On May 17, 1954, a landmark decision was handed down by the justices of the Supreme Court. It would present a problem for children of color. We now had to attend schools with white kids.

In Brown vs. Board of Education, which was litigated by the NAACP Legal Defense and Educational Fund, a unanimous United States Supreme Court declared segregated education systems unconstitutional. School districts had to find ways to integrate brown and Black children with white children in all public schools. No longer was “separate but equal” a crutch used by white segregationists to keep children of color apart from white students.

It would take several years before brown children in Fort Stockton would be fully integrated with the white children. Eight years had gone by since the ruling, and I was now entering an integrated school. Alamo Elementary was closer to where I lived than Butz School. The younger children from the barrio had been separated and not allowed to be educated in the same school as white kids because of the color of our skin. But for the first time in my twelve years of existence, I would get to sit next to a white student.

Hispanic and Black kids had their own school in Butz, but only up to the fourth grade. Alamo Elementary had grades one through five. So, in the fall of 1962, I entered a whole new world of public education.

The school looked and felt new compared to Butz Elementary. Everything about this school was new or seemed new. The library was fully stocked with shelves and shelves of colorful, interesting-looking books. It was even carpeted! The music room had an array of instruments, from drums to flutes to xylophones—instruments I’d not seen before. Classrooms were spacious, painted in bright colors, with student desks that were neither carved into nor nearly falling apart. The bathrooms were free of urine smells, with working toilets and actual toilet seats. Campus grounds were clean and well-maintained.

The grass glistening in the early morning sun gave off a freshly cut fragrance. The greenest lawns surrounded playground equipment, which beckoned, “Come play with me.” It was full of equipment I’d never seen before—slides, swings, tetherball poles with real balls, merry-go-rounds, and monkey bars—all standing just high enough for children of all ages. The monkey bars were in the middle of this enticing playground. I imagined myself climbing and swinging from one bar to the next. A plethora of delight. It was amazing! It took some time to soak in the differences between where I’d come from and where I’d arrived.

There were more kids there than at Butz. The student body consisted mainly of white students—more than I’d ever seen in one place at one time. Most entered their classrooms wearing new school clothes. I noticed a difference between what the white kids were wearing and what the Hispanic kids were wearing. Ours were cheap, simple clothing. Some of us didn’t have clothing that matched. On the other hand, the white kids did, especially the girls. Boys wore jeans and shirts, while the girls wore dresses or skirts. Shorts were not allowed.

Even though the differences between us were abundant, a sense of excitement filled the classroom. To my awareness, these differences on this first day of school didn’t seem to matter to the white students. But to me, it was quite obvious: We didn’t belong there. I didn’t belong.

When the bell rang, teachers stood outside next to their classroom doors, welcoming those prancing in from the playground. Our fifth-grade class was in the last wing closest to the main building. It had large windows across the entire side of one wall. When the curtains were opened, it allowed us to occasionally look out into the world beyond. I couldn’t believe I had made it this far.

I was assigned to Mrs. Smith’s classroom. Upon entering the room, we were asked to stand in a circle around the desks. Mrs. Smith called out our names in alphabetical order, pointing to the seat where she wanted us to sit. Naturally, having the Alfaro name put me up front and center—not a very comfortable position for me, since everyone could see me. I would have much preferred the back of the room. A place to hide.

Aside from the student differences, what was most noticeable about the school were the teachers. Most were white. There were no Black or Hispanic teachers teaching fifth graders. None in the fourth and none in the third. I didn’t pay much attention to the primary grade teachers, but I assumed there were none there either.

I immediately took a liking to Mrs. Smith. She was a big woman who wore nice, colorful dresses. Female teachers were not allowed to wear pants or shorts. Mrs. Smith was kind. She was older than most of the others. I could tell by her demeanor that she liked teaching kids regardless of who they were, where they came from, or what they looked like. With a wonderful sense of humor, punctuated by a perpetual smile, she spoke kindly and respectfully to the children. Her blond hair—perfectly coiffured, as if she’d been to the beauty shop every morning—complemented her appearance. A slight touch of makeup on her round face and ever-so-light lipstick on her lips gave her confidence and purpose. When she walked by, she left a fragrance of baby powder in her wake. She was definitely the kindest, most appreciative teacher I’d ever had. She was the best. She made me feel like I belonged there because she showed no indifference toward the Hispanic kids.

This was going to be the best year of my life.

Or so I thought.

It didn’t take long to realize that making friends at this school was going to be difficult. The differences in culture, language, and expectations resonated within the walls. In Mrs. Smith’s class, three boys, including me, had come from Butz, which made it easier to adjust to this strange environment. At least I knew them. I could play with them. There also were girls from the Mexican school who’d made it into Mrs. Smith’s class. I was glad they did. I could ask these familiar kids to help me when I didn’t understand Mrs. Smith’s instructions.

