by Barry Wolfe
Shortly after the strike ended, we learned that CORE had made a deal that we were all to be released, and all Freedom Riders were required to leave the state immediately. A number of us were opposed, but to no avail. Even though we were willing to stay and keep the jails filled, we were so excited to finally get out of Parchman and leave behind the 100 daily humiliations and acts of brutality that we all were subjected to.”
“Brandon, I just can’t believe it.” His eyes widen with shock. “You don’t believe me?”
“No, I course I believe you. I can’t believe that this kind of barbarity goes on in the United States.”
“Oh Izzy, you’ve been brainwashed, just like all the other flag-wavers in this country. You’ve been at Howard for how long?”
“This is my third year.”
“Your third year. Come on, you must know by now how this country treats black people. How can you possibly hold on to your fantasy idea that this country is the epitome of Truth, Justice, and the American Way?” As he says this, he flexes his muscles in mimicry of Superman. “Anyway, Izzy, the reason I told you that story about my jail time in Mississippi is to help you understand why Malcolm’s oratory grabbed such a hold on me and on so many black people in the audience. America keeps giving black people the message that we are not wanted in this country. And if we want to be here, then we have to eat the white man’s shit and then thank him for it while we wipe his ass. And while I can’t buy Malcolm’s separate state for Blacks, I am becoming convinced that black people have to stand together, work together, and progress together. I know some people are gonna accuse me of being anti-white, but that ain’t accurate. The truth is that I am pro-Black. When Malcolm said that before every other way in which we may identify ourselves, American, Democrat, Republican… we are Black, that audience in Crampton, black people from Africa, from the Caribbean and from the good ole US of A felt free to recognize their oneness, to give loud affirmation to something they were being educated to suppress and deny: our collective blackness.”
I look at Brandon and I can see the pride he feels, the sense of wholeness in his blackness. And for the first time I can feel the emotional undertow of Malcolm’s speech, something that my fear of rejection as a white person prevented me from hearing. It’s important to belong and to experience the shared fate of a people. Your people! More important yet was to stand and fight together in order to be treated with respect and dignity. This was no different than what I had been taught since childhood, that Jews should stick together and fight together for their rights. Since childhood, I have heard the half-serious joke that the evaluation of any world event begins with the question, “Is it good for the Jews?” I now can hear Brandon voicing the same question, “Is it good for the Blacks?” At the same time, I feel rejected, cast aside because of my whiteness. I had agreed—and still agree- with Rustin that this fight, while primarily focused on Negroes and their rights, is about much more. It’s about whether America can ever live up to its professed ideals that under the law all men are created equal and that they share equal rights. And whether it’s possible for whites and blacks to live together and work together to create a more perfect America.
“Well, later Izzy, I gotta meet up with some NAG folk.” I watch Brandon’s jaunty, rhythmic movements as he walks away. In my mind’s ear, I hear the hiss of envy. Brandon knows who he is and he knows his purpose in life. He’s a committed activist fighting for the rights of his people. In my mind’s eye, I see myself shrink by comparison. Who and what am I?
When I get into one of my periodic funks, I always head for the basketball court. At the time, it’s the best therapy I know. I’m happy to see that the outdoor court at the Takoma Playground is empty, and I can try and give my B-Ball creativity full reign. I fake out imaginary defenders and drive to the hole. And when I’m ready to let my “J” fly, I send the softly spinning orb through its netted destination…from 15, 20, and 25 feet. The sound of the ball swishing through the net is my greatest reward. And with each successful flight of the net-fluttering ball, I feel a bolus of self-esteem injecting into my spiritual veins. After a 20-minute intense workout, I sit on the bench by the side of the court and reflect on my conversation with Brandon. I wrestle with the fact that Brandon and I share the same goal but for different reasons. We both want to see Negroes receive their long overdue rights and be treated with respect in America. But he identifies with his people, dark skin people. For him, it really is about what’s good for the blacks. I want the world to make sense.
