Common Ground

by J. Anthony Lukas

  Slogans and taunts she could shrug off, but it was harder to dismiss the physical incidents which broke out with increasing frequency. Whenever a teacher turned his back, erasers, bits of pencil, or scraps of chalk rained down on the black kids’ heads. In the breaks between periods, as students walked the long, dark corridors to their next class, white boys would often jump a black kid, pinning him against a locker or knocking him to the floor. And when Cassandra and her friends went to the ladies’ room, white girls sometimes elbowed them away from the sinks or ripped paper towels from their hands.

  But efforts were underway in the black community to support the students being bused into Charlestown. One day in mid-September, a notice went up on the school bulletin board proclaiming: “Students! Things to do after school!” The Community Education Resource Center (CERC) offered swimming, gym, basketball, martial arts, African dance, a teen lounge, tutoring (“any subject you need help on”), counseling (“someone to rap with”), workshops (“Why are we in Charlestown?”). The program would run two afternoons a week at the Clarendon Street YWCA, a drafty Victorian edifice just a few blocks from Methunion Manor. Buses would pick students up at the high school every Tuesday and Thursday at 1:00 p.m. CERC sounded good to Cassandra, so she joined fifty-eight other students at its registration meeting on September 29. The center was staffed by two black social workers—Steve Moss and Nathan Spivey—street-wise veterans of South End youth programs who also served as “desegregation aides” at Charlestown High. In early October, as the students began spending two afternoons a week at the Y, Steve and Nathan played a major role in framing the black response to conditions at the high school. Between slam dunks and karate chops, they talked for hours with Cassandra and her friends, eventually suggesting that they organize a Black Students’ Caucus at Charlestown High.

  On October 6, Frank Power gave permission for nine black students to meet in a small classroom off the auditorium. Each of them had some tale of horror to report and for more than an hour they simply exchanged stories. Then someone sat down at a desk and wrote out a brief declaration: “We the black student body of this school are tired of the abuses they are subjected to, such as 1) We feel that we are not able to walk in the school halls without being abused, 2) Also by the name-calling that we are subject to while working in the classrooms. We feel that these are also the reason that black and white students are not able to get an education at Charlestown High.” Four students—Clarence Jefferson, Charles Butler, Sandy Payne, and Cassandra—were elected to speak for the caucus. Then all nine walked across the hall to present their grievances to Frank Power.

  The headmaster felt harassed that day. He’d spent the morning mollifying outraged white parents and was in no mood to deal with a bunch of angry blacks. But slumped against the counter of his outer office, he listened to the students tensed in a semicircle around him. Although the group had designated four people to represent them, the spokesman’s role was preempted by Clarence Jefferson, a husky, aggressive junior who loved the limelight and frequently got it. But Clarence had been in almost constant trouble that fall—he had been suspended several times for fighting with white boys, while his performance in the classroom was anything but impressive. Instantly, Power decided he wasn’t going to deal with Clarence, so as the youngster launched into his harangue—he was sick of getting beat up, the school better get its act together—the headmaster cut him short. “I’m not listening to any more of this,” he snapped. Surveying the delegation, he lit on Cassandra, who seemed self-contained and reasonable. “I’ll deal with this young lady,” he said. “She can be your spokesperson.” Adept at pacifying unhappy students, he temporized, hoping time would defuse their anger. “Look, angry speeches aren’t going to get us anywhere. Sit down and draw up a list of your demands. Give me specifics. Then when it’s all done, have Cassandra bring it in and I’ll go over it with her.”

  It was an effective tactic. Predictably indignant, Clarence muttered maledictions at Power, but the others, satisfied that they were making progress, shut him up. And they all kidded Cassandra about her new boyfriend, the headmaster, a notion she loudly scorned, though secretly she was pleased to have been singled out.

