The Promise of Change: One Girl’s Story in the Fight of School Equality

Up on the Hill-
Foley Hill, some say, but we just say the Hill-
we look down
on downtown-

not looking down our noses,
just looking down from our Hill, where we live.

We have the high ground here,
here on the Hill, once called Freedmen’s Hill
after ex-slaves moved here
when they became ex-
way back when the Civil War ended.
Those six hundred climbed the Hill north of town and built their homes.
Now the Hill is my neighborhood.
Clinton is my town.
Anderson County is my county.
Tennessee is my state.

Up on the Hill
we have all sorts of homes,
nice and not-so-nice, mixed up together.
Mine is nice.
At least, I think so.
We have all sorts of neighbors,
nice and not-so-nice, mixed up together.
My family is nice,
and I don’t say that just because they’re my family.
Mom says Daddy knows no strangers-
which is a clever way of saying that he knows everyone.
Mom is quieter, but
you can borrow a cup of sugar anytime from our kitchen and never have to pay it back.

Up on the Hill
we have Friday night fish fries at our church,
trout crisped up crunchy in great big pots of hot oil on the fire,
kids running around in the churchyard-
because how much fish can a kid stand to eat?— ball games when there’s still light,
hide-and-seek in the cemetery after dark.
And the big treat, the special only-at-the-fish-fry treat: bottles of red soda pop
with peanuts in the bottom.
I look out for Mamie, my little sister,
and Herbie, our baby brother,
because I’m the fourteen-year-old,
and because I don’t mind.