by Barry Wolfe
“Excuse me, can you answer a question for me,” I asked.
“Yes, what is it?” he responds with some impatience.
“You see these people walking by us? Many of them look white. Are they white students or light-skinned Negroes?”
“It all depends,” my interlocutor answers.
“On what?” He picks at his beard, which I have noticed for the first time, and looks at me with an expression of weary condescension, an expression that seems to say to me, “Why are you pestering me with these questions , and what are you doing at Howard University anyway?” Instead, he says, “It depends on how they choose to identify themselves.”
“They have a choice?” I ask in utter disbelief.
“Well, to a certain extent. Have you ever heard of the ‘one drop rule’?
“Sort of, but I’m not really clear what it means.” His weary, condescending expression becomes even more weary and condescending. He sighs heavily and expounds, “You white people have decided that if a person has one drop of Negro blood, then he’s a Negro no matter how white he looks. But some Negroes are so light and so lacking in what are called Negroid features that they can easily ‘pass’ as white. Now most, if not all of the people you see here, identify themselves as Negro, but there may be a few who think of themselves as white, but their ancestry will reveal that much more than one drop of Negro blood is present.” I remember my conversation with Mrs. Prescott and how members of her family lived as white and how she had indeed “chosen” to identify as Negro. This is confusing. In a society that seems to be so rigidly defined by race and color some people actually have a choice to identify as white or black.
Now convinced that he is not going to get any more studying done, my interlocutor introduces himself. “By the way, my name is Michael White.” I can’t help myself. I burst out laughing. “What’s so damn funny?” exclaims the other Mr. White as his brown face takes on a crimson glow of embarrassment.
“I’m sorry. I’m laughing because my name is White too, Isadore White. But everyone calls me Izzy. I guess you’re the black White and I’m the white White.” Michael hesitates turning crimson again. But a moment later, he starts to laugh at the absurdity of this coincidence.
“Where are you from, Izzy?’
“D.C. “How about you?”
“I’m originally from New Jersey, but my parents died when I was 6 years old and I lived with my grandparents in Durham, North Carolina.”
“How come you didn’t go to Duke?” I ask in all sincerity. It’s Michael’s turn to burst out laughing. “You know, I don’t believe you. Here you are, a white boy going to Howard University and you don’t seem to know much about what’s going on in this country.”
“What do you mean?” Michael makes little effort to hide the scorn in his voice.
“Don’t you know how segregated the South is? I can tell you it is pretty bad in North Carolina. The K.K.K. is still large there, man, and if you violate the segregationist code, you’re liable to get your ass killed: Like that GI who came home from the war, sat in front of the bus in Durham and the bus driver shot him cause he moved too slowly to the back of the bus. It took the all white jury all of 20 minutes to free his ass. It goes without saying that Duke don’t allow no ‘nigras’ within its sacred portals,” he says in a voice laced with resentment.
“I thought that was changing there like it is here,” I protest. “I guess what I’ve experienced growing up in D.C. is a kind of polite line in the sand. Social mixing just isn’t done. Whites and Negroes live in different places, go to different places for recreation, shopping, dining, etc. I never thought that there would be violence if the line was crossed.”
“Izzy, where have you been?” Michael cries out in exasperation. “How can you be so naïve and yet decide to come to Howard? I knew white people were crazy, but boy, you are something new under the sun. Didn’t you follow what happened in Little Rock a couple of years ago?” Michael asked, hoping against hope that the school integration crisis at Central High School would ring a bell.
“Well, yeah,” I say with embarrassment, “but it was too painful to watch.”
“Too painful?” Michael sputters. “Izzy, you haven’t a clue. Look, I believe you’ve got a good heart or you wouldn’t be a student here, but you’ve GOT to get an education.”
“That’s why I am here,” I answer, “I came to get an education.”
