Izzy White?

by Barry Wolfe

  On my way back from lunch, I stop at Waxie Maxie’s Quality Music store near 7th and U. I listen to For Your Precious Love by Jerry Butler and the Impressions and moon about Desirie. After listening to this beautiful song twice, I leave the record store in such a state of calm and good feeling that I am now ready to face the prospect of being cut from the team. As four o’ clock approaches, my fear returns. I dash across the Yard, past Greene Field to the Quonset hut that houses Howard’s inadequate gym. When I see that the list has been posted, my dash-induced rapid breathing turns into hyperventilating. Now that I rushed so fast to get to the list I’m afraid to look at it. I freeze some ten feet away immobilized by fear. I don’t want to know. I do want to know. I try talking to myself: Come on, Izzy, you need to know….

  At that moment, the old silly refrain roars inside my head, Is you is or is you ain’t? Is you is or is you ain’t? I remember how my father said this in his effort to mock Negroes’ use of grammar. Then I remembered how Joe Turner sang it in his hit, Lipstick, Powder, and Paint, with all the sass and fun he could muster. I start singing it aloud with a syncopated beat. Soon I’m dancing to my own music and singing over and over,

  Is you is or is you ain’t,

  Is you is or is you ain’t’

  Is you is or is you ain’t

  A member of the Howard B-ball team?

  Some of my fellow hopefuls have gathered and watch in amazement as I sing and dance my fear away. “Hey White! What’s happenin’ man?” one of them yells. I finally recognize that it is Jason Sharpe. “Does that poor excuse for dancing mean you made the cut?” he asks.

  “I don’t know? I haven’t looked at the list yet.”

  “You are one crazy cracker,” Jason says with a superior laugh.

  “If I’m so crazy, why don’t you look first?”

  “That’s alright, you were here first.” I laugh at his false bravado. The absurdity of our behavior finally registers and I inch toward the list. The names are arranged alphabetically. I see George Black’s name and Linc Haskins’, of course. Down the list I see Jason Sharpe’s name, but with mock sadness I look and point at him and slowly shake my head. He blanches for a second and then recognizes the impish smile that I’m trying to hide. “You dumb motherfucker!” he protests. I keep going slowly down the list…William Watson and there it is. Dead last on the list, Isadore White.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” I bellow and break into my dancing again.

  “I guess the white boy made the cut,” says Jason somewhat dejectedly.

  I laugh and announce, “I’ll spare you the trouble, Sharpe. You made the cut too. You made it too.”

  Chapter

  12.

  What Am I To Do?

  “It was the phone call! That’s why Kennedy won,” gleefully answers a very intellectual looking student in black horn rims. I’m in my Government class the day after the presidential election and Dr. Dorsey has just asked no one in particular why John Kennedy has just beaten Richard Nixon. The student ad-libs, “Black people matter. Black people now have power.” “Explain yourself, Mr. Jones!” Dr. Dorsey bellows as he paces back and forth in front of the class while making circular motions with his hand on his glaringly protruding stomach. Stanford Jones then launches into an appalling story of the routine injustice that takes place in the segregated South. His monologue is a dance—every part of him moves in a rhythmic sway.

  “Well, don’tcha know, Dr. Martin Luther King was arrested back in February in Atlanta for driving with just an Alabama license. Don’tcha know, he just moved from Montgomery to Atlan—“ “MR. JONES, “ Dr. Dorsey loudly interrupts, “Would you PLEASE stop beginning every sentence with ‘Don’tcha know.’ You sound like a corn pone Negro.” “Sorry Dr. Dorsey, “ Jones says sheepishly. “Anyway, Dr. King was just a few days past the 90-day deadline for getting a Georgia license. But this white cop was upset because Dr. King was driving with a white woman. Dr. King had to pay a $25 fine that the judge imposed on him, but he wasn’t told that he was on probation. So back in early October, Dr. King participated in a sit-in at Rich’s Department Store in Atlanta and was arrested. Now here’s how white people do. The judge drops the charges for trespassing but sentences him to four months in jail for violating the traffic-ticket probation. And, get this, he refuses to let King out on bail while the ruling is being appealed. Dr. King is shuffled off in the middle of the night to Reidsville State Penitentiary where a lot of niggers end up strangely dead.” To quell the groundswell of laughter, Dr. Dorsey intervenes with a stern “Mr. Jones, you are pushing the limit.”

