Izzy White?

by Barry Wolfe

  “So you don’t think students at Howard should get involved in destroying segregation?”

  “A waste of time, man, a fucking waste of time.” Archie says this with a vigorous shake of the head. “The only thing liable to get destroyed is a group of sorry, addle pated niggers.” Hoping for a different more hopeful answer, I ask Ray if he agrees with Archie. “Shit, yeah, man. Us Black folks have never had the power to change our miserable fate. It’s not so much integration and respect we need. It’s power. If we had the power to shape our own fate, we would command respect. But it’s difficult to create power when you are one tenth of a population that hates your guts. We need to work with white allies and they are few and far between. The only allies Blacks have usually had are Jews and Socialists. So I figure that you are one or the other….or maybe both. Which are you, White?”

  “Well, I’m Jewish, but I’m just learning how bad things are between whites and Negroes. I don’t know if I’m an ally yet, but I certainly hate the ugly things I’m learning that people of my color have done to people of yours.” At this point, Archie jumps in. “Then let me school you, White. The only task we are allowed to perform is to figure out how a Negro survives in a racist culture. One thing I’ve learned is not to try and succeed in a white man’s world. Even if you are lucky enough to make some money or achieve some fame like Jackie Robinson, you’re still a nigger to each and every white man whether he’s trailer trash or the owner of General Electric. The well-to-do or famous Black man will still be harassed by the police, won’t be allowed to live in certain neighborhoods, eat at most restaurants, be denied room at most inns. It’s bullshit man and it really makes me sick with rage if I let it. So the Black man has to find any way he can to survive. If he wants to go back to Africa, that’s a way to survive. That’s not my way, but it’s an option. If he’s light enough and he wants to pass as white, that’s a way to survive. It’s not my way, but it is a way. If a Negro wants to become a well-to-do member of the Black Bourgeoisie, I don’t judge him. I know he’s doing what I’m trying to do—survive! If he has a chance to form an all- Black community that is run by Blacks and for Blacks like they did in Eatonville, Florida, that’s a way to survive, but it’s not my way. My way, White, is to become the most skilled card-playing Negro in the country and make a good living plying my trade. Now I plan to get a degree from Howard…eventually. Just in case things do change and the professional work I seek to do is finally accepted; and I’m paid a living wage; and I’m allowed to live where I want. But if that day never comes, I will survive by my card-playing wits and my ability to read the minds and emotions of my opponents.”

  “What about you, Ray? How do you plan to survive?

  “I wouldn’t mind becoming a member of the Black Bourgeoisie. If I can’t have power, then I want money. And I want my picture in Jet and Ebony.” This produced a group cackle. “And Izzy, what are you doing here? I scratch my head in the hope of stimulating some intelligent thought in my otherwise blank mind. But all I can come up with at the moment is, “I’m here to learn. The problem is the more I learn the more there is to learn. It all seems hilarious and depressing at the same time.”

  Chapter

  7.

  Desirie

  By early December of my freshman year, the golden days of Indian Summer have given way to the chilly drafts and dreary light of late fall. The change in the weather contributes to my growing disenchantment with having to hitchhike to school. In fact, I am sick to death of my daily hitchhiking hassle. Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I have an 8 am Natural Science class; and because of the unpredictability of my means of transport, I am out on New Hampshire Avenue by 7:10 am with my thumb in the air. It’s the same thing every day-- the drivers’ incredulous looks, the same racist banter, and the same sexual obsession. The driver could be male, female, old, young, rich, or poor. It doesn’t matter. The last question is always, depressingly, maddeningly the same, and always asked in a conspiratorial whisper: “Hey, have you ever been to bed with a black woman? What’s it like?” But the worst part of the ride is what comes after. I’m on the verge of being late for almost every class. I make a mad dash up Euclid Street, across Georgia Avenue, up Howard place, past the Rankin Chapel and down the stairs to the Valley. The last phase is a sprint on the diagonal to the Biology Building and up to the second floor. Virtually every day, my white professor, Dr. Anson Stillwell, is watching me out of the second floor window. And every day, he greets me with sarcasm. “Ah, Mr. White, I am so happy to see that you have your track shoes on today.” Or, to the class, “We must all emulate Mr. White’s commendable effort to improve his physical stamina.” Dr. Stillwell is a man in his early 50s. I refer to him –not to his face, of course—as “Dr. Sneerwell” because his face is irreversibly set in a condescending sneer. His blond hair is beginning to grey and is parted in the middle, as if we still lived in the first decade of the 20th century. He wears wire-thin glasses and possesses small pointy eyes. He is slightly taller than I, but his body resembles a loaf of barely kneaded dough. This collection of features leads me to view him as an anachronistic, arrogant alien.