Everything was in English. Not wanting to draw attention to my lack of English skills, I mostly stuck to myself. My survival depended on knowing who I could ask for help and who to avoid. I would have to figure out the lay of the land before I made any attempts at befriending strangers. The white kids were friendly enough, but they stuck together, just like the Hispanic kids stuck to their own. We played separately, we sat in the lunchroom apart, and we befriended kids of our own color. I supposed it was the whole notion of safety in numbers. This behavior would become the norm for us, or at least for me, for the rest of my school years.

In the first two weeks, while playing outside during recess, I met Bobby. He was a white kid dressed in typical cowboy rancher-style clothing. He wore boots, jeans, a cowboy shirt with snap-on buttons, and a belt with his name engraved in the back. The buckle, sparkling in the sunlight, showed a cowboy roping a calf. His name was engraved on the back of it because, as he explained, “I won it in a rodeo contest.” I didn’t know what kind of contest gave away belt buckles. But it didn’t matter. He seemed friendly enough. Bobby was about my height, and we both weighed in at ninety pounds. We weren’t big kids, but we weren’t puny either. His hat made him look taller. Not many kids dressed like Bobby.

“Do you want to play on the bars?” he asked as he came up beside me.

“How do you play?” I replied.

“Well, you jump, grab the bars, and try to push your partner off the bars by using your legs.”

“Then what happens?”

“If you fall first, I win. But if I fall first, you win.”

Sounded simple enough.

“Okay! Let’s do it!” I said.

We played that game for what seemed like hours, laughing so hard we sometimes slipped off the monkey bars without grabbing each other. In a matter of days, we became best friends. We would look for each other anytime we were in PE or at recess. We would even eat together. Some of my barrio friends started calling me gringo.

“Why you hanging out with that gringo, gringo?”

“Think you’re too good to hang out with us?”

“You are nothing but a smelly gringo.”

“You can’t play with us anymore, gringo!”

“Shut up. Son una bola de cabrones calling me a gringo. I don’t want to play with you, cabrones,” I said when such comments were made. I walked away, thinking this was not the way it was supposed to be. Am I being a traitor? I wondered. Am I wrong in befriending a white kid? I tried to justify my friendship by having a conversation with Bobby.

“Bobby, do you like being my friend?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“But do you like being my friend? I mean, do other kids make fun of you for being my friend?”

“I don’t have many friends. I have my family, who are my friends. Sometimes I get called names, but I don’t let it bother me. I guess it’s because of the way I dress. My family owns a ranch, and we’re cowboys. I dress like this because I like it.”

“So, you want to play?”

He was offering too much information that I wasn’t interested in. I just wanted to know if he liked being my friend.

I loved my new school. For once, I was actually having fun learning. In this school, in this class, with my best friend, I was enjoying school. It was a dichotomy, to say the least.

Mrs. Smith made it so stress-free when she called on me to read. She was patient, helping me with words I couldn’t sound out or pronounce. She gave me the encouragement I needed. She also made me feel safe from potential ridicule. I’d pronounce words teachers taught me at Butz with an accent, which made it sound wrong. Mrs. Smith would correct me without judgment. It was slow going at first, but because I got encouragement and didn’t feel scared or stupid, I found that my confidence grew.

Students were friendly, especially Clara. Clara was a tall, blond, blue-eyed white girl who always matched her clothes with her shoes. She was nice to me. She’d seek me out to tell me about her friends, who she liked, who she didn’t, and who liked who. I’d just listen, wondering if it was appropriate for a brown kid to be talking to a white girl. I don’t know why I felt this way, but I did.

Should I be walking or sitting with this girl? I’d wonder. Why am I so uncomfortable? What’s so special about me that she has to talk to me? What if I don’t act right? What if I say something stupid? What if, what if, what if?

As long as I didn’t have to say anything, I didn’t mind. I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend. She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. She was just being friendly. She liked Bobby, and since I hung around with him, maybe she found it easier to connect with him if she talked to me. She never said either way. I just assumed. The three of us would play tetherball or on the swings. In time, I forgot what color their skin was. More importantly, I forgot what color I was. They were my friends, and that was enough for me.

The first month of school was the most enjoyable month for me. I was in a class with smart kids and a wonderful teacher in a nice, clean school.

I remembered people saying, “If it’s too good to be true, don’t be surprised when it isn’t.” That saying came to mind when the principal announced to the teachers that he needed to balance classes. That meant some teachers had more kids than others, and he needed to make sure all classes were about the same in number. Or at least, that was what he told us. On Friday of the fourth week of school, I was told I would be moving to a different class because Mrs. Smith’s class was overloaded.