  “Sorry again, Dr. Dorsey. Anyway, fearing the worst, Dr. King’s family and supporters tried to contact anyone they thought could help. They called both the Kennedy and Nixon campaigns. Nixon didn’t do diddly.” “Mr. Jones,” the rotund professor again interrupts, “Would you please render that sentence into proper English.”

  “Yes sir. Nixon did nothing. But Senator Kennedy made a personal call to Coretta

  King to offer his sympathy and promised to see what he could do. His brother Robert called the judge and asked why Dr. King did not receive bail on a misdemeanor charge. The judge relented, granted bail and Dr. King was released after being jailed for eight days. Now a lot of Black people weren’t too keen on Kennedy’s Catholicism, but after that phone call which led to Kennedy being endorsed by King’s father, Black people rallied around Kennedy. Kennedy got 68% of the Black vote.”

  “Well done, Mr. Jones,” Dr. Dorsey opines. Despite your ham-handedness with the English language, you gave a plausible rationale for your contention.”

  As it happens, we have been discussing the voting patterns of Negroes throughout American history and the revolutionary nature of Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s successful weaning of Negroes from their traditional preference for Republicans to an increasing affiliation with the Democratic Party. This trend continued into the election of 1960, which was quite an achievement since the Democrats were heavily influenced—if not dominated by—Southern racists committed to an ideology of white supremacy. Dr. Dorsey peers at us through wise and tired eyes and makes his usual demand with his usual feeling of dread. “Now please turn in your homework. “ Dr. Dorsey’s gaze transmogrifies into a stare of malevolent suspicion as he witnesses a lot of faux fumbling by the students in their bags and brief cases. “How many of you do not have your homework ready to hand in?” More than half the class slowly and tentatively raises their hands as if they are volunteering for a potentially lethal assignment. This is the final straw. After two months of admirable restraint, Dr. Dorsey loses it. His voice rises to a shriek. “YOU KNOW THE WHITE MAN BELIEVES YOU ARE INFERIOR. DO YOU KNOW WHY HE BELIEVES THIS?” Several students automatically shake their heads. Dr. Dorsey continues at the same ear-shattering level. “HE BELIEVES THIS BECAUSE YOU ARE INFERIOR. YOU ARE LAZY, UNCOMMITTED, INFERIOR STUDENTS, AND THE NEGRO RACE WILL NOT ADVANCE A JOT OR A TITTLE BEYOND ITS CURRENT SORRY STATE UNTIL YOU-- THE SUPPOSED CROP OF BLACK INTELLECTUAL TALENT-- GET SERIOUS!!!” As I look around the room at my humbled Black fellow classmates, I become so self-conscious about my white skin that I imagine myself to be an alabaster extraterrestrial. As Dr. Dorsey bellows I shrink into my chair trying to become as invisible as possible. The bell mercifully rings at this moment. As I gather my books together I think I see a few of my fellow classmates frowning at me as they leave the classroom, but it could be just my paranoia.

  We’re only three weeks away from our opening game and our practices have picked up in intensity. At times it’s like war out there—particularly between me and Jason Sharpe. We’re both competing for the second point guard position. It’s a stretch for both of us because we’re both shooting guards. The two of us work furiously on our skills in distributing the ball—mostly to Whee Willie or Linc--, improving our court vision, and mastering the art of penetrating the defense and dishing the ball to a player who comes open when the defense collapses on the penetrator. The competition is marked and to some degree marr
ed by the constant trash talking we heap on one another.

  “Come on, White boy, show me what you got,” taunts Jason when he’s covering me. He sticks so close to me, I think he’s Velcro. “Mr. Chocolate, here, is gonna show you how to play this game,” Jason continues. Just as I begin my patented fake to the right, he swiftly flashes an unseen hand in my direction and niftily jars the ball loose from my grasp. As he races down the court for an unchallenged layup, I hear him yell, “JUST LIKE IN HIGH SCHOOL.” He’s reminding me of the time that he stole the ball from me in the exact same way when Coolidge and Cardozo played one another two years before. I return the favor by pump-faking Jason up in the air who then lands on top of me with some extracurricular punches thrown in. Despite the abuse, I go up as he comes down and I make the shot. “A little white bread for Mr. Chocolate to spread himself on,” I taunt. He growls and then mumbles. I think I hear him say, “Fuck you, Honky,” but it could have been just my paranoia.

