by Barry Wolfe
“But Izzy, that’s what this training is for. We all have that fear and that difficulty,” said a white volunteer from Arizona.
“I know, I know,” I exclaim, frustration and fear pouring from my voice. “But can I do it? Can I remain nonviolent while being beaten to a pulp?”
During the second day of training, the intensive role-playing sessions begin. These sessions are designed to serve as rehearsals of the shit that is about to come our way. Before my turn comes, I watch people being called awful names, slapped, kicked. Coke and other unpleasant substances are poured on their heads. The more I witness, the more uptight I get. When it’s my turn, I feel no Gandhian sense of calm, but rather I sit on the imaginary bus station stool hunched over like a cornered beast. During the exercise, I surprisingly can handle being called a “nigger-lover”, but when they pull me out of my chair, start kicking me and calling me a Commie Jew, I spring to my feet and grab one of my tormentors around the waist and tackle him to the floor. I immediately let my victim go and apologize profusely. “Not quite what we have in mind, Izzy,” suggests the trainer in charge. “I know! I’m sorry! Let me try again.” On the second pass, I grab the coke bottle and pour some on my fellow volunteer. On my third and final attempt, I end up screaming at the volunteer, “You goddam Peckerwood…” This provokes peals of laughter from the entire group. I’m at a loss. I have no clue why I can’t control my anger. The trainer in charge calls me in and tells me that I’m not cut out for this work and that I best find another way to contribute to the Civil Rights Movement. I am devastated. All my self-doubts are realized. Desirie is not happy. She’s ashamed of my performance, angry and disappointed that I won’t be with her on the Freedom Ride. “How could you fail?” she cries. “You’re white! “It should be easier for you.” Now I’m angry. “How do you figure? I think they hate white people more for joining the Negro cause.”
“Oh so now it’s just a Negro cause, is it? Not about simple justice and respect.”
“Come on, Desirie, you know what I mean. You act like I failed this on purpose.”
“Well, did you?” I can’t bear her accusatory stare. “Don’t be like that, Desirie, I couldn’t control my anger; I don’t know why.”
It’s a lonely, shame-weighted ride home. The pain of failing is almost unbearable. Despite my initial reluctance to volunteer for the Freedom Ride, after the first day of training I was eager to go. I had already begun to think of myself as a civil rights activist serving a righteous cause. And now, through my own miserable lack of control, I have denied myself the opportunity to share with my righteous brothers and sisters an historic effort to change the world for the better. It hurt even more to see the anger and disappointment in Desirie’s eyes. I have no idea where I stand with her. One minute she’s smiling at me, and in the next she looks as if she’s fraternizing with the enemy.
When I arrive home, my mother is standing in the kitchen with her hands on her hips frowning at me. Her eyes are ablaze with annoyance “I wish we could afford another phone just for you, Izzy,” my mother complains. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook and the calls are all for you. Peter called, then Bobby called, and I just hung up from James.” “Sorry, Ma,” I reply as I quickly dart into my bedroom. A couple of phone calls later, the four of us plan to meet at 6 P.M. for some L i e do’s pizza. James volunteers to drive and offers to pick me up on the way to L i e do’s. My apartment is only a mile or two away from the restaurant.
There is truly something different about L i e do’s pizza. The cheese is more flavorful than any we have ever tasted. The tomato sauce has an unusual tang that’s almost addictive. As we enter the restaurant, the smells are intoxicating. Like four Pavlovian dogs, we sit at our table with saliva-filled mouths, anticipating the never disappointing rectangular dish of pepperoni-topped pizza. I always eat more than my capacity and the subsequent stomachache I suffer is well worth our gluttonous sojourn to pizza heaven.
It’s not an ideal time for them to start the interrogation given the pain in the belly I feel, but Peter can’t resist. “So you’re not going?”
“Like I said, I failed the nonviolent test. I didn’t mind being called a nigger-lover, but I couldn’t stand it when they called me a Commie Jew.” My voice sounds like an old crone. It’s the only sound I can make while clutching my gas-bloated belly. Peter has his characteristic smirk, the one his face assumes whenever a sarcastic jibe is about to leave his mouth, “I would’ve punched somebody out at nigger-lover.” He laughs his nasal laugh and I just stare at him. “You know you’re out of your fucking mind to even consider it. “
“Why?” I ask indignantly.