I cannot articulate why this feels like a difference of cavernous proportions, but it does. And this difference bears directly on the question of whether I should join NAG. I have great admiration and respect for the members that I have encountered so far. They are smart, brave, and committed activists, and I know that their cause is just. But I distrust their zeal and fear where it will take us. I’m terrified that joining NAG would be a lethal decision. I don’t want to die for a lost cause. On the other hand, I have been greatly impressed with the student movement and what it has already achieved in a little less than two short years. What a gift that this generation of students is giving to future generations—the destruction of white supremacy, Jim Crow Laws and American Apartheid. And I could be a part of this gift. What greater use could I make of my young life? My mind keeps bouncing from one image to the other, from Izzy dead to Izzy proud. I cannot know the final outcome of the civil rights struggle and, not knowing, I have to choose. So I do what I often do when trying to choose between two serious directions in which I could take my life. I shoot a basketball. I tell myself that if I make three consecutive jump shots from 22 feet, I will join NAG. Any miss and I’ll decline the honor. The first two shots are true. They touch nothing but net. I tell myself that if I really want to join, I will make the last shot. If I don’t make the shot then I really don’t want to join. I lift myself into the air and let the ball fly in a perfect arc with perfect form. Convinced that the ball is going into the hoop, I pull my hand away a little too soon and instead of a swish, the ball begins to roll around the rim. It makes several rotations before it seems to catapult off to the side in a hideous replay of my failed shot in overtime of the Interhigh Playoffs a few years back. It seems strange that I take this outcome to be an inexorable sign of my decision. But the decision is final. I call Brandon and tell him that I’m not going to join NAG, and I will regret that decision for the rest of my life.
Chapter
18.
Black like Me?
I spend the next week in a truly delicious funk. Pay attention in my classes? Forget about it! The sound of my professors’ voices during their windy lectures resembles the barely interpretable static-altered voices on a police radio. At work, I let the kids at the playground do whatever they want. I might have been physically present, but mentally and emotionally, I’m in the land of self-pityville. During the weekend, whenever Adam is out of our room, I lie in bed listening to every sad doo-wop song I can find on the radio. And to add a little sophistication to my pity party, I find among my brother’s LPs, the truly depressing music of the French classical composer Marin Marais. I constantly berate myself for not having the balls to become a civil rights activist. After all I believe in the cause. Why did I tell Brandon no? Over and over, I flagellate myself with questions and accusations of a deficient manhood. When I finally have exhausted my lexicon of self-deprecating epithets, the realization kicks in that I lack the passion to become an activist. I am not sure whether that is because I lack sufficient rebelliousness in my soul, or that I think it’s just too damn difficult to challenge the perniciously racist social mores of our beloved “Land of the free.”
On a chilly November morning I wake up with a very heavy feeling. Remnants of a disturbing dream are popping in and out of consciousness. It has something to do with becoming black. I drag my sleep-mugged body into the shower and allow myself to enjoy the warm comforting cascade of water. I remember John Howard Griffin’s book, Black
Like Me, in which he chose to have his skin darkened so that he could live as a Negro in the South. In the dream I had, I suddenly become black, and it ‘s not of my choosing. The same terrible humiliations that happened to Griffin happen to me. How ridiculous, I think, as I laugh at my dream. I stand in front of the mirror and dry myself off. As the steam-fogged mirror clears, I see something unexpected in my reflection. My face seems much browner than I remember; browner, in fact, than any tan I have ever had. The rest of my body reflects back a darkening tone, not as dark as my face, but clearly darker than it’s ever been. I assume that this is a sleep-induced hallucination. I turn away from the mirror and forcefully slap my cheeks—all four of them—hoping that I will wake up. When I turn once again to face the mirror, I see the same brown reflection. A full blast of Heebie Jeebies seizes my body and I let out with a scream. I throw a towel around me and run into the kitchen screaming, “Ma, I’m turning black! I’m turning black!”
