Common Ground

by J. Anthony Lukas

  As they organized the pep rally, Lisa and her friends cast about for an appropriate theme. When seven of them gathered after school one day, Carolyn Wrenn said, “How about the Seven Dwarfs?”

  “Who’d be Snow White?”

  “Joe Strickland,” someone suggested.

  They all laughed. But Lisa sensed an opportunity. This time Mr. Murphy would surely insist that blacks be included in the show, yet some whites were bound to take offense. It’d be better if they could make a joke of the whole thing, and who could pull that off better than loose and breezy Joe? When they approached him, he readily agreed.

  On Friday, December 17, some three hundred students crowded into the third-floor auditorium. Blacks and whites automatically found their way to separate sections of the hall, from which they regarded each other with glum apprehension. Husky security aides and male teachers ringed the walls, watching for the first sign of trouble. Outside in the corridors, a dozen policemen stood at the ready.

  Chippa Godding as MC welcomed the audience to “the first pep rally we’ve had in more than five years.” Thanking Mr. Murphy for “his faith in us,” he admonished the students to be “worthy of that trust.”

  Three cheerleaders, in blue Charlestown High sweaters, pranced onstage to lead the crowd in a desultory cheer: “Right on, Townies, right on.”

  Then came the Seven Dwarfs, clad in sloppy denim overalls, T-shirts, striped socks, and white sneakers, trudging across the stage as they chanted:

  Hi ho, hi ho,

  It’s off to work we go

  We keep on working all day long.

  Hi ho, hi ho, hi ho, hi ho.

  Every few feet one of them would fall, the others tumbling over her, landing in a heap, then untangling themselves and marching off in another direction.

  Eventually, they assembled at center stage to introduce themselves: Carolyn Wrenn as Sneezy, waving a big white handkerchief; Maureen McDougall as Happy, with oversize teeth; Kelly Gamby as Doc, with black spectacles and knit cap; Rebecca Miller as Bashful, hiding behind her fluttery hands; Jean Smith as Sleepy, with drooping eyelids; Joan Smith as Dopey, with a pointed dunce cap; and Lisa as Grumpy, her face crumpled in a doleful grimace.

  Then, turning toward the wings, they called, “Whitey!” “Hey, Snowy!” “Come here, Snow White!”

  Out leapt Joe Strickland in a Charlestown High T-shirt, a long green skirt, a Hawaiian lei around his neck, a yellow flower in his hair, dashes of white paint on his ebony cheeks.

  The auditorium rocked with laughter as Joe, striking a girlish pose, yelled, “Give me a T.”

  “You got your T,” the crowd responded.

  “Give me an O.”

  “You got your O.”

  “Give me a W.”

  “You got your W.”

  And so on until Joe demanded, “What have you got?” and the crowd thundered, “TOWNIES!”

  Then the Dwarfs advanced toward the apron, spread their hands wide, and launched into a ragged rendition of “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.” Every time they reached the word “white” they paused to let Joe deliver it in his off-key baritone. The kids seemed to love it, and when the rally ended several minutes later, they rewarded the performers with a standing ovation.

  The long-run reaction was mixed. Bob Murphy was so pleased with the rally’s decorum that he took to the public address system to congratulate his charges on their good behavior. Several teachers found the Seven Dwarfs skit “charming.” But others weren’t so sure. One young liberal said he had “cringed in embarrassment” all the way through. And several black students berated Joe Strickland for playing “Stepin Fetchit for the white folks.”

  Gradually Murphy relaxed his rigorous regime. Soon he authorized another schoolwide event, a “Gong Show” to be produced by the Student Council on March 4. Once again the senior girls did most of the organizing, and Mr. Grace and two other teachers agreed to serve as judges. Several blacks—among them Cassandra Twymon—were enlisted to dance or sing. Lisa and Carolyn Wrenn dressed up as “fifties persons” in plaid skirts, fluffy sweaters, pearls, and penny loafers to sing a golden oldie called “Bobby’s Girl.” But the grand prize was taken by Pat Greatorex and another brawny teacher named Jimmy Kent, decked out as “special ballerinas of the Boston Ballet” in flowing wigs, red leotards, and gauzy tutus. Their improbable pirouettes and arabesques brought down the house.