“I mean you need to find out what is going on between the races, man. Black people been takin’ shit from white people for far too long and a change is gonna come in the very near future. And that change is gonna rock white people off their self-constructed pedestal.” Michael is pointing his finger directly at me as he ends his diatribe. He’s the second person today who warned me of a great change coming in race relations as I recall Winston McKenzie’s own Jamaican flavored jeremiad. But neither one is specific. What change? How dangerous is this gonna be?
“Listen, Izzy, I don’t hate white people. I know there are fair-minded, good-hearted Caucasians. But you don’t understand how difficult it is to face someone who looks like you and not feel hatred.”
“But I haven’t done anything to you!” I complain.
“That’s not the point, Izzy. Your color is the color of the oppressor.”
“I don’t get it Michael. I’m not even a white Anglo Saxon, I’m Jewish and as far as I know there were no Jewish slave owners.”
“There’s where you’re wrong, my man. There were in fact several Jewish slave owners in the South. And Jew or not, they had all of the prerogatives of any other white southern slave owner. You check the history and you’ll see I’m right about this.”
I try to cover my shock and disbelief at what Michael is saying. “I have to get to my English class,” I say as neutrally as I can. “It was great meeting you, Michael, and I hope we meet again soon. I think you have much you can teach me.”
“I look forward to it, Izzy. I look forward to it very much,” he answers with a big grin.
As I walk toward Douglas Hall I feel as if I have just swallowed a hunk of hard bread. My stomach is unsettled; I have pains in my chest. My thoughts are racing-- sure signs of the heebie-jeebies, but this time laden with melancholy. Jewish slave owners? Negroes who view whites in the same stereotypic fashion as whites view Negroes? These views are as difficult to swallow as the aforementioned bread. In the past, I was afraid that black teenagers wanted to kick my ass. Now I’m hearing that there is a long history of reasons why they might want to. Michael’s words keep reverberating in my mind. “You are the color of the oppressor!” True enough! But I personally didn’t do anything to Negroes. Am I still guilty? If so, of what? Are all whites to be thought of as guilty? How is this different than thinking of all black people as criminally inclined just because one black person commits a crime? The logic escapes me. Yet this is the logic that I had heard all my life from people who share my color.
The Upper Quadrangle gleams in the sunlight. The day is one of the jewels that Washington, D.C. occasionally gets in early November. The Indian summer sun is bright and gently warming. I stop by the “Dial,” the Sundial which stands in the epicenter of the Upper Quad. A stone backless bench is nearby and I sit there for a few minutes hoping that the warming sun will bring me some tranquility. Within moments a student about my age asks if he could sit for a moment. I cordially invite him to do so. He is a little taller than I and just as slim. He’s quite dark and his hair is combed high off his forehead in a kind of Pompadour. Since my quest for solitary tranquility is eliminated by his presence, I turn on my affability button and cheerfully introduce myself. “My name is Izzy White. What’s yours?”
“I’m Rick Frazier, but my friends call me Bee Bop cause I like Jazz so much.”
“What kind of Jazz?”
“I dig Miles Davis right now. That man blows a cool trumpet. How about you? Ya dig Jazz?”
“Don’t know much about it,” I answer.
Bee Bop begins
to wax enthusiastic. “Man, you’ve got to hear his new platter; called ‘Kind of Blue’. This is the best jazz album yet. Davis’s talent is bodacious and he’s got some of the best Jazz musicians who ever lived joining him –Cannonball Adderley and ‘The Train on sax; Bill Evans on piano, Paul Chambers on bass, and Jimmy Cobb on drums.”
“I never heard of any of these guys. Who or what is ‘The Train?” I asked. Bee Bop is blown away. “You don’t know who the Train is? You never heard of John Coltrane, the most creative saxophone player ever?”
“Sorry. I’m much more into Rock ‘n Roll, Rhythm & Blues, and Doo Wop.”
Bee Bop’s voice suddenly takes on an ingratiating tone. “Oh yeah, that stuff is pretty cool, but it lacks the intellectual heft of jazz. I sure hope someday you’ll listen to some jazz. If you do, you’ll see the connections between Rhythm & Blues and Jazz.”