“Why are you yelling, Izzy? Look at you. You’re white as snow. What craziness is this?” I shake my head vigorously. “Look at me and look in the mirror, here. Can’t you see? I’m already chocolate.”
“Don’t be such a meshuganah, Izzy. You’re seeing things. Go lie down, you’ll feel better.” That is my mother’s omnipresent remedy for everything. It’s her sole bubbemayseh. Whether it’s a hangnail or a hemorrhoid, it‘s always, “Go lie down, you’ll feel better.” Seeing that I’m getting nowhere with my mother, I call out to my brother. “Adam, come look at me, I’m turning into a Negro!” My brother storms in from our room angry and frustrated. In the background, I can hear the sounds of Tchaikovsky’s Marche Slave, and I know he’s in the middle of cataloguing his humongous record collection. He does not like to be disturbed when in the middle of such pedestrian, clerical tasks. Even angry, I recognize that he has a handsome face, a face I resent because it has everything that mine lacks, a straight nose, wavy black hair, enviably straight teeth, and an appealing smile. “What is it now, Izzy? Why are you interrupting me?”
“Look Adam, I’m turning black.”
“Aw for Christ’s sake, Izzy, you’re crazy. You have the same pasty color you always have. Whatd’ya mean you’re turning black?”
“That’s what I see when I look in the mirror. My face is a deep chocolate color.”
“You’re nuts. I bet its wishful thinking. I think you want to be black. Going to Howard is changing you. You’re so impressionable, Izzy; it should surprise no one that you have black on the brain.”
“Why would I want to be a member of another despised minority? Being Jewish is enough of a problem.”
“Yeah, and you’re about as good a Negro as you are a Jew.”
“Aw you’re no help.” I push past him and go back into the bathroom and slam the door. Again I look in the mirror and again I see my chocolate colored reflection staring back at me. By now, I’ve calmed down enough to contemplate the catastrophic. What if I were black? Maybe I should try and embrace it. I tried to imitate the cool confident walk of black men. As I watch this performance in the mirror, my attempt at being cool comes off like a person walking on one leg that is a half a foot shorter than the other. Disastrous! Now I begin to dance, trying my best to “blacken” my every dance move. This is better. I already know that some black people think I dance pretty well. I’m feeling better already. As I continue to dance for my brown reflection, I notice that I have a hard-on. I’m feeling sexy and loving the way I feel. No shame, just free. My moves are looser, more emphatic. I start waving my arms over my head in a circular pattern Free my sexy soul! I yell as my whole body whirls in a circle. As I whirl and whirl, I’m enveloped by a joyful and peaceful feeling, which is quickly interrupted by a searing pain. I have slammed my erect penis into the base of the bathroom sink. Owwoooh, I howl. My brother Adam thinks I’m singing the doo-wop songs he detests and registers his complaint by banging forcefully on the wall that separates our room from the bathroom. That shuts me up. I try not to yell as I wait for my painfully throbbing member to calm down. Then I hear laughter. It’s a laugh I have never heard before, high pitched and seemingly with a black accent. “Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee.” I can’t tell where it’s coming from.
“Why you trying t’be a brothah?” Where did that come from? I hear this voice, my voice, but I know I haven’t said what I hear.
“Why you trying t’be a brothah?” the voice demands again. It seems to be coming from the mirror. I look at my brown reflection, which has a large grin on its face. The laughter continues, but the pitch has shifted downward by two octaves, “Heh, heh, heh,” and it begins to speak again. This time I see his lips move. “You neva gonna be a brothah, ya dig? You a jive-ass honky trying t’be a brothah. I’m hippin ya, man.” This really upsets me. I can’t let this charge go unanswered. “Now you listen here you, whoever you are, you brown version of me. I am not a jive-ass honky. “
“Oh yeah you are. You jivin' me right now, wid all yo' sposed empady fo' de struggle uh de brothah. As long as you ain’t one, you fine. What it is, Honky! Look at ya'. You be shittin’ yo' pants lookin' at me. You be actin' likes de wo'ld's comin' t'an end if ya be a brothah.”
