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10 A Brief Reprieve As the violence increased, Bob and I spent the night together in my room at the Academy whenever we could, although most nights we were out in the field separately. The Revs took us aside for talks. They warned us: “You are putting us in danger by being a couple. You are breaking the rules. You are setting a bad example for the local kids.” We were righteously indignant and explained what had been true up until then—that we were sleeping fully clothed just enjoying the comfort of hugs and kisses after long difficult days apart. When they continued to pressure us, I retorted, “Well, John and Ethel are staying in his room some nights. Is there a double standard?” A red-­ faced married John Golden replied that it was different, they were grown-­ ups and they were not doing anything, just talking. But my outburst put an end to the issue. The night we finally made love for the first time, we didn’t discuss it. Thanks to Rev. Al Dale back in San Francisco, I was on the pill, so I wasn’t going to get pregnant. Considering we might not make it out alive, I was ready. Bob told me he was experienced, which gave me the confidence to undress completely with him for the first time. Our lovemaking was hurried and sweaty. We tried to be as quiet as possible now that we really were “doing it.” Afterward, Bob fell asleep quickly. As I cleaned up in the hall bathroom, I stared into the mirror for a long time to see if I looked any different . If I’d changed, it didn’t show. I walked out onto the upper porch in my cotton nightgown, sat on my favorite swing and rocked. While looking out at the full moon, I smiled to myself thinking, “Now I am a woman.” My very next thought was: “I am going to be in so much trouble.” And then the thought that fixed everything: “We love each other, Bob says we’ll get married . It will be all right.” Across the way I saw a light on in Rev. Threadgill’s window and prayed that he’d never find out that we’d desecrated his campus. A Brief Reprieve / 121 The handful of nights I was able to shower and sleep at the boy’s dormitory were entirely due to Rev. Threadgill’s intervention with Principal Hobbs and the board of education. While I seldom saw him except during meetings with our adult leaders, his presence on campus and his admonitions to behave were constantly on my mind. Despite how stern he was with us—especially compared to Dan Harrell who tried to cajole his uppity white student charges—I knew that Rev. Threadgill was our protector, that we owed what little respite we did enjoy primarily to him. Whenever I was staying at the boys’ dorm, I used to face in the direction of the Threadgills’ home when I said my nightly prayers. In the middle of the summer I added a hope that he would forgive me for taking refuge with my new love under those ancient eaves. On the occasions when Rev. Threadgill stopped in at our SCOPE field staff meetings, discussions generally went more smoothly. In a spirit and tone similar to Dr. King’s, he reminded us that we should begin meetings with prayer, a practice that had fallen by the wayside after staff sessions had become tense. Over the Fourth of July weekend, we got some relief. On July 3, Bob and I went in to Selma to party with SNCC kids at the Chicken Shack, the Selma movement hangout. My first impression of the Chicken Shack was that it was like the Roost Club, our high school hangout back in Petaluma. Except in Selma, there were no watchful chaperones to keep you from dancing too close, and the drinks were not limited to sodas. The Chicken Shack was a simple wooden building with a corrugated metal roof that added to the percussion when the summer rain beat down. The concrete floor was beer-­ stained; the air was filled with sweat, cigarette smoke, and lust. A jukebox with colored neon lights made for most of the light and all of the music. There was some kind of bar that served beer and mixed drinks. I drank rum and coke—sweet and not too strong, but as a nondrinker up...

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