Izzy White?

by Barry Wolfe

  My father finally breaks the silent staring stalemate. “Look Boychik, I’ve been on this earth a lot longer than you have and I know what I’m talkin’ about. You can barely wipe your ass and you’re gonna tell me?”

  “Why do you have to be so prejudiced? Of course, I’ll be able to get a job. I’ll have a Bachelor’s degree.”

  “Yeah, a Bachelor’s degree from Howard.”

  “Dad, many prominent people have graduated from Howard,” I continue. “In fact, people refer to it as the Harvard of Negro Education.”

  My father, however, keeps coming up with endless reasons against my going. With each volley, he ratchets up the severity of the threat to my well-being.

  “Don’t you know that Howard is filled with Communists and queers?”

  “Oh come on, Dad, how would you know that? You’re digging in the bottom of the barrel now. Why do you make this stuff up? I can’t believe you.”

  “And I can’t believe you want to go to school with Schwartzehs.”

  “That’s the real reason, isn’t it? You’re not thinking about what’s good for me. You just can’t stand the thought that I might choose to go to school with people that you consider to be inferior. When you say, ‘Schwartzeh,’ that says it all.”

  “What?” He protests with feigned innocence. “Schwartzeh means black, that’s all.”

  “No, Dad, it’s the Yiddish equivalent of nigger and you know it. So does the rest of this damn family. All the time, “Schwartzeh this, Schwartzeh that. How many times have I heard one of your sisters complain, ‘You just can’t find a good Schwartzeh anymore to clean the house.’ I hate that word. They’re people, Dad, just like you and me!”

  “No, Boychik, that’s where you’re wrong. They’ll never be like you and me!”

  At this point, the fencing match begins. He “thrusts” with a story that proves to him beyond the shadow of a doubt that black people are dumb, ignorant, unreliable and untrustworthy. I then “parry” with a tale of a bright, accomplished Negro who is without doubt a paragon of middle class virtues. Neither one of us can sell the other on our particular vision of Negroes.

  I hated the constant arguing with my dad. I longed so desperately for the rare good times we had together. Sunday brunch is the only time of the week that the four of us have a meal together, and it’s the only time we bond. My father makes his crude jokes and my brother Adam and I laugh hysterically. I think we laugh more at seeing our father in a light-hearted mood than at his crummy jokes. My mother gives him a stern look, “Oh Mort,” and then giggles uncontrollably. Soon, all four of us laugh until it hurts. We do this over a breakfast of unmatchable fried potatoes that my father prepares, bagels, lox, cream cheese, white fish, Revelation fish or Sable fish as it is otherwise known. Adam proclaims, “I love this Jew food,” and we all respond with raucous laughter.

  None of us is high on religion, but we clearly know we are Jewish. After my brother had suffered through six years of Hebrew school with one crazy melamed after another, and was finally bar mitzvahed, my parents decided not to burden me with this requirement. Instead, to get me prepared for my own bar mitzvah, I had a private teacher for nine months. My teacher was a single, depressed melamed, who had survived the Nazi concentration camps in order to teach recalcitrant learners like me. We used to get into strange philosophical discussions. He once suggested that modern medicine with all its shots and medicines was making mankind weaker. I rolled my eyes and asked,

  “How do you figure that?” He answered me with another question. “How old do people live today?”

  “I don’t know, 70, maybe 80 years.”

  “Ah ha,” he said triumphantly, “Methuselah lived to be 969 years old.” I muttered to myself, Oy Veh! With the help of his tutelage, I sang my Haftorah with such passion and with “a tear in the voice” (as was said of the best Cantors), even though I didn’t understand a word I said.

  My father is convinced that the men who run the synagogues are all hypocrites. My mother, who knows no Hebrew, is content to go to services only on the High Holidays and to Bar Mitzvahs. I announce one Sunday morning that we are at the very least, “gastronomical Jews,” and there is unspoken agreement.

  On this particular February Sunday, my father turns serious and reopens the painful topic of my choice of college.

