration. This did not sit well with guess who…
The class of 1973 now had the formula, and put it to use the following year. But to their surprise and horror, the good White folks had a solution for the formula—instead of one homecoming queen—we had five, which did not include the “one candidate”. This did not sit well with guess who…
Tempers ran high and a mass walkout ensued, a picket line was formed in front of the school and those of color that crossed it were considered traitors. A boycott of the homecoming parade and the homecoming game was scheduled. The local NAACP planned a march to parallel the parade. Our up to now peaceful town was finally boiling over from years of unreleased racial frustration.
There were some of us however, that were caught in a dilemma; we were already selected as representatives from various organizations to participate in the parade. Our parents had spent money preparing us for our distinct honors. While some Black parents felt forfeiting their hard earned money for the cause was the right thing to do, others felt we should not all back down and walk out. Do we show solidarity, or do we stand alone and follow through with our commitments. It was a decision that brought tremendous inner turmoil.
It is a day I will never forget, standing there on the back of that truck that won third place in the float competition, was the single most agonizing day of my life thus far. I did not know what to expect as we left the school grounds headed for downtown, where at any given point we would meet the marchers carrying their signs and singing We Shall Overcome. Rumors were circulating that they would trash the floats of any traitors. I felt some semblance of peace knowing my father was in the cab of the truck and his best friend, the town’s only black policeman, was walking nearby.
As we turned the corner headed for the court square, I heard them; my fear went into high gear. What would happen, what would they do? They were meeting the parade head-on, singing and waving their signs. So far it was a peaceful interchange as they passed each float, but they had not passed any “traitors” yet. My time was drawing closer, feelings of conflict were now mixed with my fear; I should be with them, not dressed in this stupid looking rose outfit scared to move because decisions beyond my control had been made.
But there I was, getting closer and closer. I tensed and held my breath while the front of the line met the front of my float and passed… nothing happened… we were now half and half… and still nothing happened. Was I going to make it all the way with no incident? They didn’t look at me as I stood frozen trying not to look at them—and then the words “you cheated” came from out of the marchers, not from the total group and not from any stranger, but from someone I had considered my friend. He leaned over and sneered the words toward me, piercing my frozen stance and causing my insides to rumble like Mt. St. Helens before the eruption. My rosebud hands waved no more, my smile now resembled a faded rose. My next memory was my father helping me off the truck and saying “we made it”.
That day was the beginning of a multitude of migraines. Along with the pain in my head and the rocks in my stomach, I could faintly hear my advisors for the organization congratulating me while offering their admonition to make them proud as I received the trophy that evening for our award winning float. Surely they wouldn’t make me do that as well. I was already a traitor and a cheater for participating in the parade. Couldn’t I at least boycott the game!
As fate would have it I was in for the whole package. I sat there on our side of the stadium, my insides feeling like Niagara Falls on a rainy day, dreading walking out on that field. When the awards ceremony began I was so caught up in my trepidation I didn’t hear them call my name. A nudge and a push from a friend got me off the bleachers. I walked slowly toward the field with my head down wondering what I would be called this time. But to my amazement and ultimate anger they didn’t call out any names, instead they stood up with fist in the air yelling “black power!” I looked up into that sea of black faces and thought “WHAT?” You all had my insides feeling like an avalanche of hard tumbling roses all day and now you are going to share in the glory and revel in black power! How dare you!
Somehow from the close of the parade to the awards ceremony I went from a cheater to a hero. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps they were reminded that the organization I represented was comprised of all black students, and we had put together an award winning float. The rose was no longer in a dilemma but was ironically thinking: If I had a bazooka I would shoot all of you.
The real glory however, came at the end of the ceremony during the announcement of the homecoming queen(s) when a group of eloquently dressed black students took their “one candidate” out on the field and crowned her as the homecoming queen. The surprised administration not wanting to cause a greater friction, graciously, with tongue in cheek, allowed the crowning.
So as not to create this dilemma again, for several years to come school administrators crowned not one—but two queens: one white, one black.