  But though such diversions eased tensions at Charlestown High, they did nothing to defuse the underlying confrontation. In case anyone was inclined to forget it, the race issue had a way of cropping up just when it was least expected.

  The school day began with a homeroom period, during which teachers took attendance, made announcements, and presided over the weekly Pledge of Allegiance, long a matter of contention at Charlestown High.

  One morning in March 1977, as Assistant Headmaster Bob Jarvis came on the public address system to say, “All please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag,” most of the students in Lisa’s room stumbled to their feet. But Nancy Green, a black senior who had been absent for much of the winter, remained sitting in the front row. As thirteen youthful voices intoned the familiar litany—“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands”—John Humphrey, a hockey star who had recently scored three goals in Charlestown’s victory over South Boston, turned on Nancy Green.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “You too good to stand up?”

  Nancy stared straight ahead, giving no sign that she had heard him.

  Humphrey persisted. “Don’t you people respect the flag?” he asked. “Don’t you respect your country?”

  Standing nearby, Lisa was surprised by the anger in his voice. She sort of liked Nancy Green, a gentle, dignified girl who never came on strong like Cassandra Twymon or Anita Anderson. And Lisa knew something John Humphrey didn’t know: that Nancy was a Jehovah’s Witness, which prohibited her from taking oaths or pledges of any sort. Whatever other reservations Nancy may have had about such patriotic observations, her religion prevented her from taking part.

  When Humphrey went on denouncing the girl, Nina Wright—their homeroom teacher—ordered him into the hallway. There the argument raged on. Nina explained that no student was required to stand against the dictates of his or her conscience, but Humphrey continued to inveigh against busing, blacks, and Nancy Green in particular. When his teacher asked him to apologize, he said he would offer an explanation of his behavior to the class but never to “that girl.” Eventually, the hockey star was suspended for five days. On his way out of school that afternoon he put his fist through a glass door panel, leaving a jagged hole that went unrepaired for weeks, a tangible reminder of Charlestown’s persistent resentments.

  It was scarcely surprising that when the class of ’77 issued invitations to the senior banquet on March 24, few blacks chose to attend. Pat Greatorex worked hard to get them there, promising that two of his most formidable friends from the Townie team—defensive tackle “Ditso” Doherty and linebacker Jerry McCormick—would maintain order. But the banquet was scheduled for 7:00 p.m. at the Cobblestone Restaurant on Medford Street, a section of Charlestown considered perilous for blacks even during the daytime. Ultimately, only four of the class’s eleven blacks showed up: Eddie Dykes, Curt Shepherd, Sandra Payne, and Joe Strickland.

  The Townies turned out in force, the boys in formal suits and ties, the girls in bright party dresses or slacks. The Cobblestone’s Charlestown Room was “colonial”—brass chandeliers, yellow bulbs molded to look like candles, the stucco walls bedecked with American eagles, fifes, drums, and musketry. Formica tables formed a square, leaving room for a dance floor, and by 7:15 a student d.j. had a thick stack of disco records spinning on the phonograph. But the party got off to a slow start as boys sat with boys, girls with girls, whites with whites, blacks with blacks.

  Suddenly a dark-haired senior named Julie Finn dragged a reluctant shop mug o
ut to dance. Soon they were joined by others, and for nearly an hour the floor was filled with writhing bodies. Only one minor incident marred the festivities. When Eddie Dykes asked a blond girl to dance, a white boy told him to move on. For a moment a scuffle seemed certain to erupt, but Ditso Doherty muscled in between the boys and the party resumed.

  When everyone had finished supper, Lisa rapped her spoon on her glass and someone yelled, “Let’s hear it for the class president,” triggering heavy applause.

  “Aw shucks,” said Lisa. “I don’t deserve that.”

  “You’re right,” yelled Patti Rooney. Everybody laughed and clapped still harder.

  “But I’ll take it,” Lisa said. “And there are lots of other people who deserve our thanks. During our three years at Charlestown High we’ve had the privilege of working with some of the finest people in the Town. We can offer them nothing but respect.”