  For the duration of my two-semester course in Natural Science I’m constantly late, and Dr. Stillwell just as constantly metes out the punishment of sarcasm. But this morality play possesses a unique ending. In the late spring our last class is a field trip to the Agricultural Center in Beltsville, Maryland. Upon our return, I know the bus will come within blocks of my apartment in Langley Park. Instead of returning all the way to Howard only to hitchhike my way back home, I have previously arranged with the bus driver to let me off when we are in walking distance to my home. When we approach the intersection of University Boulevard and Piney Branch Road, I signal the driver to let me off. As the bus is coming to a stop, Dr. Stillwell asks “Oh, Mr. White, do you live near here?” I answer, “Yes I do.” Pointing to the left, I continue, “I just shoot down Piney Branch Road all the way to New Hampshire Avenue, and I live right there at Suburban Hills Apartments.” Dr. Stillwell gives me a funny look. “You know, Mr. White, I live in the other direction on Piney Branch, just a few blocks up. You could have come to class with me in the morning,” he offers. The weight and pain of my having to bear his humiliating sarcasm day after day, class after class, almost overwhelms me. At that moment my rage destroys the power of speech, and I run out of the bus to keep from punching Dr. Stillwell in his snooty nose.

  In contrast to the Chemistry building that sits next to it, the Ernest Just Hall Biology Building is much newer and looks it. Constructed in 1956, the building is dedicated to Ernest Everett Just, a prominent marine biologist. It is bright, spacious, and comfortable. I take my accustomed seat on the end of the third row. I immediately begin to search the room for her. When I do not see her right away, I feel a sense of desperation. I keep scanning the room, but she is nowhere to be found. My mood switches from eager excitement to hopeless desolation. Until, that is, I hear a voice from behind me say, “Hi Izzy.” I turn around and there she is, Desirie Jackson, in the seat directly behind me displaying her sparkling smile.

  “Hi Desirie,” I utter in a barely audible voice. “What brings you here?” I stupidly ask. In mock anger, she scolds, “Now, Izzy White, you darn well know why I’m here. The same reason you are. We both have to take this course. What kind of question is that?” Her smile now is turned up several degrees of brightness and that only increases my mortification. I keep my eyes on her perhaps a little too long and she gives me a quizzical glance. I quickly look away and turn myself around to face the professor. Instead of taking notes, I am writing her name in my notebook over and over. It’s difficult to pay attention to “Dr. Sneerwell” because my mind is captivated by images of Desiree. Today, she wears her hair in a French twist, which makes me think that she is way more sophisticated than I. Her creamy chocolate complexion, ebony eyes, and thin nose give rise to lust, longing, and finally to the heebie-jeebies. I am smitten and terrified of feeling smitten.


