Izzy White?

by Barry Wolfe

  I’m dubious, but I say OK. “Are you free this Saturday?” I ask. “I will be,” she replies without explaining her use of the future tense. “When’s a good time to get there?” She answers around 8:30 pm because that’s when the main show begins.

  “Great, how about I pick you up at the dorm around 8.” There is a pause on the line. Desir i e seems to be thinking something over.

  “Izzy, why don’t you come by around 6:30 and we’ll have dinner first.”

  “Alright,” I agree, but I clearly feel that she’s dragging me beyond my comfort zone. It isn’t that I’m worried about the extra money that I’ll l have to spend for dinner, but I know nothing about the quality of the restaurants near campus. Nor am I sanguine about their reception of an interracial couple. Then I remember Chinatown. Maybe one oppressed minority group will be more accepting of another. In an earlier instance of minority removal disguised as urban renewal, Chinese immigrants were kicked out of their original location on Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest where they had lived since the 1880s. When the Federal Government in the 1930’s decided to build the Federal Triangle, a complex of government buildings, they moved to the current location of Chinatown between 5th and 8th streets and E and H streets Northwest. One of my favorite restaurants there is the China Doll. Of all the Chinese restaurants in Chinatown, the China Doll seems to me to be more authentically decorated in Chinese scroll paintings, porcelain statues and intricately carved dragon pieces. My favorite knick-knack is a porcelain laughing Buddha (that always makes me laugh) situated next to the cash register. It also is bathed in romantic, even seductive, lighting. An amber glow permeates the entire restaurant. The food is outstanding, if not, in fact, particularly Chinese.

  I arrive 15 minutes early at Crandall Hall and therefore sit in the lobby for almost a half hour. When Desirie makes her appearance, it is well worth the wait. I hold my breath when I see her in a halter-topped satin dress of pale lavender that perfectly frames her brown beauty. She is wearing a paisley print shawl over her bare shoulders with colors that meander from a deep plum to a grey that matches her grey suede shoes. Diamond-shaped silver earnings dangle from her clam-shaped ears. I feel under dressed in my blue blazer, tan slacks, white shirt, and skinny striped tie. I secretly pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. I just stare at this beautiful young, brown woman who deigns…No that’s the wrong word…desires to go out with me. “Hi, Izzy,’ she croons with a smile that sparkles like a cut diamond.

  “Hi, Desirie,” I return, squeaking like a new teenager whose voice is beginning to change. When I finally gain my composure, I add, “Desirie, you’re beautiful. You’re a vision.”

  “Thanks, Izzy.” I see crimson suffusing her coffee-colored cheeks. After an uncomfortable pause while I stare and she blushes, she says, “Shall we go?”

  It’s odd that in almost two years as a student at Howard, I still don’t know the area east of campus very well. I need directions from Desirie to get me back to Georgia Avenue. She instructs me to head south on Fourth and make a right at Bryant Street, which ends at the familiar landmark of Georgia Avenue. Once I make a left on Georgia, I know where I am, and it’s a straight shot to Chinatown. The heat of the unusually warm day has dissipated, and the night air possesses a refreshing coolness. I leave the driver’s side window of my 1954 Plymouth partially open to let in some air. “Let me know if it’s too cold in here.” Desirie is smiling at me. “I’m fine, Izzy. The air is wonderful.”

  As I drive down Georgia Avenue, which shortly becomes 7th Street, my head keeps turning as if it’s a mechanical toy to look at Desirie. Then I have to forcibly yank it back to focus on the road. Once my adoring gaze lasts a bit too long and Desirie screams, “IZZY, WATCH OUT!” I’m heading right into the path of a 1958 Chevy coming in the opposite direction. I barely manage to avoid smashing into a car filled with Black teenagers who give voice to a resentful chorus of “Dumb motherfucker”. Much worse is Desirie’s look of fearful disapproval that I have to endure. “Sorry,” I utter in a pitiful voice. Much to my surprise, I find a parking spot on the street not far from the restaurant. Once we enter the soft glow of the China Doll, I relax. That lasts until we’re seated. I look around at the half Asian, half Caucasian crowd and wonder what they’re collectively thinking. Desirie and I are the only interracial couple in the restaurant. She picks up on my swivel-headed fidgeting and says with a frown, “Izzy are you ashamed of being out with me?”

