by Barry Wolfe
My friend Peter is going steady with Charlene Kessler who is not only best friends with Sophia but who also lives up the street. At 7 pm, Peter stops by my house to pick me up and we begin the two-mile trek to Riggs Park where so many Jewish families are migrating as part of a large “white flight” from the integrating neighborhoods of Northwest DC. Charlene lives at the top of the hill on Chillum Place and Peter leaves me and goes up to the door of Charlene’s house.
I look down the long hill of Chillum Place and try to gather my nerves. As I walk down to Sophia’s house, my mind is awhirl with images of me dancing, holding, kissing and touching her. Then the fear takes hold. I imagine my doing it all wrong and her being appalled at my incompetence and lack of experience. Worse yet, I see myself completely exposed and emasculated by her derisive laughter. Diffidence and lust continue their epic struggle within me until I ring her doorbell.
Sophia answers the door wearing black pedal pushers and a tight red sweater that accentuates the rapid development of her “secondary sexual characteristics”. It’s difficult to remove my eyes from her chest and my mind flashes on a memory of my father’s comment when he met her at lunch the summer before. She had come to lunch dressed in cut-off shorts and a halter-top. After she left I asked my father what he thought of her. “Nice tits,” was all he said.
“Hi Izzy,” she says in a seductive voice. “Why don’t you come in?” I can’t read the meaning of her smile. I hope for joyful, but fear it’s malicious. The living room is small but cozy. To the right of the front door is a violet plushy sofa framed by two La Z Boy recliners. To the left is a Philco radio-record player console that also serves as a buffet. The top of the buffet is completely covered with family pictures of Sophia, her parents and her younger sister Marsha: The four of them on vacation at the Nevele, the two girls playing on the beach; Sophia’s parents smiling happily at the camera as they dance; several of family members I do not know; Sophia alone in a skimpy two-piece bathing suit that sets my heart to thumping once again. I can’t believe she’s just 15 years old. From within the console emanates the beautiful sound of the Chantel’s biggest hit, "Maybe".
“Come on, Izzy, let’s dance.” Sophia grabs me and pulls me to the center of the living room and I can barely catch my breath. I hold her tentatively. “No, Izzy,” she complains, “Hold me closer!” I feel her soft ample breasts on my chest and my legs go rubbery. Here, one of my fantasies is coming true and I’m so nervous I can barely remain upright. I almost topple over backwards pulling her on to me. I’m able to keep the both of us from falling; but in my effort to achieve equilibrium, I overshoot the mark and lean too far over in the other direction. Now she almost topples over backwards. Again, I’m able to keep her from falling. We eventually right ourselves and she looks at me puzzled and asks, “Is that a new dance step, Izzy? I’ve never seen that before.”
“Why yes,” I say, my mind racing around for an answer. “It’s, it’s called the Birdland. You see, I lean back and pull you toward me, do a half-stop with my right heel and then I lean forward as you lean back. You see how smooth and rhythmic it is?” I explain, gaining confidence in my story. “Yes,” she says, “I love it. Where did you learn it?”
“I learned it from the Black kids dancing on the Milt Grant Show,” I say with great pride. “I try and imitate their moves as closely as I can.” A look of recognition comes over her face. “So that’s why you look Black when you dance.”.
“Do I?” I answer with feigned innocence and inner glee that my impersonations are so successful.
“Oh Izzy, everyone says that. Half the world thinks you’re part-nigger.” The word sounds strange coming from the mouth of this angel. After a moment’s disorientation, I opine. “Well, I don’t want to be Black, but they do dance better. It’s so much cooler than the way white kids dance.” I show her the Pony the way white kids do it and the way Black kids do it so she can see the contrast. In between these up-tempo dances, I sneak on a few slow tunes, which gives me the opportunity to hold her close to me. The more slow dances we do, the more confidence I gain. Finally, I move in to kiss her lips and she turns away. She sees the look of devastation on my face and quickly pecks my cheek and pulls away from me. “Let’s eat,” she suggests a little too enthusiastically, “I’m starving.” So am I, I think to myself, but for a different kind of sustenance.