  The caucus set to work drafting its demands, a task which, as Frank Power had anticipated, proved more difficult than they had imagined. They got plenty of help. Steve and Nathan were still advising the caucus, aided by two of the school’s other black aides, Mark Maddox and Dick Gittens. At their suggestion, the group broadened its constituency to include Chinese and Hispanic students, changing its name to the Minority Students’ Council. That, in turn, brought them a valuable recruit—a shrewd, articulate freshman named Robert Chin, who quickly became the council’s secretary. For several afternoons, the council met in the sixth-floor library at the Y, sorting through their grievances. Finally, Bob Chin produced a summary which satisfied nearly everyone.

  “This year in Charlestown High School,” he wrote, “almost half of the student population consists of minorities. These minorities, being second and third world people, lack the proper representation even though these people have legitimate demands. It should be understood that these demands are made so that minority students can acquire an education. Recently a Minority Council was formed to represent these people.”

  The statement went on to list twenty-three demands, among them:

  “Mr. Power meet with this council regularly.

  “This council be (a) notified of all incidents with minorities, (b) be allowed to confer with these students, (c) allowed to investigate the faculty members involved and (d) obtain legal assistance for the students.

  “Teachers treat students as adults.

  “More minority teachers be added to the faculty.

  “Teachers do not segregate classes.

  “All punishment to be equal; i.e. suspensions or releases be equally applied.

  “Minority students to be given complete protection.

  “All racial profanities be removed from school property.

  “White students stop referring to minorities as niggers, chinks, etc.”

  They mimeographed the list, handed it to all minority students, and gave a copy to Frank Power. On Monday, October 13, Power sent word that he was ready to meet with Cassandra, but the council said no; unwilling to let the headmaster select his negotiating partner, they chose their own team—Bobby Chin, Clarence Jefferson, and Charles Butler—telling Power he must meet with them or nobody at all. Knowing he’d been outmaneuvered, the headmaster gave in. Unable to make his old personal magic work, he felt control slipping away. Under increasing pressure from both blacks and whites, he was still playing for time, hoping to cool tensions before his school exploded under him. That afternoon, he met with the minority representatives and, without committing himself to specifics, indicated that he would do what he could to implement most of the demands.

  It was a fragile accommodation, destined to collapse under the first serious strain. The crash came only seven days later when several white boys began hassling a black sophomore named Eddie Malloy as he walked the third-floor corridor. Racial epithets were exchanged, Malloy was knocked to the floor, several passing blacks jumped in, and before long fifteen youths of both races were pummeling each other up and down the hallway. A sixteen-year-old girl was bitten on the hand. An administrative assistant to the headmaster was floored, sustaining a bloody nose. When teachers and aides failed to stop the fighting, twenty-five MDC police had to be called in to restore order. The police arrested four whites, charging them with assault and battery or disorderly conduct. But—under the school’s policy of penalizing both parties to any fight—five blacks were suspended for three days.

  On the buses home that afternoon, the minority students were in an uproar. The attack on Malloy was only the latest evidence that Frank Power, despite the assurances he had given them, was unwilling or unable to guarantee their safety. They were even more outraged at the suspension of blacks who, they felt, had only
been acting in self-defense. Through the buses that afternoon raced a message from the Minority Council: boycott tomorrow. To make their point more emphatic, they should board the buses as usual, then refuse to get off when they reached the school.

  When Steve Moss got wind of the plan, he had visions of a disaster the next morning. If the students refused to enter the high school, what would happen to them? Could they be forced off the buses and compelled to walk through hostile Charlestown to the nearest subway stop? Quickly consulting CERC officials, Moss alerted the Y to be ready to receive the students if he could get them there.

  To Cassandra, the boycott was the best thing that had happened all fall. It would show Mr. Power and the teachers that they meant business, that they wouldn’t stand for being assaulted, abused, and insulted. As she boarded the bus at Columbus Square that morning, she turned excitedly to Charles Butler and whispered, “Is it going down?”

  “We’re down,” Charles said with a broad smile. “Everybody’s in.”