I was devastated. I wanted to cry.

I was yanked out of Mrs. Smith’s class and thrown into Mrs. Bull’s class. That wasn’t her real name, although she looked like one. She was big, fat, ugly, and mean looking. She sported large black-framed glasses that made her look like a raccoon. Her hair was always in a bun piled high, and she always wore a dress that ballooned out when she waddled around the classroom, along with the biggest shoes I’d ever seen on a woman. Size 12.

She would eye us with piercing brown eyes. I was afraid of her. I’d never been afraid of a teacher before. Well, except maybe the psycho gym teacher who talked funny when he got excited.

Mrs. Bull was no Mrs. Smith.

I had difficulty adjusting to the new class environment. It wasn’t long before I noticed something odd. The kids in this room were mostly Hispanic kids. There were more kids I knew from Butz in this class. What I didn’t know at the time was this school operated on a practice of homogeneously grouping students according to ability. The practice, inherently flawed, called for three groupings of children. Those who were super smart were placed in what was known as advanced classes. Those with average ability were placed in regular classes. And those with below-average ability were placed in basic classes. Apparently, I was not supposed to be in Mrs. Smith’s class, since she had a regular class. Those students were of average intelligence. According to the tests, I wasn’t of average intelligence.

The educational administrators in Fort Stockton and across the entire nation believed that students should be grouped according to intellectual ability as measured by some standardized test. This supposedly made it easier for teachers to teach. Educational experts also said it was easier for students to learn. Unfortunately, I must not have done well on those tests, since they were all in English. So I was placed in a basic class with Mrs. Bull. She had the tontos—the slow students, who were separated from those who’d scored better on these tests.

Twenty-five years later, the same educational experts pronounced that this practice invariably hurt students.

The Supreme Court had determined that segregating students of color from the white students—who were more affluent, had more resources, and had been born into English-speaking families—was unconstitutional. However, once kids were in an “integrated” school, discrimination continued out of sight of parents and those who advocated for equity in schools. Hiding inside classroom walls, this school system continued to practice educational discrimination. This experience would create a lasting disadvantage for me and others like me.

Later in my career, I began to understand the societal and cultural issues facing the American education system. Behind the movement to desegregate the schools was the determination of those advocating for equal opportunities via civil rights. The sacrifice made by thousands of African Americans during this time paved the way for other minorities to demand equity in all aspects of life. It marked the beginning of a long struggle to dismantle long-standing practices that hurt students educationally. The war on inequality would continue to be fought well into the twenty-first century.

I was hurt and angry with this change. I just wanted to quit school or run away from it. I didn’t want to hurt my mother’s feelings with such awkward thinking, but this change affected me tremendously. When kids are unhappy in school, they tend to seek ways to cover up their disappointment or lack of educational ability. For many students, lashing out, causing problems in class, or finding any excuse not to participate in the learning adds to a teacher’s stress level. Being unhappy leads to stupid actions on the part of the student.

I was there.

I was now back to being with the old barrio gang. Talacho (“Pickax”), a distant cousin of mine who was born with an odd-looking head, and Troy the stutterer were in this class. Manuela, the one we called “Horse,” was there too. She still smelled of bologna when she’d sweat. Roy, or “La Marana” (“The Pig”), made it into the basic class. There were no more than five white kids in this class of twenty-five. The caliber of students who made up Mrs. Bull’s class had little to be desired, and Mrs. Bull knew it. She wasn’t happy with the number of dummies in her class. That was her problem. I had other things to worry about. When you hang out with troublemakers, you invariably adhere to making bad choices. Some of those choices lead to trouble.

Mrs. Bull liked her bulletin boards. She kept a small box of thumbtacks on her desk to use when posting things—not necessarily students’ work, but pre-made posters of places she had visited. She had pictures of national parks, cities, museums, and such. There were pictures of family and friends she traveled with. Under each picture, she would pin the name of the place. I didn’t know any of them except for Disneyland. I had seen commercials on TV. Each morning, she would start by showing us words describing the adventures she’d had visiting these places. During our lifetime, most of us would never see these exotic places except through her pictures.

The trouble started out as a joke.

“Look what I got,” Troy said, opening his hand just enough for me to see. He was holding some thumbtacks.

“Where did you get those?” I asked.

“I took them from her desk when she wasn’t looking. I’m going to spin them like tiny tops when we get outside.”

“I want some too! Hey, what if I put them on someone’s chair and see if they sit on them?” I said.

We giggled.

Troy and I walked out to the sidewalk and started playing. By taking the tack’s point between our fingers and twisting, we could make the tack spin. We were at the end of the walkway while all the kids were on the playground. I didn’t think anyone had seen us playing with our newfound toys.

