by Barry Wolfe
“You got some brew in this tank?” Whee asks in a desperate tone.
“As it happens, I do,” Linc replies with a triumphant grin. As we crack open our beers, I feel a warmth with these two black men that I never thought possible. The warmth of our bodies creates a fog on the car windows that lies like a protective blanket sealing in our friendship. For the first time since high school I experience a great desire to be part of a group. I want more than anything to be “one of them”. Linc is just saying how Whee Willie is his “main nigger”. I laugh again at their easy use of this horrid word. The usual controls I place on my speech melt in the warmth of this camaraderie, and without thinking about what I’m saying, I announce, “Well, you guys are my main niggers.” Their faces each take on the same shocked and wounded expression. Linc tries to cover up his pain by laughing nervously. But his expression turns grave, and he says to me with barely contained rage, “Izzy, if you ever call us niggers again, we’re gonna kick your white ass from here to kingdom come.”
“But why?” I protest, “ I would never use the word as a slur. Every time I hear you guys call each other nigger, I feel so left out. I just want to be one of the guys, that’s all.”
Whee Willie’s index finger jabs the air in order to emphasize each syllable, “You ain’t one of us. You never can be one of us. You’re white, Izzy, and that makes all the difference.”
“But why?” I ask again, “Skin color is so superficial. Why should it separate us?”
“It’s not skin color, Izzy,” says Linc, “It’s history! Don’t matter the context, the word nigger out of a white man’s mouth brings nothing but pain and memories of pain.”
“And Izzy, “ adds Whee Willie, “I’m telling you this for your own good. In every black man you meet there is a scar as old as slavery and you best not poke at it. You can’t see it, but by God it’s there!”
The light and easygoing mood has disappeared. The three of us sit stone-faced staring at the road ahead as Linc drives us back to the Howard campus. Whee Willie’s words prick me, and I feel the beginning of my own scar. I fall into a reverie, imagining what it must have been like to be a slave, to be stolen from one’s homeland, forced into middle passage; the agonizing voyage across the Atlantic, chained together and packed like sardines in the suffocating darkness. And if I had survived such a terrifying transport, which I seriously doubt, the nightmare life will have only just begun. A life robbed of freedom, dignity, and one’s own name. My faint powers of imagery, which in no way can make real the searing demoralization of such a transformation of one’s life, nonetheless brings me such pain and despair that I do not understand how anyone could bear it. I have no real reference point in my own experience to approach such horror. Or so I believe until my mind seems to automatically turn to images of a different kind of human depravity. The terrors of the middle passage turn into the horrors of the holocaust, the systematic slaughter of millions of my tribe. Here I feel for the first time the emotional linking of the degradation of two oppressed peoples who experienced human cruelty in its purest form. As I see in my mind’s eye naked dead bodies stacked like cord wood, or naked and barely live ones walking unknowingly into the gas chambers, I begin to feel the same rage, the same scarring disfiguring of my soul that slavery has appeared to inflict on my two teammates. Even as I feel a new closeness to them, they are feeling an increased alienation from me. The remorse I begin to feel is excruciating.
“I’m really sorry, guys,” I finally am able to utter. “I wouldn’t hurt you guys for the world. You’re my main….guys.” Despite their anger at me, they laugh at my pitiable effort to revise my offending phrase. Linc drives me to my car, which is parked on Georgia Avenue across from the Kenyon Grill. As I’m getting out of the car, I notice that Whee Willie has a sly smile on his face. “Now don’t forget, Izzy,” he begins. “If a nigger calls another nigger a nigger, that’s cool. But if you or any white man says nigger, that’s jivin’’.”