  “Look, Izzy, I’m happy to borrow the $1,000 a year that you will need to go to George Washington University, like your brother and your uncle.” Shocked by the utter recklessness of this idea, I reply with a great deal of frustration in my voice, “Where are you gonna get that much money?”

  “I’ll get it,” my father answers defensively.

  “Yeah, I hear you, but I’m askin’ where?”

  “Look, haven’t I always taken care of you, provided for you? I’ll get the money, don’t you worry.”

  “Dad, I appreciate the offer, but I’m set on going to Howard.”

  I do appreciate the offer, but I’m more repulsed by the thought that he would put the family finances in some jeopardy in a desperate attempt to dissuade me from going to a mostly Black university. I can see his fear but I’m unable to grasp its source. What awful experiences has he had with Black people? Or is there some deeper psychological reason for his hostility and sense of superiority over them? Is there some wisdom in his cautionary protests? I know he’s very frightened for me, frightened of my idealism. “You can’t take the whole world on your shoulders.” This is his patented closing statement on virtually every meaningful disagreement that we ever have. But it’s impossible for me to give any credence to his concerns. He’s on the other side of a fence that is forming in my mind between the bigots and the open-minded; the sophisticated versus the ignorant. And to prove that I clearly fall on the right side of this divide, I am going to Howard whether my father can accept it or not.

  Chapter

  3.

  Maybe

  My father and I argue about my college choice throughout the entire winter. We argue in the morning as soon as we both are awake. We argue when he returns from work in the evening. We argue at Sunday brunch, which had been our most joyous time together. We argue when I am in the bathroom and he would shout from the other side of the closed door. He would start the argument again when he was on the throne and I on the other side of the bathroom door. I submitted my application to Howard anyway and only to Howard. And when my acceptance letter arrives, still he argues. “Of course they accepted you,” he said, “You’re white.”

  Up to this point of my life I really have not been a rebellious teenager. Yes, I had engaged in some risky behavior, but these are acts of conformity to whatever group I crave acceptance —the jocks, the semi-delinquents, or the popular kids. But when it comes to choosing my college, I somehow develop some backbone. I am terrified of my father’s anger, but on this I cannot yield. By the middle of April, my father throws in the towel, but not without a parting shot:

  “OK, so I guess you are really gonna go to that Schwartzeh school. I can’t stop you, but I don’t have to pay for it. You’re on your own. You find a way to pay for your education.”

  This was an unexpected blow. Through all our arguing, I never gave a thought to who might be paying for my education. I just assumed he would. In fact, I thought I was doing him a favor. Howard’s tuition for the fall of 1959 is $213 per year, a fifth of what it would cost to go to GW. Two hundred and thirteen dollars is a great deal of money and I haven’t a clue how I am going to come up with such a sum. I guess I’ll have to get a job. Work? Exactly! I will have to find a job. And find a job I do—as a playground director. I become the director of Shepherd Park Playground where I coach 12 and under baseball, run arts and crafts programs, and offer profound philosophical bon mots to teenagers, such as treat people the way you want to be treated. Except, it is done in teen-speak. “Like, do him like you want him to do you, man.” And, of course, I teach anyone who is interested how to shoot a basketball.

  I love the job and I am actuall
y saving money for the first time in my life. I am not sure though whether I will have enough money for even my first semester at Howard. Then the oddest thing happens, one of those “out- of- the- blue” events that can transform your life. On a rainy day in April of 1959, I am trapped in the Shepherd schoolhouse with about 20 pre-pubescent kids screaming out their creative ideas for projects, when Andy Klein, a Coolidge classmate who lives in the neighborhood shows up. We are friendly but not close.

  “Hey, Izzy, rumor has it that you’re going to Howard in the fall. Is that true?” Oh God, here comes another critic about to tell me what a fool I’m being. “That’s right,” I say, bracing for the verbal onslaught. “Well, I am too.”

  “Really? I’m blown away. Why?”

  “Well, the price is right and my family has no money to pay for college,” he offered. “Me too,” I say enthusiastically as if I had found a landsman from the old country.