  Polite applause.

  “But how,” Lisa asked, “can you respect Mr. Greatorex, the Geek?”

  Laughter and boos.

  “Page 943 of Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary defines a geek as ‘a carnival performer.’ I ask you, how do you respect a man like that?”

  Wild hilarity.

  “Mr. Greatorex, the Geek, the Rhinestone Cowboy. We the senior class of Charlestown High say, it’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

  A tumult of glass rapping, table pounding, foot stomping, and hand clapping until a beet-red Pat Greatorex stumbled forward to accept their tribute.

  Then Joan Smith, the class secretary, rose to read the Prophecy: “Here we are, ladies and gentlemen, at the social event of the year. This is your big-mouth reporter, talking to you live from Charlestown High’s Class of ’77 Twentieth Reunion. I will be giving you a minute-to-minute update on some of our famous classmates as they come in. Some are arriving now, and the first one in the door is the former Miss Carolyn Wrenn. Apparently she couldn’t find a babysitter because there are twelve little ones tailing her…. Floating in behind them is Sandy Payne, famous woman astronaut, better known as Space Woman…. I don’t believe my eyes, our next guest is Lisa McGoff, without Charlie or the other angels…. Speaking of famous couples, here comes NAACP Couple of the Year, Diane and Joe Strickland.”

  Finally Kelly Gamby read the Class Will.

  “To Susan Cooney, we leave a six-pack of Michelob and Mike Dolaher—and, on weekends, Frankie Kelly.

  “To Joe Strickland, we leave a Snow White costume and a full-length mirror.

  “To Stan Caiczynski, we leave his own version of the Polish national anthem.”

  Most clauses were received with snickers or ribald laughter.

  But when Kelly reached the next item, she turned to Eddie Irvin and said, “I hope you don’t take this as an insult.”

  Dapper in a blue pants suit, Eddie smiled reassuringly.

  “To Eddie Irvin,” Kelly said, “we leave a full-size mural of City Hall Plaza and his own American flag.”

  With that, the class of ’77 rose nearly as one to give Eddie a prolonged ovation. Only a handful of seniors—among them the Rivases and the four blacks—remained sitting at their tables.

  For weeks the ovation provoked intense debate in the faculty lounge. The small liberal coterie saw it as evidence that anti-black feeling was as strong as ever at Charlestown High, simply awaiting a new pretext to erupt. Others dismissed such fears, regarding the applause as noisy affection for the class joker who had gone through a trying year. Still others contended that it had little to do with Eddie at all, that it was a ritual expression of Townie solidarity, of Charlestown armed against the world.

  Lisa had mixed feelings about it. Still fond of Eddie, she was glad to pay tribute to him, but she felt bad if the ovation had embarrassed Joe Strickland and the other blacks. For Lisa was beginning to gain some perspective on her situation, to understand how others saw her. For the first time, she was expressing interest in the world beyond her town. Only a few days after the senior banquet, Lisa and three classmates embarked on a week-long visit to Washington, D.C. Sponsored by a nationwide program called Close-Up, the trip was designed to acquaint high school students with the workings of their national government. Jerry Sullivan escorted the Townies, who converged on Washington with a hundred other youths from the Boston area, joining delegations from Detroit and Atlanta.

  Most of the participants had never been in their nation’s capital before, but Lisa’s two Powder Keg expeditions had left her feeling like an old Washington hand. Her mood was markedly different this time. Storming Capitol Hill with her mother, she’d been consumed by righteous indignation at unresponsive legislators and their bureaucratic allies. Since then, much of her anger had dissipated. Although she still regarded busing as an abomination, she was more interested now in understanding how such policies came into being and what could be done to reverse them.

  For six days, the Close-Up delegations quizzed public figures all over town. The hundreds of students were divided into groups of seven, each with a secretary to pose questions and record the answers. Lisa became her group’s secretary and took an active role in questioning Massachusetts Congressmen John Moakley and Paul Tsongas, Hugh Wilhere, chairman of the National Commission on Law Enforcement and Social Justice, and Ralph Alvarez of the Environmental Policy Center.