As we eat, she gossips about her friends. She details the breaking hearts, the blossoming love affairs, and planned treacheries of her core group of girl friends. She follows this monologue with frank and detailed analyses of Peter, Bobby, and James. She’s in the middle of a scathingly accurate delineation of the meaning of James’ portfolio of stares when the doorbell rings. She gets up to answer the door. The seductive, flowing movement of her gorgeous behind automatically yokes me in her direction and I follow her to the door. She opens the door and in the same seductive voice with which she greeted me says, “Come in, Sonny.” Sonny Hanson steps inside and we both look at each other with astonished incomprehension. Almost as if we rehearsed it, we simultaneously turned toward Sophia and ask in unison, “What’s he doing here?” Sonny just glares at me with his Bible-black eyes. His black flat-top looks a bit incongruous atop his overly large head which sits on a very slender six foot frame. He keeps on with his menacing stare and looks as if he’s ready to mark his territory with a spray of saliva. I stand there completely befuddled trying to figure out what is going on.
“I invited you both to see in the New Year,” Sophia finally says. “Sonny, can I speak to you in private? Izzy, we’ll be right back.” They disappear into the kitchen. My confusion only grows. About five minutes later, they both return with linked arms and huge smiles. Sonny’s attitude has done a “180” and now begins to act in a very chummy manner towards me as if we we’re dear old friends.
“So Izzy, how’s it hanging?” he asks. Resisting his oily chumminess, I reply, “Long as ever.”
That ends his phony overtures. Sophia puts on "The Twelfth of Never" by Johnny Mathis and grabs Sonny out of his chair and pulls him close to her. She then puts her tiny feet onto his huge box-toed bombers and they continue to dance. As the music swells, they begin to kiss. They kiss and dance their way over to the deep violet couch. He lands on top of her and they commence a serious and prolonged make-out session. I sit there looking on in horror. The humiliation and the tears well up inside me. But I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I am frozen to the La Z Boy for about ten minutes watching their lips glued together and listening to their heavy breathing. Finally I rise up from the chair and with as much disdain as I can muster I say, “I think I’m gonna go now.” Unbelievably, Sophia whines, “Aw Izzy, don’t go. We’re supposed to see the New Year in together. I want to be with my boyfriend and my best friend.”
“WHAT!!! Listen, I wish you both a very happy 1959,” I utter, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I storm out of the house, slam the door, and immediately burst into tears. I can’t fathom what has just happened, but the humiliation that I feel is the worst I have ever felt. I walk slowly and dejectedly up the hill and replay the entire evening over in my mind. Several times I replay the evening until I finally put Sophia’s diabolical plan together. I remembered that Sophia’s parents had forbidden her to see Sonny Hanson because he’s not Jewish. Her parents and sister are out for the evening and she needed a decoy. She told her parents that she had invited me over for the evening. The parents know me and know that I am Jewish. Then Sophia told Sonny to come by around 11 pm, but she didn’t bother to mention that I would be there. She figured she could mollify both of us. “Best friend, indeed,” I scoff aloud. “Best patsy, you mean.” The pain of being used in such a manner is damn near unbearable. As I walk up Chillum Place toward Riggs Road, I’m drowning in despair. “Where is that Black gang now, I cry aloud? I want you to come and beat my ass to a pulp. I want to die!”
As you go through life, remember this rule. Everybody's somebody's fool.
All this comes back to me
as I watch them dance at the synagogue social.
I search for my premiere dance partner, Cookie Zelner, who is all rhythm and bounce. She’s one of the few girls who can follow the stylistic changes I make in my fast dancing. I even show her some of the different moves that Black dancers employ in their jitterbug. Because of the unique style that we have created, a style that is a fusion of black and white, we stand out. We won the dance contest last year and are looking to repeat.
“Hi Izzy,” Cookie chirps with the same enthusiasm that she puts into her dancing.
