by Barry Wolfe
After about an hour of imbibing and ogling, the three of us leave arm and arm, mainly to hold each other upright. We stumble out of the bar into the bright sunlight in search of girls. Successful we aren’t. So, to fill the growing sense of emptiness, we eat and drink too much. For the next several days, our lives gyrate in a repetitive cycle of beach, bars, and bathrooms.
On the day before we have to go back to our ordinary life, the three of us make different decisions. Bobby and Len want to conclude our trip with a day of extraordinary experiences. I want to be alone. After breakfast, the two of them take off with the enthusiasm and openness to new experience that I imagine characterized the great hunters and explorers of the past. I make my solitary way to the beach. I am alone, pensive, and disengaged from the legion of bare-skinned bodies that surround me. I want no new experiences, but rather just to observe my environment and reflect on my private thoughts. Before me is a peach of a day. The sun shines brightly and its warmth comforts me. The cries of the sea gulls flying overhead bring me an odd sense of peace, a rare appreciation that it is not only tolerable, but also enjoyable to be alone. I notice without feeling or lust the dozens of beautiful young women within sight in bright bikinis that barely cover their breasts and loins as they preen and stretch on their blankets. Many of them have their butts in the air as they lie on their stomachs clutching their untied halters so that no bra strap line will interrupt an otherwise seamless tan. Through the misting glare of sunlight, I’m able to make out from the crowd of beach-walkers another young woman sashaying and sauntering on the wet sands abutting the ocean, stopping every few yards to let the rivulets of incoming water roll over her feet. She is darkly tanned and is about the size and shape of Desiree. I sit bolt upright and try to get a sharper view of her. I know full well that Blacks are not allowed on these beaches. Yet I can’t help myself. My heart starts beating furiously and my attention is now acutely fixed on this shadow in the sunlight. I know it isn’t her, but the mere possibility that it might be brings up all the pain of longing for Desirie that I have tried to keep at bay during this entire vacation. I am suddenly furious that every woman on this segregated beach is trying their best to shed their white exterior. And Desiree’s innate darkness is not allowed here. I rage against the stupid cruelty of Society. Who makes these stupid laws anyway, and why should they be allowed to interfere with my happiness? My happiness. That’s a laugh. In my life, happiness has been as elusive as wisdom. I have found precious little of either so far. Is it my fault that I am not happy or is the very idea of happiness twisted and warped by the society in which we live, by prejudice, ignorance, and fear? And then another voice enters the fray. How talented am I. I have fallen and fallen hard for a woman who is taboo, who Society rejects without even knowing her, and my feelings for her make it impossible for me to get interested in any girl that Society might deem appropriate. In reveries and nightmares, I find myself seeking her, pursuing her, and asking myself why I’m so afraid to rebel against these miserable mores. I am 19 years old and already I feel world-weary.
My rant and reverie is interrupted by the appearance of Bobby and Len. Each is standing above me with a girl on his arm. Trailing slightly behind is a shy but attractive girl in a bikini, whose color matches her green eyes. All three girls are cute and curvy, but it is clear that Bobby has pre-assigned the three. It is also clear that he has chosen for himself the most attractive of the three. “Izzy, I want you to meet my new friend, Veyda Minnit.” Veyda is blond and blue-eyed. Her entire demeanor exudes sexual desire. Her fire-red bikini adds to this impression. Len follows suit. “And this is Mara Nating.” At the sound of her name, Mara clings more tightly to Len’s arm and gives me a proprietary smile. “Izzy,” Bobby continues, his voice assuming a greater degree of formality, “I particularly want you to meet Miss Claire Azmud.” Claire blushes crimson, which adds an interesting contrast to her black hair, green eyes and deep tan. I get up to shake hands with each prize catch of Bobby’s feminine treasure hunt. I’m staring at three sets of gorgeous, smiling teeth. My gaze lingers on Claire’s face. There is something familiar about it, but I can’t place where I might have seen her before. From behind me, I hear Bobby say, “Listen, Izzy, do you mind keeping Claire company? The four of us want to hit the bars and Claire doesn’t want to go.” I turn toward Bobby and roll my eyes in dismay. I look back at Claire and see that she’s staring uncomfortably at the sand. Politeness trumps dismay, and I reply “Of course.” Claire and I watch the giggling quartet running toward the bars inadvertently kicking up sand that lands on the sun-tanning occupants of the many blankets they pass. We can hear some choice cuss words from the near-by victims of the quartet’s human-made sand storm. This invective produces only more giggles from the insouciant four as they attempt to pick up their pace. More speed, of course, leads to more flying sand and more cussing.