  Unfortunately, we take our trash talking into the locker room when practice ends. Jason continues with his oft-repeated refrain, “The only reason you made the team is because Coach wants a token whitey.”

  “Well, this token is sure scoring on you pretty easily.”

  “Yeah, you got lucky, but you can’t guard me either.”

  “Maybe I could guard you if you stopped knocking me outta the way to set up your shot. In a real game you would have fouled out in the first quarter.”

  “You white boys are such cry babies.”

  “You’re the one that’s crying about my skin color. How come you put everything I do on my race? I’m my own player. I got my own game. I don’t play white ball. I play Izzy ball.”

  Jason is momentarily speechless, but only for a moment. “Well it looks like white ball to me. And you’re white ain’t you?” At the very next practice, Jason pump-fakes me into the air just as I had done to him the day before. I land on top of his head fists first. He’s not amused. He gets right in my face and yells, “I’m gonna kick your mother-fucking white ass.”

  “I’m terrified,” I retort, my voice dripping with sarcasm. In fact I am terrified. I take a moment to have a private conversation with myself that goes as follows: “What are you saying? Are you nuts ? This guy ’ll pulverize my Caucasian behind.” In fact, Jason was about to punch me out when Whee Willie sees what’s happening and jumps into the fracas. “Will you two candy asses cut it out. We’ve got a game in a week and the two of you need to focus on learning this offense. Now get your heads out of your asses and into the game. Jason glares at me but says nothing more. I turn away and surreptitiously wipe away the cold sweat that has formed on my forehead. “Thank you, Whee Willie, thank you,” I mumble to myself. And then, much to my surprise, but probably because I hear it everyday on the Howard campus, I hear myself saying, Thank you Jesus!

  Farmland and more farmland! That’s all I see as the bus rambles toward the campus of Lincoln University in Southern Pennsylvania. I have gotten it into my head that a northern Black University that bears the name of our 16th President is located—like Howard University--in an urban area. As the bus pulls into the entrance of the university, it goes under a beautiful arch—two flag stone pillars holding up a gently curved grid in blue with orange lettering spelling out Lincoln University. The Alumni Arch, as it is called, is a memorial dedicated to the Lincoln men who served in World War I. A tree-lined drive takes us into the heart of the campus that opens to a mixture of modern red brick buildings and the older Gothic buildings situated on gently rolling hills.

  We unload at the gymnasium and make our way to the locker room. I’m shocked to see that their locker room is even older and gloomier than Howard’s. The grey lockers and faded blue and orange paint give the impression of a sports program past its prime as if the all too frequent losses have seeped into the walls. The Lincoln Lions have hardly roared for years, at least not in football or basketball. But then neither have the Howard Bisons bellowed. Overconfident we’re not. Since there’s only two hours to game time, the Coach is dubious about our eating anything and assumes we will play better anyway if we’re hungry. We dress in our away uniforms—white numbers on a field of deep blue. I proudly don my jersey with the number 11 on it. My number in high school was 12, which ironically was my per-game scoring average. I would be more than proud if my scoring average at Howard ever equals the number on my jersey. We’re in for a second shock when we enter the basketball court. The dilapidated locker room does not prepare us for the beautiful and spacious basketball arena in which we are about to play our first game of the season. It’s an attractive regulation size court with bleacher seats on either side that rise to the ceiling. A large number of people are fanning into these seats, and the Lincoln Cheerleaders are already engaged in their shaking and stomping cheers. The atmosphere is becoming electric and I’m surprised by how nervous I feel. I look over to the Lincoln lay up line. They are in their home whites with dark blue and orange numbers. I spot two 6’9” “trees” in the line easily dunking the ball, one after the other. I find that a bit intimidating because our center, Linc Haskins, is the only player we have who even approaches 6’9”. I see their sharp-shooting guard, Clyde Bell. He too is easily dunking the ball even though he’s just 6 ‘ tall. I imagine that I’m the only player on the court who can’t dunk the basketball. Welcome to college basketball. Whee Willie notices the “look-of-the-condemned” expression on my face and says to me, ”Aw White, they ain’t nothing; just a bunch of niggers who think they can play.” Most Black players I’ve seen who think they can play, can play, so I find Whee Willie’s words less than reassuring.