  “No, not at all,” I answer in a voice that registers close to zero on the truthfulness meter. Her rebuking question brings me back to the joy of the moment. I’m out with the girl I love or think I do. Her loveliness dazzles, the aromas that float around the restaurant have me salivating, and the combination puts me in such good spirits that I can finally give her my complete attention. With greater conviction, I tell Desirie that far from being ashamed, I’m thrilled to be out with her. She smiles and coyly buries her head in the menu, “What are you having Izzy?”

  “I always get the same thing here, “Shrimp Chow Mein and Egg Drop Soup. This combo’s so good, it’s hard for me to be adventurous.”

  She gives me a sly smile and said, “I think it’s hard for you to be adventurous about anything, Izzy.”

  “How can you say that?” I protest. “I’m out with you, ain’t I?” With a pained expression, she asks, “What does that mean?” By this time our voices are raised, and I notice that patrons at nearby tables are looking at us curiously. I’m angry with myself for blurting this out and abjectly apologize.

  “What are you sorry for, Izzy, for telling the truth? For thinking that you are some kind of racial pioneer by deigning to go out with a poor little nigger like me?”

  “Come on, Desirie, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Well, what did you mean?” Glints of amber light are reflected in her angry green eyes. I’m helpless and undone by her anger, and I’m clueless as to how to turn her temperature down from fiery fury to loving warmth.

  “Can we just order? What are you having?”

  “No, Izzy, I want to hear from you first. What is this date about for you? I thought you liked me, but I ’m beginning to wonder whether you’re just trying to prove to yourself what a great white liberal you are.” She might as well have branded me “white liberal” with a branding iron. I howl with pain and rage. “If that’s what I wanted, I could’ve picked any black girl, but I picked you. I’ve had the hots for you since the day we met, and I think you know it, have known it. Besides, you’re the one that rejected me because of my skin color or don’t you remember that?” Her face went crimson but this time not because she’s flattered by my compliment but because I have held a mirror up and she sees that she’s guilty of the very crime she’s accusing me of. Chastened and drained of her rage, she softly states her apology. “You’re right, Izzy. This is what I want to avoid--having this stupid social taboo make it impossible for us to get to know one another.”

  The soup course comes and the seductive aromas calm us. The combination of my egg drop soup and her won ton sets us both to smiling, first at the soup and then at each other. The flavor of my soup is so subtle and satisfying that it sends my mind back to a nine year-old memory when my uncle took me to Philadelphia. He wanted to show me “where Democracy was born”. But I was more interested in the food. One night we walked a few blocks from our hotel and found two Chinese restaurants that were next-door neighbors. Ravenous, I bounded up the steps of the restaurant on the right. “Izzy, come back here,” exclaimed my uncle, clearly perturbed. “What?” I asked. “I’m starving!”

  “Just wait a minute,” he ordered. “Just be patient.” The way my hunger was gnawing at my innards, I knew that patience was quite beyond my 10-year old control. My uncle watched and waited. I paced back and forth, occasionally giving him a silent imploring look. After a few minutes, people emerged simultaneously from both restaurants; except the patrons on the left were all white and those on the right were all black. “We’ll go here,�
�� my uncle said authoritatively, pointing to the left. I saw no logic to his decision and I asked why here. He said, “This will be fine. Come along now.” My hunger blotted out all awareness and contemplation of the real reason for his directional tilt. The restaurant he chose, however, was truly elegant. I had never seen such elaborate decorations in any Chinese restaurant in Washington, and I immediately concluded that Chinese people who live in Philadelphia must be rolling in the moolah. “I know this place’s reputation, Izzy; let me order for you. I know this is hard for you, but regardless of how awful the name of the food sounds try not to judge it by its name. Just taste it.” This was very difficult for me. When I find something I like, I order that dish over and over again because I know I won’t be disappointed. Trying something new always felt very risky to me. Out comes the first dish—Jellied Egg Drop Soup. “Jellied?” I cried. “What does that mean, Uncle Sol?” I imagined great globs of grape jelly hiding under the otherwise familiar looking soup. “Just taste it, Izzy,” my uncle barked impatiently. I gingerly collected some soup on my spoon, scrunched up my nose and reluctantly place the spoon in my mouth. It was magic. I had never tasted anything so marvelous. The taste was so new, unexpected delightfully velvety on the tongue. The first swallow created an itch that was impossible to satisfactorily scratch. I kept going back to the beautiful soup terrene that was decorated by a succession of dragons linked tail to mouth all around the bowl’s circumference. More helpings followed until I drained the terrene entirely. My uncle gave me a disapproving look. “I hope you have room for the other dishes,” he said with his mouth turned down in disdain.