In February, Morgan State traveled down Route 40 from Baltimore to the Capitol Arena for our second meeting of the season. I was not available—again for academic reasons-- for our 10-point loss to the Bears back in January. Because of that previous absence, the coach put me back on the second team, and I dejectedly ride the bench through much of the first half. Late in the second quarter the coach puts me in and I immediately hit three straight jump shots from about 23 feet. By the third shot the crowd noise has risen to a roar. As I trot back down the court, I give the crowd a quick glance to allow myself to briefly bask in the warmth of their cheers. But I cannot believe the beaming brown face that fixes my attention. It’s Desiree jumping up and down, her face suffused with a bright, gleaming grin. That smile takes me completely out of my game. Even as I try to concentrate on the game, my brain is crowded with thoughts of Desiree. I miss my next three shots. My ordinarily quick moves are slowed by thoughts of her, by the pain of missing her, by the yearning I feel for her. Fortunately, Whee Willie and Linc are literally scoring at will and lead us to a 98-91 victory. I manage only two foul shots for the rest of the game.
There is a special sweetness attached to beating an opponent who has already beaten you. It rivals acing an exam after nearly failing its predecessor or rekindling a lost love. All three joys happen to me on this stingingly cold day in February. So I join the raucous celebration in the locker room with the silliest hoots and the loudest hollers. Whee Willie throws water on my head in an attempt to calm me down, but to no avail. Linc and Henry Gaines are both doing the “pony”, which is quite a sight because both are naked and well hung. The sweat-soured locker room is soon filled with snapping towels and flying jockstraps. And everyone’s game is meticulously dissected for evidence of the grossest deviations from excellence. “Hey White,” I heard Jason Sharpe yell from across the locker room. “What happened to your shot? After a couple of lucky rainbow “Js”, you went colder than a white woman’s pussy.” Linc sauntered over to me with a big grin on his face, put his arm around me, and leeringly told the team, “I know why Izzy’s game fell to pieces. He kept checking the crowd like he was looking for someone special. And sure enough, there was someone special because I saw Izzy make eye contact with a fine-looking brown mama. Fine as cherry wine she is. And when Izzy made a shot, ooo wee, she was jumping up and down like she was just voted Homecoming Queen.” Now Jason joins the leering party and with a malicious grin rhetorically asks, “Who knew that Izzy is trolling for trim on the dark side of the river?” I blush a bright crimson and the heat of it makes me doubly mortified. I’m rendered speechless by this obscene reference to my romantic reawakening.
“Come on, White, spill!” Jason goads. “Who is she?”
“The girl in the crowd? Her name is Desirie and I happen to like her a lot.” As soon as this bit of intelligence leaves my mouth, I know I have made a terrible error. At the sound of her name, at least six members of the team mockingly form into a singing group and begin to sing the Doo-Wop hit, Desirie. The sight of six naked brown men huddled together bending their arms and snapping their fingers in perfect synchrony tears from me uncontrollable laughter.
“Almost as good as The Charts, “ I say. I really mean it. They’re so good I’m in shock and I wonder whether any or all of these guys spent their teenage years on urban street corners mastering the harmonies of Doo Wop in hopes of receiving a recording contract.
The musical entertainment abruptly ends any further inquiry about Desirie. My teammates fall into their usual cliques and whispered plans hiss throughout the locker room. Whee comes over and quietly invites me to join him, Linc and Henry to a party they’re going to in Northeast Washington. Whee tries to entice me with promises that there will be an endless supply of beautiful, easy black women who are dying to wrap their legs around me. Whee sees the thin furrow of fear that settles across my forehead; and before I can answer, he says,
“Not your scene, eh Izzy?” With a sheepish smile, I answer, “Not yet, at least.”
I si
t alone in the locker room, fully dressed and with my winter coat on, lost in thought about why I’ve just refused Whee Willie’s invitation. I can neither stop nor sort through the growing pile of self-accusations that weigh upon my brain. Did I refuse because I am a racist and think it beneath me to associate with Black women? Did I flee from this opportunity because I ‘m afraid of Black People? Black women? All women? Or just afraid I’ll make a fool of myself? Any thought of success or having a good time lies deeply buried beneath the rubble of my self-doubt. I next begin to brood about my performance during the game, its sterling beginning later ruined by her presence. Why did she show up? Why did her presence affect me so? I take these thoughts and myself out into the icy February evening. My ruminating is interrupted by the soothing sound of a familiar voice. “Hi Izzy,” Desirie says with an enthusiastic grin on her face. I can’t speak. I just stare at her. She’s wearing the same maroon coat she wore when we first met last year. And, as before, she wears her collar turned up, which gives her a regal appearance.
