'If They Come Into the Restaurant We Will Serve Them'

Kay Golden | Charlotte, North Carolina

"The Freedom Riders are coming today to our store, and we've got to be ready," the manager told us waitresses, just before the day's work began. All six of us sat at the back table of the restaurant, Howard Johnson's, on Interstate 85 in Charlotte, North Carolina.

Scary stuff, protesting. It was 1962, and we had all seen television reports of the dime store sit-in in Greensboro, just two hours north. Black people sitting at lunch counters, refusing to move, angry white crowds milling around. Would it happen here? "If they come into the restaurant, we will serve them," our manager said. "Business as usual."

All morning, we quietly discussed it, out of hearing of the black kitchen staff. Betty, in the counter area, said she would have no problem serving them. Well, she was from the North. A college student working for the summer, I said I would serve them, too. Then I added, "only if they act nice." As a kid, I had never understood the reason for the segregated water fountains in the stores. My mother had just said that was "how it is."

Only the oldest waitress, a seasoned professional, Pat, was adamant: "I ain't gonna serve no niggers. I'll quit first." Strong words. And we knew how much she depended on that job. Out the side window, waitresses and patrons, we watched as the Freedom Riders climbed from their bus. The kitchen help watched out the backdoor. I hated the thought of violence. "Bunch of troublemaking Yankees," somebody said.

"As a kid, I had never understood the reason for the segregated water fountains in the stores. My mother had just said that was 'how it is.'"

About 30 strong, with signs, the Freedom Riders, blacks and whites, began a slow march in the summer heat around the lawn out front. All our patrons paid their checks and quickly left. No others came in. An empty, dull lunchtime for us, nothing but side work to do, eyes glued to the front window. About noontime, our manager turned on the lawn sprinkler out front. "That's cruel," I thought, and then I realized the marchers probably appreciated the cool water.

An hour or so later, four black people came to the front door. This was it. "Man your stations," the manager commanded. Mine was station five at the back, surely a safe spot, my racing heart hoped. But Pat was at the front, at our usually prized station one. And where did the protestors sit? At one of Pat's booths.

No one moved. The manager took them menus and motioned Pat to the table. Sheepishly, Pat stepped forward. We exchanged looks. What would she do? I can still see her today, in her blue-green uniform with the brown apron, bending over her order book, her face frozen. She took their order and put it in the kitchen. "Pat, Pat," we whispered as she prepared their beverages, but she wouldn't look at us. Finally, with a sheepish grin, she said, "It's okay. They're nice."

Sure enough, they were nice. Not troublemakers. Just people wanting to eat. And Pat, after all her angry talk, had recognized that, too. After they left, she waved her tip at us, "Ah-ha, look at this." It was a dollar bill, a very nice lunchtime tip in those days.