  Here I am now having my usual egg drop soup and shrimp chow mein for the same reason I ordered this combo 10 years ago. I look up from my soup to see Desirie smiling at me. “Izzy, what are you thinking?” Her voice is as velvety as the texture of my soup. “ Oh, nothing much. Just how much I love this food. How about you? What’s percolating inside that capacious mind of yours?” Did I just say capacious? How pretentious.

  “I was just imagining my parents’ reaction if I brought you home.”

  “Why, are your folks prejudiced against whites?”

  “Distrustful is probably a better word. My father can’t imagine any white man wanting to be with me except for sex. Mom’s not as bad, but she worries about me having sex …with anybody. She’s not in a hurry to become a grandma.” This conversation is generating pictures in my head of our being naked together. Although I’m in a sharing mood, I decide not to share that picture with her.

  “I know you told me that your father is a lawyer at Justice. Does your mom work?”

  “Yes, she teaches history at Terrill Jr. High School.”

  “I know Terrill. I was there once when I played basketball for Paul Jr. High School. Terrill was one of first Black schools I was ever in. I was flabbergasted. We were held in the locker room until an announcement came over the PA system that it was time for the teachers to escort their particular classes to the game. Then and only then were we allowed to enter the gym. And the gym was beautiful, much newer and bigger than the gym at Paul. The game was also a novel experience. Several of the fans were firing paper clips at us. We all got hit. During the game we spent as much time dodging the paperclips as we did trying to escape our defenders. We also experienced the fast break for the first time in our lives. Those young boys ran us off the court. We left with a loss, but with our lives intact and happy for it.”

  Desirie is beaming at me again. Embarrassed, I quickly change the subject back to her. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “Yes, Izzy, I have a brother and a sister.”

  “Are you the oldest?”

  “No, I’m the youngest. My brother is four years older and my sister is two years older.” This last piece she says with a hard edge. And then added, “You know, Izzy, I’m beginning to feel interrogated.”

  “I’m sorry, Desirie. It’s just that I want to know all about you.” Not taking the hint, I keep up the interrogation. “What do they do?’ She shoots me a look that expresses both annoyance and resignation. “They’re both ordained ministers and both graduated from Howard’s divinity school. “

  “Oh, a case of sibling Biblery, eh?” Des i e rie guffaws at this silly pun. She clasps her hand to her mouth to prevent the extrusion of some yummy but seriously masticated egg foo young. “Izzy, you slay me. Your joke happens to be true. My brother Thomas graduated from Howard’s divinity school last year, and Lydia is now a junior there. Poor Lydia has to put up with her professors constantly singing Thomas’ praises. ‘Oh I hope Miss Jackson that you will do as well in my class as your brother Thomas. He was one of my best students ever.’ And Thomas has always resented the fact that whatever he tried, Lydia had to imitate him. Would you believe that both of them were track stars in high school and excelled in the same events? And to hear them argue over who knows more about the Bible, Lord have mercy. At every family holiday, they quote scripture at each other as if they were firing bullets.”

  “Are, are you religious, Desirie?” I ask tentatively, afraid of her answer.