“Because you would’ve gotten your ass stomped, that’s why, and it’s not even your fight.” Peter has reinforcements. Bobby chimes in that while he shares the sentiment that people should be treated fairly, he thinks me hopelessly naïve in imagining that I can change the world. I glower at him and ask sadly, “Et Tu Bobby?” Then with resentment, “Yes, I know your philosophy. The individual is nothing. We had that discussion before when you justified petty larceny on the basis of the insignificance of the individual. The crime is miniscule and the criminal is even less.” Although I intend my statements to be critical, Bobby relishes my recounting of our previous discussion. “Yes! That’s right!” he says in a self-congratulatory tone, “And the same is true here except that people like you who think Negroes should get their rights are rare birds in this society.” James is silently taking all of this in between bites of his pizza. The three of us look at him to see if he’ll say anything. He stares back at us and responds with a barely intelligible “Wha?” Bits of pizza cheese and pepperoni came flying out of his full mouth as he speaks, and rivulets of red tomato sauce slide out of his mouth and dribble down his cheek. He looks like someone has just punched him in the mouth and he’s bleeding and blowing teeth. The three of us break out into loud guffaws as James continues his garbled reply. “We can always count on James for a pithy statement that will settle any argument,” says Bobby as he falls into his characteristic high-pitched laughter. “Screw you all!” James says in a clear voice and with a smiling mouth now completely vacated of food.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Peter staring at me. His expression is one of utter puzzlement, a look he gets when people are saying or doing things beyond the borders of his experience. “What?” I ask in an annoyed and accusatory voice. “I don’t get you.”
“That’s obvious from the look on your face. You’re looking at me like I’m a Martian or something. What’s your problem?” His expression does not change.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?” My annoyance is growing.
“Going to Howard, becoming a political radical. I mean you always had this obsession with blacks, listening to black music, dancing like a nigger. I mean I don’t get you. You’re becoming…. I don’t know what….Niggerized.” James, Bobby and I look at each other in incredulous amazement. “Niggerized?” we say in unison. “Is that even a word?” Bobby asks.
“Well, if it isn’t, it ought’a be,” Peter answers haughtily. “I don’t know you anymore. You’re becoming strange to me.” This he says with detectable apprehension in his voice.
“Do you guys feel the same way?” I ask looking first at Bobby and then at James. They both hem and haw. Bobby then says “Well you are changing. I mean you never talked about politics before, and now you’re ready to risk your life for a political cause. What’s that about, Izzy?”
“It’s called education!” I retort in a self-congratulatory tone. “I mean it’s true. Going to Howard is changing me in a lot of ways, but I’m still me, the same old lovable Izzy White.” This brings gales of laughter from the three of them.
“Well, had you gone on those Freedom Rides, I do believe your education would have come to an abrupt and painful end,” Bobby half-facetiously adds.
“Yeah, but segregation is ignorant, stupid, and evil and has to change. I feel
awful that I won’t be going on the Freedom Ride.”
“You’re nuts,” Peter opines.
“Amen,” agrees Bobby. James says nothing. He just nods his head; and the expression on his face tells me that he’s sorry, but he has to agree with the others.
“Well, somebody has to do something,” I say, feeling defeated. Peter picks up on my expression and tries to cheer me up. “Look Izzy, don’t feel bad, the Nigs are obviously doing something so you don’t have to.” I am furious. “Peter, you just don’t get it. This struggle is not just for Negro rights. If one group is oppressed, nobody’s free.”
We’re so full of pizza that the four of us stagger out of the restaurant. We all laugh at the bodily results of our pig-out. But on the way home, we are silent. I look at the Three Miscreants who have been my best friends for the last half dozen years and feel a growing sense of distance and alienation. It hits me that I had the identical feeling on campus-- distant, alienated, and disoriented. I am drifting away from my “white” world and yet do not belong to my new black world. I am lost and suspended between these two worlds and yet unable to avoid participating in both. I exist on the margins. I truly have become a marginal man.