  Besides the fact that Desirie’s presence is sending my physiology into orbit, there is another reason why it’s difficult to listen to Dr. Sneerwell. He is going on and on about the Krebs Cycle, the complicated set of cyclical chemical reactions by which food is converted into energy. His monochromatic delivery, however, is converting my energy into a state of leaden sleepiness. I try to wake myself up by stealing a quick glance at Desirie. My head is snapping back and forth between quick glances at Desirie and speedy attempts at presenting the illusion of paying rapt attention to what Dr. Sneerwell was saying. The manikin-like movements of my head make Desirie giggle. I don’t know whether to feel pleased or embarrassed. I go with the former. I’m so taken with the musicality of her laugh that I turn my robotic head movements into a little chair dance. My head moves to a syncopated beat while my shoulders shiver. This brings more soul warming laughter from Desirie. And just as I’m really feeling the groove, I hear… “Mr. White!” It is Dr. Sneerwell in his most pompous voice. “I would have thought that given your diligent and speedy efforts to make it to class on time that you would be motivated to pay attention to the course lectures. Instead, I find you performing a parody of Fred Astaire in a chair. Now would you be so kind as to pay attention to—and absorb-- my pearls of wisdom?”

  Well, fuck him, I think as I make myself as small as possible in my seat. Why is he picking on me, I wonder? Is it because we are both white and it’s easier for him to chastise me than anybody else in the class? Is he afraid to say something harsh to any of the black students? All I know is that I seem to be on the receiving end of all of his bricks. And I don’t like it.

  The time remaining in Dr. Stillwell’s class moves with all the alacrity of an unhurried snail, which I conclude is apt punishment for my classroom misdemeanors. When class finally ends, it just so happens that Desirie and I leave the classroom at exactly the same time. Despite my fear, I take the opportunity to ask her where her next class is. She says she’s heading for her English class in Douglass Hall. Since I’m heading there too for Analytical Geometry, I ask if I can walk along with her. “Sure, Izzy,” she replies with surprising exuberance. We walk together toward the steps leading up to the Yard. She is wearing a beautiful maroon colored coat, which has large black buttons and a broad collar that is pulled down. As we approach the steps, the wind begins to kick up. She pulls up her collar, which now completely covers her tiny clam-shaped ears. I want desperately to say something clever or witty or at least insightful. But all I can muster is, “So how do you think Howard compares with Coolidge? I mean we’re in college now. Does it seem very different from high school?” She looks puzzled. Then she smiles. “Izzy White! That is the worst pick up line I have ever heard.” I’m shocked by her bluntness. But rather than admitting that my stupid question was a bizarrely poor effort at flirtation, I deny it.

  “No no,” I protested. “I really want to know what you think.”

  “You’re not very good at this are you?” she responds.

  “No, as a matter of fact, I stink at it,” I finally confess. She looks at me and I feel penetrated to the core. “Have you ever come on to a black woman before?” She asks softly.

  “No, but I think of myself as an equal opportunity blunderer. I’m likely to strike out with girls of all races, religions, and nationalities.” Desirie laughs heartily. As I watch her laughing, I feel a great craving—lust, if you will—for her company. I love being in her presence, listening to her laugh, anxiously awaiting the next surprising thing she will say to me.

  When she finally stops laughing, she says with a serious look, “Well, you’re the first white boy to come on to me.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” I opine. At this she becomes wide-eyed. “Izzy,” she exclaims, “DC is still a segregated city. Even though I transferred from Roosevelt to Coolidge in my junior year, there wasn’t a lot of social mixing between the races during my two years there.”

  “Things will get better.”

  “Bullshit,” she says louder than she wants. She immediately claps her hand across her mouth and squeals with laughter. I have the same wide-eyed expression, and I too laugh at her unexpected critique. We enter Douglass Hall and I walk her to her English class. “This is my prison cell.” she says, “Where’s yours?”

  “In the room just above you,” I answer. As we say our goodbyes, I am seized with a sense of urgency and hurriedly ask her, “Desirie, can we meet after class for lunch or coffee?” She looks at me as if she were trying to discern my motives or perhaps her own. “OK, Izzy,” she says hesitantly, “If you like.”