“Hi Desirie,” I finally respond. “I was surprised to see you. I haven’t seen you at any of the other home games.” With a coy smile, she replies, “Well, Izzy, I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately and I decided I had to see you play. And you were wonderful, Izzy, just wonderful—at least at first. What happened? You made a bunch of shots and then you went cold.”
“Uh...speaking of cold, I’m getting cold standing here. I’ll walk you to your car. Where did you park?” “I’m just a block away on 14th Street,” she said as she reaches for my hand. I am surprised by this gesture and reluctantly take hold of her tiny freezing hand. I immediately feel a jolt of warmth, a dissolving of longing, followed by resentment. What is this about? She has avoided me for so long, presumably because I’m white. I know I haven’t changed color. What does she want? I go with the feeling of warmth and contentment and fail to ask her.
“So, Izzy, what happened?” She asks with a smile bright as the full moon. I’m so flummoxed I don’t know what to say. I sure as hell wasn’t going to confess that I went cold because I saw her in the stands and that destroyed my concentration.
“Izzy?” She asks again.
“Well, you can’t make every shot,” I alibi.
“Yeah, but you were on fire. Then you went so cold so quickly. It was like somebody poured ice water over your head.” I feel pinned to the wall with her questions.
“What’s it matter to you?” I ask with bitterness leaking into my tone.
She’s taken aback by my response and responds with a loud protest, “I was in the stands rooting for you, Izzy, for you. It matters. You matter.” I feel her hand loosening in mine. I ‘m so appalled by my snottiness that I immediately conclude that she wants nothing more to do with me. I let her hand go, thinking that is what she wants. But she looks even more hurt. “Well, I gotta go, Izzy,” she says sounding profoundly disappointed. “If the spirit moves you, why don’t you call me sometime,” she utters without looking at me and hurriedly climbs into her car.
I watch her drive off into the freezing night. When she finally disappears from sight, I yell into the night, “WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?”
Chapter
13.
A Thousand Miles Away
My befuddlement lasts for days. Desiree is a mystery to me and that makes her all the more alluring. I finally weary of my thoughts about her, about us, about the maddening stupidity of racial separation. It’s time, I conclude, that I go stick my head in the gathering snow piles outside my apartment window. As I get up to go, the phone rings. Bobby is calling to remind me of our conversation from a month ago about going to Fort Lauderdale for Spring Break. He’s just finished the book “Where the Boys Are” which tells of thousands of college students engaging in their annual spring break flight to Lauderdale for suds, sun, and sin of the sexual kind. He’s convinced that his recent drought in sexual conquests will come to a glorious end in Florida. “Come on, Izzy, we’ll end our sexual drought,” Bobby continues his hectoring. Drought? We’re talking here about a lifelong ice age.
“Well, I don’t know about sex, but I sure could use the sun and the warmth.”
“Fucking A, Izzy, it’ll be great and I’ll drive. Maybe we can get a couple of other people to go to help with the gas.”
“Like who?” I ask doubtfully.
“You must know some guys at Howard.”
“Actually, I don’t. But what I can do is put a note up on the bulletin board in the Student Union and maybe we’ll get some nibbles.”
“You best believe we will,” Bobby crowed with enthusiasm.
My doubts are quickly extinguished when after two days I find several people had responded to my note. Two, in particular, fit all of our requirements. They want to leave and return the same dates, agree to Bobby’s no smoking in the car policy, and will pony up money for gas up front. One of our pending travel-mates is a fellow Coolidgite, Len Rothstein. Neither Bobby nor I know Len very well, but our brief encounters in the past have found him to be a very funny and unassuming guy. We didn’t even know he is attending Howard. The second fellow is another Izzy, Isadore Brown, who was from Scandia, Florida, right next to Hollywood, a little south of Fort Lauderdale. This Izzy has kinky hair. Except for that, he looks like an ordinary Anglo Saxon with his thin nose, blue eyes, and buttermilk complexion. I know he has an interesting story to tell.