For the entire month of May, I’m glued to the newspaper and the TV, trying to learn as much as I can about what is happening to the Freedom Riders. And every night in a state of terror I dream of Desirie, hoping she’ll survive the Freedom Ride. Coverage is fairly sparse until Sunday, May 14th. I cannot believe my eyes when I see on the evening news a Greyhound bus in flames outside of Anniston, Alabama. The Ku Klux Klan has firebombed the bus. I’m not positive, but I think Desirie is on that Greyhound bus. I try to get word of her fate from a couple of her friends on campus, but no one knows what has happened to her or on which bus she might be. I can’t decide whether to hope she’s on the Trailways bus now bound for Birmingham, because the violence against the Riders could be a lot worse. A few days later I read that the CORE Freedom Ride is over. Since they can’t find any drivers who would drive them on the next leg to Montgomery, several freedom riders fly to New Orleans. Was she on that plane? God I hope so.
On Friday, I read a short piece in the Washington Post about 10 riders who are now in a Birmingham jail. But the article maintains that the freedom riders that have been arrested are from Nashville. Nashville? Who are these students? They aren’t the ones who left from Washington, D.C., the ones with whom I had begun my aborted training. Now I’m thoroughly confused and out of my mind with worry for Desirie’s safety. As the month drags on, and I still haven’t heard from Desirie, I am sick with apprehension. I mean physically ill, nausea, stomach pains, headaches. I’m a mess. Terrible things apparently happened in Birmingham and Montgomery, Alabama and then Jackson, Mississippi, but the details are sketchy and I have no idea whether Desirie was attacked or not. I’m not even sure she’s still alive. I keep trying to reach her, but to no avail. I finally decide to go to her dorm. As I enter Crandall Hall, I see a tall, attractive light-skinned woman coming toward me. It’s Desirie’s friend, Francis Carter. “Fran, have you seen Desirie?” She gives me a grave look; and after searching me with her eyes says, “Look, Izzy, Desirie was badly beaten in Alabama and was traumatized by the whole experience.” I become sick to my stomach. “Is…is she ok?” I ask, making no attempt to hide the foreboding in my voice.
“Physically, she’s ok, but mentally, she’s not doing well at all. Izzy, she’s been back for two weeks, mostly hiding out in her dorm room.”
“Oh my God!”
“After she was released from the hospital, she flew home and spent several days with her parents. They bombarded her with questions that she wasn’t ready to answer. One morning she packed, left a note for her parents, and fled to her dorm room where she’s been in hiding ever since.”
“Did she get my messages?”
“Yes, Izzy, she got them, but she couldn’t talk to you. She could barely talk to me.” Fran looks at me like she’s trying to decide something. “OK, Izzy, I’ll tell Desirie that you’re here, but I’m not sure she’ll see you. Wait here.” After a 20- minute wait, Desirie comes into the lobby in tight jeans, turquoise shirt, and a wine-colored scarf over her head. It looks as if she’d made an effort to be presentable, but her demeanor suggests that she just wants to hide under the covers. She looks profoundly sad, and exhibits none of her typical cheeriness. There are deep purple bruises on both sides of her face, and the scarf is poofed up in the back of her head. It’s covering a massive bandage that protects an apparent deep wound. “Hi Izzy,” Desirie says, in a voice barely above a whisper. Her mood seems 10 feet below sea level. I attempt to hug her, but she makes no effort to return the hug. It was like hugging a Raggedy Ann doll. “Is there a place we can go and talk?” I ask after I release her from my embrace. “I’m not sure I feel like talking, Izzy.” But she dutifully follows me to an open area in the lobby where there is an empty table and two chairs. We both sit down, but Desirie can’t look at me. She stares at her clasped hands resting on the table.
“Desirie, tell me what happened. I’ve been worried sick about you.”
