Hidden Figures: The Untold Story of the African American Women Who Helped Win the Space Race. Margot Shetterly Lee

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СКАЧАТЬ been interspersed with whites throughout the bus, were ordered to move to the back. A short time later, the driver evicted the black passengers, announcing that service wouldn’t continue into the town’s Negro area. Katherine paid a cab to take her to the house of the principal of the Marion school, where she had arranged to rent a room.

      For the two years she taught in Marion, Katherine earned $50 a month, less than the $65 the state paid similarly trained white teachers in the county. In 1939, the NAACP Legal Defense Fund filed suit against the state of Virginia on behalf of a black teacher at Norfolk’s Booker T. Washington High School. The black teacher and her colleagues, including the principal, made less money than the school’s white janitor. The NAACP’s legal eagles, led by the fund’s chief counsel, Charles Hamilton Houston, and Houston’s top deputy, a gangly, whip-smart Howard University law school grad named Thurgood Marshall, shepherded the Alston v. Norfolk case to the US Supreme Court, which ordered Virginia to bring Negro teachers’ salaries up to the white teachers’ level. It was a victory, but a year too late for Katherine: when a $110-a-month job offer came from a Morgantown, West Virginia, high school for the 1939 school year, Katherine jumped at it. Pay equalization might have been a battle in Virginia, but West Virginia got on board without a fight.

      Katherine always made sure that people knew she was from West Virginia, not Virginia. West Virginia’s hilly terrain offered cool evening breezes, whereas Virginia was sweltering and malarial. The antebellum plantation system had never taken root in West Virginia the way it had farther east and south. During the Civil War, the mountain state seceded from Virginia and joined the Union. This didn’t make West Virginia an oasis of progressive views on race—segregation kept blacks and whites separate in lodging, schools, public halls, and restaurants—but the state did offer its tiny black population just the slightest bit more breathing room. Compared to West Virginia, the state’s Negro residents thought, Virginia was the South.

      Born and raised in White Sulphur Springs, Katherine was the youngest of Joshua and Joylette Coleman’s four children. “You are no better than anyone else, and no one is better than you,” Joshua told his children, a philosophy he embodied to the utmost. Dressed neatly in a coat and tie whenever he was on business in town, Joshua quietly commanded admiration from both blacks and whites in tiny White Sulphur Springs; you never had to tell anybody to respect Josh Coleman.

      Though educated only through the sixth grade, Katherine’s father was a mathematical whiz who could tell how many board feet a tree would yield just by looking at it. As soon as their youngest daughter could talk, Joshua and Joylette realized that she’d inherited her father’s winning way with people and his mind for math. Katherine counted whatever crossed her path—dishes, steps, and stars in the nighttime sky. Insatiably curious about the world, the child peppered her grammar school teachers with questions and skipped ahead from second grade to fifth. When teachers turned around from the blackboard to discover an empty desk in Katherine’s place, they knew they’d find their pupil in the classroom next door, helping her older brother with his lesson. The children’s school, the only one in the area for Negroes, terminated with the sixth grade. When Katherine’s older sister, Margaret, graduated from the White Sulphur Springs schoolhouse, Joshua rented a house 125 miles away so that all four children, supervised by their mother, could continue their education at the laboratory school operated by West Virginia State Institute.

      Income from the Coleman farm slowed to a trickle during the hardscrabble years of the Depression. Anxious for a way to support the household and cover the cost of the children’s education, Joshua moved the family into town and accepted a job as a bellman at the Greenbrier, the country’s most exclusive resort. (It was here, years later, that he met Dorothy Vaughan’s husband, Howard.) The enormous white-columned hotel, built in the classical revival style, sprawled on a manicured estate in the middle of White Sulphur. Joseph and Rose Kennedy spent their 1914 honeymoon in room 145 of the hotel. Bing Crosby, the Duke of Windsor, Lou Gehrig, Life magazine publisher Henry Luce, actress Mary Pickford, a young Malcolm Forbes, the emperor of Japan, and assorted Vanderbilts, Du Ponts, and Pulitzers all converged on White Sulphur Springs throughout the 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s, where they Charlestoned, cha-chaed, and rumbaed the night away. Even as breadlines snaked through America’s main streets and drought broke the backs of tens of thousands of farm families, “Old White” remained a magnet for glamorous international guests who golfed, took the waters at the resort’s famed springs, and basked in its unbridled luxury.