  We know we’re in trouble as soon as we begin to shoot around in our pre-game drills. To our Quonset Hut-trained eyes, the gargantuan appearance of a regulation-size court is disorienting. The baskets seem to have lids on them and appear to be miles away from our usual shooting spots. No one’s shot is going in. Our horrendous shooting during the warm-up carries over into the game itself. Lincoln takes a quick lead and never relinquishes it. Their two stars, Clyde Bell and Elton Henderson, do the bulk of the scoring. At halftime, Lincoln is leading 30 – 23. We make a run at them during the third quarter because of the sterling play of Whee Willie and Linc, but Lincoln begins to pull away during the fourth quarter. When the game is out of reach, Coach puts me in. I am petrified. The first time I touch the ball I immediately throw it to a Lincoln player. Moments later, I steal the ball and I race down the court as if I ‘m running for my life. I overrun the basket and miss the layup. After missing my first three shots, I finally make a 15- foot jump shot and later make one of two foul shots after one of their trees hammers me on my way to the basket. We lost 65 to 54. I sit by myself at the end of the bench for a few minutes caught between sadness and exhilaration. We lost, but I am now a college basketball player.

  The team goes south without me for the next three games. I’m terrified of taking off a whole week of classes, not with my trying to reclaim my academic scholarship. The coach is none too happy with me, but he tells me he understands. But I’m miserable that whole week because I badly want to play. The team goes one and two for the three games. They beat St Paul in Lawrenceville, Virginia, lose to Johnson C Smith in Charlotte, North Carolina, and lose again to Virginia State in Petersburg. When the team has its first practice after their return, I’m so excited to be playing with them again. I greet every teammate as if he’s my long lost brother. The next game is against Hampton Institute near Norfolk, Virginia. Since the game is on a Saturday and we return Sunday, I’m able to make the second trip south.

  We head for Hampton’s campus compliments of “Mr. Greyhound”. We stop at the Richmond Greyhound bus station for lunch; and for the first time in my young life, I’m faced with a moral dilemma that requires an immediate decision. Upon entering the bus station, I notice that it houses two separate dining rooms. “This is odd,” I think. Why would a company that supports an economy-based means of transportation have two dining rooms?
Then I see the signs. To the left is a fairly modern looking` dining room with a sign above its entrance that reads “Whites”. To the right is a more dilapidated looking dining room whose sign reads “Colored”. I have grown up with “white” and “colored” classified job ads, but, living in a completely white world, I never had to make a segregation-forced choice. I had only experienced segregation as the absence of Negroes-- in swimming pools, restaurants, and movie theaters.

  The twelve of us appear to be paralyzed as we stand together equidistant from either dining room. “What are we going to do?” asks Henry Gaines in a fear-distorted warble. For a couple of moments, we just stand there looking at one another. Linc finally announces, “I’m starving, and I need some good food. Come with me.” He leads a progression of eight large Negro men and a not-so-large white boy into the whites only dining room. Three of our teammates think it more prudent to eat in the colored dining room. I sandwich my small, fear-racked body between 6’9” Linc and 6’6” Ellis Anderson hoping to make as grandly inconspicuous an entrance as possible. There are about six patrons having lunch. All six look stricken. Their horrified expressions make me think that they’re looking at a pack of hungry vampires intent upon sucking the blood out of their “Southern way of life”. The look of horror gives way to the infamous hate stare--eyes narrow and cutting, mouths locked in a grim and rigid expression of disgust. But there is no violence and no one says a word. After a few minutes of their wordless unwelcome, all six people go back to their food and pay us no further attention. And much to our surprise, less than a year after the first sit-in, we are served without incident. We revel in the nurturing food of spontaneous social action.