“Oh Izzy, please don’t make me. It was horrible.” Her hands rise to cover her face as she burst into tears. I need to know so badly that I disregard her request. “Desirie, please talk to me.” She looks at me and then quickly looks away. “I don’t know where to begin,” she says, shaking her head. “Begin with a happy scene if you can.” This seems to calm her down. “Oh Izzy, we were all so full of hope. We had a wonderful dinner at the Yenching Palace the night before we left. We were nervous but eager to get on with our righteous mission. People kept making jokes about the Ride and about the dinner. Someone called it the Last Supper. By the end of dinner, I think we all felt like a brand new family. After dinner, James Farmer let us know that we still had time to drop out of the Freedom Ride. No questions asked. He even said we could tell him privately or not show up at the bus terminal. I didn’t sleep at all. I was so scared, but I felt a deep stirring within that said to me I had to go; I had to be part of this change. My people need us to restore their dignity. Second class citizenship is no longer tolerable. The law is now on our side, and every American needs to respect the law. The next morning we met at the Greyhound and Trailways Bus stations. Six of us were assigned to the Greyhound bus and the other seven would get on the Trailways bus. I was assigned to the Greyhound bus. We were given our last instructions and seating assignments. At least one Negro Freedom Rider on each bus would sit in the section reserved for whites, and at least one interracial pair would sit next to one another. The other riders spread out into different parts of the bus. And one rider on each bus would act as if he was just a regular passenger respecting segregation, so that at least one person wouldn’t get arrested. When we finally took off, no one seemed to get upset about where people were sitting. Our first stop was in Fredericksburg, Virginia. I got really scared when I saw the Jim Crow signs on the restroom doors and the separate lunch counters. One of the white riders used the colored bathroom and one of the Negroes bought a drink at the white lunch counter. I held my breath, but no one said or did anything. There were no problems, Izzy. I mean no problems at all. And this was true in most of the towns we went through in Virginia: Richmond, Petersburg, Farmville, and Lynchburg. It was only in Danville, the last town we passed through in Virginia, that we met with some problems. But even there we prevailed. We were all amazed. There were no problems in Virginia. Can you believe it, Izzy?” Without waiting for my answer, she continues.
“Our amazement grew when we were received cordially in most of the towns we stopped at in North Carolina. I kept bouncing back and forth between relaxing when we were treated like regular people and becoming very frightened when I thought about our traveling into the Deep South. We finally hit some real trouble in Rock Hill, our first stop in South Carolina. That did not surprise me a bit. Rock Hill has been a prime target of CORE and SNCC for the past 15 months, and the site of many sit-ins and three
months ago of the “jail-in”. A bunch of tough-looking Crackers… “ Desirie smiles sheepishly, “I’m sorry, Izzy.” I just laughed. “Now we’re even.” “Anyway, the rough-looking white boys in ducktails and leather jackets blocked the entrance to the WHITE waiting room at the Greyhound station and then attacked John Lewis and two other white Freedom Riders. But a white police officer stopped the beatings before they got too bad. Then two of us got arrested for trespassing in a small town called Winsboro. After that incident, we rested for two days in Sumter, South Carolina, before making our way to Augusta, Georgia. We had another surprising shock when we were treated courteously in Augusta. The next day we had similar good experiences in Athens and Atlanta, and I was beginning to believe that not only were we going to succeed to desegregating the buses and bus stations, we were gonna have an easier time than any of us had imagined. Our spirits rose even higher when Martin Luther King joined us for dinner. Oh Izzy, he kept praising us for our courage and our commitment and he was genuinely enthusiastic about the stories that we told about what happened so far during the Freedom Ride. At one point, some of us encouraged him to join us on the rest of the Ride to New Orleans. We were all shocked when he refused. And then more bad news; James Farmer got word that night that his father died in DC and he would be temporarily leaving the Freedom Ride. The thought of wading into Alabama Klan hatred without our leader put the fear of God back in my soul, and whatever optimism I had felt about our mission had completely vanished.” The memory of the loss of James Farmer brings more tears. After dabbing her eyes she continues, “Anyway, during the ride from Atlanta to Birmingham, there was very little talking among the Freedom Riders. I think we all knew that we were riding into deep trouble. Our fears were confirmed when another Greyhound bus going in the opposite direction motioned to our bus to pull over. That’s when we learned that there was an angry mob waiting for us at the Anniston bus station. As we pulled into the station, we could see that it was closed and eerily silent. As soon as the bus stopped, an angry crowd of men rushed the bus screaming, “Kill the niggers! Kill the nigger-lovers.” One young man who couldn’t have been more than 16 years old lay down in front of the bus to stop us from leaving. I saw men with pipes, chains, and clubs. They kept screaming and banging on the bus and then I heard the sound of breaking glass. One of the bus windows had been smashed.” Desirie starts crying and shaking her head as if she’s trying to rid herself of the ghastly images. “The bus finally took off and we thought we were gonna be safe. You could almost hear a collective sigh of relief. I momentarily felt sorry for some of the white passengers on our bus who weren’t Freedom Riders.” “What do you mean, Desirie?” I ask, “What other passengers?”