After they’re out of sight, Claire and I look at each other confusedly, not knowing exactly what to say. I gesture with my hand inviting her to sit with me on my blanket. Still perplexed by where I might have seen her before, I stare at her with a puzzled expression. She catches me staring at her. For a moment her face registers her embarrassment and then quickly hides behind the camouflage of her brilliant smile. “Why are you looking at me that way, Izzy?” She shyly asks. I can feel myself blushing and the shame beast crawling up my back. “I guess, I guess I find you very attractive,” I lamely answer. She smiles in gratitude, but remains silent.
“Claire, where are you from?”
“I’m from a small Florida town called Ocala. Ever heard of it?” For the first time I notice the slight southern twang of a native Floridian. “No, where’s it near?”
“Just south of Gainesville. That’s where the University of Florida is.”
“Is that where you go to school?”
“That’s right. I’m a Gator. I just love that school.” As I listen to her soft, sultry voice, I feel an attraction to this dark creature. It’s a familiar feeling that I thought I could only feel for Desirie. In fact, I finally realize that she reminds me of Desirie with her black hair, green eyes, and deeply tanned skin. Maybe I’ve met someone that I could love that Society won’t bust my balls about. The possibility thrills me.
Did I feel something for Claire because she reminded me of Desirie?
Was she a stand-in, a Desirie with impunity? A white Desirie?
Our conversation, which becomes increasingly intimate, continues for the next hour—our thoughts rubbing like lovers. We are so into one another that we do not notice that a small crowd of scowling teenagers has gathered around my blanket. The spokesman for the mini-mob is a portly, beady-eyed Aryan, not quite a candidate for Hitler’s master race. He barely opens his down-turned mouth when he barks, “Hey you! Nigger-lover! What’s she doing on our beach?”
“Listen, my friend,” I say with all the sarcasm I could muster, “She is not a Negro. She just has a great tan.”
“Don’t bullshit me. I know a nigger when I see one,” he howls, his eyes now bulging.
“And she can’t be here. It’s the law,” he adds with judicial authority.
“And, by the way, no nigger-lover can be a friend of mine.”
“In that case, why don’t you mind your own business and peddle your twaddle somewhere else.” The portly Aryan and two of his like-minded goons move closer to us. With a malevolent smile, he offers this gem of an idea, “How ‘bout I kick your ass instead and physically carry you two off the beach.”
“Oh, big man,” I hiss, “You need the help of your two scholars there. Portly turns red at this defamatory challenge. He turns to his buddies, still grinning maliciously, and says, “I got this, fellas.” He lunges toward me, but tripped on the sand and lands with a great thud on my blanket. He manages to grab hold of only my leg. Claire lets out with an ear-piercing scream. I’m able to dance my way out of his grasp and assume a defensive crouch. He too assumes a crouch, but his globular, drooping belly makes him look like a Sumo
wrestler. Portly’s crowd of goons cheers him on. This sound, in combination with Claire’s screaming, quickly brings the police. Claire manages to convince the two Fort Lauderdale policemen that she is a well-tanned Caucasian. They order Portly and his entourage not to bother us and to go on their way. We decide, however, to leave the beach and repair to the nearest bar for a drink. We don’t know what to say to one another. We make our silent way to the Parrot Lounge where we order a couple of brews. As I replay our confrontation with Portly and the gang in my mind’s eye, I suddenly realize that I have just lived the same ironic experience that Mrs. Prescott had shared with me a couple of years back. I now had the experience of defending a Caucasian friend accused of being a Negro even though I lack the other ironic piece of the story. I’m not Black.
We are both at a loss for words; we just look at each other. After an uncomfortably long period of silence, Claire smiles at me. “You were very brave, you know.”
“Very foolhardy more likely. I’m lucky the police came before that fat tub of racist lard squashed me like a grape.” Claire laughs heartily at this image. “Why’d you do it then?”
“I can’t take it anymore. Segregation is so stupid. It’s psychotic. It makes no sense.” Claire looks at me in earnest and says, “I don’t agree. I think beaches should be segregated. We have our beaches and they have their beaches. Birds of a feather, and all that jazz. But white people should know that I’m white. In fact, I’m insulted that those goons thought I’m a common nigger.”
“WHAT!!” I can’t believe my ears. “What are you saying? Thousands of women and dozens of vain men are lying on the beach right now trying to become as dark as they can. And now you’re saying that dark people and white people should be segregated?”
“Come on Izzy, you know there’s a difference between being a tanned white person and a nigger.”