      The Greenbrier segmented its serving class carefully. Negroes worked as maids, bellmen, and kitchen help, while Italian and Eastern European immigrants attended the dining room. During summers home from Institute, the Coleman boys pulled stints as bellmen, and Katherine and her sister took jobs as personal maids to individual guests. Accommodating the every need of the visiting gentry—cleaning their rooms; washing, ironing, and setting out their clothes; anticipating their desires while appearing invisible—was a sow’s ear of a job that Katherine deftly spun to silk. One demanding French countess, with a habit of holding forth for hours on the telephone to friends in Paris, began to suspect that her walls had ears. “Tu m’entends tout, n’est-ce pas?” the countess inquired, seeing the reserved Negro maid paying close attention to her every bon mot. Katherine nodded sheepishly. The countess marched Katherine down to the resort’s kitchen, and for the rest of the summer, the high school student spent her lunchtime in conversation with the Greenbrier’s Parisian chef. Katherine’s development from solid high school French student to near-fluent speaker with a Parisian accent astonished her language teacher that fall. The following summer the hotel placed Katherine as a clerk in its lobby antiques store, making much better use of her charisma. Henry Waters Taft, a well-known antitrust lawyer and brother to President William Howard Taft, frequented the Greenbrier, and one day in the store, Katherine taught him Roman numerals.

      In 1933, Katherine entered West Virginia State College as a fifteen-year-old freshman, her strong high school performance rewarded with a full academic scholarship. The college’s formidable president, Dr. John W. Davis, was, like W. E. B. Du Bois and Booker T. Washington, part of the exclusive fraternity of “race men,” Negro educators and public intellectuals who set the debate over the best course of progress for black America. Though not as large or as influential as schools like Hampton, Howard, or Fisk, the college nonetheless had a solid academic reputation. Davis pushed to bring the brightest lights of Negro academe to his campus. In the early 1920s, Carter G. Woodson, a historian and educator who had earned a PhD in history from Harvard seventeen years after Du Bois, served as the college’s dean. James C. Evans, an MIT engineering graduate, ran the school’s trade and mechanical studies program before accepting a position as a Civilian Aide in the War Department in 1942.

      On staff in the math department was William Waldron Schieffelin Claytor, movie-star handsome with nut-brown skin and intense eyes fringed by long eyelashes. Just twenty-seven years old, Claytor played Rachmaninoff with finesse and a mean game of tennis. He drove a sports car and piloted his own plane, which he once famously flew so low over the house of the school’s president that the machine’s wheels made a racket rolling over the roof. Math majors marveled to hear Dr. Claytor, originally from Norfolk, advancing sophisticated mathematical proofs in his drawling “country” accent.

      Claytor’s brusque manner intimidated most of his students, who couldn’t keep up as the professor furiously scribbled mathematical formulas on the chalkboard with one hand and just as quickly erased them with the other. He moved from one topic to the next, making no concession to their bewildered expressions. But Katherine, serious and bespectacled with fine curly hair, made such quick work of the course catalog that Claytor had to create advanced classes just for her.

      “You would make a good research mathematician,” Dr. Claytor said to his star seventeen-year-old undergraduate after her sophomore year. “And,” he continued, “I am going to prepare you for this career.”

      Claytor had taken an honors math degree from Howard University in 1929 and, like Dorothy Vaughan, had received an offer to join the inaugural class of the school’s math graduate program. Dean Dudley Weldon Woodard supervised СКАЧАТЬ