  Desirie is not available for lunch so we plan to meet for coffee after our classes. I show up at the Student Union ten minutes early for our 3:30 meeting. I’m so nervous that my stomach is giving a live concert before a sparse crowd in the Union. This kind of nervousness is painfully familiar. I feel this way whenever I’m going on a date with a girl that I like. The fact that she is black adds a new dimension to my worrying. What will people think? I anxiously scan the union to see if I can pick up any clues from the people sitting at the various tables. Only six tables are currently occupied. At three of these tables I see black couples who are into one another and oblivious to everyone else. At another table are two black men engaged in animated conversation punctuated by loud laughter. They are “playing the dozens”.

  First Man: “Hey, look-a-here.”

  Second Man: “What’s that boy?”

  First Man: “You’ve got some nerve callin’ people ugly; why you so ugly the hospital you was born at oughta be closed for repairs.” (cackle, guffaw, chortle).

  Second Man: “That’s alright; after yo mama gave birth to you, she had to be quarantined.” (cackle, guffaw, chortle).

  I didn’t know what “playing the dozens” was until Miles told me on one of my frequent rides with him from Howard to the District line. He informed me, much to my utter astonishment and horror, that the term the dozens referred originally to the slave trade in New Orleans where deformed slaves were sold in lots of a cheap dozen. To be sold in such a manner was considered to be the lowest form of degradation. Playing the dozens though refers to a competition in trash talking where the object is to humiliate your opponent until he can no longer respond with a clever retort.

  At still another table, there are several individuals clothed in traditional African garb joyously conversing in their native Swahili. The musicality of their language captivates me. I am so lost in the percussive sweetness of this African colloquy, that I do not hear Desirie trying to explain her late arrival. “Izzy, are you listening to me? I am so upset.” Her distress yanks my attention away from the Swahili concert as if it were a hooked cane. She holds her face in her hands while continuing to stand over me. “What happened, Desirie?” I ask as I motion for her to sit down. “Professor Davis gave me a B- on my midterm exam,” she says as she dissolves into tears. I don’t know quite how to respond. I want to be empathic, but I’m expecting a more consequential calamity like losing her purse or that she was mugged on her way from class. “Gee I’m sorry, Desirie,” I reply unconvincingly. She gives me an angry frown, but quickly shifts her expression to a sheepish smile. “I am sorry, Izzy. I don’t mean to act like a hysterical female, but I really expected an ‘A’.” She sits down, removes her coat and again begins to cry. “My father’s going to kill me,” she says shaking her head.

  “Just because you got a B-?” I ask in disbelief.

  “You don’t understand, Izzy. My father demands nothing but ‘As’.”

  “What does your father do?” I ask annoyed by such perfectionism.

  “He’s a lawyer, but he works in the Department of Justice,” she answers with a mixture of pride and fear in her voice. Desirie seems to be distracted. She keeps looking around the student union. I wondered if she is doing what I had been—seeing who might be seeing us together.

  “Are you looking for someone?” I ask, still annoyed, but now at her.

  Still scanning the roo
m she replies, “No, no one in particular.” A moment later our attention is abruptly drawn to the beautiful doo-wop sounds emanating from the male students who had just been playing the dozens. They have been joined by a third student, and the three of them begin to sing a very good version of "For Your Precious Love", the first--and in my mind-- best song ever recorded by Jerry Butler and the Impressions. Their harmony is so tight and thrilling that I can’t believe they’re not in an echo chamber. Desirie looks over at me. Her face is now wide with astonished amusement. “Why Izzy, you’re blushing.” Her voice now filled with the harmony of teasing and laughter, she asks me, “Who you thinking of, Izzy? Who you been getting next to, Izzy?” Even though I turn a brighter shade of crimson with every mocking sound she makes, I can’t help being charmed by the phrase “Getting next to”. It speaks to me simultaneously of longed for closeness and wild sex. I desired both with Desirie. After a long pause, I said, “I don’t have a girlfriend, Desirie.”