On the last day of February, Bobby and I drive down to the Howard campus where we previously planned to pick up Len and Izzy Brown. From inside a heated car, the day outside looks like the middle of summer. The sun is bright and only a few puffy clouds populate the azure blue sky. In fact it’s 18 degrees outside and the slight breeze that blows seems destined to remove an ear from its owner. After a 15-minute wait, we see Len and Izzy, with small suitcases in tow, approaching from different directions in the Yard. Izzy is heading toward us from Cook Hall at the northern end of the campus and Len is approaching from the Student Union on the Yard’s southeastern side. They pile into Bobby’s 1959 Chevy Bel Air and Izzy and the three of us make our introductions. As we drive off, Len starts in with his complaints about his dorm mates in Cook Hall. “I’m so glad to be going to Florida. I need to get away from Negroes for a while. The Negroes in my dorm are all noisy slobs….” Bobby and I are looking aghast at Len, and Izzy is looking down at the floor. “What?” Len asks, clueless about his faux pas. “Uh, Len, I demur, “Izzy Brown here is a Negro.” “No!” Len blunders on, “That’s not possible, he’s as white as I am. “ Finally, Izzy Brown speaks up. “Sorry to disappoint you, Len, but it’s true, I’M A NEGRO.” Izzy Brown’s face is contorted into a horrifying scowl, his impression of Michael Landon in “I Was a Teenage Werewolf,” in full lycanthropic transformation.
“Izzy, I am so sorry,” Len apologizes abjectly with his hands together in prayer mode.
“That’s OK, Len, you can’t help yourself.” Len completely misses Izzy’s pejorative edge and blunders on some more. “Well, Izzy, if you don’t mind my asking, how come you’re a Negro when you’re as white as I am?”
“Well, Len,” Izzy replies, imitating Len’s pompous tone of voice. “I do mind, because you are the 10 thousandth Ofay to ask me that question. But I’ll tell you anyway.”
None of us knows what Ofay means. But it doesn’t sound good, and each of us makes a private decision not to inquire.
“ I am the 10th and last child of a white father and a black mother who live in the black section of Scandia, Florida. Negroes there, like virtually everywhere in the south, live across the railroad tracks. It’s like a little town and my father was chosen as the unofficial mayor of this town. We call it Hopetown, while our friends across the tracks call it Niggerville. I have five brothers and four sisters. Each one of my siblings is three years older than the kid below. So my oldest brother is 47. And this may surprise you, every one has completed college, so it’s on me to complete the cycle.” The more Len hears, the more nervous he becomes. He k
eeps adjusting and readjusting his glasses. “But your father was really white?” Izzy cut his eyes at Len and says, “I know that question has meaning for you Len, but your binary racial code just can’t handle the reality.” Len adjusts and readjusts his glasses several more times. “My father was originally from Sweden, but his mother was an American with Seminole blood in ‘er. She had married a German named Braun, which they anglicized to Brown when they immigrated to America. My father eventually married a beautiful Negro woman who was living here in DC. And her grandmother was white but was also one fourth Cherokee. After a couple of unhappy years here, she talked him into moving to her hometown in Scandia. He was congenial to the idea because Scandia was originally settled by Danes, Swedes, and Norwegians; All Scandinavians-hence the name Scandia. However, when they got to Scandia, he discovered he had to live across the tracks from his fellow Scandinavians, and because he lived and associated with Negroes, they considered him a light skinned Negro, unworthy of their association, although they never said it that nicely.” Len’s astonishment grows more intense. “But didn’t your mother warn him?” Izzy gives him a smirk and answers, “Let’s just say she committed a sin of omission. But my father was the most adaptable man I ever met. He just made the best of whatever circumstances that he found himself in. He soon became a favorite in the community and was thought of as Hopeville’s unofficial mayor.”