  “Listen, do you know that Howard is having a scholarship exam in two weeks? If you win one, they will pay you $500 a year for all four years. That’s more than enough money for your entire college education. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll both take it. Apparently, they have plenty of money. I think we both can win one.”

  “Andy, I can’t thank you enough for telling me. I had no idea that they were having a scholarship exam. I didn’t think they had any financial aid. Count me in. I desperately need the money.” Whatever trepidation I feel about going to Howard immediately evaporates with the knowledge that I will have a high school classmate join me in this fearful adventure.

  When the day of the test comes, I am so nervous I feel as though I am going to hurl my breakfast. The nausea follows me into the exam room. But once I see the questions, I am shocked at how easy the test seems to me. Andy and I both win scholarships. When I show my father the award letter, he begrudgingly congratulates me with a downcast look.

  With news of my scholarship, my mood soars and my feet spontaneously began to perform an effortless “Pony”. I kick up my heels and try to coax from my motor memory the ‘blackest” version of the dance that I know. I am rehearsing for the Saturday Night Social that is being held that night at the Tifereth Israel Synagogue at 16th and Juniper Streets. I love nothing more than to show off the dances that I have learned watching Black Tuesday on the Milt Grant show: The Birdland, the Slop, the Snap, and the Pony. To my white peers these dances seem so exotic, but they are impressed nonetheless. There will be another dance contest and I hope to win. No, I know I will win…. again.

  The beautiful early May evening gives me such a strong sense of the changing season. In the fragrant evening air, I can barely contain the feeling of well-being. I now have a college to go to and money to pay for my education. I am getting ready for my new, more exciting life. I see in my decision to attend Howard a romantic journey into the unknown, which both exhilarates and terrifies me. I imagine myself a courageous explorer who is embarking on an expansion of his social boundaries that have felt so confining. Privately, I torture myself with questions. Depending on the time and my mood, I think myself crazy, rebellious, naïve, foolish, odd, or a disturbed goofball. But not this night! This night I entertain only good thoughts about my decision. It is not only bravely different but the right decision for me.

  The Three Miscreants show up late as usual. Peter Kaplan, Bobby Levine, and James Feder are the truest friends I have despite the fact that each is psychologically wounded in his own unique way. Peter’s insecurity borders on paranoia. To say he has a thin skin is to state the easily observed. Until I met Peter, I held the mistaken opinion that only women were vain. He literally could spend 30 minutes in front of a mirror combing his hair. He would shriek in panic if he thought he was losing a hair.

  And he is a fastidious dresser, if you can call fastidious an obsessive attempt to dress in the late 1950’s version of the truly cool--pegged pants, black loafers, shirt sleeves meticulously rolled up, a pack of Lucky Strikes tucked underneath. The final touch, a collar majestically turned up. We are about the same height, but he has black hair and eyes, compared to my brown. But he dresses way cooler than I do.

  Bobby Levine has a mother who has always wanted a girl child; and when he was a toddler would occasionally dress Bobby in feminine attire. His features in fact are delicate and he is more pretty than handsome. Needless to say, his looks and his upbringing produce some serious doubts in him about his masculinity. He thought if he could just be Marlon Brando, these masculinity issues would not haunt him. After seeing Brando a few years back in “The Wild One”, Bobby had to have a motorcycle. As soon as he turned 16, he bought a 1950 Triumph Thunderbird 6T, the same brand that Brando rode in “The Wild One”. Bobby is never seen without his Harley Davidson Black Motorcycle Jacket, which is the standard garb of teenage rebellion.

  James Feder comes from a family run riot. He is the second of six children ranging in age from 5 years to 20. The sibling rivalries are so intense and the resulting chaos so traumatic that James literally became a man of few words. He doesn’t see the point of speaking up. Instead, he communicates through stares. He has a bucket load of stares that attempt to communicate different and sometimes subtle shades of meaning. One stare says, “You know and I know that you are not my equal.” Another intimates, “Can’t you see that I have had a rough life and I need you to take care of me?” A third challenges the recipient of his stare, ‘’Tell me why I should think you matter.” Very few people pick up on his ocular lingo and typically think he is just odd.