“By the way, Bee Bop, where’re you from?”
“My people are from Gastonia, North Carolina, outside of Charlotte. But we moved up to D.C. when I was a baby. We ended up in the Barry Farm projects in Southeast, you know, near St. Elizabeth’s Hospital. It was a real hellhole, all kinds of violence and shit like that. I’m lucky to be here. So many of my friends are either dead or in prison. Early on, though, I could see the dead-end street my friends were on, and I promised myself that I was not gonna end up like them. I caught a lot of shit because I studied. My friends accused me of acting white because I got good grades, particularly at Anacostia High School. I lost some friends but kept my life. But there were some good times.” He adds wistfully. “ How ‘bout you, Izzy, where’re you from?”
“I was born in D.C. and grew up in the northwest part of the city. We lived a mile south of Walter Reed Hospital and not far from Silver Spring, Maryland.”
“Never heard of those places,” Bee Bop says somewhat dejectedly.
“I went to Coolidge High School,” I add. Right after graduation we moved to Langley Park.
“Oh, Coolidge,” Bee Bop said excitedly, “I know Coolidge. We used to beat the stuffing out of Coolidge in football.”
“You guys had a good basketball team too. If we hadn’t lost to McKinley Tech in the playoffs, we might have played Anacostia.”
“Did you play?” Bee Bop asked.
“Yeah, I did.” But before I start bragging on myself, I get up and say, “Listen, Man, I have to get to my English class. It’s been great talking with you Bee Bop and I hope to see you again.”
“Same here.” Bee Bop looks at me with a peculiar expression on his face and says,
“You know something, Izzy, this is the first time I’ve ever had a conversation with a white boy as an equal.” Bee Bop Frazier turns and walks away without looking back. My jaw drops and remains that way as I watch him head toward the “Valley”. This simple conversation, man-to-man on an equal footing between a Black man and a white man has been forbidden for much of the country’s history. A heavy sadness overtakes me, then molten rage at the unending hypocrisy of the American Creed: All Men are Created Equal, my ass! The more accurate reading is If You’re White, You’re Alright!
My mind is reeling with a kaleidoscope of images of the people I’ve met today. The arrogance of Winston MacKenzie contrasted sharply with the humble, but enthusiastic Bee Bop. Because of my skin color, the former gives me a heaping dose of condescension while the latter shows me an equal dose of deference. My partial namesake, Michael White, warns me of a perilous future for race relations, while my chemistry tablemate, Courtney Cartwright jokes about my acid-driven color change. And I freak out that his generous offer of a doughnut might turn his joke into reality. How different these fellow students are and how- like me- obsessed they are with their own idiosyncratic perspective on race and color.
Several weeks later, these thoughts continue to buzz inside my head like bees around a hive as I enter my English class in Douglass Hall. The class is presided over by the very distinguished Dr. James Lavelle. He is about my height, tan colored and balding. He has marble black eyes that always possess an expression of dramatic expectation. He is almost pretty with a thin straight nose and a pencil thin mustache. He is quirky, funny, and sophisticated, and he is an intellectual snob. He clearly believes his mission is to turn us all into intellectual snobs. “The New York Times is the only newspaper worth reading,” he always says. “All of you should be reading the Saturday Review and at least two books of fiction a week,” he adds. “You’re college students now and you need to kick it up a notch with your reading. Now, I realize that many of you are still stuck on comic books, tabloids, and those literary jewels—God help me--Jet and Ebony. But ladies and gentlemen, you need to raise your vision. With your noses stuck in such magazines, you are unable to see the light. Come out of that self-imposed cave filled with the baubles of the Black Bourgeoisie. They are fool’s gold that appears to shine with the alleged improvements of the Negro Race. There is so much of true value out in the world beyond the ghettoes of your minds. It is all there for you to learn and to treasure.” With his oratory completed, he looks around the room, and mentally takes attendance.