  Indeed, when the buses rolled up in front of the high school, only ten of the ninety-six students got off, among them Janeth and Ricky Rivas, the Colombians, who had never felt part of the Minority Council.

  Frank Power, who was suffering from high blood pressure and nervous exhaustion, had a doctor’s appointment that morning. When his assistant, Bob Jarvis, realized what was happening, he boarded each of the buses, pleading with the students to get off. “I know you’ve got some grievances,” he said, “but this isn’t the way to get them dealt with. This is just what some of the white community wants you to do, so they can picture you as disruptive. You’re playing right into their hands. Now come on inside and we’ll work this thing out, I promise you.” But on bus after bus the students refused to move. When his pleas failed, Jarvis tried threats. “I’ll give you five minutes,” he warned. “Anybody who doesn’t get off will be suspended.” Still nobody budged.

  On instructions from black aides and the students themselves, the drivers drove to the Y and the eighty-six students were ushered into the auditorium, where Steve Moss and Nathan Spivey suggested they use the time to write down the specific grievances which had prompted them to boycott. In the pages of her spiral notebook, Cassandra wrote:

  “Mr. Power told Clarence Jefferson to leave the meeting without asking questions.

  “Why doesn’t Mr. Power suspend the white kids?

  “Dispose of the teachers that are prejudiced.

  “Whites throwing things at the minorities.

  “Stop all the racial slurs.

  “The school needs to be cleaned up, painted or something.”

  When Rachel Twymon learned of the boycott from a radio bulletin, she and her brother Arnold hurried to the Y, where they found a dozen black ministers, politicians, and youth workers milling about in the hallway. Ultimately, the Minority Council came out to state its position. A senior named Beverly Merritt tried to read the list of grievances, but when she became too upset to continue, Cassandra took over. At 1:45, the buses returned to take most of the students home. Only four—Bobby Chin, Clarence Jefferson, Beverly Merritt, and Cassandra—went on to a news conference at Freedom House, where Bobby read a prepared statement:

  “As long as we attend Charlestown High under present conditions our lives are in danger. Today we have stayed out to protest present conditions under which we must attend school…. We feel there is a small group of white students intimidating us as minorities. We also feel that the parents of the majority have a lot to do with what their children are doing. Teachers and aides in most cases are incapable of maintaining discipline. If the white parents and teachers aren’t making a move to help solve the problem they are part of the problem. We hope that this protest will make it safer to attend Charlestown High School.”

  When Cassandra reached home she found her own family decidedly unenthusiastic about the day’s events. Her mother praised her cool demeanor through the ordeal, but expressed deep misgivings about the boycott itself. Arnold was even more vehement. Determined to shepherd his nieces and nephews into college, Arnold wouldn’t tolerate absences from school for whatever reason. “Okay, you’ve had your fun today,” he told Cassandra. “But if you ever do this again, I’m going to put my foot in your behind.” Cassandra—who’d expected to be a heroine at home—burst into tears.

  Rachel understood what her daughter was going through. A half dozen times that fall, as a member of the Racial-Ethnic Parents’ Council, she rode the bus up the hill to inspect Charlestown High and was dismayed at what she found: hostile demonstrators keeping vigil on the Monument grounds, police massed at the doorway, belligerent whites rampaging through the hallways. And she didn’t hesitate to tell school officials how she felt.

  One day in mid-October, Cassandra came home with a three-day suspension for skipping most of her history class. She told her mother she had lingered an extra half hour in her music class because she felt so close to James Howard, the black music teacher. The only black adult at the school with whom she enjoyed any rapport, Howard had enlisted her for the school Glee Club, her one extracurricular activity. Moreover, she disliked the history teacher, who she thought was prejudiced against blacks. When Rachel heard her daughter’s explanation, she concluded that school authorities had grossly overreacted in suspending her. The next morning she rode the bus to Charlestown, stormed into Mr. Jarvis’ office, and demanded that the suspension be revoked. Although Jarvis refused, he respected her fierce defense of her daughter’s rights.