“Would you mind not using that word?”
“What’s wrong with it, Izzy. It’s a good word. It means that Black people are inferior to whites. That is literally God’s truth. It’s the way God made us.”
I can feel the poison of her words murdering every newborn shoot of positive and romantic feeling that I have so quickly developed for this lovely ignoramus. The painful truth washes over me: She’s no Desiree. I feel even more lonely, lost, and alone than I had felt at the beginning of this trip. I make a pretext of looking at my watch and say,
“I have to go.”
“Oh Izzy, don’t be that way. I really like you.”
“Claire, I really have to go.” I quickly make my way out into the bright, cleansing sunlight and begin walking back to my hotel. I’m dumfounded and angry and I want nothing more than to bring this date, relationship, and spring vacation to an end. I am ready to go home.
Chapter
14.
See Saw
The “war of no words” between Desirie and me comes to an abrupt end one sun-blessed day in March when she pulls me aside after class and asks if she could speak to me. “Of course,” I say trying to manufacture as much nonchalance in my voice as I can. Yet I’m keenly aware of an icy sensation of fear beginning to slither its way through my body. I can see that she’s gathering up her nerve to tell me something.
“Izzy,” she finally begins, “I know that I haven’t treated you very well in the past, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Despite the fact that you’re white….”
“Oh, that warms the cockles of my heart,” I interrupt.
“Let me finish, Izzy. It may never have occurred to you, but it’s not so easy on my end to go against this stupid color taboo. But I like you. You are a kind person even if you are a little dense when it comes to women….”
“You’re killing me with compliments today.”
“Izzy, please listen. I want you to ask me out on a date. I know that presents some difficulties for you, but it does for me as well. I sense that you like me too, but something is getting in the way. I suspect it has something to do with the color of my skin. I hope we both can be brave and just be two college students beginning to date. You know, it may not work out, but I’ll be damned if I want this ugly social prejudice to deny us the opportunity to find out. What do you think?”
I admire her guts and her ability to speak her mind. She eagerly waits for my answer, her face painted with an uncharacteristic shy smile. “You may be braver than I am,” I answer. “Let me think about it.” Her expression grows stormy. “You do that, Izzy White,” she fires, “You think about it.” With that, she spins on her heel and rapidly walks away. As I watch her walking across the “Yard”, I descend to a new level of desolation.
Fool! Idiot! Dimwit! Why do I do this? Why do I keep pushing away the very person that I desire above all others?
I sit alone on my favorite spot-- the stone bench next to the Sun Dial. I lift my closed eyes to the sun and feel its warmth hoping it will cool the burning shame that has engulfed me. I open my eyes and see dozens of black strangers walking by me. I watch them parade by, laughing and jiving, and I wonder who they are and what their lives are like. I now have been a Howard student for a year and a half; and despite the fact that I have been on the basketball team and my name consequently has traveled around the campus, I know so few people. I feel more than alone. I feel alienated. It’s as if I have taken myself to a planet in another galaxy where there is indeed life, but it is life unfamiliar, a mysterious culture that I have difficulty taking in, a culture that I presume has no use for my white skin. Yet in the midst of this primal loneliness, I have met someone who seems so familiar, and I want so urgently to be close to her, to bathe in her warmth, to meet her skin on skin and to eventually feel growing between us the web-like entanglement of human love. And perhaps through her; I will be taken in by this strange culture, and I will allow myself to become part of it. The prospect of such binding growth also terrifies me. It feels dangerous, unnatural, a one way ticket to self-destruction.
The first day of spring is not auspicious. I awaken to a cold and rainy start to a new season one I hope will promise better days. The chilled silence between Desirie and me does nothing for my mood, which varies a pimple’s height from gloom to doom during the six weeks since I last saw her. For better and worse I cannot stop thinking about her. Despite the dreary day just the thought of a new season, a season of rebirth, brightens my mood and cements my courage. I will ask Desirie out on a date.
The ringing phone is dwarfed by the sound of my pounding heart. Desirie’s melodious hello renders me momentarily speechless. “Hi, Desirie, it’s….it’s Izzy.” First silence, then an enthusiastic almost seductive “Hello, Izzy. I’m glad you finally called.” I’m happy that she had been waiting for my call, but I can’t entirely ignore the rebuke in her voice. “Well, Desirie, here’s the thing. I want to ask you out but I don’t know where to take you that is…uh safe.”
“I do!” She quickly interjects. “We can go to the Bohemian Caverns, near 11th and U. They have wonderful jazz shows there and it’s an integrated crowd.”