  “Not like they are,” she answers. “I do believe in God, don’t you, Izzy?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. Even if there is a God, it’s hard for me to believe that he is a merciful God or even a very good engineer.” I see her eyes widen with shock and I become nervous. “What are you talking about, Izzy? What are you saying?” She makes no attempt to hide the dismay in her voice. “You’ve heard of the Holocaust?”

  “Of course I have, Izzy?”

  “Well, how could a merciful, all-seeing, all-knowing God allow six million of His allegedly chosen people to be systematically murdered?”

  “Oh come on, Izzy, that was not God’s fault, that was man’s.”

  “And who made man, supposedly in His image? Like I said, not a very good engineer. Whether He lacks mercy or skill, He does not deserve the reverential praise that believers lavish upon Him. I choose not to believe in such a deity. It is the only rational conclusion I can draw.” We lapse into a commonplace discussion of faith versus reason that produces more heat than light. And the more heated we grow, the colder our food becomes, and the more it loses its delectable flavors. To bring the temperature down, we’re silent throughout the final stages of the meal.

  Our silence continues as we leave the restaurant.

  The spring evening air has drastically cooled, as if the season changed while we were having dinner. As we make our way to my car, our breaths forming parallel puffs of smoke, I wrap my arm around Desirie to ward off the dying winter chill. She does not reject this proprietary kindness. Once in the car, I’m gratified to find that the car miraculously starts right up. I head north on 7th Street in search of Florida Avenue. The inefficient car heater compels Desirie to move closer to me and the great thaw is on. I don’t know if it’s the continuing silence or the feeling of her body touching mine that gives me the heebie-jeebies, but I try to calm myself with a mousy-voiced plea to be restored into her good graces. “I’m sorry if I upset you,” I said with a tear in my voice. “I’m not upset with you, Izzy, I just don’t understand you.” This is said with such forgiving softness that my heebie-jeebies completely melt away. I want to make another attempt to explain my views, but I’m afraid I will lose the developing closeness between us. Instead, I beat a hasty withdrawal from the topic of God, a topic that torments me on a regular basis. I want to believe in a loving, merciful God, but the concept makes no intellectual sense to me; not with the overwhelming evidence of human depravity, unanswered prayers, and unrewarded virtue that I have collected through experience, reading, or from watching the always painful NBC evening news. I think if I share my views, Desirie will be even more perplexed.

  Instead I give all my attention to driving and the search for Florida Avenue. I’m so concerned that I might miss the turn that the heebie-jeebies return. “Am I close? Do you know how soon we will get to Florida Avenue?” I ask, my voice and pitch rising
with each question. “It’s two blocks up, Izzy. Stop worrying! I’ll tell you when to make the left turn,” Desirie replies with a hint of exasperation in her voice. I’m a stranger driving in a strange land and fearful that Desirie is beginning to see me as strange. “It’s coming up now, Izzy. Make a left at the light.” I had recently learned that Florida Avenue was originally called Boundary Avenue because it represented the northern boundary of the original city of Washington. I feel like I’m crossing some boundary and entering an unknown, unexplored part of the city, an area in which I do not belong. We cross 9th street and Florida Avenue has become U Street. Two blocks later we arrive at the Bohemian Caverns. “You know, Izzy,” Desirie says enthusiastically, “this jazz club opened in the 1920s in the basement of a drug store and was originally called Club Caverns. They later changed the name to the Crystal Caverns and only two or three years ago did it become the Bohemian Caverns.” She can barely contain her excitement as she continues. “All the great black jazz artists played here, including Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, Louis Armstrong, and Miles Davis.” “That’s amazing,” I say, as I try to convert my heebie-jeebies into genuine excitement. We enter the darkened cave-like structure and find the room filled with little round tables, each with a small lamp that barely illuminates the table. The walls have been artistically rendered into faux stalactites and stalagmites. The ambience exudes cool on so many levels. A low buzz of conversation fills the room while the live entertainment is on break. As I survey the room, I see that most of the couples are Negro. The sight of several interracial couples helps me relax, and I notice one or two white couples. We both order whiskey sours; and while we wait for our drinks, Desirie begins touting the talents of the featured act, The Modern Jazz Quartet. I have never heard of them, but she is “deeply in love with MJQ”.