Okay.$$Okay.$$Now what about--$$I was told that at lunchtime I could not go outside. I had to stay within the cafeteria. I think I was told not to go in the bathrooms, but I don't remember that. I just remember that I was told where I could go. Now, all the people in the cafeteria who served the food, except for one supervisor, were black. And I remember going through the line for my food, and I remember they used to pile all this food on, like fried chicken, mashed potatoes, vegetables. I mean, nothing like any school I'd gone to. Even at Wenonah, we took our own lunch. But they had that, and I would go through there and--chocolate milk, I didn't get chocolate milk on a regular basis. I mean, that's when I had my first chocolate milk, and I enjoyed it. And I used to have to, my father [Floyd King, Sr.] said always try to sit closest to where adults were, because you would be more safe, you'd be safe and more secure around other adults. Even in the classroom, he said you'll be secure in the classroom because the teacher's there. They cannot let anything happen to you. I didn't realize later when he kept on saying nothing would happen to me, is that the most that could happen, I could have been killed. I didn't think about them being concerned with that. I felt like I had a right. I was exercising the right, and I know he used to teach us the 14th Amendment and the 15th Amendment and used to read it to us and help us understand it, me and my siblings. And I used to remember him saying, "This is our right that's guaranteed to us. And the civil rights bill that Kennedy thought of and Johnson signed, this is your right. You're doing this for the black community." And I did begin to feel like I had the whole black community on my shoulder. I had to make sure I dressed right, I spoke right--and I was naturally a smart person, so, you know, that wasn't a problem, and I had nothing else to do. But, I would go in the cafeteria almost everyday, and they had fixed this beautiful food and I would sit at this tray and I'd sit there and I'd look at all those black women that my father said that I could not talk to, or I would get them fired. And the white kids would come by and spit, hark and spit in my food. So, I seldom ate lunch at school. And I went through a pattern of this, and I would just drink my chocolate milk and go on to class. And they would see it, I'd see tears were coming down their eyes, you know, and things like that. But it was nothing they could do. And he basically said that they would get fired, and that I was doing the right thing. And I could not react.$$Even with a principal that seemed like he was sympathetic?$$The principal wasn't there.$$Okay. He thought--$$But he knew what was happening, because I told my father, and my father told him.$$Okay. So, did you have a locker?$$No. I didn't have a locker. However, from going from class to class, passing classes, they would let me leave the classroom first. But if other classes were changing classes also, I didn't walk down the hall by myself. As I walked by, they would jump against the lockers, you know, and call me names. They would--it was never any physical violence, I should say that. But one of the things they did do, especially during--I guess it was some type of gun crap in school, they would have water guns, where they would run behind me and they would spray me with this water gun. And I remember one time a guy just came, a man, a boy, came right up in front of me and I had glasses on, and just sprayed that water gun right in my face and my glasses. And I remember one time that I used to have wear the type of clothes that dry fast, you know, to school. And they'd shoot it in my hair and my hair would curl up and stuff like that. And I'd get to the class and I'd have to dry off or go back to the office to the principal's wife and she would take me in the bathroom where I had to dry myself off. And I just didn't talk, you know.$And what they did once it was in the news, I was there and I was going to black and white radio stations in Birmingham [Alabama], telling my story and everything. Well, I guess people found out where I was living, and the night before the prom, the hotel I was staying at started getting what I would call now, terrorist telephone calls. I meant, it became so bad that the manager came up and said that you guys are getting these calls--and we'd gotten two up to the room--they told them to hold those calls. So, we went back to the church I grew up in, St. John Missionary Baptist Church, and told the pastor. And it was an FBI guy and a policeman, a Birmingham [Alabama] policeman, that goes to the church. And they provided security, not only from the FBI, but also from the Birmingham [Alabama] police department. They came up and they talked to us, and you know, told us to be careful, that we'll be here. And when we left going from the hotel, they put security around the hotel so nothing would happen there, because they were scared, and they wanted to put us out. So, what they did was they provided escorts to the prom. And with that, I took along with me as my guest the newslady reporter named Vicky Howell, who had written the story that appeared on the first page. She had called out here and I'd given her everything--a beautiful article that captured everything, including the prom. When she got there--and she just wanted to keep knowing about my feelings, my feeling. I didn't have no feeling. First of all, when I asked people who did come around that were in my class at the time, and I didn't know anybody from my class--I had met Ken Battles--and when I got to the prom, I met the committee and they told me who they were and what role they played during that time. But I didn't know them from Adam or Eve. Of course, they all apologized and told me things. "Well, you know, I own a car dealership. If you're ever here and you need a car, call me." And the other one was a real estate agent, "If you ever need a house, call me." That sort of thing. And, so they all wanted to know what's my feeling, what's my feeling, you know? I'll say out of the maybe 500 or 600 people there, maybe about 50 came up and said I'm sorry. And out of the class I graduated out of, it was 107 of us. And for that class picture maybe it was about, I'd say it's about 80 or 90. These are all adults now. And I re-created that picture by standing in the middle, and I'll share it with you after this, and they all stood this time by me. And all of them said they were sorry. Everybody wanted to hug me. When I asked them point blank, "Why didn't you do anything?" And that's when they said that they were afraid that something would happen to them, that they would be teased. When I asked them about the prom, they said, "We thought you were going to bring the whole black community to our prom, and we were scared." When I asked them about meeting with the mayor during Senior Week, and this was 35 years ago, they said, "We didn't think you wanted to go, because you didn't come to school." I said, "But the principal told me not to come." They said, "Well, we know." So, all those were lame excuses, and I told them I didn't buy it, and please don't tell me nothing like that anymore. For those who said--the taunting things they did to me--it looked like all the boys were in the gun club at the school. During that time, gun clubs in school was popular. And as far as I'm concerned, they all sprayed me, shot me with those little plastic water guns. And they said, "I don't remember doing that, I don't remember doing that." But they all were there, and when they--I looked at a picture of them during that time, in the yearbook. I said, "Yes, you were, this is you right?" They said "Right, yeah, yeah, I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?" And I told them what my father said, "I forgave you at that time." I was raised that you had to forgive at that time if you were going to go ahead, and that's what has gotten me this far. You have to let go, you have to let go.