“Hi Cookie, are you ready to win again this year?” I ask in the mode of a coach trying to motivate his team before a big game.
“You best believe it,” she answers. We clasp hands and spontaneously move into our dance routine to the sound of Bobby Darin’s "Queen of the Hop". We bounce around to the frolicking rhythm of the song and Cookie’s short, dark hair flips and flops in time with the music. People begin to form a circle around us. They watch and clap and cheer. But occasionally a voice in the back of the crowd rises above its cheering and clapping, “Look at that nigger dance. I can’t believe he’s white. He moves just like a jigaboo.”
I hear the epithets but pretend I don’t. My anger pours out into my dance moves. The moves become so aggressive that I lose the beat. The smooth, rhythmic, swaying moves degenerate into a spastic parody of their graceful predecessors. Cookie looks confused, and as the crowd begins to murmur its concern, she is increasingly embarrassed. “What are you doing, Izzy?” she whispers frantically. Without replying, I break away from her and begin to do a very aggressive version of “the Snap”. This dance involves the sharp snapping of the knees as one’s legs alternately bend and lock up. Every beat of the music elicits a snapping movement from my legs. The crowd begins to cheer again. They’ve never seen this dance before or certainly never have seen a white person performing it. I welcome the praise of the crowd, which enhances my confidence. Cookie is able to pick up what I’m doing because of its similarities to “the Slop”. The crowd’s cheers grow even louder and there are no more epithets. The dance ends to great applause.
The announcement that the dance contest is about to begin brings twenty couples to the floor. I know that our main competition involves two couples, Ben Fox and Maxine Weinkof who have been dancing together for several years, and my best friend Peter Kaplan and his girlfriend, Charlene. Peter and Charlene are excellent dancers, smooth, precise in their steps, and inspired by the choreographed routine that Peter has developed. I fear Peter the most because he is so bent on beating me. I fear for our relationship if Cookie and I win again. He and Charlene had been a close second in last year’s dance contest. He resents me for it because he thinks –with some justification—that they are better dancers than we were. But where we have the edge is in the Negroid movements that we have been able to master. We lack their precision, but they can’t approach the expressiveness of our moves. After two rounds, there are three couples remaining, Ben and Maxine, Peter and Charlene, and us. The DJ plays "Little Star" by The Elegants and I immediately begin to panic. The song has a relaxed, smooth sound that seems to favor the Queenstown style that Peter and Charlene love and excel in. As we start to dance my fear melts away and I let the music dictate our moves. To be honest, I see no real differences in quality among the three couples. At the end, however, Ben and Maxine are eliminated. The four of us stand close together while waiting for the final song. Peter leans over and in a loud whisper implores, “Hey Izzy, why don’t you dance like a white man for a change. Leave that black shit at home.” “I dance the way I feel, Peter. The music and the beat pull the moves out of me. I don’t plan anything and that’s the God’s honest truth,” I add.
The DJ plays the brand new release by Ray Charles, "What’d I say". As soon as the piano begins a low driving blues beat that evolves into a Latin riff, my body is on fire. Cookie and I start as a jitterbug twosome but within seconds break off into a very rhythmic and expressive version of the slop and the snap. Cookie anticipates the quick spontaneous changes in dance style that I make and matches me step for step as if we had created a choreographed routine. After a minute of solo dancing we reconnect and begin a series of complex turns accompanied by some fancy footwork. Then we break off again into the snap and the slop. Out of the corner of my eye I see Peter frowning at me while he and Charlene perform a series of precise turns in their speeded-up version of the Queenstown. In Part 2 of "What’d I say", Ray and his back-up singing group, the Raelettes, begin their signature response call of grunts and groans. Their erotic siren call draws me further into the song. I feel an almost mystic connection to the music. New steps spontaneously rise out of me and Cookie mimics them perfectly. Although I can hear clapping and cheers from the crowd, they seem far away. Only Cookie, the music and I exist as the song eventually comes to an end. I hug Cookie when we are pronounced the winners, but I’m still in a trance-like state. Nothing feels real. People keep coming up to congratulate us and I can see myself shaking hands and laughing while I hold Cookie close to me. Yet everything seems to happen in slow motion, in a dream-like reverie. Every person in the social hall approaches us to offer words of praise—all except Peter.
