by Barry Wolfe
“So when NAG harangues the bureaucracy for student rights or even worse organizes the students to challenge the racial status quo, the Administration starts shaking in their boots and becomes dictatorial.”
“You got it now, Izzy. You know, you ain’t as dumb as you look,” Miles says, grinning from ear to ear.
“Do you think they can really make a difference, Miles? “
“Well, I have my doubts, but those cats who sat in at Woolworths in North Carolina have sure made a lot of noise and seemed to have started something big.” I look at the big grinning brown man sitting beside me who hails from a world so different than mine, and I marvel at how comfortable I feel with him. How easy it is to talk with him. Inside our private universe of his green Impala, we’re just two human beings enjoying each other’s company. Color, race, and all of the other social distinctions that human beings have created to separate us from one another, and to deny us the possibility of emotional connection and intimate friendship, are nowhere to be found inside our moving green world. I feel safe, cared for, and respected, and I instinctively reciprocate the same gifts. Miles is becoming a beloved mentor.
As the light turns yellow at New Hampshire Avenue and North Capital Street, Miles hits the gas in order to make the light. As he crosses North Capital, a 1956 blue and white Ford Fairlane comes speeding up North Capital and clips Miles’ Impala. His grin transmogrifies into the look of a wounded angry animal. He lets out a loud stream of obscenities and then begins the hard work of calming himself down with a series of slow, deep breaths. Miles gets out of his car with the intension of exchanging insurance information. The driver of the Ford Fairlane gets out of his car, but has malice written all over his face. He is white and almost the same size as Miles. “Where did you learn to drive ya big dumb nigger?” Miles’s eyes bug out, his face becomes crimson with rage. “You honkey asshole, I’m gonna teach you some respect.” The two men grab each other and start to wrestle. Their combat is abruptly interrupted by the wail of a nearby police siren. The police car screeches to a stop and two officers jump out in a flash. They separate the two combatants and ask what happened. The white man answers in a voice laced with offended pride, “This black ape caused the accident.” Miles, who knows from years of confrontations with white policemen that it is necessary to calm down and present his case in a polite, mild-mannered way, gathers his composure and calmly says to the officers, “This gentleman is lying.” The Ford driver looks at the police officers and asks with incredulity in his voice, “Who’re you gonna believe, this jungle bunny here or me, a white man?” The police officers look at each other. One nods to the other to go to their car so that they can discuss the matter privately. After a few whispered interchanges, the two policemen return to the combatants. The older looking policeman says, “We are giving you both a ticket for reckless driving.” Miles is enraged but uses every fiber of his being not to say a word to the policemen. The Ford driver screams in protest. The policemen seem to be upset by the scowl on Miles’s face, but since Miles remains quiet, they do nothing more than hand him the ticket. Despite the Ford driver’s invective toward the policemen, they hand him his ticket and quietly caution him to calm down. Miles coldly looks at the three white men and says nothing. He looks at the ticket, then back at the white men; and after a long moment turns and gets back into his car. He can’t even look at me, and I can see his eyes welling up with tears of humiliation. Miles is silent the rest of the drive. As we approach the District Line at Eastern Avenue, Miles slows his car to a halt. He continues to look straight ahead, still seething with rage, his face set in a rigid scowl. Without looking at me, Miles says in a low, stony monotone, “You best get out of the car now, Izzy. I can’t bear looking at your white face right now.” This hurts me deeply. “Yes, I’m white but I’m not Anglo Saxon,” I protest. “I thought you said Anglo Saxons were the problem?”
“Izzy,” Miles says sharply, “Right now, I can’t tell the difference. Now get your damn self out of the car!” The curtain of race and color has once again come down between Miles and me. And what about that feeling I had of safety, comfort and ease? Gone like a cool breeze.
Chapter
10.
Just Two Kinds of People in the World
I catapult myself from Miles’ car and walk in a fog of fury to the corner of New Hampshire and Eastern Avenues. I listlessly stick out my thumb in search of a ride, but it’s difficult for me to concentrate. The painful irony is almost unbearable. Someone I thought was a friend is rejecting me because of the color of my skin. I go numb. I’m confused. My experience at Howard thus far has convinced me that there really are two kinds of people—the tolerant and the bigoted. My logic has convinced me that people who are bigotry’s victims would understand its pain and would avoid it like a plague. Yet here is this black man who I thought was my friend rejecting me; not for any crime I have committed against him but because of guilt by association. The great stain of racial animus that has been transmitted—much like a genetic mutation—from generation to generation to the brains of light and dark people in the U.S. for over 300 years has separated Miles from me. This is the last ride I ever took with Miles.
I stay in my room the rest of the day and evening foregoing dinner and the balm of human friendship. Instead I mope and ruminate. In one short academic year at Howard I have made and lost what I thought were two great friends, Desirie and Miles. I reached across the racial barrier and thought I had found a great love and an inspiring mentor. Both have rejected me because I’m white. What a mistake I’ve made by choosing to go to Howard. What idealistic folly. What makes me think I can change the world? My father’s words come crashing down on my head once more. “You can’t change the world. Nobody gives a shit about you except your family!” I hate to admit it to myself, but I’m beginning to think that he might be right.