“Look I don’t know where you came from, but my heart’s in the right place. I just want to find out why so many white people hate your black ass.” The reflection loves this. “Haw Haw Haw,”. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry I said that.” By now my brown reflection is shaking and swaying he was laughing so hard. “Oh yeah. Right On! You sho' nuff’’s some pure-hearted Honky, ain’t ya?” There’s a banging on the bathroom door. “Izzy? What’s going on in there? Who the hell are you talking to? I can’t concentrate with all that yapping going on in there.” After all these years, my brother’s anger still frightens me. “Uh, n’nothing , Adam, I’m just rehearsing a talk I have to give in one of my classes.” “Well, keep it down, please. I need to work. I know you’re alone in there, but that doesn’t mean you have to play with yourself.” I hear him laughing to himself, pleased with his own witty banter.
There’s quiet in the bathroom, but only momentarily. My brown reflection continues to stare at me with an expression of reproach. Then he starts up again.
“You think cuz ya' likes doo-wop and play hoopball dat you some kind of brothah. You think cuz' ya' chose t'go t'Howard University, you a brothah. Shee-it, ya' ain’t no brothah.” I’m tempted to scream out my protest, but I see in my mind’s eye my brother’s angry face. Instead I whisper.
“Listen, I never said I wanted to be a brother. I want to understand what the Negro has experienced and how this race problem came to be. Most of all, I want to know why I have all this crap in my head about Negroes.”
“Ain’t this a shame, dis be wo'se dan ah' thought. You wanna be some Liberal.” I frown at my reflection. The truth of his words wakes me to the reality that I’m talking to myself. But why am I seeing a brown me. “Who are you?” I ask.
“Why, I’m de truth behind yo' pretenshuns.,” he says with a wide grin. If ya' wanna be a brothah, you'’d gone on de Freedom Rides. If ya' wanna be some brothah, you'’d be out on de picket lines, o' waaay down Soud heppin' de folks t'destroy segregashun. But ya' dun didn’t go, did ya' Honky?”
“Damn you. I didn’t. “
“See whut ah' mean—de truth behind yo' pretensions.” I can’t stand to look at that brown face anymore, and I quickly leave the bathroom.
I’m so shaken by this encounter with my brown reflection that I have to find a way to purge the image from my mind. The only antidote is basketball. I spend the next hour trying to jump higher, shoot straighter, and move quicker with the ball than ever before. My workout completely banishes the brown reflection and anesthetizes me from all feelings of guilt for not dedicating myself to the cause of civil rights. A renewed passion for playing college basketball replaces my desire to become a civil rights activist.
I’m excited when the first day of basketball practice begins. But something doesn’t feel right. Whee‘s gone and so i
s Linc and George Brown. With Walter Harrison and myself being the only two returning letterman, we will have to develop a new chemistry with a basically all-new team. Two new guards joined the team to challenge me, Peter Grant and Clayborne Hill. Both are good shooters, but neither is an excellent point guard. Since I also favor the shooting guard spot, one of us will end up as the point guard as a consolation prize. Point guards do most of the passing to other players and relatively little scoring, while the shooting guards do just that—shoot the ball.
When St. Paul University travels up from Virginia to play us in early December, Coach chooses Clay to be the point, and Peter and I are deemed the shooting guards. However, the ball rarely shows up in my direction. Clay feeds Peter and Walter full course meals plus dessert. Me he puts on a starvation diet. Peter leads us with 22 points and I have three. Our first half lead disappears and St. Paul ends up crushing us, 85-66. I’m not happy and I express my unhappiness in the locker room after the game. “Hey Clay, have I offended you,” I ask sarcastically. He picks right up on my unhappiness and he apparently knows why. “Look, White, every time I look in your direction, you and your St. Paul defender looked like the two of you were sharing his uniform.” Everyone in the locker room howls with laughter. That makes me even madder. “Bullshit, Hill, I was open most of the time. But you acted like I was the Invisible Man.”