  Soon Rachel recognized that there was little she could do at Charlestown High. The Parents’ Council was a paper organization; its five black members met once a month at a “neutral site” downtown, but, with whites continuing to boycott the council, it had no real function. Recognizing this, Judge Garrity ordered new elections to fill vacancies in Charlestown and elsewhere. But once again the black turnout was small and the Powder Keg delegation sat stolidly across the room, determined in their boycott. Frank Power pleaded with the whites to relent; when they persisted, he publicly apologized to the blacks. Rachel felt sorry for him. The headmaster was no longer the bold, confident man she had first seen two months before. In a voice loud enough to carry across the room, she told him, “It’s too bad some people are determined this thing should fail. It’s too bad they insist on teaching their children to hate.”

  “Nobody here hates anybody!” one of the Charlestown women shot back. “Everything would be okay if you people just left us alone. And that means you too, Power, you traitor!”

  A few days later—on October 23—Frank Power resigned from Charlestown High. The newspaper accounts said he was going on sick leave until the end of the year, when he would become an assistant to Bob Cousy, the former Celtics star, who was then commissioner of the American Soccer League. He was replaced at Charlestown by Bob Murphy, a veteran assistant headmaster at Boston English.

  Rachel was sorry to see Power go. He struck her as a well-meaning man who had struggled to find some middle ground on a battlefield where no compromise was possible. His resignation did not bode well.

  In late October, Rachel received an invitation from a group of black parents who were meeting at the Cooper Community Center to plan new action on Charlestown High. She was reluctant to attend, particularly when she learned that the parents’ plan included a massive boycott intended to force the closing of Charlestown High and the return of the minority children to schools in their own communities. Soon she began receiving material from one of the meeting’s sponsors, the African Liberation Support Committee, which argued that busing served the needs of “the U.S. Ruling Class, not Third World people.” It had been forced on the people of Boston by “the Rockefeller and Ford Foundations, the Kennedys, the NAACP, etc.” Poor people gained nothing from “the forcible busing of our children from a dilapidated working class school in the black community to one in the white community.” Such measures did nothing but “pit poor and working people from both communities against one another. We ca
n no longer fool ourselves thinking equality of oppressed nationalities will come under capitalist society.”

  There was much in the pamphlet with which Rachel agreed. Certainly busing did pit poor whites and poor blacks against each other, and over what? A broken-down old school, worse than many of those in Roxbury. The tract echoed many of the doubts about busing which had been growing in her all fall. Nevertheless, she concluded that the African Liberation people were wrong in demanding that Charlestown High be closed and black children returned to their community. That would be a reversal of everything she had fought for those last ten years.

  Cassandra would have been delighted with such a solution. By mid-autumn she was pleading with her mother to use her position on the Parents’ Council to arrange a transfer out of Charlestown. But with Garrity’s experts keeping a tight watch on school assignments, such transfers were virtually impossible to obtain, and in any case, Rachel would have resisted her daughter’s pleas. One night, as Cassandra renewed her complaints about the school, Rachel explained why she thought it was important to stick it out in Charlestown. The African Liberation Committee might pretend that Boston’s black community was equivalent to an African republic, but this wasn’t Ethiopia or Zambia. Boston was a white city—it always had been and, so far as she could tell, it always would be. So Boston blacks had to learn how to deal with whites, how to jolly them along, how to play their little games. She wasn’t talking about toleration, about Brotherhood Week; she was talking about survival. She had worked in factories where black people had to be careful when they went to the bathroom because whites would smear filth all over the toilets or the faucets when they saw them coming. She had friends who worked in offices where white waitresses would tip coffeepots or jam jars over on tables served by blacks so they would get a reputation as sloppy. There were a lot of good white folks out there, but there were a whole lot of nasty ones too. You couldn’t avoid them by retreating into your own neighborhood the way the African Liberation Committee wanted you to. If you were ever going to make it out there in the big city, you had to know what city life was all about, and for that Charlestown High was the best possible education.