When my freshman year comes to an end in early June, I think I will soon be free of all the pain inflicted on me by my association with Howard —the rejection by would-be lovers and friends, the racist horseshit I had to endure on a daily basis from my vehicular benefactors who transported me to the urban black world of Howard and back to the white world of suburbia; the sarcastic putdowns from my white biology professor as he watched me sprint to his class, invariably late because of the temporal vicissitudes of hitchhiking. But that is not to be. One more blow comes to me when I receive a letter from the University. The letter informs me that my cumulative grade-point-average for my freshman year is 2.97. Because I have failed to reach the minimum GPA necessary of 3.0, my academic scholarship has been cancelled. Cancelled!! What are they talking about? I have to read the letter three times before its gist penetrates my brain. Because I was .03 points under the required GPA, I no longer have the money to support my college education. Is there no wiggle room? I can’t believe it. I keep putting the letter down on our dining room table and picking it up again to reread it. I’m overtaken by a massive wave of panic, the likes of which I hadn’t experienced since I was five years old. At that time, for some reason, the truth of my mortality came crashing down on my head. I was going to die someday. The world would go on for thousands of years—without me. Unacceptable! Electric shocks of fear ran up and down my spine, I had severe stomach pains and I became light-headed. I ran to the toilet and sat, dazed and dizzy in hopes that I could evacuate this terrifying idea. As it did then, the fear runs its dizzy-making course, not because I was mortal, although I felt like dying, but because I had foolishly squandered the means for my affording an education. My friends try to console me, but it is like talking to a zombie. For most of the month of June, I walk around glassy-eyed, jobless, broke and broken.
I know I need a job, but have no idea how or where to look except for a position with one of the many D.C. playgrounds. I had enjoyed my two previous stints as a staff member at Rudolph and Takoma Playgrounds. So when I learn that a summer position unexpectedly is open as Assistant Director of the Shepherd Park Playground, I submit m
y one and only job application. When I worked at the Takoma Playground the summer before, I had a boss who was more philosopher than manager. Every day he treated me to one of his endless pearls of wisdom. One day we were sitting together and waiting for the mad crush of kids that would arrive around 10 am. With a grave look on his face, he said, “Izzy, I want to share with you a remarkable life lesson. There is no greater joy under heaven than taking a good crap.” With such a philosopher to guide me, why do I need to go to college?
My life begins to turn around on Thursday, June 30th. The mail comes early that day and I receive a letter from the DC Recreation Department informing me that I have been hired to work at Shepherd Park. Then Peter calls. He has had enough of my moping and orders me to go with James, Bobby, and him to Glen Echo. After the myriad of suggestions that the three of them keep making to try and raise my spirits, Glen Echo catches my fancy. Memories of many fun times there have broken through the dam of my sadness and flooded my mind. I remember the roller coaster, The Whip, the Dodge M Cars, the Crystal Pool, and the Fun house with the mechanical wooden fat lady whose nonstop infectious laughter whips and stirs my enthusiasm. James has agreed to drive if we all chip in money for gas. En route, Bobby proposes that we all go to Atlantic City in August. He promises that even James and I would score with the chicks on the Boardwalk. As my mood lifts, the colors of the world return. I take these felicitous events to be an omen that my life is about to change again—this time for the better.
As we approach the entrance to Glen Echo’s parking lot, we see a streetcar on MacArthur Boulevard stop and let people off. It seems exceedingly odd for this urban means of transport to appear in this more sylvan setting. As we pull into the graveled entrance, we notice a picket line on the grass. I immediately recognize Winston McKenzie, Bob Kinnard, and Phil Workman, all from NAG. Then I remember the plan to picket Glen Echo that the three of them had talked to me about. I completely forgot that the place is segregated. Phil is the first to recognize me. “Hey, there’s Izzy. Hey Izzy,” he yells, “What are you doing going into that place? Don’t you know it’s segregated?” His face is framed in disapproval. James slows the car, but does not stop. Before I can respond, we are rolling down the graveled hill into the main section of the parking lot. “I have to join them,” I told the group. “Join what?” Peter asks annoyed. “The picket line, “ I answer, “I have to join that picket line. “
“Aw for Christ’s sake,” Peter whines. “Look, we came here to have fun not to fight for Negro rights.”
“Come on, Peter, you know it ain’t right.”
“What’s so wrong with it. Colored people have their places to go and white people have our places,” Peter opines as if it were common sense.
“You know, gentiles said the same thing about Jews, and they used the same logic to justify restricted covenants to keep us out of their fancy neighborhoods like Spring Valley and exclude us from the Chesapeake Bay Beaches like Beverly Beach and many top-rated universities like Harvard.” Peter just grumbles. “Well, I don’t want to get in no fucking picket line; not with a bunch of coons.” I frown at Peter and though I hate leaving him, I say, “Well, I’m going. James? Bobby? Are you with me?” Bobby looks at Peter then back at me, and smiles. “Cool. Let’s do it!” James ponders the choice for a moment, then turns to Peter and says, “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true.” Peter shakes his head and says, “I’m going in with or without you guys. James turns to me and sings, “It was a brown-eyed handsome man that won the game, a brown-eyed handsome man.” With that, the three of us begin walking back up the hill to the entrance to the park. I look over my shoulder to see Peter standing there with a look of pained horror and disbelief plastered on his face. He is mouthing some obscenity that none of us can hear.
