Segregated Schools by Linda Wright

When Simmons College in Boston asked for a detailed medical history to be submitted with my application to study for a masters degree in Library Science, I was suspicious. I had worked as a librarian for two years, and my letters of recommendation from my supervisor and the director of the library stated my work had been impeccable. I took the form to my hematologist.

“This is none of their business,” he said flatly and scribbled his signature under an illegible note at the bottom of the form.

My mistrust came from experience with every education application I had made from Kindergarten to college and now graduate school.

As a child, I was luckier than several of my friends. It was the mid-1950’s and there was no legal requirement to educate any child with a disability. Carol, who had cerebral palsy, was not allowed to go to public school. Neither was Barbara, who had been born with Down’s syndrome. Rose had to go to a special boarding school for children who were blind. I had been born with a bleeding disorder.

The Principal of the local elementary school did not want to enroll me, explaining to my mother that it was not a safe place for me. Anticipating this response, my mother presented a doctor’s letter certifying that, despite my bleeding disorder, there was no medical reason to exclude me.

The letter from my doctor did not reassure the Principal, and she admitted me on the condition that, during recess each day, I sit on the bench just outside her office door with the naughty children. It was unreasonable and unnecessary. My sentence on the bench lasted seven years. It was enforced when the other children went outside to play and even when they were indoors during recess.

I began filling out application forms to colleges in my junior year. Each rejection letter explained that their campus was not accessible. In the library I found a directory, which listed Boston University as having accessible classrooms and dormitory facilities. I applied and received a letter of acceptance in an envelope bulging with forms and instructions.

Enclosed in the envelope was a note asking me to schedule a meeting with the housing office. By then, I had been fitted with a leg brace. The metal supports squeaked against my leather shoes when I sat down in front of the placement officer.

The woman’s eyes did not meet mine. She stared at the orthopedic shoes I was wearing and the aluminum brace. Not long into our conversation, she released a heavy sigh and said, "Well, you can come to this school, but I doubt anyone will want to be your roommate."

My self-esteem was as bruised as my skin, but I was not broken. So I shrugged and thought to myself, “That’s your problem, isn’t it?”

Boston University had accepted me only because they did not know I had a disability.

Thanks to my doctors terse note on the medical form, I was also accepted to Simmons College. While I was a student, I volunteered to be the student representative on the team that reviewed the admissions policies. The College was preparing for re-accreditation by the American Library Association.

“Why are there no people of color enrolled in the School of Library Science?” I asked.

“We don’t discriminate, based on race,” she said, “It’s just that we don’t accept anyone who went to a state college, and well, you know, that rules out a lot of people. Besides, black people don’t want to be librarians, they are looking for better paying jobs.”

“There are several students from China in my classes, but no one from a Spanish speaking country,” I said.

“Well,” she responded, sounding as if her patience was strained, “Chinese people are more literate and their culture values education.”

I flinched and checked off the box on my survey form that said ‘yes’ beside the Admission Policy Discriminates on the basis of race.

“Why do you require a medical history form?”

The admissions officer glanced at me and responded, “Well, we don’t want people to associate librarians with cripples, do we?”