  To Lisa, the most interesting session was with William White, Jr., a black man who was assistant staff director of the Civil Rights Commission. A year earlier, she would have found it difficult to sit in the same room with such a man. Now she listened intently as he declared that school desegregation was “an indisputable national goal.” In some cities busing had been bitterly resisted, but it wasn’t going away. “Your fellow citizens across this land have showed that it can work. Even where it’s been difficult at first, desegregation sets off a process which leaves a strong, united people.”

  Lisa raised her hand. “Isn’t busing the main reason that thousands of white families have deserted Boston’s public schools?” she asked.

  Such considerations were irrelevant when basic constitutional rights were at stake, White insisted. But Lisa bored in. “You haven’t mentioned the word ‘forced,’ ” she said. “Don’t you realize that in most cases it isn’t racism, but the idea that government can force you out of your own school, out of your own town? There has to be some other way to get desegregation.” But Lisa noticed that the suburban kids seemed bored by the subject. It didn’t apply to them. They seemed so carefree, it made her mad to think that they were enjoying themselves while kids in the city—black and white—were going through all this racial crap.

  It was time to move on, she thought, time to attend to other things. The first was college. Despite her extracurricular responsibilities, Lisa’s grades had held up well—A in biology, B+ in psychology, B+ in economics, C+ in English, C’s in algebra and physical education. But the college boards frightened her. Most teachers were so preoccupied with maintaining order in their classrooms they had little time to prepare seniors for the critical exams. Lisa was particularly worried about math, always her weakest subject. Luckily Pat Greatorex provided some last-minute tutorials and Lisa slipped by with respectable scores. In April she was accepted at Bunker Hill Community College, a new two-year institution across town.

  The last month of school passed in a blur. On May 5, the seniors held their prom at Montvale Plaza, Lisa arriving on the arm of a dashing Chuckie Hayes (only four blacks showed up, led by Joe Strickland in a rented Rolls-Royce). A week later, all the Townie seniors—except the blacks—spent the day swimming and playing softball at a resort in the Berkshires. There was a party somewhere in town every night, the boys drinking too heavily, the girls laughing a little too gaily, the class of ’77 trying hard to mask its nervousness.

  As graduation day approached, Alice McGoff was torn by seemingly irreconcilable emotions. For years she had channeled her waking energies into the crusade against Arthur Garrity’s order. Morning after morning, she had trudged up Breed’
s Hill, chanting her “Hail Marys” and “Our Fathers,” flinging imprecations at the forces which occupied the heights. For Alice and her colleagues in Powder Keg, the high school which straddled the hill had become a potent symbol in their struggle, as much an emblem of the fight for self-determination as the granite obelisk which towered above it. At all costs, they urged, Charlestown High must resist judicial tyranny. Yet Alice had watched with mounting admiration as Lisa assumed leadership at the school, managing through force of personality to restore some vestige of solidarity and tradition. Her child was a determined young woman now, armed with the courage of her convictions. Some Powder Keg members might complain about Lisa’s role at the school, suggesting she had somehow sold out to the “probusers,” but Alice defended her, proclaiming a mother’s pride.

  Then on June 2—five days before graduation—Alice woke up just after midnight with sharp pains in her chest. Billy drove her to Massachusetts General Hospital, where doctors concluded that she was suffering a gallbladder attack. The offending organ had to come out, they said, and the operation was scheduled for the morning of June 8, only hours after Lisa was to graduate.

  “Okay,” said Alice, “take the damn thing out. On one condition: I’m going to my daughter’s graduation the night before.”

  “Out of the question,” said the doctor.

  “Listen,” Alice shot back. “My daughter has just gone through two years of busing. She’s the president of her class. She runs the show up there. I’m going to be at her graduation. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you!”

  Finally the doctor shrugged. “It’s against every medical principle,” he said, “but do as you like.”

  At 6:30 p.m. on June 7, Alice got dressed, signed out of the hospital, and hitched a ride with Billy to Hynes Auditorium in the Back Bay. When mother and daughter embraced in the lobby, Alice handed Lisa a single red rose, tied with a silver ribbon. “Anybody who graduates from high school under these circumstances,” she said, “deserves a rose.”