“Let’s put them on Mrs. Bull’s chair,” Troy blurted out, smiling as if he had come up with the greatest idea ever.

“She’ll sit on them and poke a hole in her big butt!” I said, laughing. “I think that is the best idea you’ve had since you were born!”

But we needed more tacks. Noticing Mrs. Bull walking away from her class and toward the teacher’s lounge, we saw our opportunity to steal the tacks. Once she disappeared from sight, I snuck back in and took a handful of tacks. Halfway out the door, I turned around, placed three on Mrs. Bull’s chair, pushed the chair back under the desk, and ran outside.

Troy and I went around the corner of the building, peered out the side, and waited for the Bull to come back. She went into the room, and a few seconds later, she was storming out like a raging bull, heading directly to the principal’s office. Boy, was she mad! She must have sat on the thumbtacks.

I held my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. We waited. Finally, she headed back with a face the color of canned turnips. Yelling for all the students to come back in from the playground, she looked mad. I thought it was the end of that story, but to my dismay, she started in on everyone.

“I want to know who came back to the classroom after I released you for recess.”

No one said a word.

“Someone came back to the classroom, took something, and left the door open. Who did it?”

Silence.

“I’m having you go to the principal’s office by twos, and you are going to tell him who came into the room without permission.”

She was plainly upset. I looked over at Troy, put my finger to my lips, and motioned for him to keep his mouth shut.

I don’t know how it happened, but someone must have seen us playing with the tacks. That someone immediately spilled the beans. It wasn’t long before I was called to the principal’s office. I thought that if I kept my cool, I could get away with this.

“Take a seat,” the secretary said in a monotone as I arrived. “Mr. Henslee will be right with you.”

Moments later, the principal called me into his office. He didn’t waste any time getting started.

“Mr. Alfaro, I understand you took some thumbtacks. Is that right?” he mumbled under his breath. “Did you place them on your teacher’s chair for her to sit on?” He looked at me suspiciously.

I stood in front of his desk, pretending to be shocked by such accusations. I stared at him with that “I don’t know what you’re talking about” look. I shook my head in silence.

How could anyone have known? I wondered. We were careful not to be seen. Who told? Who saw us? All these questions lined my young, feeble mind. But I said nothing.

“Well, I happen to know that you did it,” he proclaimed, looking me straight in the eyes.

“I didn’t⁠—

“Don’t lie to me! You will get double punishment,” he threatened.

“I didn’t do any⁠—”

“Okay, Mrs. Jones! Bring Troy in.”

There it was. Troy the stutterer. That blabber-mouthing little piece of dog dung! I thought. He squealed!

We were caught. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. Troy admitted he and I had taken the thumbtacks and placed them on our teacher’s chair. At least he didn’t put the entire blame on me alone. By this point, I was shaking, fearful of the actions to be taken by this man called the principal. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t hide. My shoulders slumped as if the air had been sucked out of me.

“You boys could have really hurt her. Thank goodness she only sat on one. I won’t ask you why you did it, but after I speak to your parents, you will be placed on probation for six weeks.”

“What is that?” asked Troy.

“Each of you will get three swats with the paddle. If you get into any trouble within six weeks, I’ll double the paddling. Understand? Now, who goes first?”

I’d never admitted to the crime. But I went first. I grabbed the front of the desk and stuck my ass out like I was instructed. The first hit almost buckled my knees. I didn’t cry. I grabbed the desk tighter, waiting for the second and third, which came in rapid succession. Tears flowed out of my eye sockets on their own.

I kept it clean for six weeks.

But that episode didn’t go well for me for the rest of the year. Mrs. Bull did me no favors. She’d call on me and hit me over the head when I couldn’t pronounce a word during oral reading. Embarrassing. She was determined to fail me. I knew it. I could feel it. Many times, she just ignored Troy and me when we asked for help.

“If you boys can think of ugly games to play, then you can figure this out by yourselves. Now, go back to your seats, and don’t come back up here,” she’d say.

I didn’t blame her. That stunt was meant to be funny. I didn’t think about her feelings because I was so consumed by mine. We were never asked to be first in line or clean the erasers. And we were never first when it was time to go to PE or recess. There wasn’t much I could do but keep my head down for six weeks. I felt her form of punishment was worse than taking a spanking from Mr. Henslee. If I didn’t regress educationally, I did regress in my thinking that all white people were good. I suppose I deserved it.

Oh well.

The year went by ever so slowly. Mrs. Bull forgot about our prank, eventually assisting me when I asked. But she was still leery and continued to look at me with suspicion. However, within time, that sneer disappeared as well.