  James honks the horn of his 1956 Chevy Impala while Peter and Bobby call out my name in derisive hooting noises. Peter bellows, “Iii zzy, it’s time to go. Bobby, imitating the voice of an ogre yells, “I’m going to crush your skull if your ass is not out here in 10 seconds.” I pretend to be petrified and fly out of my house and into the car. James peels away with the clear intent of showing off the wonderfully low, thudding sound of his fiberglass mufflers. We all genuflect in praise in James’ direction. His response is to announce in a seductive but barely audible whisper, “You can’t catch me. If you get too close, you know I’m gone like a cool breeze.” When James does speak, it is often in a song title, particularly Chuck Berry’s titles which are his favorite. If he doesn’t want to do something or to deal with a difficult issue, he says, “Too much monkey business for me to be involved in.” If he’s feeling particularly insecure, as he is now, he says, “I’m a brown-eyed handsome man.”

  Miraculously, we make it to the synagogue biologically intact and free of any traffic citations. As we pull into the parking lot, we hear the sounds of a saxophone stuttering into the cool night air. Just below the infectious rhythm of Lee Allen’s sax, I hear and almost visualize Little Richard banging out his signature, repetitive high chords on the piano which are interwoven with a very rhythmic guitar riff.

  We enter the social hall and all four of us are immediately caught up in the excitement of the moment. The scene is bright and loud, bright with possibility and loud with so many beautiful young girls singing along with the Shirelles’ new hit, “Dedicated to the one I love”. So many hungry teenage boys are dancing with them, holding them close and hoping to be the young lovers to whom these glowing girls will be dedicated. Many of the girls are wearing poodle skirts and ponytails and look like models of their age, class and gender. As the DJ plays the next song, “Please Say You Want Me” by the Schoolboys, with 14-year-old Leslie Martin’s Doo Woperatic vocal plea that always creates such longing in my heart, I search the room for her. When I don’t immediately see her, my mood sinks. I begin to feel sorry for myself and indifferent to the music and high spirits that surround me. Bobby picks up on my mood and knows exactly what I am thinking. After a few moments, he grabs me and excitedly says, “There she is, Izzy! There’s Sophia.” In the far corner of the social hall, Sophia Schreiber is dancing with Sonny Hanson, one of the few gentile boys who regularly shows up at Jewish socials. They are dancing a new form of the jitterbug that came out of Prin
ce Georges County, Maryland, known as “The Queenstown”. This style substitutes smoothness for rhythm little rhythm and a lot of smoothness. As they move toward one another, couples hold both hands and double pump them; and as they move away, both dancers put one arm behind their backs. Throughout the dance, they seem to be engaged in a effortless promenade.

  As we drift toward the center of the hall, I see her more clearly; see her look lovingly into Sonny’s eyes. As I move closer, I can see those almond shaped green eyes that rob me of any sense of power. I am frozen in place whenever I look into her eyes. She finally notices me looking at her, gives me a pleading, sheepish smile, and then buries her face in Sonny’s shoulder. I feel briefly welcomed by her tentative smile, but my momentary joy quickly turns to shame and anger. I continue to look at them slow dancing to Two People in the World by Little Anthony and the Imperials, and once again feel like a third wheel at their private party. My mind immediately goes to memories of the New Year Eve’s disaster.

  Sophia has always viewed me as a friend, a very good friend and a wonderful dance partner. I’m her friend, but she is my true love. Throughout the fall and early winter, she seems to increasingly desire my company, and she even kisses me goodbye one day after I spontaneously drop over her house after school. That kiss gives rise to the most optimistic fantasies of connection, closeness and warmth. I imagine long, languid make-out sessions on Valley Street, on Hayrides, in her basement and on her bed. I imagine that in her love for me, she invites me to explore the heavenly curves, crevices and youthful swellings of her bare body. I imagine that I experience the Heaven on Earth promised by the Platters. Perhaps I have a chance with her after all, I begin to think. When she invites me over for New Year’s Eve, I am ecstatic and convinced that all my worrying and self-doubting is foolish.