I sit in my usual seat and fumble through my notes. We have been covering the speech-giving section of the course for the last two weeks, and today is my turn to give a speech before the class. “Ah, there you are Mr. White,” Dr. Lavelle says with a little laugh and a look I cannot fathom. “Mr. White,” he continues. “I believe it is your turn to give a speech. What is the title?” he asks. “The Brotherhood of Man,” I reply. Dr. Lavelle rolls his eyes. I can’t fathom the eye rolling either. By last night, I finally arrive at a comfortable place with my speech and its many oratorical flourishes that I either purloined from the likes of Thomas Jefferson or that are paraphrases of several heartwarming American platitudes. It sings of brotherhood, waxes poetic over equality, and prophesies that equal justice under the law is just around the corner. Now in light of my encounters today with Courtney, Winston, Michael, and BeeBop, I feel very differently about my speech. It seems naïve and childishly idealistic. But I have to give it as is.
I stand there looking at a class of black students; because in this class, I am the only white person enrolled. I normally come down with the heebie-jeebies whenever I have to give a speech before a group of people. But now I, who possess the “color of the oppressor”, am going to talk about how we are all created equal to a group composed entirely of students who are the color of the oppressed. My heebie-jeebies advances to panicky paranoia. I’m terrified that I will unintentionally offend Dr. Lavelle or my classmates without having a clue as to what is considered offensive. My terror changes the whole tone of my speech. The words are as I had written them, but my sonorous encomium to brotherly love comes out as one muffled, maudlin Mea Culpa. My words are fired by hope and confidence in a changing world. My tone seems to beg forgiveness from every Negro in America. When it is over, I look imploringly at Dr. Lavelle, hoping that in his hearing there are at least a few redeeming morsels in my speech. “Mr. White,” he finally says after looking at me for an uncomfortable length of time. “Your speech would have been infinitely more interesting had you taken the opposite point of view.”
My head reels with confusion. I can’t believe what he said- the opposite point of view? What is he saying? Did he want me to stand up in front of an entire class of Negroes and defend white supremacy? Did he want me to deny that these terrible things had happened to Black people? Maybe he’s being subtle, speaking on some rarefied level of intellectual discourse that soars over my head. All I know is that I’m missing something.
I carry my confusion with me to The Student Union in Miner Hall. I am about to sit down when I notice a lively card game that is taking place nearby. There are four players each with a stash of bills on the table. Several other students are standing around watching the game. I ask a fellow standing next to me, “What are they playing?”
“It’s dealer’s choice,” he says. “By the way, my name is Rayford Dixon.”
“And I’m Izzy White. You seem like a student of the game here.”
“Not really. I’m just watching my good friend Archibald Green. He’s a card shark without peer. In fact, I don’t think he ever goes to class, because he seems to be in here playing cards all the time. I watch the game for about a half hour and Archie Green wins every hand. The other players have had enough and the game ends for lack of “marks”. Ray introduces me to Archie and the two of them invite me for coffee. Ray is tall and thin, while Archie is about my height, but with a parabola-shaped belly. It’s clear that their primary interest is in finding out why a white boy is attending Howard. Their curiosity requires me to repeat the Q&A session that I have now engaged in many times during my short tenure at Howard. Such repetition compels me to mess with their minds a little bit. “How do you know I’m white?” I ask. Their eyes are wide with incredulity. “Well, you look white to me,” says Archie Green. “So does a third of the Howard student body,” I retort. “Amen to that,” Ray says laughing. After they complete their Q&A, I start one of my own. I want to know if they think that a change is coming in race relations and if so what kind of change. Archie responds first. “ Nah, man, it’s gonna be the same shit forever. The white man has too many guns, bodies, and too much money for us poor niggers to fight for our rights. White people are so sick in the head about race and skin color I don’t see no chance of things changing for the better.”