By JoAnne Smart Drane '60
Reprinted from the spring 1980 alumni news.

I first learned of my admittance to Woman's College on August 13, 1956. Around nine o'clock in the evening, I was informed by the lady for whom my mother worked and I worked as domestics that I had a long distance call. I had no idea who might be calling. I certainly did not expect news which was to have such a profound effect on me at that particular moment and perhaps for the rest of my life.

The voice on the other end of the line gave me a name which I did not recognize. This person identified himself as a news reporter who wanted to know, “How does it feel to be one of the first two Negro girls accepted to attend the Woman's College in Greensboro?“ Until that very moment I did not know that I had been admitted. The reporter assured me that this was true and told me that I would be receiving a letter from the registrar confirming this perhaps the very next day.

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The Dining Hall, 1957

Once the impact of this inquiry got through to me, I did not know quite how I felt or what to say. I was quoted in the papers the next day as saying: “I am wonderfully pleased and looking forward to enrolling.” “I'm so excited I don't know what to say. I'm so very, very happy.” “I am hoping to hear something from Woman's College soon.”

As soon as I hung up the telephone, I could not get back to our quarters fast enough to tell my mother the great news. I must have walked on clouds or flown for one simply does not carry an extraordinary announcement in an ordinary way. At first we rejoiced: We laughed and we cried. After the initial euphoria had worn off, however, we wondered aloud and to ourselves what the real impact of this was going to mean to me, to her, to our family, to our friends, and to our race?

During the next few days and weeks following the publicity given the announcement that Bettye Ann Davis Tillman and I would be enrolling at Woman's College in the fall, I became quite a celebrity. The telephone rang constantly. Many people sent congratulations; others expressed doubts and reservations. Everyone, it seemed, had advice to offer: What to do, how to act, what to say, who to avoid, where to go …

While my family and I were always optimistic that there would be no violence associated with my enrollment at Woman's College, there was always the fear in the back of our minds that violence was a very real possibility. We rarely discussed this aspect of my pending matriculation at Woman's College, and if the subject was broached by others, we always expressed confidence that young ladies simply did not behave in a violent manner. It was certainly our hope that parents and other adults outside the college would not take it upon themselves to interfere in any way.

On Aug. 30, 1956, Sue Sigmon, the House President of the dorm to which I had been assigned, wrote me a letter welcoming me to college and to Shaw Hall. A little earlier, the president of the Student Government Association, Sadye Dunn, had been quoted in the papers as saying, “… I may be overconfident, but I believe the students will accept the situation calmly.” Other student leaders were also expressing similar opinions. While many doubts and questions remained, these were somewhat reassuring signs to a 17-year-old girl who was about to leave the certainty of family and home and become enveloped in a community of at least twenty-four hundred potentially hostile white folks that she didn’t know at all.

On Sept. 13, exactly a month from the date that I had initially learned of my admittance to Woman's College, I left home to begin my college career. I was very anxious and nervous but tried to conceal it from my parents. My dad had washed and waxed our one-seated 1938 Buick at least ten times since we had gotten up that day. My mother had checked and re-checked the linens, laundry bag, coat hangers, toiletries and other items that were suggested for each freshman to bring. I had decided that I didn't want to get on campus until the latest possible time. My parents sensed my anxiety and I, theirs. We each felt, however, the responsibility to bolster and encourage one another. No one admitted to any doubts. It was too late to back out of this now.

The trip to Greensboro from Raleigh was faster than I had imagined. Everyone seemed absorbed in his or her own thoughts except for a passing comment about the weather or the scenery or one of mother's last-minute reminders of things to do or not to do.

We had wanted to arrive on campus and to go about our business as unobtrusively as possible, but several blocks from the campus, our 18-year-old Buick overheated and smoke began pouring from under the hood. We made it to the Administration Building with smoke billowing all around us, attracting the attention of every person whom we passed. I was so embarrassed I could have died right there on the spot.

While mother and I went inside to register, some men assisted dad with the car. The registration was uneventful as I recall, and the car problems minimal. We were able to leave for the dorm immediately.

When we arrived at Shaw Hall, my roommate, Bettye Tillman, was already there and settled in. Bettye and I had met once previously. When I had taken my college entrance exams for admission to Woman's College, I had noticed one other black girl in the auditorium where the test was administered, and she had seen me also. We introduced ourselves at the break and had lunch together that day. Little did we suspect at the time that we would soon be sharing a historic experience together.

Bettye and I shared not only a room but an entire wing of Shaw Hall. The reason for this extravagance, of course, was to preclude any white girls using the same bathroom facilities with blacks. In 1956, “white” and “colored” restrooms, drinking fountains and entrances were the norm in the South rather than the exception. I have often wondered how many white girls were denied on-campus housing that year because two black girls had been given an entire section of a dorm and used only one of about eight available rooms. As it turned out, we never had to wait in line for a tub or a sink and could use a different one every time if we chose.

Bettye and I spent our first evening on campus getting our room in order, becoming acquainted and wondering what the next day would bring. My dad had given me a pound box of chocolates before he left, and Bettye and I ate the whole box because we were too scared to go out looking for some place to eat. We were so hungry that we decided to go to bed early to keep from thinking about it. We were determined, however, that we were going to breakfast the next morning no matter what.

As soon as we walked into the cafeteria that morning, you could have heard a pin drop. The hum of conversation, the clinking of silverware, laughter, all sounds ceased. Complete silence descended over that cavernous room. We had been spotted! From the back of the dining hall to the serving line entrance seemed the longest distance I had ever seen. With heads high and backs as straight as we could manage, Bettye and I walked as briskly as possible up to the line. I could feel the stares of hundreds of pairs of eyes all over me. The noise level rose again as we disappeared into the serving area and subsided again, although not as completely silent as before, as we came back into the dining hall. Bettye and I sat alone throughout the meal and got through the situation as graciously as we could. I thought to myself, “If this is what it's going to be like then I believe I want to go home.” The stares and the silence were to occur again at lunch and dinner on that day and to a lesser extent for the next several days, but after everyone had seen us at least once, things seemed to get better.