As we leave the synagogue, people still are coming up to Cookie and me to offer their congratulations. The night air is sweet with the smell of spring and the sound of praise. The crowd eventually thins out. I give Cookie a hug and we leave for our respective rides home. The three Miscreants and I have just reached James’ car when I hear someone call me. I turn around and see Stanley Sobel standing in front of me with arms akimbo and a perpetual mocking smile on his face. He’s a little less than 6 feet tall with a perfectly even flattop, which gives the top of his head the appearance of a well-carpeted brown lawn.
“Hey Izzy, I hear you’re gonna go to a nigger school,” Stanley hissed.
“Well, I’m going to Howard University, if that’s what you mean, Stanley.” He blanches at the sound of his hated name. His given name is to him such a mortifying moniker that he has gone on a single-minded campaign to convince every friend and acquaintance he encounters to call him Stan. For his trouble, he now has to listen to just about everyone call him Stanley to his face.
“Well Iz, after watching you dance tonight, I can see that you’ll fit in perfectly,” he sneers. “You move just like all the rest of those jungle bunnies.”
“OK Stanley, why do you have to be such a prick? What do you got against Black people anyway?”
“I don’t know, Izzy, I just don’t like ‘em. Besides, I wouldn’t want to be known as a nigger-lover.”
I wince every time I hear that phrase but I don’t know why. I find it repulsive but at the same time I feel so degraded to be called that. It makes me extremely anxious to imagine that I might be one. What the hell did it mean to be a “nigger-lover”? And what’s wrong with love anyway? It seems to me to be preferable to being a hater. How does a phrase that trumpets love take on such an insulting connotation? These questions make me so irritable that I want to either punch Stan or get the hell out of his sight. “Well. Stanley, why don’t you crawl back into whatever hole you came from?” With that, my friends and I get into James’ car. As he peels out of the parking lot, James makes sure to glare menacingly at Stanley Sobel, which is his way of saying you’re lucky we let you live.
As we speed down 16th Street, the four of us are oddly silent. I look at my friends, my best friends, and think about what a strange quartet we are. The glue that seems to hold us together is not so much a commonality of interests, but a shared acceptance of our psychological wounds. We are a community of the mentally maimed: gender-whipped Bobby, image-obsessed Peter, the linguistically challenged James, and me who fears the catastrophe of not being liked. There had been so many times when three of us would have to come to the rescue of the fourth who had just been hurt in the hardest place for him to bear.
Peter sits sulking in the back seat behind James, as far away from me as possible.
I realize it was my turn to apply the balm of sweet words to his wounds.
“Come on, Peter, don’t be like that,” I say as sweetly as possible. “It’s only a dance contest.”
“Yeah, it’s only a dance contest,” he fires back mockingly. That’s why you work your ass off to beat me. I’m sick of losing to you. You know I’m a better all around dancer than you. The only reason you and Cookie win is because of those nigger moves of yours. All I know is that we got hosed.
“Yes, Peter, you’re an excellent dancer.” I hate it when I try to kiss his ass. “But why do you have to take it so hard?”
Peter refuses to be consoled. He pulls out a Lucky Strike from under his shirtsleeve and tries to light it in great haste. Five tries later he begins cussing out the matches. Once he finally gets his cigarette lit, he begins to wax philosophical. “You know, maybe Stan Sobel is right. Maybe you are part black.” I look at him as if he had just eaten a cockroach. “Yes, a black, Ashkenazic Jew. Come on, Peter, you know my father’s people are from Lithuania and my mom’s relatives are from Russia.” Peter stares at me and takes a drag from his cigarette. He knows his idea is preposterous, but he’s not ready to let it go. After a long pause he spits out, half in anger, half in jest, “Well, nobody really knows where the 10 lost tribes of Israel ended up.”