When we get to the top of the hill, Phil Workman comes out of the picket line to welcome us. I introduce Phil to James and Bobby. They both are surprised to see that Phil is white. “Welcome to a NAG picket line, boys,” Phil almost sings with enthusiasm. “I assume that you will join us in our righteous cause?” The three of us look at the band of about 15 picketers marching in an elliptical pattern with signs held aloft bearing a variety of declarative captions: “STOP! Glen Echo is segregated” “Freedom and Justice For All” “Discrimination is Not For Our Generation”. “Jim Crow Must Go”. Much to our surprise, we discover that there are a number of whites in the line besides Phil. While we try to make peace with our fear and awkwardness, Phil keeps talking. “You know we’re gonna be successful. We already scored a victory in Arlington earlier this month. We picketed segregated lunch counters; and after 10 days, the owners agreed to let Negroes eat at the counter. Lunch counters in Alexandria and Fairfax have taken their cue from Arlington. What d’ya say boys?” We look at one another and solemnly nod. We’re each handed a sign. Mine says, “Glen Echo Should Echo Democracy”. I love the play on words. As we enter the line, Phil gives us a cautionary spiel, “By the way, you should know something from the get-go. We all could get arrested. We’re trespassing on private property.” Cold fear shoots through me. I have to struggle to hold on to my sign. I finally get a handle on the task and am soon marching proudly and displaying my sign as if I’m showing heaven my sign of honor. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peter watching us. None of us noticed that he trailed behind us all the way up the hill. He seems lonely and curious. Phil has noticed him too and once again leaves the line to invite a newcomer. Peter walks toward the line with Phil as an escort. Peter’s expression and the leaden way he now walks toward us suggest a man en route to his own execution. He looks very uncomfortable, but it’s also clear that he does not want to be left out. Bobby and James laugh at him. I’m proud of him. Soon the four would-be revelers are engaged in the serious business of protesting a social evil. I realize that I’m proud of me.
As we continue our oblong march, I notice the wide diversity of people in the picket line. The majority are Negro college students from Howard. But there is a white woman with her baby in a stroller, a Catholic priest, a Protestant cleric, and a rabbi (no joke). At least three other picketers are Jewish men and women from the very well-to-do Bannockburn section of Bethesda. I feel a twinge of shame about my prior thoughts concerning the prejudices that Jews hold toward Negroes. These people prove that McKenzie, Kinnard, and Workman had been correct. Many Jews are supportive of integration and back their beliefs with action.
We have been marching for about 15 minutes when a blue souped-up 1955 Mercury slows down to gawk at us. The faces that we can see in the car collectively form a tableau of menace. In unison, the car’s occupants throw beer cans at us, and scream out, “Die, Nigger-lovers.” We are an agile group and no beer can makes contact with human flesh. We are most worried about the baby in the stroller and many of us make solicitous noises to the mother. Peter is angry, embarrassed and conflicted. He doesn’t know whether to be upset with the vehicular racists or the people in the picket line. I feel a pure and purifying anger. They’re-the bigots- and we are the good guys. We are righteous, and they are ignoramuses indulging their irrational hatred. I can’t remember when I have felt so virtuous. This is the only incident during our time in the line, but I take it to be my baptism of fire. I now pronounce myself an active member of the Civil Rights Struggle.
All the way home, I pontificate to the Three Miscreants about the importance of our participation in today’s picket line. Peter continues to fume. Initially, he’s enraged at the punks in the Mercury. But on the drive home, he castigates all of us for abandoning him. The trip to Glen Echo provides Peter with more evidence for his deep-seated conviction that we really don’t care about him. I accuse Peter of feeling sorry for himself and of missing the true importance of our participation in the picket line. He accuses me of being a know-it-all and complains that my going to Howard has changed me for the worse. We argue all the way home while Bobby and James look at us in turn as if they are watching a tennis match. They have huge grins on their faces, and they n
od to one another their wordless message, “There they go again.
By August I begin to heal and make my peace with the loss of my academic scholarship. My hope hangs precariously on the lifeline thrown to me by the Head of the Psychology Department. Dr. Meenes told me that if I bring my grades up during my third semester so that my cumulative grade-point-average reaches the critical 3.0 mark, my scholarship would be reinstated for the rest of my undergraduate career. This is enough to free my mind, at least until school starts in a month. And it allows me to feel a little bit of joy about our upcoming vacation in Atlantic City. The Three Miscreants and I leave on a cloud stricken August Monday, our mood as gray as the weather. Peter is the first to complain. “I’ve been waiting for this day to come for weeks and the fucking weatherman says rain in Atlantic City for the next three days. How am I gonna get my tan?”